Atlantis Storm

by Steven Moore

  He waited a few minutes and then banged again, louder this time. Still nothing. R.B. suspected the old man was probably hard of hearing, or hammered on cheap rum. Probably both, he thought, and grinned. But after a further five minutes of knocking and calling out the old sea dog’s name, and still getting no answer, a disappointed R.B. left the harbor and traipsed back to his own boat, an inauspicious sense of doom settling over him, which he didn’t like. He didn’t like it at all.

  Back at the boat R.B. took a nap, something he was an Olympic champion at, or at least he would be if such an event existed. There were no official sleeping quarters aboard, but he did have a shabby hammock strung up between the cabin and the boat’s prow, and under a warm but slightly breezy Floridian afternoon, R.B. slept. And he dreamt. In his dreams he saw himself and Megan diving on some fabulous and famous shipwreck, recovering treasures beyond their wildest dreams. He saw Barnaby Quinn, with his ruddy cheeks and gruff countenance, laughing as they pulled up chests of gold and ancient medallions made of previously unknown materials. He saw their names up in lights as B and S Salvage Incorporated became known as the best salvage outfit, not only in the Keys, but in the entire world. And he saw—

  What the hell was that? R.B. awoke with a start. He had fallen asleep in the late afternoon, but now it was dark and a strong wind was making his hammock swing wildly. But it wasn’t the wind and the large spots of rain that woke him, he was sure of that. No, R.B. thought he heard a voice. He looked at his watch, surprised to see it was almost midnight. Damn, must have needed the sleep. With that familiar sense of impending doom he’d felt this afternoon now back, R.B. swiftly unclipped the hammock and scurried inside, just as the storm unleashed its fury on Key West. Re-hanging the hammock on its inside clips, R.B. toweled himself dry and climbed back into it, his heart racing, both from the exertion, and the undeniable feeling that someone else had been on the boat with him. He didn’t keep a gun anymore, not since he’d lost the one in the drama searching for Amelia Earhart’s plane, The Canary, a year ago. R.B. figured that not replacing it might have been a mistake.

  But because of his innate and enviable ability to sleep anywhere and at any time, and despite raindrops the size of golf balls pounding the cabin and echoing like thunder, and regardless of the fact he felt an unwelcome intruder might have been prowling around the boat, Ryan Bodean once more drifted off into a deep sleep.

  But that sleep was rudely interrupted just a short time later when a heavy hammering at the cabin door startled him so hard he almost tumbled out of the hammock. He paused, listening to check it was actually a knock on the door and not just a rumble of thunder, when the hammering came again, this time for longer and with more intensity. What the hell?

  R.B. swung his legs from the hammock and dropped silently to the floor, and after snagging up his old baseball bat from next to the door, he peered out the cabin window. He was only mildly surprised, and greatly relieved, to see old Barnaby Quinn standing there, drenched from the rain and looking decidedly stressed. R.B. pulled open the door. “Come in. What the hell are you doing here? It’s—” He glanced at his cheap digital watch. “It’s almost one in the morning.”

  Barnaby stepped inside, but before closing the door behind him he took a furtive glance back out into the gloom and, satisfied he wasn’t being followed, he closed the door and locked it, breathing heavily.

  “Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?”

  The old man looked at R.B. with such intensity that R.B. simply said, “Okay, Mister Quinn ... you’d better sit down.”

  Barnaby pulled off his drenched jacket, apparently oblivious to the water pooling on the floor around him, and sat down on the narrow bench seat against the wall. He was wheezing a little, as if he’d been hurrying through the storm to get there. He actually started coughing, which then turned into more of a choking, and for a moment R.B. thought it might have been some kind of heart attack. But then it eased, and the old man once more stared at him with his piercing blue eyes. “Listen to me, sonny. I probably ... I don’t have much time.”

  R.B’s attention suddenly tripled. “Uh, okay. Wanna tell me what the hell’s going on?”

  “Remember when I said I could—” He spluttered over the words, but soon recovered. “That I could change your life forever?” he asked.

  R.B. just nodded, and Barnaby took it as a signal to continue. “Inside coat pocket. Grab that plastic package will ya, son?”

  R.B. reached into Barnaby’s coat and pulled out a large Ziploc bag, immediately recognizing the brown leather parcel inside it that the old man had shown him yesterday. He handed it to Barnaby.

  The old man coughed a couple more times and wiped his face on his sleeve. Hastily—and, R.B. thought, somewhat nervously—he opened up the package and retrieved the map and the strange artifact. “Listen, son. These two things might be the most important two items you’ll ever see. They—” He started coughing again, and then that awful choking that turned his already ruddy face almost purple, his eyes bulging as he struggled for breath. R.B. handed him a glass of water, which he managed to take a few sips of. “Sorry. Right,” he wheezed, “this map is of huge importance, more important than you could ever imagine. It’s a map to—” Once more Barnaby erupted into a horrendous choking fit and he slumped back against the wall of the cabin, his eyes wild with what looked like genuine fear to R.B.

  Don’t you die on me, old man, thought R.B., now concerned it was a real possibility. “Shall I call an ambulance? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  Barnaby Quinn’s eyes went even wider, but his head shook left to right in what could only have been translated as a definitive ‘No’.

  “Okay,” said R.B., “but what should I do?”

  “ ... city. The ... map is ... ... lost ... Atlant—”

  “Atlantic?” asked R.B. “Did you say Atlantic, as in, the Atlantic Ocean?”

  Barnaby thrust out both hands then, the right one clutching R.B’s in a vice-like grip, the other holding the odd artifact in his open palm. “Marker—” he said, before his voice failed him again. “Lead you to ... " Barnaby’s eyes closed, and for a second R.B. feared it was the end. Then they opened again, and he managed to croak out, “No. Atlan—” he wheezed, spluttering now over almost every word. “Lost ci ... treas—treasure—marker—”

  And then the old timer slid back against the wall and fell silent, either asleep, or dead. R.B. darted around the galley table and shook the old man, who didn’t respond. Then R.B. felt under his jaw for a pulse, and as he felt it, though weak, he also saw the slow rise and fall of Barnaby’s chest. R.B. himself breathed a deep sigh of relief. Confident now the old sea dog was just exhausted and not suffering a potentially life-threatening seizure or something like it, R.B. took a seat at the table with the map and the artifact. First he looked at the map. It was more or less a few lines sketched onto an old piece of parchment, with several words that had worn out with the passing of time. “Dammit,” he said, but no one was listening. Barnaby was snoring now, a good sign, and R.B. turned his attention to the small, mysterious object Barnaby had given him. He was actually paying it attention for the first time, and he was surprised to realize what it was. Unless he was mistaken, R.B. was looking at a replica of a human digit, maybe a finger. It was over-sized, perhaps double the actual size of an average human finger. “Where the hell did you come from?” he muttered, but he felt a very definite flutter of excitement stir in his guts.

  An apparently ancient map of vital importance, given in top secret and mysterious circumstances by one of the oldest, most grizzled looking men I’ve ever seen? Okay. Not to mention this, uh, human finger artifact? From some huge unknown statue? What the hell is going on?

  Ryan Bodean had no idea. But it wouldn’t be long before he found out.

  10

  Eviction

  R.B. awoke at dawn and climbed down from the hammock. He’d made an impromptu bed on the floor for Barnaby out of some tired, worn-out rugs, after t
he old man insisted he didn’t want to go to the hospital, and R.B. was relieved to see he was still breathing. He seemed to have recovered from his bout of wheezing and choking, and he looked peaceful enough, so R.B. figured he’d let him sleep in a little longer. Since he was obviously afraid of something—or someone—last night, hence his early-hours-of-the-morning arrival, he’d let him stay on the boat as long as he liked.

  R.B. stepped out of the cabin and silently closed the door, then stretched out his limbs. He slept well on the hammock, but his body felt it in the mornings after. Peering out across the ocean and seeing the sun creeping over the horizon, he figured it was around six thirty. But then some movement from the corner of his eye made him look along the dock, and he spotted three shadowy figures approaching. What the hell now? he thought, and reached for his baseball bat from just inside the door. But as the three figures approached, he recognized one as Bill, the dock owner, and two policeman. Great!

  “Good morning, R.B.,” said Bill. “I think you know why we’re here, right?”

  “Bit early isn’t it?” retorted R.B., but he kept his tone civil. Fact was, he hadn’t paid the mooring fees on time and Bill was in his rights to kick R.B. and his boat out of the dock to make way for a paying customer. “And why the police, eh?”

  “Just a precaution. Look, you know I don’t want to do this to you. If you come down to the office, and sign the paperwork to declare you’re leaving tomorrow, I’ll let you stay twenty-four more hours, okay?”

  R.B. considered this for a moment. It was a generous offer he probably didn’t deserve. “Okay Bill, I appreciate that. Sure, I’ll come along with you fine fellas now.” R.B. jumped off the boat and walked the short distance with Bill and the police officers to Bill’s office. He signed the paperwork, terminating his mooring lease, and ten minutes later he was back aboard his boat. It was time to check on Barnaby Quinn.

  But the old man was gone. R.B. ducked back outside to check along the dock in the other direction, but there was no sign of the man, and for a moment he considered whether or not Barnaby had fallen overboard. But there was no trace of him there either, and R.B. had to assume that he’d made a good recovery from last night’s episode, awoken to find R.B. gone, and decided to take himself home. So not only was Barnaby Quinn a mysterious old fella, he was a tough old bastard too.

  He went back inside to put on a pot of water for coffee and glanced at the table. The map and the strange finger object were still there. Just as the kettle whistled to signify the water was boiled there came another harsh knocking on his door. R.B. just shook his head. “Okay, Bill, what is it now? I said I’d—”

  But it wasn’t Bill at the door, but a different man, dressed in a suit he presumably assumed was sharp, but looked more like a suit that a second-rate, second-hand car salesman might wear. “And who are you?” R.B. asked, and glanced at his watch. It was barely after seven in the morning.

  “Good morning. Are you a Mister ... Ryan Bodean?”

  “The one and only,” R.B. answered. “And I ask again, who are you?”

  “My name’s Alf Trundle, and I’m here representing First State Bank here in the Keys.”

  R.B. took an immediate dislike to the smug-looking, rotund Alf Trundle, and knew that a private visit from someone representing the bank could not mean anything good.

  “And what can I do for you this fine morning, Mister, uh, Trundle?”

  Alf Trundle didn’t respond with words to begin with. Instead, he leaned forward, and with an elaborate wave of his arm, he slapped a sticker on R.B’s cabin door with all the flair of a baton twirler in a high school parade. “Mister Bodean, I’ve been tasked with advising you that the bank is claiming your boat in lieu of payment against several outstanding debts.”

  “Wait, what? You can’t do that. This is my—”

  “Actually, we can, and in exactly one hour from now, we will. Although ... " Trundle cast his eyes about the dilapidated boat, and shook his head.

  “Although what?” said R.B., though he knew exactly what the man meant.

  “Although, as far as I can see, this hunk of wood isn’t even worth enough to cover the paperwork. Anyway, not my concern. As of eight fifteen this morning, Friday, July twenty-six, the First State Bank of Florida, Key West branch, becomes sole proprietor of ... does this thing have a name? Anyway, the bank becomes owner of this boat. So, you have one hour, Mister Bodean, and I suggest you use it to collect together your belongings and leave the boat before the bailiffs come.” The way Trundle was looking from the boat to R.B., then back to the boat again, suggested he thought there was nothing of value at all on board. And with that, Alf Trundle stepped back onto the dock and went to wait in his fire engine-red Ford Mustang parked in the dock’s car park.

  “Son of a bitch,” muttered R.B. as he watched stumpy Alf Trundle trundle his way towards the car park. It was a moment of mixed emotions. On the one hand it pissed him off that people like Megan Simons, hard working folk who wanted nothing more than to make their way in the world and be left alone to get on with it, had to answer to people like Trundle, who cared nothing for their hard work and livelihoods, and did everything by the book, regardless of the consequences. By snatching his boat, which in turn meant snatching B and S Salvage Incorporated’s only real asset, it almost literally signified the death of their business, at least in its current guise. To R.B. that simply wasn’t fair.

  And yet, on the other hand, it also meant the end of one chapter and the start, hopefully, of something new, something bigger and better than salvaging worthless crap from the waters of Key West. Things would turn around, R.B. was sure of that. They just needed a little luck. And maybe, just maybe, Barnaby Quinn had provided the turning point.

  So it was a bittersweet moment to say the least. He dreaded having to tell Megan about losing the boat, though she probably expected it sooner or later.

  “Well, Bodean, I guess that solves the problem of where to take the boat, eh?” he said to no one. And in truth, it was what he deserved. He sighed a deep, exasperated sigh, and knowing it would take less than five minutes to pack all his ‘valuables’, he finished making a coffee and sat back out on the deck to watch the sunrise on his final morning moored at Bill’s dock.

  11

  Surprise Visitor

  “What problem is that, eh?”

  R.B. jumped, startled by the voice that came from out of nowhere. He turned to look. “Megan? Oh hey, darlin’.”

  “Morning, R.B. Uh, not disturbing anything am I?”

  “No, course not. Hey, come aboard.”

  Megan stepped onto the boat, unaware at this point that it would be for the last time ever, and pulled R.B. into a tight hug. “Whoa, feels like you missed me. Did you miss me, Ryan Bodean?”

  And R.B. had missed Megan. Even though it had only been a couple of days, so much seemed to have happened in that short time that it felt a lot longer since she’d left. “Well darlin’, yeah, I missed you.”

  “Good, ‘cause I missed you, too.” They held onto each other for a long moment, neither ready to let go just yet. But finally Megan eased herself from R.B’s tight grip and looked at him questioningly. “So, what problem were you talking to, uh, yourself about?”

  R.B. wasn’t looking forward to this conversation, and certainly didn’t think it would be happening so soon ... literally minutes after he’d got the news himself. He stalled for time. “So why did you come down? I was going to drive and visit you tomorrow, right?”

  “Well, my mom told me I looked thoroughly miserable, and asked why. And I told her. I felt as if I’d run away, left you in the lurch somehow. And I guess I did. For that, I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to be sorry, Meg. It’s been a rough time and we had nowhere to stay, except this hunk of crap. Speaking of which ... Listen, some guy from the bank came by this morning. In fact, he only just left ten minutes before you arrived.” R.B. looked at his watch and shook his head. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but in fort
y-five minutes, we will officially no longer own this boat.”

  Megan didn’t speak for a long moment, as if trying to work out how she felt about this news. Was it a bombshell? No, not really? Was it bad news? Possibly. Was it the end of the world? Well, that was an easy answer. Definitely not. She glanced up at R.B., and immediately saw how sad he was to tell her the news. This wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t hers either. They had given the business their best shot, and only by a string of bad luck, unfortunate choices, and lack of funds had they failed to make a real go of it. Of course, it had almost cost them their lives. She grabbed R.B’s hands. “Listen to me. It’s going to be okay. This is not over. It’s only a setback, a temporary glitch. We just need to reset, rethink our strategies. We’ll work it out, I’m sure of it.”

  R.B. smiled, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thanks Megan, really. Hey, we don’t have long. Why don’t you help me pack all my worldly possessions into my holdall, and let’s get the hell off this floating garbage dump before it sinks, eh?”

  They ducked into the cabin and Megan lifted the holdall onto the bench. Between them they rounded up R.B’s things, which amounted to a few items of clothing, his lucky Pink Flamingo snow globe that he’d won as a kid at the fair and had kept ever since, and Troy’s half-finished bottle of Irish Whiskey that he’d never drunk, but could never quite throw away. He always said to himself, “Never know when Troy might show up,” and it was true, because R.B. didn’t know.

  “And that’s just about that, Meg.” R.B. flashed Megan one of his killer smiles, and she laughed.

  “You know, we were right, weren’t we?” she said.

  “About what?”

  “About the name. B and S Salvage Incorporated. We didn’t know it at the time, but we named our company perfectly.” Megan laughed harder now, and it was infectious. “B and S Salvage ... total bullshit.”