Kingdoms of Sorrow

by JK Franks

  “Those guys aren’t going to just sit there, Bartos,” Jack was nervous about this plan. “They’re going to be trying to take this ship. That’s what they do.”

  “I know, Jack.” Bartos looked his friend in the eye. “You and Scoots finished up the defenses, didn’t you?”

  The preacher nodded. “Yeah, everything you wanted . . . plus we moved the ammo and guns on board.”

  “Good. It’s time to seal the ship. Call everyone in and secure the hatches. Get the fighters in defensive positions. Keep everyone else below deck and away from the portside windows.”

  “Will do,” Jack turned to undertake his orders, then paused and spun back to his friend. “And Bartos, damn glad to see you back. That was a crazy thing to go do, but I’m glad it worked. And I’m glad you’re back.”

  Bartos smiled at his buddy and then walked up the darkened stairs to the bridge wing. It was several floors above the main deck and extended far out to a point almost even with the side of the ship. It was a useful vantage point for tricky docking maneuvers or tight passages. Today it gave a front row seat to the events going on below.

  So far, the group looked to be about fifty riders, mostly talking and laughing, some assessing their surroundings. Bartos laughed to see the line of alligators at the near side of the ship. Angel had been dumping food scraps over the side for the last few weeks to keep them close. Now they were part of their defense and offered an effective intimidation measure. The immediate obstacles would frustrate the men for a while, but he had no doubt the attacks would soon begin in earnest. It would not be long.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Unknown location - Gulf of Mexico

  Scott Montgomery was alive. Clinging to nothing more than hope, he was still alive. He had gone through a range of emotions in the last day, from despair to anger. He kept reliving the shock of entering the roiling ocean only to be swept out of sight on the crest of a truly massive wave. The pull had been incredible, and that single wave had taken him far enough away from the oil platform that he could no longer see it. An unimaginable weight of the waves regularly plunged him back down below the churning waters. He was an athlete and a more than capable swimmer, but no one could battle this.

  The patient was gone; a blur of orange was the last he had seen of the man. Scott was struggling for air, and his tactical boots were weighing him down. He struggled but finally found the Spec Elite knife at his waist, cut the bootlaces, and kicked them free. That helped only slightly, although he found he was finally able to get marginally sufficient breaths of air between some of the waves.

  To call the mountain of water he was constantly riding up and over a wave was a tremendous understatement. It was hard to gauge the depth of the troughs when he was high on the crest, but when he was in the valley looking up, each one seemed massive, maybe up to a hundred feet high at times. He had only been in the water a few minutes when a fantastic flash of yellow and red blurred his vision.

  He was dead already, he knew that much, but he hoped Todd had gotten off that rig before the explosion. The wind was blowing both rain and seawater sideways at speeds that made it feel like small razors against his skin. Scott gave up trying to swim. The light Navy wetsuit and waterproof pack supplied some buoyancy. He focused on hanging on and getting a breath when he could.

  He was panicking, and his breathing came rapid and shallow. The situation was dire, but he had to get himself under control. His mind was racing as he tried to get a grip. Obviously, the main issues were that he was stranded in the ocean, inside a hurricane, possibly targeted by Praetor assets. FUCK. Even in better days, his situation would be hopeless. His teeth chattered, and another wave drove him down deep. He felt his ears pop as the current pushed and pushed down farther. The pressure built to agonizing levels, and his lungs ached to take a breath, then an up current from the next wave tossed him briefly into open air. He vomited up seawater, everything else in his stomach had come up hours earlier. The repeated wretching had his throat and sinuses worn raw. He begged for the grip of the storm to release him, but it would not. He gasped and inhaled deeply before he was hauled under again. The process repeated and repeated. Rinse and repeat, rinse…

  He prayed for the moments in which the wind and waves were simply predictable. He had given up the hope for calm waters. When it was at least predictable, he could rest momentarily and ride over the huge waves. These were the seconds he greedily hungered for. These were where he marshaled his remaining drops of energy. He had already gone mentally through the items on his body and in his pack. There was nothing there that would help his immediate situation. Even with the wetsuit, the early signs of hypothermia were creeping in.

  Already exhausted, he lay back and tried to float, ignoring the nightmare around him. His next thought was of his promises—to Angel, to Kaylie, to his brother . . . He considered the irony of seeing his first love once again just before he died. He came to a cathartic understanding of life in those moments: God was one cruel bastard. The next few hours were a blur of water, wind, fits of coughing and wretching up seawater and an ever-increasing level of exhaustion. As his strength began to fully ebb, the chills really set in.

  He checked the watch, but something had cracked the glass, possibly when he went overboard. In his head, he calculated it had been over four, probably closer to five hours since he’d fallen into the water. Finally, it seemed the storm and the waves began to calm.

  The neoprene suit was beginning to irritate his skin in several places. If he kept moving, the chaffing would turn into sores and begin to bleed. He fought his instincts and kept his movements to a minimum. He found a spot for his pack that produced a kind of equilibrium: he lay, mostly submerged, but could lift his nose out of the water to breathe with minimal effort. Somehow, he managed to doze off in this position and didn’t drown; the next thing he knew, it was nighttime.

  He had never been a fan of swimming at night. The inability to see the dangers made them seem that much worse. The fact that he knew there were nearly two miles of cold, dark water below him did not help ease his temptation to panic. Now that he was somewhat rested, and the storm had abated, he turned his mind to other dangers. He was not too concerned about sharks; locals had always told him they avoided strong storms, though he guessed they would be back soon enough. He had no realistic expectations of surviving much longer anyway. What was really bothering him was failing. Failing his friends and his brother. Not being able to keep his promise to Angelique. The friends in Harris Springs that he had learned to love and need. Failing Gia in keeping her patient safe. His eyes burned from the salt and now his tears added more to the mix.

  The darkness was unending; he felt as though he were in the center of a black ball. There were no stars; there was no moon. Nothing but endless dark. Occasionally, he imagined he saw a bit of light or some color—perhaps some bioluminescent life-form coming to investigate the strange creature floating on the surface of its home. His teeth were chattering uncontrollably now, and his extremities were going numb. His fogged mind would not produce the information he requested. What was he supposed to do to fight off the chill of the water? Think, Scott!

  Get the circulation going. He began to swim. Put forth enough energy to warm up, then curl into a ball to conserve heat. He wasn’t sure this was right, but it felt right. He wanted to open the pack and get a drink of water, but he didn’t dare try in the darkness. Be smart, at least try to live. The night became an exercise: rest, swim, curl and rest. The monotony offered a kind of comfort. The routine became a lifeline. What had Todd said? Just one mile at a time. This was an endurance ride: Focus on what is in front of you, and just get over the next hill. He didn’t have to make it until morning, just until the next time he needed to swim. Swim, curl, rest, swim, curl, rest . . . the monotony was broken regularly by unseen waves and mouthfuls of seawater that causing fits of gagging and uncomfortable periods below the surface. He could sense the futility but would not simply give up. One more mile, one m
ore hill. Change gears, pedal, just one more mile.

  The eastern sky had just begun to blush with the hint of sunrise when he started noticing the stars. The clouds had moved out and the night sky was on full display: millions and millions of stars, suns, planets . . . many just like the Earth and the sun that had struck out at it.

  He rolled with the swells, looking up at the magnificent starry night. He lay that way in a daze, for how long he didn’t know, until he realized that several of the stars were moving. As he focused his eyes, coming to from his trance, he realized they were flying craft—probably helicopters—circling near the western horizon. “You’re looking in the wrong place,” he said.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Morning. Scott had lost the bet with himself—unless death looked a lot like an endless blue ocean. He had been dreaming of riding his bike, the pedal strokes as familiar as breathing. Looking down through the crystal-clear water, he could see his legs still pedaling away. Sleep riding, he thought. It had kept him from drowning. The fatigue, hunger and thirst were too much to ignore. The sun was climbing into the summer sky, and the heat was slowly erasing the chills he had been dealing with for the past twenty-four hours.

  He very carefully pulled his pack off and opened the sealed flap well above the water level. Reaching in, he found one of the water bottles and a food packet. He drank half of the water and returned the bottle to the pack before sealing it and putting it back on. The meal was a protein wafer: tasteless, but it helped sate the gnawing hunger. From the movement of the sun, he guessed a bearing that should be northerly. He had been trying, mostly in vain, to move in that direction, for no other reason than he knew that land was north. Devil’s Tower was several hundred miles south of the Gulf coast. He thought about Kaylie. The hurricane would likely be hitting them soon, maybe even now. And here he was.

  A large jellyfish swam idly by, its stinging tentacles stretching feet behind its large translucent bulb. He’d already received various stings from its brethren—painful, but not significant in regard to the bigger issues at hand. He moved the backpack underneath him for a while and gently swam in broad strokes as if he were on a surfboard. The wetsuit was becoming painfully hot and uncomfortable. He wanted to take it off, but he knew he probably wouldn’t be able to get it back on again if he did. Once again, he would deal with the pain. Hour after hour he floated and swam, passing the time by tracking the sun’s slow passage across the sky. During the late afternoon, he noticed a slight bump along the skyline, far ahead and to the east. It was small, but no illusion. He lost sight of it each time a swell came through, but seconds later it would reappear. He began to swim, slowly, in that direction.

  Swimming toward it didn’t seem to bring the object any closer. His eyesight was also beginning to blur from exposure to the saltwater. It could be small and only a few hundred yards off, or something large twenty miles away. Just another mile, Scott, one more mile, keep pedaling, he heard Todd saying.

  Nearly spent, he paused to look up, convinced his target was distant and large when he realized it was much closer—and obviously very orange. Well, fuck. That was perfect. Survive all this time to float right up to the asshole who had put him here. Swimming over to the semi-inflated bio-suit, he looked inside, expecting to see a dead body. The face shield was partially open and inside was a body, unconscious but very much alive.

  The man’s lips and eyes were swollen nearly shut. Scott wasn’t sure if this was due to the disease or simply exposure. Surely, the man had been flung around in the storm as much as Scott had. The wetsuit had certainly provided him more protection, but the bio-suit had kept the patient afloat. He thought briefly of drowning the man, but he quickly dismissed that. The guy was essential to Gia’s research and—despite the fact that he’d tried to kill Scott—he needed to live. Perhaps he had some answers as well. Not that it would do either of them any good, but satisfying his curiosity would be a nicer way to pass the time.

  He checked the man over for injuries; he looked surprisingly good. Wrapped around his right hand was a nylon line. Puzzled, Scott began to pull and noticed a semi-submerged yellow and black packet coming nearer with each tug of the rope. Holy shit! He could see the edge of a tag: ESCUE USN. The lifeboat and rescue package were a gift. The man had been beaten and battered but had the good sense to grab the line when he got close. Apparently, he had not been able to inflate the boat or get in.

  Scott pulled the inflator handle and the enclosed two-man raft inflated in seconds. He pitched in the rest of the package as well as his pack. He carefully removed his knife and sliced the man out of the bio-suit. If Scott was exposed to the disease now, big deal.

  Without the buoyancy, Scott struggled to keep the man afloat. This guy is huge. He struggled with the heavy man until finally, he managed to get one of the man’s legs inside the raft. Pushing with all he had, he managed to roll him over the edge and into the raft. Scott floated beside the raft for several minutes to regain his breath. He also removed the knife and the sheath and carefully laid them inside on the packs—he did not want to risk accidentally puncturing the raft. Lastly, he reached over the side rail and pulled himself up. Unfortunately, he no longer had the strength. Shit. He tried again; he simply could not manage to get himself high enough to climb in.

  Scott floated alongside the raft for several more minutes with one arm and one leg hooked over the top of the yellow tubing. Finally, mustering everything he had, he tried once more.

  Propelling himself as far up as possible with determined kicks, he reached in as far as he could and began pulling his tired body up. Unfortunately, the effort was too much; it was more than his weakened body could handle, and he began slipping back into the sea. In the panic of his last chance, it took a moment for Scott to recognize that a hand was grasping his arm and pulling him back over the edge and into safety. The patient was awake. Scott flopped to the bottom of the raft, exhausted.

  He smiled and shook his head. Panting, Scott reached and patted the man's cold hand. “Thank you.”

  Spent with the effort, Scott slept for a while. It was nearly dark when he opened his eyes again. The man lay close by with his eyes partially open. Scott leaned up, every muscle screaming in pain. “Ohhh,“ he groaned, “I don’t know who hurt me worse . . . you or the damn ocean.” If the man understood he showed no reaction. Scott wanted to hate the man, but he didn’t have the strength.

  He looked him over; he was in rough shape, probably badly dehydrated. Getting the partial water bottle from his pack, he gave the man tiny sips of the precious liquid. The former patient seemed to sense more than know what was happening. He opened his mouth like a baby bird to receive the water.

  “I’m Scott.”

  It took the man several minutes after finishing the water before he attempted to speak. When he did, it sounded more like sandpaper on rocks. “Skkk—” he paused and tried again “Skybox.”

  “That’s not a name, that’s a call sign. What’s your name?”

  No response came to meet his question.

  “Fine. I’m gonna call you Box, for short.”

  Skybox smiled feebly and shrugged. “Thanks.” He waved his hand around the raft and croaked, “Why?”

  Scott was finally peeling off his wetsuit, revealing the chafed and bruised skin beneath. “Why save the guy that tried to kill me? I don’t know, something in my wiring I guess. I’m not your enemy, I can’t blame you for not wanting to go with us. Mainly, though, you are important to a friend of mine—and the world.”

  Skybox nodded and said, “Dr. Colton.” His tone had softened with her name, and Scott looked up to assess the reason.

  “Yes, she said you may hold the cure.” He settled into the raft. “So, am I infected now too?” He motioned to the remnants of the protective orange, vinyl suit.

  “No, you should be fine. I’m not contagious…at least according to your friends.” He paused, mustering his strength. “You two looked like you had some history. Your face lit up when she
spoke to you.”

  “Gia? She and I were friends back in college, nothing more.”

  Skybox smiled and settled back into the sidewall of the raft. He seemed to be out again within seconds. The darkness was coming quick, and soon Scott was asleep again as well.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  There had been but one true love in Scott’s life. Sadly, she had never been his to love. He had met Gia while working his way through college; she had joined the research company where he was interning. Tall, with red hair, she had striking good looks and, as he learned later, a brilliant mind and a sharp wit. Though they never worked in the same areas, he constantly found reasons to be near her. In doing so, he learned that she was engaged; the wedding was to take place after her last semester at college.

  Despite this fact, he and Gia became close friends. While he secretly yearned for more, he was happy simply to have such a wonderful friend. With school and work, the days were long and often exhausting, yet his heart soared whenever he saw Gia. When they could spend time together, they looked more like co-conspirators than colleagues. Many in the company assumed something more was going on between them. Nothing was, though. Scott hid his feelings as best he could and focused only on the friendship. Gia was obviously aware that Scott had feelings for her, though she never encouraged or discouraged them. A brief hug or the occasional clasp of hands was the extent of physical intimacy between them.

  Scott had never been in love before, and so he wasn’t sure that that was what he was feeling, but he couldn’t deny the attraction. The way he felt when he was around her made him crazy—he was crazy about her. He wanted to hold her, yearned to kiss her full lips. He tried hard to keep those feelings hidden from his best friend, his only real friend.