by Schow, Ryan
Just then drones mount a final strike on the convention center. Nine or ten missiles from several different drones rip into the remaining structure. Multiple, concurrent explosions rattle the sky in a fiery, orange display of catastrophic violence. Half the center crumbles in on itself, oatmeal colored clouds rising up from the obliterated ruin.
Seeing this, I can hardly breathe. I stick my finger in my ear trying to hear my daughter, whom I’m now terrified I’ll never see again.
“It’s happening here, too, Dad,” she says, which hits me like a heatwave, squeezing my heart and pumping me full of fear.
“What?!” I ask. “Did you say it’s happening there, too?”
“Yeah, it is I think.”
“Oh, God. Oh, God baby. You need to listen to me, okay? You need to listen good.”
“Daddy?” she asks, and I can hear the tears rushing to her eyes. It’s a slight sniffling, a change in pitch, some shakiness in her voice.
“Baby, I love you,” I say, not sure I’ll ever get to talk to her again. “Get to your mom’s house a.s.a.p., and stay inside. Take your bow and arrows with you, too. And the gun. I’m not sure if I’ll make it home when I said, or at all the way things are looking here. Whatever you do, you need to protect yourself at all costs, okay?”
Just then the line gets really scratchy and goes dead.
“Indigo?” I ask. Pushing my palm against my other ear to drown out the noise, I say, “Baby, can you hear me? Are you still there?”
Nothing.
Putting away the phone, dejected, on the verge of hysteria, I head back inside all the while trying to process this.
“San Francisco is under attack,” I announce, still rattled inside.
“How do you know?” Quentin asks.
“Just talked to my daughter,” I say, a heaviness in my heart I don’t want them seeing. “She says the city is being hit, too.”
Looking outside at the smoke-filled skies, the smoldering ruin that is the convention center looks like hell has opened up and swallowed the building whole.
Across the bay, Coronado is on fire, but in the bay most of the boats remain untouched. How does Marcus even know if this is safe? As the sun dips down toward the horizon, the drones move on, striking other places deeper into the city.
I head up to the flybridge where Marcus is captaining the yacht. “Once we hit the open sea,” he says, “I think we’ll be okay.”
“If we’re hit out there, we’ll drown,” I hear myself say.
“They’ve hit only a few boats from what I can tell,” Marcus says, calm, the fatigue finally catching up to him.
Marcus hands me a laminated “quick reference guide” to operating the boat and says, “In case something happens to me, you’ll need to take over. I trust you a lot more than that nerd, I’ll tell you that.”
“That nerd got us out of the convention center,” I remind him.
He frowns, then looks up at me and says, “True.”
Bailey comes up the tight staircase to the flybridge, looks out at the city and then finally says, “Is there anything I can do?”
“See if there’s anything about this boat anywhere,” Marcus answers without hesitation. “I need specs, an owner’s manual, something to tell us what we’re dealing with here.”
Bailey starts rifling through the cabinets, finding a hefty manual.
“Got it.”
“Is there a specs page?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Give me the highlight reel,” he says.
“This is the sixty-eight foot long Horizon. It carries three hundred gallons of fresh water, has a twelve hundred gallon tank of diesel fuel with a one hundred and fifty gallon holding tank, three decks, and three staterooms each with its own head. What’s a head?” she asks, looking up.
“Toilet,” Marcus replies.
“We should choose rooms,” I say. “We’re going to be here awhile by the look of it.”
“I’ll sleep on deck,” Marcus says. “Someone needs to keep an eye on things, just in case.”
“We can rotate that position,” I say, not wanting Marcus to feel like he’s the only capable male here.
“Sounds good,” he says. “But I’ll take the first shift.”
Quentin is suddenly there, looking at everyone.
“What are we doing?”
“Getting ready to choose bedrooms,” Bailey says. “There are three.”
“But there are four of us,” he says.
“I’ll post up on deck to keep an eye on things,” Marcus tells him. “I just need a blanket and a pillow and I can make do wherever.”
“Good,” Quentin says. “I can take watch, too. I mean, if we’re switching out and all.”
“Can you handle a gun?” Marcus asks, his eyes dog-tired, his dead expression saying he already knows the answer to that question.
“On Playstation, yes.”
“Perfect,” he says with a fair amount of sarcasm. “What about you, Nick?”
“I can.”
“Competently?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Why don’t you get below deck, sort out your accommodations, then maybe we can meet on the main deck and throw together a meal.”
Bailey says, “We can pick rooms later. Let’s do food now.”
The three of us return to the main deck, but instead of foraging for something to eat, we all just sit in silence as Marcus takes us out to sea.
After navigating around Coronado and the head of what Marcus said was NAS North Island, we break into open waters, navigate off shore close enough to take advantage of the calm sea, but not so close that we’re visible to the inland drones.
We drop the anchor, which hits the sea bottom about two hundred feet down, then settle in for the night. As the sun sets and the temperature drops about fifteen degrees, from the distance, the city is a glowing light of destruction.
“It almost looks beautiful,” Bailey says.
“The same way a car wreck fascinates,” Quentin adds.
Quentin looks like he’s uncomfortable speaking, like whatever he says, it’s going to be forced because of the company he’s keeping. Marcus is clearly intimidating. Even to me. And Bailey is entirely too hot for Quentin, but in the same league as me, if I’m being honest. That leaves Quentin as the nerdy tagalong. I hate that I’m thinking like this, but that’s how people size other people up in social situations and that’s how I’m thinking everyone is looking at him now.
“Speaking of car wrecks,” I say, changing the subject, “thanks for picking us up earlier. You saved our lives back at the convention center.”
“Just so we’re clear, I was only stopping for her,” Quentin says with a humorless laugh. “But you’re welcome anyway.”
And there it is…
Bailey looks at me, then at Quentin, and then she finally says, “I’m not sure how to take you.”
“Most people run into that same problem,” Quentin says, knowing his joke didn’t come off so hot. “It’s my dry humor, I think.”
“It’s something,” Marcus says.
“You know what they say,” Quentin says. “You only get one chance to make a bad first impression.”
“Mission accomplished,” Bailey mumbles.
“We’ve all made our bad impressions,” Marcus says, looking at Quentin. He’d popped the top off a beer from the flybridge fridge and was drinking straight from the bottle. Tipping it in Quentin’s direction, he says, “I appreciate your driving and you stopping, even if it was only for her.”
“For sure, man. For sure.”
“How long have you been selling?” Bailey asks him, giving him the benefit of the doubt, by the look of it.
“Depends,” Quentin says. “For a real paycheck, or just selling?”
“Just selling.”
“When I was a kid, I stole three Butterfingers from a friend of mine who stole a box of Butterfingers from the grocery store. They were the big bars, not those tiny little bar
s you buy for seventy-nine cents at Target.”
“How old were you?”
“Maybe nine or ten?” he says. “Anyway, I sold them in school at lunch for two bucks a piece and made six dollars total. I’ve been selling since then.”
“Why pharmaceuticals?” I ask.
“Because insider trading within the government for pharmaceuticals is legal, and where they make the most money is in taking a new drug to market. So it seems like a pretty stable market if you consider the government loves to feed their own.”
“Do you really believe that?” Marcus asks, skeptical.
Quentin shrugs his shoulders and says, “What does it matter if it’s real to me?”
“Why would you lie to yourself?” I ask.
“That’s sales, half the time. Convincing yourself of a truth that has yet to come into existence. See, if we told ourselves the truth, that half these drugs will help people and the other half might hurt or kill them, we wouldn’t sell this crap day after day.”
“You know that’s not true,” I tell him.
“Says the idealist,” he quips.
“I’m not an idealist,” I say, almost defensive, but only because I’m thoroughly drained.
“No, you’re a washed up skateboarder,” he says, looking first at me and then at Bailey.
Bristling, I say, “I’m not washed up.”
“Then why are you here?” he challenges. “Why are you in San Diego slinging medical solutions with the rest of us and not on a halfpipe with Vans or Santa Cruz printed on your t-shirts?”
“My daughter,” I admit, not sure if I should be truthful, or if one day one of these three will use it against me. They say never trust a stranger with the truth…
“She said you can’t skate anymore? That you have to grow up and get a real job?” Quentin asks with a bit of bullish humor in his voice.
“I think you nerds are today’s bullies. Some sort of revenge game you play for being picked last in kickball, or never getting laid early in life.”
“Answer the question, Nick,” he says, undeterred.
“It wasn’t my daughter who wanted me to stop, it was my wife. I just wanted to keep my family together.”
“And did you?” Bailey asks, looking intently at me.
“Crushing much on GQ Johnny?” Quentin says. Looks like he might have a bit of a nasty streak.
“Don’t be such a tool,” she says.
“I’m just a realist.”
“Well you’re coming off like a douchebag,” Marcus says, cracking another beer.
“You got another one of those?” Quentin asks.
“Upstairs fridge. What did you do before pharmaceuticals?” Marcus asks, narrowed eyes on him, almost like a pair of ticks, or the bead of a laser sight.
“Sold cars.”
“Figures,” I mumble.
“What’s wrong with selling cars?” he asks. “It’s a commodity like anything else.”
“Car guys are shysters,” Marcus says.
“Ever sold cars before, meathead?” He laughs and says, “No, of course you didn’t. You were busy lifting weights and growing out your beard.”
“What did you sell before this?” Bailey asks Marcus, the tension rising. It looks like she’s trying to keep the ball out of Quentin’s hands, so to speak.
“I sold the idea that freedom was secured in a foreign land behind the barrel of a gun to a bunch of propeller heads like Quentin who wanted me to defend their country.”
“You have a problem with guns?” Quentin frowns.
“Are you kidding me?”
“You’re the one who brought it up,” he says.
“I served my country. I paid my dues and now I’m back to enjoy the freedom this land has to offer, except now it seems the war has followed me home. And no, I don’t have a problem with guns. Do you, Playstation 4?”
“What do you think is going on?” I ask, not really liking how this conversation is heating up.
“How the hell should I know?” the big man barks. “I’m as much in the dark about this as the rest of you.”
“You know those drones, though.”
“Yes. Which is to say I’m pretty sure they’ve been hijacked. And judging by the news, and Nick’s news on San Fran, this is a larger event than just San Diego.”
“Could it be a worldwide event?” Bailey asks. She looks at Marcus’s last beer a little too long, the one he didn’t offer Quentin. He pops the top, hands it to her.
Quentin frowns at the gesture.
“I don’t know. Listen, just because I fought for the country doesn’t mean I’m still plugged in. I’m not. I never was. We were taught to take orders. To never yield to fear. We willingly gave up our lives to God and Uncle Sam every time we rode into the field of battle so that when we were there, we were one hundred percent committed to the cause. The battle was our deaths. It’s what we signed up for, what we were promised. But until that time, we had to watch the man beside us, the man in front of us, the man behind us.”
“What about now?” Quentin asks.
“If it was me, I’d throw you overboard, but you did us a solid. All of you did. So for now, it looks like it’s the four of us against the world.”
“Well as exciting as that sounds,” Bailey says with a deep yawn, “I think I’ll have to take on the world tomorrow, after a decent night’s sleep anyway.”
“You gonna finish that?” Quentin asks, eyeing her beer. She hands him the half empty bottle and he takes a deep swig.
“I’ll second that motion,” I add.
“Anyone got any preference on rooms?” Quentin says, burping then excusing himself in a manner that no one really finds entertaining. “Because Bailey should get the biggest room.”
“And who said chivalry isn’t dead?” she says without much enthusiasm.
I have the feeling chivalry isn’t dead, it’s just not preferred from guys a girl doesn’t like, and it’s clear she’s not all starry-eyed for this guy.
“I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind,” I say thinking only of crawling into a bed myself.
“Have at it,” Quentin grumbles with a pouty edge to his voice.
Downstairs there’s the master stateroom, the VIP stateroom and the guest stateroom. Bailey takes the master stateroom even though she says either of the other two are just fine. I take the guest stateroom because it is the smallest and I really don’t want Quentin having any other reason to get his diapers in a twist.
Chapter Ninety-Seven
When I open the door to my room, I realize there are two twin-sized beds. I return to the upper deck to tell Marcus the news, but he says, “I prefer sleeping outside, but thanks.”
“Well if you change your mind, that extra bed is going to be empty,” I say. He looks at me, gives a manly nod, which is really just a thanks and a dismissal wrapped in one.
Heading back down to my room, I undress, run some water through my hair and over my face, then dry off and stare at the cut on my head. It’s not as bad as I thought. After that, I crawl into bed, close my eyes, and then it’s all over.
When I’m out, I’m out.
I wake up to the turning of the engines sometime after day break. The light streaming in through the window lets me know I’ve slept the night through, which I’m sure my body must appreciate. But the shudder happening throughout the boat isn’t the best alarm clock ever.
Forced out of bed, I get up, put on a pair of pants and head topside. Marcus is back on the flybridge, two decks up, eyes alert and taking in the seas ahead.
“Where are we going?”
“Heading further out to sea. Here, take a look,” he says, handing me a pair of binoculars.
I do. What I see are skies filled with black dots. The drones are back, hitting the city with the same vigor as before, turning it into an ash heap that somehow looks ten times worse during the day.
“The whole damn city is burning,” I mumble as I scan the skies.
“Looks that way,�
�� he says.
I fish my cell phone out of my pocket, tap the cracked screen, get a low battery warning indicator when it comes on.
Crap, I can’t help thinking.
At this point, honestly, I’d kill for a charger. I search the flybridge, find nothing. Down below, in the main saloon and on the afterdeck, I come up with the same result: nothing. Unless you count an iPhone charger as that “something,” which I don’t because I’ve got an Android.
A minute later Bailey walks up the stairs with wet hair and a fresh face, then stops when she sees me. Her eyes dip to my chest, but pop back up at the speed of light. Just in case you’re wondering, she isn’t the only one working out…
“Did you take a shower?” I ask.
“I did.”
“Any hot water left?”
“I think so,” she says, looking away.
Heading back downstairs I step into my shower and stand under the hot water for about a half a minute before washing my hair and body. I’m about to stand here and let the heat work all the tension from my body, but then a thought occurs to me: this is our fresh water supply.
I immediately shut the water off, almost like I’ve done a bad thing. I have. Drying off, I style my hair with my hands then head back up to the flybridge.
“How much fresh water does this thing hold again?” I ask Marcus.
“Three hundred gallons, why?”
“Bailey and I took a shower and it was fresh water.”
“Together?”
“No. Jesus man, you sound like Quentin.”
“It was the way you said it.”
“Well?”
“You basically washed with our drinking water,” Marcus says, the reality of the situation setting in.
“That’s what I figured,” I say, feeling foolish.
“Why don’t you drag Quentin’s ass out of bed and tell him not to shower,” Marcus says.
“Roger that.”
Bailey comes up the stairs behind me. “We could have done a lot worse than this,” she says. “This must be a two or three million dollar yacht.”
“Yeah, but it’s pretty hard to feel good about our situation with a view like that,” I say, pointing toward the coast.
