by LeRoy Clary
Three of them. In the starlight, their silhouettes were clear. I controlled my breathing, so they didn’t hear me. It was hard not to pant with fear filling me, and I waited. It was not in me to fire first.
A wooden dining-room chair smashed through a window facing them, clattered across the wooden deck, and struck the railing with a bang. The sound shattered not only the window but the calm night.
All three fired at the same time. They raked the dining room with bullets, each of them firing ten or more times in a few seconds. Steve didn’t return fire.
The fastest of them inserted a new magazine and fired three more shots, trying to draw fire from anyone still alive in the house. Steve didn’t react or take the bait. He might be dead. Or wounded. My anger took control. They had given him no warning. They were there to kill us.
I centered my sights on the one to my left, since he was closest. I took one shot aimed at his chest. Before the bullet struck, my sights moved to the right a fraction of an inch to center on the next one and two more pulls of my finger happened before he could turn to face me. His arms were thrown wide upon impact, which assured me both bullets had struck him. I shifted my aim to the last man as he spun, his handgun already moving in my direction and I was exposed.
Before I could duck behind the tree trunk, a single shot rang out, but there was no flash from his gun. Instead, he fell as if struck by a hammer from behind.
Steve called softly, “Don’t shoot me.”
“I think there were only three,” I called back but didn’t move. Steve must have thrown the chair and scrambled out a side door to arrive in time for that last shot.
He moved into view. “Stay here. I’ll toss everything over the deck. Did you get a rowboat?”
“Waiting at the edge of the water.”
“Great. Get everything down there and get in the boat. Two trips to get it all there, at least. I’ll cover our backs.”
It took me three trips to carry it all to the boat, and he assisted on the last. The sacks were heavy. I tossed them into the bottom of the boat. My fingers fumbled to untie the knots that held the rope to the log while Steve stood with his back to me and watched for others. None came.
He climbed in, took the oars from me, and rowed us out into the water. We went beyond where a shot from a pistol was likely to hit us. He rowed directly for the Truant. I sat in the front of the boat, watching behind us, my gun in my hand. I briefly thought of the abandoned stuff waiting for us at the first house. We didn’t need it enough to go back.
We reached the boat to find Sue waiting, willingly taking the rope tied to the front of our rowboat and securing it as we climbed aboard. Steve took a few seconds to untie it, feed out more line, and tie it again as he said, “The rowboat will need room to move around.”
Sue looked at me and shrugged in wordless confusion at the nautical concept. I returned it. We had no idea what he was talking about. It had become a game with us. Steve ordered me to pull in the anchor while he hit the button to unfurl the jib. There was a brisk breeze. The sail filled instantly. He tightened the line to the corner of the jib and turned the wheel to take advantage of the wind. We were moving before the anchor was aboard.
Nobody talked. The Truant moved almost silently away from shore. Behind, we left a small wake and were picking up speed. Only a few minutes later, the first flashlights and lanterns appeared on the shore. It was either the friends of those we’d killed, or others drawn by the shooting. I held my fire.
I couldn’t hit them with a shot from a boat that bounced, swayed, and rolled. I’d have to learn to talk like a sailor, meaning to learn the terms, not using a minimum of two swearwords in every sentence. The point is, the deck of the boat was in constant movement. Even if it had been steady, the distance was too great for me to hit a target with a handgun. And the distance was increasing quickly as the Truant picked up speed.
Flashlights swung from side to side, searching the water for us. They found the kayaks and sank them with a few shots. Then they started a search of the area, certain we were stranded because of the kayaks.
Steve didn’t start the motor or raise the mail sail. We moved away like a whisper upon the sea.
Later, we sailed south, keeping to the center of the channel, without lights.
Sue asked, “Other than starting a small war, how did it go?”
Steve glanced at me and when I didn’t answer, he said, “Better in some ways than we expected. Not as good in others.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Listen, I’m worried they might chase after us in a motorboat. Can you bring me a couple of blankets and a coat? It feels like rain coming, and I’ll stay out here tonight, just in case.”
“I’ll stay with you,” I offered, thinking of the raingear in the rowboat with the other supplies.
“No. Stay dressed and warm. Be ready but get some sleep. You’ll be at the helm tomorrow while I sleep. That goes for both of you.”
He had a way of giving orders while not antagonizing. We went inside. Sue had patched the window I’d broken so well no draft entered. The cabin was warm, and that reminded me that we needed propane. She went to the sink and filled a glass with water, then pointed to the U-shaped bench around the small table. She sat across from me.
“What happened back there?”
I relayed the first three houses and the little we’d set aside to bring back from them and had abandoned. Then came the story of the last house. I didn’t try to hide facts or shade what we’d done, but when they had opened fire at Steve, I had not felt any reluctance in shooting them in the back. Even as the story spilled from me, there was far too little emotion and regret. I was becoming emotionless, a killer without regrets or feelings. Serial killers had done less damage in their careers than me in the last four days. So much had happened. And was still happening.
That reminded me of my first rule that Sue and I had discussed so long ago—probably only three or four days ago when I considered it. Not really so long ago but it seemed like it. In the old days, a few weeks ago, four days was nothing.
In the woods outside the first cabin we’d raided, I had told her I wouldn’t kill anyone who was not trying to kill me. Or that I believe was about to harm me. That was the new rule of survival, I’d said. It hadn’t changed. I felt regret but little guilt about shooting those two an hour ago. Overall, I felt dead inside.
She watched me, what she could see of me in the dark. I didn’t sob or whimper. She shouldn’t have been able to tell I was crying. I suspected she knew.
I placed my forehead on my arm, like a child in grade school taking a quick nap on his desktop. I woke sitting up, a blanket tossed over my shoulders, the morning light gray from the heavy clouds that hung low. A light drizzle fell and made seeing through the windows fuzzy and indistinct.
Sue was curled up and asleep in the cushions across from me. Neither of us had spent a night in the bed at the bow. I slid out of the bench seat and went quietly to the hatch, or door, or whatever naval name the exit to the rear of the sailboat was called. Steve sat at the stern, the blankets around his shoulders and over his head like a hood. His eyes were red, his face pasty, and he’d been up twenty-four hours or more. At that time, he’d killed two men, his first and second.
I said gently, “Go get some sleep. Anything I need to know?”
He pointed to the GPS. “Try to stay on that route. If any vessel, I mean from a rowboat to a ship, comes on an intercept course with us, wake me.”
“I will.” There seemed to be no more to say.
“Thanks, Cap,” he muttered as he went below.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sue joined me at the wheel a short while later, bowls of steaming oatmeal in both hands. She sat beside me and ate, her attention focused on the damp gray dawn as if she didn’t want to talk—at least not for a while. The light drizzle had coated every surface with a layer of moisture.
I ate slowly, not sure of what she
would say to me, and fearful it might not reflect well. I’d confessed to killing two more people last night. My body-count was rising, and I wondered if Billy the Kid had once shared the same sort of feelings that consumed me.
Sue turned to me. “It’s so peaceful out here. With the fog and drizzle keeping all of the rest of the world hidden from us, and at the same time, we’re hidden from them,” she said. “A person could make believe all is right with the world.”
“A person with a wild imagination,” I said sourly, for no reason that she deserved.
She gave me one of those faint smiles that meant she hadn’t taken offense. “We’re alive. I’m here with you. On a boat where we’re safer than all but a few lucky people. Of all those still alive, I managed to find the one person that has feelings and regrets. Plus, he protects me. Life could be a lot worse. For both of us.”
That was quite a speech by a fourteen-year-old girl who had lost her whole family, home, and future. When we went through Darrington on the motorcycle, she had pointed out her house. When we continued and went through Arlington near my home, I’d looked from the highway up the hill to where our house stood. It was a brief look. While I couldn’t see it, I saw a column of smoke. It was probably another house.
We remained quiet for a long time. No words came to me that would equal hers. Eventually, I grumbled, “Me too.”
She said, “So, what did you two bring me other than a tin boat instead of our kayaks?”
“Aluminum boat, not tin. I’ll pull it up here close and get in and hand you what’s inside. We can sort through it as we sail.” A glance at the GPS told me I had about a half-hour before turning east to go around the lower tip of Whidbey Island before turning almost directly north.
After the jib was lowered and Truant slowed, I stood and turned to the stern. The rope was tied to a cleat near my hand. I pulled the rowboat closer and I tied it off shorter so I could climb inside. It bounced and swayed in the wind and current and wouldn’t hold still. Finally, I leaped and landed on the floor with a crash, and almost fell over the side before grabbing a metal seat until the boat stabilized. I lifted a pillowcase and realized it was too heavy to hand across. I pulled out a box of shells and handed it to Sue, then another and another.
She took the rifles and ammunition, smiling all the while. Weapons made us safer. The first aid kit added to her smile, the bottles of aspirin and other medications helped broaden it, but when I pulled the can openers free, she looked like a boyfriend had surprised her with an unexpected box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day.
There were packets of dehydrated meals, powdered milk, and dozens of other food items I hadn’t taken the time to examine in the house and now handed to her. She steadied me with her hand as I climbed back aboard and let the rope stretch longer again.
She spread it all beside her on the benches in the cockpit we sat on, examining each item with care. She separated the items into neat piles, some destined for the kitchen, others for our growing armory, and tools in the storeroom. She looked up with an impish grin. “We have to talk. The next time you go shopping there are important considerations you’re missing.”
“Like what?”
“Taco seasoning. Refried beans. Dried cilantro.”
“Hot dogs. Cold beer. Potato chips,” I countered with a chuckle.
“Ice cream. Cake. Chocolate.”
I knew she would get to chocolate sooner or later. “Pizza. Chicken nuggets. Chinese food. And hamburgers. And college football on TV.”
Instead of continuing the verbal game of what we missed the most, she turned away and started sorting the ammunition. The boxes were soft from the damp and falling apart from the moisture in the air and on the seat. The shells were mixed. She went into the cabin and returned with large bowls. We filled them with bullets, a bowl for each of the three kinds. We needed more bowls, so we used the pillowcases for the leftovers. We were prepared for a small war.
Twenty-five shotgun shells to a box and we had four boxes loaded with solid slugs instead of BBs, all of them in green casings. The ones filled with buckshot were red, and we had five boxes of them, another hundred-twenty-five. Three-hundred-fifty rounds of nine-millimeter shells and the rifles both used three-oh-eight bullets, over two hundred of them—an overkill to use a bad pun.
I reloaded three of the nine-millimeter shells in my pistol to replace those I’d fired on our excursion ashore and examined the rifles in more detail. Both were dull black, the stocks and foregrips a composite material, and even the barrels were black and slightly evil in appearance. There was no chrome or nickel to reflect sunlight and warn an enemy. They were the same model, right down to the identical scopes. Both held five shells at a time, and I inserted them, then held the scopes up to look through. In the grayness of the morning, there was nothing to see.
The GPS beeped once, indicating we needed to turn. Without seeing land, the idea was daunting to turn into the unknown, but I kept the Truant on the track shown on the screen and later, we turned again, each time trimming the jib to keep it filled with air. Turning north doubled our speed, I guessed. The slight wind was hitting the sail at a better angle.
Off to our right, lost in the mist, was the home of the Truant and the city of Everett, and later, if it was a clear day, we would see where the old man’s house had exploded. Without a doubt, there was still a black scar on the ground above the beach. I felt like waving or saluting as we passed by where his house had stood at the edge of the water but felt silly.
Sue said as if she read my mind, “I wish he could have come with us.”
I managed to say without my voice choking, “He did, in some ways.”
The GPS indicated over fifty miles to Deception Pass. We were on our way to our initial destination before reaching the islands we hoped to hide in. I turned on the radar to double-check the GPS, as if it needed checking or that I knew what I was doing. When the screen settled down, there were four contacts, meaning other nearby boats or ships. One seemed to be stationary, maybe anchored. Another was far south of us and looked like it was heading where we’d recently been before deciding to sail back and travel up the other side of the island. We’d have to get on the radio and try to warn them.
The other two were moving fast, not together, but a quick estimate said all three of us would meet somewhere ahead. “Sue, go wake, Steve.”
“Trouble?”
“Maybe.” I furled most of the jib and waited.
“I see them,” Steve said as he climbed the stairs, which I took to mean he had looked at the monitor in the cabin because in the thick fog he couldn’t have seen them.
The radar said they were two miles away. Steve took the helm, turned ninety degrees so we pointed right at Whidbey Island, and hit the button for starting the engine. We quickly moved from the interception point. Then the paths of both boats turned slightly.
“We can’t outrun them,” Steve said. “They’re chasing us, so they have radar.”
Sue asked, “What do we do?”
“Ever play chicken?” he asked as he spun the wheel and the boat turned. “Because no matter what we do, they’ll catch up with us in no time and we’ll fight on their terms. If we head for them, we might put a little doubt in their minds.”
“How’s that going to work?” she asked in a tone that let us know she didn’t like the plan, yet she had suggested almost the same thing the day before with the boat that had duplicated our moves.
I watched her carefully to see if she was serious or testing Steve, or what. Her face was impassive.
Steve increased the throttle and we picked up speed. His conclusions were the same we’d come to two days ago. He snarled, “Two weeks ago, most of the people we’re likely to meet had worked in a grocery store, or bank, or were schoolteachers. They might think they are hard-asses for now, but few have ever faced violence or bullets headed their way.”
It was exactly what we’d discussed before we met him. I lifted the nearest rifle and sat the bowl of
shells nearby.
Steve said, “Sue, take the wheel. No, not here. Steer from inside the cabin. Use whatever you can find to build a barrier around you for protection and stay low. Do it fast. You have about two minutes. No matter what happens, you go straight even it if means we run into one of them, which won’t happen.”
“We show no fear,” she said as she punched me playfully on my shoulder on her way inside. “I got it.”
Steve said, “The fog is thick but before long we’ll see the nearest boat. We don’t wait for them to open fire. Take your time and use the scope, if you can. They will probably be large motor cruisers, so aim for the higher decks where the helm might be. I’ll do the same. And load both shotguns with slugs. Put them between us.”
“What if they are not after us?” I asked since the idea of shooting first was still something that seemed unfair.
He hesitated, then said as if speaking to a child who was slow to learn, “The fog will probably lift in an hour or two. Friendlies would wait until then to approach and they’d use the radio to warn us and ask permission. These two boats didn’t know we have radar and are trying to sneak up on us. Good people wouldn’t do that.”
I knelt to brace the scope and watched ahead on the left side of the boat. Steve took the right as he steered to go right between them.
A blurry image, a vague shape, darker than the fog, jittered into view and then I lost it in the shifting swirls. “I caught a glimpse of it.”
He remained silent, then a shot rang out from one of the other boats. I still couldn’t find the boat in my scope and looked over the top with both eyes. I’d been watching the wrong one. A white boat that blended into the white fog was heading right for us, and it was a lot closer than the other.
I got it centered in the scope and fired two shots at where I thought the wheel would be, which was one deck above the main deck, and I shot at the right side, thinking the driver would be there. The scope revealed no damage.
