Firestorm

by David Klass

Step and throw. Rock nails circling recon bird. Feather-ripping beak-shattering impact. Bird zigzags to the ground like a helicopter hit by a ground-fired missile.

  I run along edge of channel, heading for dunes.

  The storm has grown even more furious. Wind blows the rain sideways in gusts that slap against my face.

  Reach end of channel. Stumble up sandy hillocks that separate marsh from dunes. Feel exposed. Look back.

  Shadowy shapes less than a half mile away and coming on fast. Bird thing must have alerted them.

  I slide down hillock to dunes. Sprint across wet sand. Murder on the legs, but I’m in superb condition. Thanks, Eko. Most interesting, not to mention beautiful, woman I ever met. Sorry I pushed you away. You sacrificed yourself for me, and I’ll never forget you for as long as I live.

  Which will probably be less than ten minutes.

  Because they’re gaining on me. I glance back and see them cresting the hill and streaming down onto the dunes.

  No place to hide. Just an angry ocean pummeling an expanse of gently sloping sand.

  I reach the water’s edge and look back. They’re halfway down the dunes, angling to cut me off. When they catch me, they’ll probably rip me apart on this beach. But I won’t go easily. Eko’s seen to that.

  I stop running. No point. Stand there, waiting for them. It’s not a bad place to die, this beach in this storm.

  Humans! You’re pathetic sometimes. Especially young male humans of warrior age. Such a weakness for melodrama. It leads to a unique ability to convince yourselves that defeat is actually some kind of victory. As if there’s anything good about being torn apart on a beach by one’s enemies! Please. Get over it.

  A familiar telepathic voice. Insulting, condescending, and completely unhelpful at the same time.

  Wherever you are, fur ball, get lost. I don’t want a traitor distracting me as I prepare to make my final stand.

  You can’t just give up and die, fool. You are our beacon of hope.

  Watch me.

  You don’t know who’s chasing you. They’ll eat you alive!

  And maybe they’ll have dog for dessert.

  I’m saying all this as bravely as I can, but the truth is I don’t want to be torn apart on this beach by the Dark Army if there’s a way out. But what choices do I have?

  Mutt brain hasn’t dared to show himself. That’s exactly the kind of cowardly behavior I’ve come to expect from an overeducated canine with a thousand years’ worth of insults but no moral convictions. Man’s best friend? Hah!

  Still, I’m running out of options fast. I scan the dunes in all directions. Lightning flashes, and I see my shadowy pursuers less than a hundred feet away and closing. Still no sign of Gisco.

  Over here, blockhead.

  Where?

  In the water. I need help with this.

  Turn toward waves. See it. Small boat. Forty feet out. Foundering. Buffeted. Nearly capsizing. No one on board. No sign of dog. When you’re about to be torn apart on a beach, a small boat in a storm is better than nothing.

  I run into surf and dive low into breaker. Fifteen-foot wave slams me against sand bottom as it crashes down over me. Backwash sucks me out. I keep my bearings and try to swim. Make it back to surface. Boat now closer. Still no one on board. I swim to it. Grab side. Start to pull myself up.

  No. We’ll get washed into shore. You have to help me.

  I spot traitorous dog. Mooring rope in his teeth. A thrashing canine tugboat trying to pull the boat out to sea.

  I jump back into water. Push boat with my hands, shove with my shoulders, butt with my head. Kick legs and fight for every watery inch. I’m pushing. Gisco’s pulling.

  Giant waves toy with us. Smash us down. Sweep us in. Yank us out. Hard to tell if we’re making much progress.

  I lose track of time. The struggle to push the boat out becomes my life. Got to win this one. Our only chance. Must move us beyond the breakers.

  Swallow seawater. Choking. Exhausted. Arms and legs waterlogged. I start to sink. Grab boat. Pull myself up and over the side. Kneel, retching.

  Glance back. Lightning strobes beach. Dunes a half mile away. Shadowy forms on sand watching us sail away. We moved the small boat into a riptide. It’s yanking us out to sea.

  Scratching against side of boat. Desperate canine telepathic SOS. Help me in, Jack. I’m drowning.

  Climb in yourself.

  Dogs can’t climb.

  Whose fault is that?

  I just saved your life.

  Thanks. I appreciate it.

  Much weaker. Help me. Jack. Please.

  He did say “please.” I roll to side of boat. See what looks like a submerged shag rug with ears and a snout. Reach into foaming brine. Grab two handholds of fur. Try to lift.

  I’m in tip-top shape, but it’s a Herculean task. Gisco is not exactly a lightweight, even on his dry days. I grunt and strain and he scrabbles with giant paws on the side of the boat. Just when I’m ready to give up and let him drown, a swell tips the boat and he tumbles in on top of me.

  Yuck. Buried under several hundred pounds of sopping, mangy, fetid, and macerated mongrel. Get off me.

  Shag rug untangles itself. Large dog peers back at distant beach and then turns toward open ocean and strikes preposterous nautical pose. As if he’s Nelson at Trafalgar. I’ve got good news and bad news.

  I’m afraid to ask. What’s the good news?

  There’s no way they can follow us. By the time this blows through, we’ll be safely away.

  I should quit while I’m ahead. Okay, snout face, what’s the bad news?

  We’re in a small, open boat, sailing right into the teeth of the most ferocious hurricane I’ve ever seen.

  31

  Don’t let anyone ever tell you a hurricane is just wind and rain. It’s alive, strange as that may seem. A great howling beast. And I’m riding in a peanut shell on its back.

  Shall we talk about waves for a second? You know those six-footers that are fun to boogie-board on in summer sunlight? Towering ten-footers stirred up by strong winds? Freakish fifteen– and twenty-footers that provide photo ops in surfing documentaries?

  Forget those. Unimpressive. Totally irrelevant in my current situation.

  Try to conceive of moving mountain ranges of water. Think slip-sliding Alps. Roiling Andes. Glaciers of tipping spume and avalanches of tumbling froth. Towering gray-green peaks and yawning fuliginous valleys.

  Look that one up, my friend, but not right now. Now there’s an angry mountain range marching toward me heart-stoppingly quickly. Ka-thump, ka-thump.

  You see it rolling in at you and you think oh my God, nothing could be that big and move that fast. And then it’s under you and around you and you are pitched up on its back, higher and higher, till it seems you are being raised in slow motion to the threshold of the sky.

  Poised there for an instant. Hanging. Suspended. You know what’s coming. Just waiting for it to begin. Knowing that it will. It must. Because what goes this far up has to come … down, down, down, you are skidding and plummeting into its inky trough-craters, and you can’t believe the boat didn’t capsize or crack in half.

  But it didn’t.

  It made it.

  Before you can take a breath and celebrate the fact that you’re still alive, you glance out. Not much visibility in a hurricane. But enough. Joy vanishes. Euphoria evaporates. Because an even bigger mountain range is surging out of the mist. Growing and swelling as it gets closer.

  You’re looking up at it from a small boat, miles from shore. The Himalayas of the Atlantic. Everest itself. Bearing down on you. Under you. Around you. Up you go again, skyward. Higher than before. Higher than anyone has ever been in any ship in any storm. And the only two things you can do are hold on and pray.

  Actually, we can’t hold on. We gave up on that long ago, when the first giant waves slammed us down and washed over us, nearly knocking us loose. So we took whatever ropes there were on board, and lashed ourselve
s to the boat. If it sinks, we sink. But as long as it stays afloat, we have a chance.

  Prayer is a funny thing. If you put a gun to my head I couldn’t tell you if I believe in God or not. I certainly don’t have the kind of relationship with a divine being where we communicate frequently. So now, even though I’m helpless and scared for my life, it feels hypocritical to pray.

  Do I even have a right to ask God for help? If there’s no God, I’m wasting my time. And if there is a God, won’t he or she see me for a fake, who only pretends to believe in moments of danger? If I clasp my hands together and promise to be a better person if he intervenes now, won’t God see through my flattering words and feeble promises?

  On the other hand, I’m in a small boat in the middle of the Atlantic, surrounded by a force-five hurricane. If you can’t turn to God in such a situation, who can you turn to?

  While I’m wrestling with these doubts, I hear a telepathic barrage going out on all channels. 0 Great Dog God, you magnificent, sublime, unparalleled specimen of canine perfection, I, Gisco, your humble servant, I who am not fit to walk in your shadow, I who grovel in the mud under your four paws, beg for your help. Save me, anointed Hound of Heaven, and I will spend the rest of my miserable life worshipping your gloriousness …

  Gisco, what are you doing?

  Praying, fool.

  It’s pathetic to hear you grovel that way. If there really is a Great Dog God, which I very much doubt, what must he be thinking?

  Hopefully, he’s thinking of saving us.

  If we’re gonna die, we’re gonna die. Stop making promises you’ll never keep.

  O Great Dog God, forgive my feeble-minded human companion his mocking words. Truly my fate is linked to a race of fools. Save us, and I will show him the error of his ways, and we will both light a thousand candles to your canine beneficence. Save us, and from this day forth I will be a loyal and true dog, a humble and meek dog. I will stop overeating, and feed the stray puppies and the widowed bitches …

  At this moment, we reach the crest of the Mount Everest of water that has reared up beneath us. I look down over the side of the boat and see a bottomless, churning chasm waiting to engulf us.

  We hang for a moment between sea and sky, and then start the long tumble from pinnacle to abyss. The roaring of the maelstrom is deafening. The tiny boat slams and whirls, nearly ripping my body free from the ropes.

  My hands come together, even though I don’t remember willing them to move. Words escape my lips unbidden. 0 dear God, this is Jack Danielson, in the middle of an Atlantic hurricane. I know I haven’t prayed to you often. I realize I am a sinner in all kinds of ways. I lie. I think about sex too much. I didn’t love my parents enough or appreciate how much they did for me when they were alive. And I myself have done very little that is good in this world.

  But ever since that tall stranger appeared in the Hadley Diner, I’ve been living in mortal danger. And I have noticed that time and again I’ve been uncannily lucky. Perhaps you’re the reason—maybe, just maybe, you’ve been saving my life, preserving me for a higher purpose.

  O God, if you save me again, I promise I’ll find a way to do better. I can’t change the past, but I’ll do what I can to achieve that mysterious higher purpose, and to change the future.

  When my moment comes, I’ll take it.

  I’m so scared, God. I don’t want to drown. There’s nothing more I can say except please, God, save me.

  38

  We are drifting. Where? I don’t know. Will anyone find us before we die of thirst and starvation? I doubt it.

  Stomach empty.

  Two days since the storm passed. Forty-six hours with no food and no water, trapped on small boat with traitorous dog.

  He’s tried a few conversational salvos. I shot him down. Sorry, Rover. When a friend betrays me, I don’t take him back. No need to talk. Let’s suffer in silence.

  Throat dry. Tongue parched. Every cell in my body crying out for liquid refreshment. Nothing available. Stupid dog forgot to take provisions when he stole this boat.

  I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it without a clear intention of returning it. There is a distinction. Anyway, you seemed pretty happy to climb on board when those fiends were about to rip you apart on the beach. And you can stay silent and morose if you want, but if you’re going to think nasty things about me, I wish you’d screen your thoughts.

  Cowardly mongrel promised Great Dog God that if we were saved he would eat less. So perhaps he’s to blame for this slow death. Perhaps the Great Dog God is taking him up on the dietary offer, and me too, since I’m along for the ride.

  My prayers were private.

  You broadcast them on all channels.

  I wanted to make sure they were heard, but not by you. And you can be assured the Great Dog God didn’t save us from that horrible storm only to starve us to death.

  How do I know that?

  Dogs are not cruel by nature. They are merciful and kind. So it follows that Dog gods must be wonderfully merciful and tremendously kind.

  Maybe so, but right now no one is showing us any mercy.

  The sun is a red fireball overhead. Not broiling us or frying us. Toasting us excruciatingly slowly.

  The worst part of it is that all around us is water.

  I recall two stanzas from Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”:

  Day after day, day after day,

  We stuck, nor breath, nor motion;

  As idle as a painted ship

  Upon a painted ocean.

  Water, water everywhere,

  And all the boards did shrink;

  Water, water, everywhere,

  Nor any drop to drink.

  And there is indeed water all around our little boat, in every direction, as far as we can see. It’s tempting to just lower my hands into the cold Atlantic, pull up a draft of seawater, and swallow it down.

  But I know this won’t work. I’ve read about shipwrecks, and the tortures suffered by people who drink seawater.

  Better to slowly thirst and starve to death. I can feel my stomach digesting itself.

  Can’t stop myself from thinking about pitchers of iced tea. Plump, greasy cheeseburgers. Curly french fries dipped in sweet, creamy catsup.

  Dog food without end. Hard lamb-flavored nuggets and soft pudding-smooth porridges of chicken and liver encased in circular golden cans. Boxes of turkey-flavored niblets. Tins of mixed grill with shimmering salty-gold globules of congealed beef fat that melt on the tongue—

  Okay. Yuck. Enough dog food fantasies.

  What else can I do but daydream? Since you won’t even talk to me.

  Okay, I give in. We have to talk, even if it’s just to keep our sanity. What shall we talk about? How about a nice chicken-and-egg game? Isn’t that your specialty?

  Sorry about that. I was just doing my job.

  Betraying me was your job?

  Saving you, actually, old bean.

  Thanks for all your help. Right now I really feel safe.

  This was hardly my fault.

  Nothing’s ever your fault, is it?

  You’re really quite hostile.

  I’m much nicer when I’m not dying of dehydration.

  For what it’s worth, I felt very guilty when I had to leave you in that barn. Maybe I didn’t handle it the best way I could have. I knew you were emotionally vulnerable, and you trusted me. I took unfair advantage of that, and I apologize.

  You’re just apologizing because we’re dying and you don’t want to die a guilty dog.

  We’re not dying. Not even close. We’ve got lots of fight left in us. Do you accept my apology or not?

  No.

  Truly a race of stubborn fools.

  39

  Three days in open boat in hot sun.

  All my anger toward traitorous dog long gone. Everything else gone, too. Last reserves of strength. Hope. Even prayer. We’ve accepted our fates. Now we’re just drifting on a painted ocean, waiting for the inevi
table.

  Okay, now we’re dying.

  I thought it would be more painful.

  It’s not exactly pleasant.

  Anyway, it will be over very soon. Gisco?

  What?

  I accept your apology for betraying me at the barn.

  I’m glad. Let’s end this trip as friends.

  The end comes very slowly. But death is settling around our boat like a sail of lightest gauze. I can feel its first spidery strands brushing my shoulders, enmeshing me.

  Wish it would hurry. The storm must have blown us southward. It’s brutally hot. We’re no longer being toasted. Now we’re being charbroiled.

  I’ve chewed my nails down to the nub. Gisco has done the same. If you’ve never seen a rotund dog trying to gnaw at the nails on his hind paws, you’ve missed something. I almost smiled at the ridiculous sight.

  But there is not much smiling going on in this boat. Dying of thirst is no fun. Your mind drifts, and you think wild thoughts about your life and how you can hold on just a little bit longer. I even consider drinking my own urine. I read somewhere that survivors of shipwrecks have done that.

  But there comes a time to go gracefully. I’m not a quitter, but further struggle seems futile. I’m weak. Blistered. Tongue swollen. Can barely keep my eyes open. So I’ve given up. Gisco, too.

  He’s not taking it well.

  Who would have thought sweet little Gisco would come to such an ignominious end? There were so many puppies I wanted to sire. So many meals I wanted to eat. Did you know that I was a cute puppy? The pick of the litter, my mom always said.

  I’m sure you were, I respond graciously, although I seriously doubt this could possibly have been true. If so, it must have been one hell of a disappointing litter. But this is not the time for insults.

  And my father always said I was destined for great things.

  At least you knew your true father.

  I knew yours, too. Met him once. Greatest honor of my life. It was just before he was taken prisoner.

  My father is a prisoner?

  When he sent you back in time, with your two guardians, the energy pulse revealed his presence to his enemies. No way to shield it. He knew it would happen. But he had no choice. He had to send you back, to save the world.