The Southwind Saga (Book 3): Flood Tide

by Kovacs, Jase

  I can see neither Jarrod nor Kenzie on the bows. The sails flog madly, and I fear they will shake themselves to pieces. But there are worse fears to be had right now. I give the sheets plenty of slack and then drop down the stairs.

  A single cabin light illuminates a mad struggle. Rod and Solomon pin Michael against the wall, and he spits froth and incoherently invective at them. Raz vomits copiously over the side. Larry is already getting the dinghy in the water with Apo and Robbo, while Zac is unlashing a heavy danfoss anchor tied to the stern rail.

  Larry's hands don't stop their work. "Kedging off with the stern anchor?"

  "Only thing for it. We're hard on both hulls. We mistook a channel marker."

  "It happens. We'll need more than one anchor, I think. Get the main anchor off the bow and bring it back here, we'll get it out next."

  The swell splashes up on the stern and sends water spraying across us. "I reckon Jarrod and Kenzie went overboard when we hit."

  "Auntie!" shouts Larry as he lowers the dinghy from the davits. "Get forward and see if the lads are on the reef."

  She's helping Abella and Abigail get Kev upright again; he spilled onto the deck in the impact. She darts forward, calling for Kenzie.

  The resort fire has died down and now only an orange glow backlights the palm trees that sway like dancing shadow puppets. But another orange star bursts to a stuttering life on shore and red fireflies soar up incredibly fast. Before I can shout a warning, they pass overhead and to the west, long streaks of light that crack like whips. Almost as an afterthought, the rattle of the machine gun floats across the waves like a mocking laugh.

  Larry looks at me. "Their aim is well off."

  There's not much to say. "They'll work it out soon enough."

  I hate being right. A second stream of tracer plunges into the waves half a kilometre behind us. Too low but in line. Ricochets spin madly off the reef like sparks rising from a bonfire.

  "Come on! There's not a moment to lose!" Larry grabs the big anchor from Zac and drops into the dinghy. Together with Apo, he drives the dinghy across the channel with long powerful oar strokes. "We'll set it in the far rocks!" he shouts. "Set it good!"

  I run down the side of the boat to where Auntie leans over the bow rail. "Jarrod and Kenzie are here," she says. "They're trying to clear some of the reef away."

  "What?" I look over the sides. The two men waist deep, smashing the reef under the port bow with iron bars. They look up when I call; the moonlight catches their wide panicked eyes and the blood flowing freely from a myriad of coral cuts over their backs, legs and heads. "Leave it, lads! Get up here, we need to get the stern!"

  Another long staccato rattle from the machine gun. No tracer this time. They must just be loading random trays. I release the pawls on the windlass and lift the anchor – a big CQR that weighs around twenty-five kilos — from the roller. "Get the locker open and all of the chain out," I say to Auntie.

  Its heavy gauge stuff, 12mm chain and we haul it out of the locker one agonizingly hefty length at a time. Kenzie is with us and suddenly Blong too, helping to pull the chain out into long flakes on the foredeck.

  "Matty!" yells someone from aft, and I leave them to it. Back at the stern, Zac stares out the dinghy where Larry gesticulates wildly. "I think he's saying its ready."

  The danfoss has a hundred metres of good manila cord running to it. I grab the bitter end and pass it to Solomon. "Zac, go with Solomon and get it onto one of the main sheet winches at the bridge."

  A cluster of red stars blooms on the beach. I have time to shout "DOWN!" before the air is full of shards and bullets and whizzing angry screeches and a great whang forward as the mast is struck square. The rear cabin window shatters and someone screams.

  Most people were already low, attending to Kev or restraining Michael but Raz leans against the rear bulkhead with half his skull gone.

  They've got the range. Now it's only a matter of time.

  Clicks from above; Zac and Solomon winching in the first anchor line. The rope rises tight from the water. I glance over to the dinghy; Larry and Apo are on their way back.

  More bullets strike around us. Tracer smashes into our hull, fibreglass spalling and splintering, the air a matrix of razor flakes. I force myself to move through the fire – the only way to survive is to get off the reef and the only way to do that is to work. Someone lets out an angry grunt, and then Auntie and Jarrod are back with the bow anchor, Kenzie behind them feeding out chain.

  "Jarrod, get to the VHF, try to raise the rest of the fleet."

  "It's fucked, mate."

  "The VHF? Michael was calling me on it all—"

  "Yeah, that's how he fucked it."

  Time is passing very strangely now. My vision is hazy, and I wipe my eyes and my hand is slick with blood. Larry is already at the stern, reaching up, and we pass the anchor to him. I turn back to get Kenzie to feed them chain, but instead, Rod fires across us, through our group at something just off to port.

  I look that way, where the reef runs in a long crooked arm right around to the base of the volcano. For a moment I think the coral is alive and heaving with a thousand swarming rats. It must be the shadows of clouds flitting in front of the moon to cause the illusion of movement but... the sky is clear.

  No.

  It's them.

  They're coming.

  They are coming across the reef. They have crept and carefully advanced across the shallows so as not to alert us. But now they are discovered and they rise to their feet and charge. Dozens of naked bodies, white flesh scorched black beneath the moonlight. Powerful legs send them soaring into the air, and they land and crouch and bound again. Rod fires and one squawks and tumbles but there are others, there are so many masalai coming.

  Another burst of tracer smashes the boat. Robbo shouts something at me then a bullet tears his arm off and he tumbles over the side. More great hammer blows as the mast and boom are hit and a crumpling sound as the main sail falls.

  Blood fills my eyes again, and I wipe it away. My shotgun is under the table where Kev lies. I crouch to retrieve it and come face to face with Michael hiding under there. He screams when he sees me and swings a winch handle at my head. I just step away from him and go up to railing where Rod is picking off approaching masalai as fast as he can. Zac says something about me bleeding before lifting and firing Ian's Ruger.

  They're around a hundred or so metres away, so I hold my fire. No point wasting buckshot. Orange rings smoulder in the fallen sail where tracer has burned holes.

  "Solomon!" I shout. "Get some water on the sail."

  "Solomon is dead," says Zac.

  "Oh, Christ. Who's winching?"

  "Kenzie."

  "Who's still here?"

  "Alfred. Auntie."

  "Where's Blong? Molo?"

  "I sent them below."

  "Alfred! Get—"

  A massive blow throws me down.

  My ears ring and someone shouts in my face. A woman. I know her. Who is she? My mother? No, she's dead. Am I dead? Dead shouldn’t hurt like this.

  A man with red hair turns and shoots at a hulking figure advancing from the bow. He takes its head off and then another drops from the sky in front of him. It has a pointed jaw and long hands and its skin is all burnt away. It knocks the red-haired man over and I look at the shotgun in my hands and think I can do something about this.

  I blast the creature's face off and then everything snaps back to me. Rod picks himself off the deck, lunging past me to swipe at a misshapen fanged head peering up over the side. Abella pulls me towards the stern. I push her away as another creature comes up, and I fire into its chest. The shotgun knocks it off balance, and it slips on the bloody deck and disappears back onto the reef.

  A cold, iron hand grabs my ankle, and I fire down, blasting through the thin dead wrist and into the fibreglass deck. Fist sized holes have been punched into the deck all over. The cabin portholes are blown out and flames lick the billowing mainsai
l.

  Larry shouts "Come on, now, now, now!" He must be back after setting the second anchor. But I know it's too late. The masalai are overwhelming us. The machine gun is chewing us to pieces. The stink of burning fibreglass fills the air. Finally, after all these years, it has come to an end. I'll troubleshoot until the last but the problems are coming too big and fast.

  Alfred comes to my side, hacking at arms reaching up from the reef. I fire into the heaving mass of creatures swarming over the boat. Larry shouts but what is the point? No running. No more escaping. We fight now, and we go down like warriors. Human and alive.

  I trip over a body and look down and it is little Molo. More thunder, more shattering. Bullets left and right, and I scream up to the stars, GODDAMN, IT JUST GIVE US A CHANCE.

  Someone pulls me back. Abella’s hair is matted with blood, and she has a bandage around her arm. She leans into my ear and shouts, "We have to go, right now!"

  Then behind her on the stern rises a new figure, and I think now I am sure I have lost my mind. Because it is Jacka and he waves to me, calling me to him, but it can't be Jacka. Jacka is with the fleet, Jacka ran away to sea, Jacka is—

  Whatever he is, he sure feels real enough when he grabs my arm and pulls me to him. The canoes are clustered around the stern. They're here. They're here to save us.

  Their crews are tense and alert as they help the survivors aboard. Abigail and Zac, Larry, Rod, Auntie, Apo, Abella. Blong yelling madly, held down so he can't jump back aboard. Kev is being lowered into Balus Pis by Kenzie and Jarrod.

  "The gun," I say. "It'll cut us to pieces."

  "They can't hit us if we hide behind the yacht," says Jacka. "It's how we got in."

  Larry comes up to me, the Ruger up in his shoulder as he fires at masalai advancing down the deck. "We have to go, we have to go!" he says.

  Michael lunges from beneath the table. His face is pale, and his eyes are red, and his lips coated with white foam. He swings the winch handle at me. "My yacht!" he screams. "You did this! You killed us all!" I slip and fall flat. Fire has spread into the main cabin, and Michael's madness is demonic in the flames.

  The whole boat heaves as a bullet finds a LPG tank and disintegrates the port bow. Larry is down. Michael screams in fury as the mast tips and the deck sags. He staggers back and long black burnt arms reach up from the side of the yacht and snag his legs. They yank and he hits the deck, the winch handle skittering out of his grasp. He looks at me, and his eyes are suddenly clear, and I see the man he once was. A moment of clarity. More clawed hands grab at him and pull, and he is gone.

  Larry rises to one knee, swearing fit to turn the air blue. I drag myself to my feet. Everyone else is underway in the canoes, their lateen sails spread wide to race downwind away from the blazing yacht. Only Jacka remains, and he waves to us. Larry has his hand tight on his thigh just below his groin. "Jesus, kid, I copped one," he says.

  "Keep pressure on it!" I say. "Abella will have it out in a minute."

  He grins and steps forward. As he does so, he slips on the bloody deck and goes down again. His hand slides from his thigh and a thick jet of crimson blood streaks out, rising in a long lingering stream like a geyser that pulses in time with his heartbeat.

  Christ, it's his femoral artery.

  I fling open the lazarette locker, ignoring the shrieking masalai battering the hull, ignore the rending of the dying ship as more bullets come home. I find a length of cord and come back to Larry. Jacka already has him in the canoe and I jump in after them. Jacka shoves off and takes the sheet and tiller in hand to shape a course out to sea.

  Larry is as white as a corpse beneath his beard. His purple eyelids flutter weakly. I get the cord in a loop around his thigh just below his crotch. I slip the winch handle dropped by Michael between his skin and the cord and twist. I spin the winch handle around and around until the cord cuts deep into Larry's skin. I keep going as the canoe skips across the waves, spray misting us and clearing the blood from my eyes.

  The jets are weaker now, and I pray it's because the tourniquet is doing its work and not because he is about to die on me. The cord is so tight that it seems it must surely sever his leg. Finally the blood stops flowing. His leg is as white as a bone. I lean over his mouth and feel the barest hint of breath against my cheek.

  I sit back in the canoe and look back at the island. Shiloh is a column of crimson flame, surrounded by capering masalai who dance on the reef like cavemen worshipping a bonfire. Beyond them the volcano glows and the resort smoulders. The machine gun still pumps bullets into the blaze. Tracer rounds soar into the night sky like a thousand shooting stars that had lost their way.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: ZAC

  The moon’s brilliance drowns out all but the brightest stars. Our canoe plunges through capricious waves that fling packets of water to soak us to the bone. Abigail screams every time we are doused, as the saltwater paints her wounds with acid. Her face is tight with pain from the long shards of Perspex that pierce her right bicep.

  It is only myself, Abigail and two local sailors, Memafu and Luke, in the canoe. They cringe in sympathy at each of Abigail's screams but they don't let her pain distract them from their task, as they urge our canoe onwards with every ounce of their being.

  The Perspex splinters are fringed with frayed fibreglass and rubber torn from where the bullets sent them spinning into Abigail's arm like a pair of arrows. I have fought the urge to pull them out; they need to be trimmed and cleaned first so they don't leave long strands of fibreglass inside the wounds. Abigail made me promise to wait until we were onboard Fidelio. It was the last rational thing she said to me before she was lost to the pain. She holds my arm with her good hand and all I can do is let her squeeze me when the agony comes, her fingers digging deep into my flesh.

  Ahead are lights. A single masthead light on Razzmatazz, nothing on Excelsior but the wide spaced red and green nav lights on Fidelio show me that they are running straight at us. Not that we need the lights to see them; the moonlight is bright enough that I can make out Fidelio's vast, soaring sails.

  I murmur a thousand promises to Abigail. She is lost in her pain and hears nothing. In my younger days, I would have prayed to God for help, for his mercy, to spare my loved one. But now, when I look down inside myself, I find the place where faith once lived is empty. I have nothing to say to God, and I ask nothing of him. Instead my words of comfort to Abigail are my only defence against the tides of helplessness that threaten to overwhelm me.

  The other canoes spread out behind us, running down wind, skipping across the unpredictable waves like panicked fish fleeing barracuda. There was no order in our evacuation; we have four people in our canoe but some others are packed with seven or eight and wallow heavily in the ugly sea. Far behind comes the last in our little evacuation fleet. I hope it holds Matty.

  Luke gasps, "Kanu i kapsizim!" I follow his outstretched finger to see a floundering canoe. It came off a wave too hard and the outrigger snapped. The sail smashed it down and the following wave rolled it. Two other canoes race in to rescue its struggling crew.

  "Zac," murmurs Abigail. Her voice is tight but clear of the pain delirium. "Are you okay?"

  I almost laugh with the relief and love that floods me. "I'm fine. Not a scratch. Don’t worry about me."

  "I feel bad, Zac. I think I'm going to be sick."

  "It's okay. You just go if you want."

  "I'm okay," says Abigail, pushing herself upright with her good arm and peering out at the night, our little fleet and, far behind us now, the triple burning glow of the resort, Shiloh and the volcano.

  Luke has his whole weight on the steering oar, fighting the mad sea to keep us running straight at the yachts. Memafu, a great big fellow, is on the outrigger, using his weight to keep us stiff to the wind. "Isaac, yu mus rausim wara," he says.

  I bail water with half a coconut shell, flinging it out as fast as it spills onboard. I lose myself in the task, looking all the while at Abigail. Her eyes ar
e closed again, and she grimaces against the arcs of pain that roll through her.

  Then the canoe shifts and tilts as Luke lets it come off the wind. Fidelio is just ahead, curving around to back her jib and heave to. All her lights come on at once; the cockpit light, the rear deck light and a single spotlight half way up the mast that illuminates the whole boat, so that she looks like some kind of alien whale wallowing in the void. Enzo waves at us to approach her stern.

  "Yumi go! Loosim sail!" shouts Memafu as he slips the halyard and the ancient tarpaulin comes down. We leap on the billowing cloth and roll the boom, gathering the sail before it flaps itself to pieces. The canoe bumps hard against Fidelio, and a white man grabs at our bow and ties a line. What's his name? It's ridiculous that I don't know. I must be so tired.

  "Zac, please," begins Abigail, but I am already dipping to lift her. Memafu and Gary – of course, its Gary, who does much of the carpentry on Madau – hold the bow steady while Luke ties on. Abigail is so light, oh God that scares me more than anything, it's like she is fading away –and pass her aboard.

  There is shouting and more canoes coming up. Razzmatazz has heaved to and, still far down wind, Excelsior labours against the swell. I am no great sailor but her mainsail looks ridiculously small, reaching barely a third of the way up her mast.

  Enzo grabs my arm and pulls me aboard. "Where is Abella?" he asks. His eyes float over dark bags. "Where is Matty?"

  "Abella is right behind us. We have many wounded. She will need to operate. Where are her instruments?"

  "I will get them."

  The plunging sea makes us stagger around the lurching yacht like a party of drunks. Enzo’s back deck is a wide space some four metres by three. I do some quick arithmetic. "I think we may need more space."

  "More space?! Merde. It was that bad?"

  "Later. Get the instruments."

  Abella stands at the bow of the next canoe and springs aboard before it even comes alongside. She rushes straight past me into the saloon where Enzo appears, holding two leather cases in her hands. Their reunion is nothing more than a quick tight smile and then she is back on deck.