The Nice Boxset

by Jasinda Wilder

  Sky and sea. Waves and lightning.

  It continues, a torment unending. Breath is a gift, each time I draw a lungful.

  Ava.

  If I live through this, I’ll…

  What? I don’t know. So much. Love her. Forgive her. Beg her for forgiveness. Hold her. Tell her…everything. Spend a month whispering all the truths within me to her.

  A light, then. The sun? No; rain still stings my face as I tumble down the side of a mountainous wave. But there is light bathing me, too steady and constant for lightning. I hear a noise, like thunder, but not. Thunder cracks as lightning spears, sound and strike concurrent. The other noise…it’s a grumbling. A deep, bass murmur.

  Shouts?

  I can’t speak, have no strength to speak. All I can do is gasp for breath when I feel air on my face. Can’t even wave my hand. It might be a dream, a taunting of my subconscious, creating fictional rescue where there will be none. I am doomed to float and tumble thus in the storm-tossed sea until I drown, as punishment for abandoning Ava when she needed me most.

  The bass murmur is louder, feeling almost real, now. And I’m imagining voices. Shouts snatched by the wind. Something smacks the water near me, and I hear frantic shouting, but I can’t make out what they’re saying, or it’s not in a language I know. I’m so dizzy, so thirsty. I stopped being cold long ago, which something deep in the recesses of my brain tells me is a sign of acute hypothermia. I manage to roll toward the thing that hit the water.

  It’s orange. Round. A life preserver? White lettering. A white cross. I hook an arm through it, still certain I’m hallucinating. But as I cling to the imaginary orange disc, I feel myself being pulled through the waves. I sink as a wave slides past, drop fifteen or twenty feet into the trough and then water closes over my head. Not for long, though. I’m pulled up. It’s all I can do to cling to the orange circle. Is this real?

  The bass grumbling is powerful now. I twist in the water as I’m drawn forward. There’s a massive dark shape shrouded in the darkness, a shadow obscured by wind-blasted sheets of rain. A bow. A long, long, long body. A superstructure, lights dim yellow. How close am I? I hear the propeller chopping at the water. Feel the pull of the mighty ship’s enormous draft as I near her side. I wrap my other arm around the preserver, clinging with every last shred of strength I possess, which isn’t much.

  I’m airborne.

  Dangling.

  Twisting.

  Drawn upward, my grip fading.

  And then, from behind, the rushing of something even more massive and mighty than the boat. A rogue wave, towering so high overhead that I can tip my head backward and see it. How high? Too high to measure. A colossus of the sea. Rushing, reaching. The tanker or cargo ship or fishing scow or whatever it is that I’ve dreamed up or am being rescued by—I’m still not sure whether this is real or not—tips sideways as the wave soars at her, bobbing, heeling, sliding down into a canyon between waves, and I’m thrown skyward. I’ve wrapped the rough fibers of the line around my hand and my arm, tangled it around me so I cannot release it even if I tried. A good way to lose an arm, but better than that be thrown aside this close to rescue, only to drown. I tumble and wheel, spin and twist, and the wave smashes against the enormous ship, and god, how did they even see me in this? I’ll owe the sharp-eyed observer my life, and a lifetime of drinks, should I make it out alive.

  I hear a crash, the ship righting itself as the wave smashes past, not even cresting yet. And I’m swinging, still, shoulder wrenching almost out of the socket, hand searing in pain, burning, arm constricted. But I’ve got the line, and I’m swinging on it, arcing back toward the ship.

  I get a glimpse of the ship as I hurtle at her.

  I slam full-force into the side of the ship, and I feel something break. Agony lances through me, washes over me. I feel myself being dragged upward, and I feel rivets and sheet metal, ice-cold from the waves and wet and slimy.

  Darkness surges up from within me, shadows armed with claws of excruciating anguish.

  PAINPAINPAIN. All is pain.

  I can’t even groan past the pain.

  Movement stops.

  I settle against something solid and unmoving, and yet I still feel as if I’m being wave-thrown, tumbling and rising and dipping, and I can’t breathe for the agony in my lungs. Broken ribs, and my left arm and leg have been shattered and set afire. My right arm is still tangled in the lifeline, and I peer blearily down my torso, and see blood and things bent in directions arms shouldn’t bend. Thoughts come slowly.

  “Est-il en vie?”

  A second voice.“Oui, mais pas longtemps.”

  A face, garbed in yellow rain gear. “Assurez-vous quail ne meurt pas.”

  I shake my head. I try to speak, but it comes out in a moan. Hands grab me, and the agony as they lift me is just too much.

  Darkness spins around me, in me, through me, and I tumble into it.

  “Ava…”

  Was that my voice? Cracked and rough and grating and so weak?

  I should be shivering, but I’m too cold to shiver. Not cold at all, maybe.

  There’s nothing.

  I hear Ava’s voice, but I know it’s in my head. Christian. Come back to me, Christian.

  I’m trying, my love. But I’m tired, now. So tired.

  The darkness is warm.

  I can’t fight anymore.

  Ava?

  [Ft. Lauderdale, FL; May 19, 2016]

  Christian?

  I hear him, I feel him. He’s out there.

  I need him.

  Do you hear me, Chris? I need you. Come back. Come back.

  I fade into the drowsing silence. The storm has quieted, here. I’m huddled in my bathtub. A slab of the ceiling or the wall fell in, covering the tub. Protecting me, trapping me. My breath is hot and close. I have a bottle of water, which I had clutched in my hand when I realized the storm was destruction incarnate, flattening buildings, hurling roofs and car hoods and street signs, and that this truly wasn’t a ride-it-out storm, and that I needed shelter. So I huddled in the tub, sport cap pink Hydro Flask in one hand. And then the ceiling or wall fell over on top of me, sealing off the tub from the world outside. I heard the storm continue to rage, felt the walls shudder and shake, heard the wrenching squeal of tearing metal and crashes and juddering joists.

  I cannot move. If I lie on my back, my nose touches the soggy drywall imprisoning and shielding me. To drink, I have to lie on my side and tilt the bottle just so. It’s nearly empty, now.

  I’ve been trapped for…I don’t know how long.

  Hunger is a distant memory; I know how long I can go without food, although I have less excess fat to live off, now.

  Chris…I think of Chris.

  Remember his face. The feel of his hands. The rough murmur of his voice in the small, quiet hours, as we laze in the afterglow.

  The silence that pervades, now, is total. I can hear my heart beating in my chest. Hear my breathing echoed back to me. A tick and a rumble and a faint hum, then silence again.

  Time skips and hops, stretches like taffy, contracts like a Slinky. I count my breaths, and lose track at one million eight hundred and ninety-four thousand five hundred and sixty-something.

  Start over.

  I’m tired.

  How could you leave me, Christian? I love you, god I love you. Come back. Please come back.

  [Somewhere in the South Atlantic; date unknown]

  Ava?

  I should never have left.

  I am pain. There is no me, no body, no self, no consciousness, no past present future, only raw, blazing, endless agony.

  It gives me something to focus on, other than sorrow and fear.

  I can’t open my eyes.

  I can’t move.

  My breathing is assisted, somehow. For which I am thankful, since I’m too weak to manage even that.

  There is only silence. And warmth, like a heat too great to fully understand, or too cold and too deep to fathom. No
thing makes sense.

  Only that I need Ava.

  I have to find her.

  I have to go back.

  Ava.

  Ava? God it hurts.

  Ava…

  Epilogue

  [Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean; date unknown]

  It takes me a few minutes to completely wake up, and when I finally do, it’s a hazy, groggy, troubled awareness. I moan, and the rough, scratchy sound of my voice tells me I’ve been asleep for quite awhile.

  “He’s waking up.” A male voice, American accent. “Hey, can you hear me?”

  I moan again. “Nnnngh.” It’s not a word so much as an attempt at a word. “Agua…por favor…”

  “Sorry, man, I don’t speak Spanish.”

  “Dude. Even if you don’t speak Spanish, that much at least has to be obvious.” This is a second voice, also male, much younger, and it’s not until now that I realize they’re speaking English and I used Spanish. “He’s thirsty. Agua? Aqua? Water? Duh.”

  “I may be your brother, Dane, but I’m still the captain. Show a little respect.”

  “Sorry, Dom.”

  A silence, and then the first, older voice. “Well? Get him some water, dipshit.”

  “Oh, right.”

  I realize, at this point, that I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I’m in no hurry to do so, though, since everything hurts. My head is throbbing, my throat is on fire, my bones ache, my muscles are sore from head to toe, and I think there’s something broken in my left leg. I feel a hand slip under my head, and something plastic touches my lips.

  “It’s a sport cap. You just gotta suck on it, okay, bro?”

  “How do you know he understands English, Dane?”

  “Oh, good point.” The second voice clears his throat. “Um. Agua, dude. I got some agua. El drinko, ese.”

  “Dane, you idiot. None of that was Spanish except agua. I may not speak Spanish, but even I know ‘el drinko’ ain’t fuckin’ Spanish, moron.”

  I would laugh, if it didn’t hurt. I try to lift my hand, but it’s too hard. I manage to wrap my lips around the cap and pull until ice-cold, pure, filtered water fills my mouth. As badly as I want to gulp it down greedily, I’ve been through enough shit to know better. Instead, I let the water sit in my mouth, let the dried-out tissue soak it up. Swish it around, let some trickle down my throat, and I could cry in relief.

  “This guy knows what he’s doing, at least.” The first voice, in a lecturing tone. “Notice how he didn’t gulp it down? He let it sit in his mouth, and he’s swallowing it slowly. If you’ve gone without water for a long time, like you’re close to death by dehydration like he was, you gotta go slow or you could make yourself sick. Same thing with food.”

  “Not…not my first rodeo,” I manage, my voice raspy and hoarse. “And I speak English. Better than the two of you, I think.”

  A laugh from the first voice. “Probably true.”

  I open my eyes. I’m in the cabin of a boat. Wood paneled walls, bare ceiling, pipes visible. Narrow, hard cot under me, thin pillow, scratchy green military issue wool blanket over my torso. Not much else in the cabin aside from a battered bureau attached to the wall on one side and a metal desk attached to the opposite wall. There are two men in the cabin with me, although “man” is a bit of a stretch for the one. The older man, Dom, is tall, well built, rugged looking, with a messy, curly, wild mass of jet-black hair bound back in a low knot at the back of his neck, and a long, well-groomed beard; he is midthirties, probably, with hard, intelligent gray eyes. The younger, Dane, is probably not even eighteen, and clearly the older man’s younger brother. Similar build but twenty years younger, less filled out. Same wild, curly black hair, and the beginnings of a beard, more of a straggly attempt than a real beard, same gray eyes but young and eager and excited.

  I wiggle my toes and fingers, roll my head on my neck, shrug my shoulders, taking stock. My left leg throbs like a motherfucker, a deep, burning pain centered around my thigh, but I can move it and wiggle my toes, which tells me it probably isn’t a break but some other injury. Everything else seems to be fine.

  “I wouldn’t move around too much,” Dom says. “You got pretty fucked up.”

  “For real. Miracle you’re even alive,” Dane adds.

  “My leg?” I ask.

  Dom shifts closer, twitches the blanket aside to reveal thick white bandages wrapped around my thigh, low, near the knee. “Nasty gash to the quad. Took a good thirty stitches. You’ll be limping for a while.”

  I eye him. “You do the stitches?”

  He nods. “Did eight years in the Navy as a corpsman on a hospital ship. I can set bones and stitch shit up, basic triage stuff.”

  I try to lift my hand again, and this time succeed. “Well, thanks.” He takes my hand and we shake. “Jonny Núñez.”

  “Dominic Bathory, and this my brother, Dane.”

  “How’d you find me?” I am trying like hell to remember, but things are foggy.

  I remember the hurricane hitting, like the fist of God smashing in from nowhere. I remember the monster rogue wave knocking us flying, and Christian going overboard. He was just gone before I could even blink, before I could do a damn thing, just snatched by the sea. He had a life vest on, and the motherfucker can swim like a fish, and he’s one of the toughest bastards I’ve ever known, so if anyone can survive going overboard during a hurricane in the spring in the Atlantic, it’s him. But…the chances aren’t good.

  After that, it’s all a blur. The storm raged for so long. It was all I could do to stay on the ship, to keep her from being flipped. I remember thinking I was going to drown while still on the damn boat. I remember…not much else. The ocean around me. Seawater in my mouth. Dark sky above, lightning. Struggling to breathe. Swimming.

  Did I go overboard too?

  “That was a bitch of a storm,” Dominic says. “Came out of fuckin’ nowhere. We were running ahead of it, but it overtook us. I thought for sure we were gonna flip, but we didn’t. That bitch blew for three damn days, man, and when she finally blew past us, we were so far off course it’s not even funny. Well, when I finally figured out where the hell we were, we’d been blown way the hell west, luckily for you. We took some damage, lost some nets, had a boom snap off, lost our radio antenna, so we gotta put in for repairs. Then yesterday, right around dawn, we came across a catamaran. Flipped, swamped. Surprising it was still afloat, but those cats are tough as hell to sink, right? And you were laying on the hull, passed the fuck out. You had a rope wrapped around your waist, and a metal box in your arms, in a damn death grip.” He shrugs. “So we took you aboard, I stitched up your leg, and hoped for the best. I don’t have an IV or fluids or I’d have pushed some fluids.”

  A thought hits me. “The boat. She sank?”

  He nods. “Sadly, yeah. No way to save her. Too bad, too. She looked like a gorgeous boat. I got you off, and we had to keep going. Saw her going under, though. Got you off in the nick of time, I’d say.”

  “I owe you my life, then,” I say.

  Dominic shrugs again. “Hey, something tells me you’d’ve done the same thing.”

  “Sure, of course I would’ve. But you still did it. So thanks.”

  “Buy me a beer or ten when we put in to port and we’ll call it even.”

  I laugh. “I hope my life is worth more than ten beers, but you can count on that much, at least.” I peer around the room. “The box. You mentioned I had a box with me. Where is it?”

  Dane crouches near the cot and reaches under it, coming up with Christian’s box. I take it from him and rest it on my lap, breathing a sigh of relief. I’ve got the key on my gold chain necklace, next to my crucifix. I have a vague memory of slipping that key onto my necklace when I realized I may not sail out of the storm; I also put Christian’s tiny little laptop into the box, so that much of him at least would survive, the letters and everything saved to his computer.

  Dominic lifts his chin in the direction of the box. “Mind if I
ask the importance of that?”

  “The boat was my friend’s. He went overboard during the storm. The box has some letters for his wife, which I’m supposed to deliver in the event of my friend…” I shrug, not wanting to even say out loud the possibility.

  I want to believe he’s still alive out there somewhere.

  Dominic nods, his expression serious and grim. “Anything’s possible, but…”

  I sigh. “I know.” I rub the back of my neck. “I wonder where Christian ended up, then?”

  “Assuming he made it, there’s no way to tell. A body can get pushed a long-ass way.”

  I feel a tightness in my chest. “He fuckin’ made it, okay? He had to.”

  Dominic holds up his hands. “Hey, I hope he did. I’m just saying. You gotta know the odds.”

  “Never tell me the odds!” Dane says, glancing as if to gauge our reactions.

  I stare at him blankly, and Dominic huffs and shakes his head, giving his brother a playful shove. “He’s a Star Wars geek. Don’t mind him.”

  I shrug. “Never seen it. Heard of it, though. Is that the one with the bald guy? Picard?”

  Dane groans and slaps his forehead with his palm. “Oh my god. No. Picard is Star Trek. Totally different.”

  “Oh. So Star Wars is the one with the big hairy monkey dude that makes the weird noises?”

  “Chewy. Chewbacca. And he’s a wookie.”

  I snort. “Okay, ese.”

  Dane blushes scarlet. “I didn’t know you spoke English, okay?”

  “Pro tip, buddy? Never call a Spanish speaker ese, okay? Just makes you sound stupid. Ninety-nine percent of us don’t even use that word, never have, and never will. I think only gangbangers in LA actually use it in what you might call a non-ironic sense.”

  “Oh.”

  I laugh. “You even know what non-ironic means?”

  Dane shrugs. “Not exactly.”

  Dominic chortles and smacks his brother on the back. “What’d I tell you, Dane? This cat speaks better English than either of us.”