by Ryan, L. T.
Turk recalled that the fort entrance stood a few feet from the pier. If the place had been occupied by an organized group of survivors, they’d have someone posted there. Maybe even someone armed.
He rolled over and inched forward until he reached a spot where headroom had shrunk too much. He had hoped there would be enough of a gap between the last wooden plank and the ground for him to see through. Didn’t work that way. No light seeped through. Mud and wood faded to shadows. The only option was to leave the relative safety of the pier to check the entrance. Doing so on land carried too much risk, so Turk crawled in retreat until the harbor hid his body once again.
He reached down and scooped up the silty mix and piled it on his head, covering himself from his eyebrows up and around his stubbled head. The mud would provide him camouflage from a casual scan of the water for a distance as close as thirty feet away.
He pushed off the pylons, propelling himself backward. He kept his head out of the water. Even the tiniest splash could have a runoff effect and neutralize the matting.
After several seconds, he used his left arm to swim away from the pier. Cloudy skies nullified the sun’s bright rays, casting a gloom over everything. Better for him. The water would reflect the gray.
Turk treaded the same patch of water for a few minutes. He focused on the entrance. The shadows past the domed opening made it impossible to see more than a few feet in. But he watched, looking for any sign of a guard. The glowing cherry of a cigarette. A glint of light off a ring or watch. Shifting shadows, indicating someone moving. There was none of that. Didn’t mean that the entrance was unguarded. What it meant was that Turk could remain clandestine while approaching the gate at an angle.
The large fort offered several other places to position sentries. The way Turk recalled it, some spots along the roof had a walkway bordered by a brick railing. Someone standing there would be visible from the waist up. But if they knelt, the walkway offered a suitable play to stand watch. Three people on duty would be enough. One watching the Atlantic. On a watch dial, he’d be at twelve o’clock. The other two would be positioned at four and eight, with responsibilities to watch from the tip of the beaches inward to an imaginary line that ran from the pier through the harbor into Charleston.
From Turk’s position in the water, the eight o’clock sentry would be easiest to spot so long as the guard hadn’t already noticed Turk floating below.
He watched the roofline for five minutes.
Nothing moved. He surmised the fort was either empty, undermanned, or run by idiots.
He considered going on shore. But doing so while unarmed exposed him to a great amount of risk. Was it worth it?
Turk decided to circle around and investigate the Atlantic side of the island. The grass and sand might offer better cover for an approach. It might also be where boats were stored since none were moored to the piers. It made sense. The barren stretch of land was not visible from much of the harbor. If they butted the boats up to the fort walls, they’d be out of sight. And if there were people there, some had to have arrived by boat. The vessels might be damaged, but if they made it to the fort, they were worth investigating.
Rounding the island to the north, he reached a point where he could see past the fort. His hunch had been right. There were a few small boats and kayaks close by.
He fought to keep the discovery from hastening his approach. His weakened condition meant his muscles could cramp up at any time. Better to take it slow. Also, boats meant people. And he hadn’t seen a damn one of them yet. Where were they? Inside? Fishing on the shore? Dead?
How long can I stay out here?
His arms, shoulders and back burned. He had to hydrate and rest his muscles before they locked up on him. Twenty years ago, it wouldn’t have been an issue. But on the other side of forty, there were limitations.
Get to the point of the island.
That was all he had to do. The grass was tall and unkempt and stretched to the shore there. He would have a view of the broad side of the base and the barren side of the island, and could plan the best approach to reach the boats.
He made it twenty yards when he heard a voice carried on the wind.
“There.”
Turk allowed only his eyes and forehead to break the water’s surface. Didn’t matter. He’d been spotted.
“He’s right there. He’s watching us!”
There was no chance for a rebuttal. Turk saw the two men rise. Then they brought their rifles up and aimed at him. The first one shot before Turk could get his arms out of the water.
The bullet smacked the gentle surface of the water a foot from Turk’s head. Too close for a warning shot. Turk sucked in enough air to fill his lungs and pulled himself under. Four more bullets hit where he’d treaded water a few seconds ago. They sounded like hollow thuds as they penetrated the surface.
Turk dove forward and down and twisted and turned near the bottom. He could stay under for more than three and a half minutes if he conserved his breath and got maximum distance out of each stroke. No problem, so long as he didn’t have to over exert himself.
Go with the current.
He stretched his arms ahead then pulled them back as he kicked with his feet. It propelled him forward. The push of the water took over from there. The seconds stretched on. Turk had no way of knowing how far he’d gone, or if the men had alerted others, who then might have boarded the boats. Hell, he didn’t even know if that would make a difference, because he hadn’t seen whether the small vessels had engines.
Turk continued on what he assumed was a north to northwest trajectory. On a direct line, the beach was about a mile away from where he went under. But he was being pulled back into the harbor. How far? He wasn’t sure. He figured that by the time he surfaced, he’d be halfway between the fort and landfall. Far enough away from the fort not to have to worry about overzealous survivors with rifles.
But then something changed.
It felt as though he’d been smacked in the gut, and his body was jerked backward, as though launched from a slingshot. He tumbled in the water, foot over head, head over foot. The shock of it caused Turk to expel half the remaining oxygen from his lungs.
How long could he last? A minute? After being flipped several times, he could not even tell which way was up.
To get through all this and then drown? I’m a fucking SEAL!
That was the first sign he’d adjusted to the situation. No matter how weak his body felt, his mind was strong. It and his training took over. Turk quit fighting against the current and allowed it to carry his body. The covered sky darkened the water to the point that he couldn’t tell if he faced the surface or the bottom, but by expelling a mouthful of air he was able to figure it out when the bubbles wrapped around his nose. Turk angled his body up and tugged at the water, fighting through the current.
When the ocean finally spit him out, he was still mired in the current. He knew it would only last so long, and only stretched so far. But how far? The powerful push of water was capable of dragging him out for as far as it stretched.
Think, Turk. It’s basically a riptide. Simple enough, right?
He began swimming to his left, not with or against the current. Through it. He fought with every ounce of strength his depleted muscles had left. Concern grew that it wouldn’t be enough. It was more than a riptide.
The current struck back, pulling his legs and feet around to its center, trying to flip Turk over. If he went under again, that was it. He would not resurface. The ocean would claim Turk.
And then it was over.
He broke through the wall and the current ejected him. Turk swam as hard and as fast as he could until he’d made it twenty yards.
Treading water, he glanced around and the realization over how far he’d been dragged out into the Atlantic set in. The current must have been moving twenty miles an hour. He’d only been caught in it for a few minutes, yet land looked like nothing but a tiny strip of sand.
There’s no way I’ll make it.
Another voice piped up. Just swim, Turk. Over and over, the voice repeated while morphing. His wife’s voice. His daughter’s. All of his instructors during BUDS. Fallen SEALs he’d been in teams with. They spoke in unison. His mother sang it like she was in the church choir again.
Every damn one of them commanded Turk to continue.
So he crawled forward. Right arm only, on his side. Then the left. Then a breaststroke. Then a backstroke. He tried everything he could think of to allow muscle groups to rest. Halfway there, he stopped and floated, allowing the rolling waves to inch him forward. He hit the first line of breakers. There, Turk stretched his body and rode a wave for a good distance. Shore was close. He saw the houses rising up out of the sand like corpses escaping their shallow graves.
A burst of energy spurred Turk on. He dove down and found he was in less than ten feet of water. Pushing forward, he reached the shore breakers. A final wave crested and washed him to shore.
His face scraped against the coarse beach. Wet sand filled his mouth, sticking to his tongue and the insides of his cheeks and lips. Foaming water enveloped his legs, and then dissipated. He dug his fingertips into the ground and pulled himself forward. The final burst had drained him of all but the last bit of remaining strength. His muscles no longer burned. They barely functioned.
He inched forward.
Another wave break. Water rushed past his head. It filled his mouth and nose and found its way into his stomach. His body rejected it at once. Long strands of saliva stretched from his mouth and nose to the sand.
Turk forced himself to his knees and crawled forward.
Get to the other side of the beach.
He aimed for the dunes. He could crawl behind one and find a patch of overgrown grass and fall asleep there. Just for the afternoon. Maybe the night.
Close. Push forward. Almost there.
But he failed to recognize the hum until it was on top of him. And then it was too late to react.
The engine choked and sputtered a few times before falling silent. Plumes of sand kicked up. The last few clouds fell and coated Turk’s back and neck.
“What’ve we got here?” A man. Deep country accent. “A survivor? Washed up from sea?”
Turk collapsed his right arm so he fell onto his side, facing the guy. Black boots. Cargo shorts. A faded t-shirt. The clouds had parted and the sun shone behind the guy’s head, creating a wash of bright light around his face, leaving it indiscernible.
“Gotta tell you, fella,” the guy said. “Of all the beaches to wash up on—” he yanked back on his rifle’s bolt and shoved it into place, thunk-thunk, “—you picked the wrong one.”
Chapter 10
Sean slowed the ATV to a stop and cut the engine. He continued to feel vibrations for a few seconds even though the rumble had gone. The ringing in his ears gave way to the harmony of birds singing and wind rustling the leaves combined with the ticking engine and Barbara’s labored breathing.
The GPS indicated they were in North Carolina, about five miles north of I-40. Greensboro was ten miles to the west. Durham ten to the east. They’d traveled about forty miles without stopping since Sean took over driving.
He’d spent a good portion of the drive looking over his shoulder for one of the pickup trucks. Irrational, he knew, since they often went off road in between stretches on backcountry roads.
Addison and Emma sat up front, with his daughter wedged between. Jenny was in back with Marley and Barbara. They had stopped the bleeding, but the woman remained in serious condition. Shock had set in. She’d turned pale and had become unresponsive. Time might help, but they didn’t have the luxury of waiting around for her to snap out of it.
They had made a dent in their journey. But it was far from over. The section of the trip Sean worried about most drew near. Nearby was one of the more densely populated areas of North Carolina. Even if he kept them out of the urban areas, there were multiple major highways to cross as they meandered through suburbia. It could take hours to scout a deserted stretch for them to cross.
Barbara moaned, which elicited a series of whimpers from Marley.
“Dad,” Emma said. “What are we going to do about her?”
A former PJ, Sean knew what to do to help her. It’d been eight years, but you didn’t just forget how to do the job. He needed supplies. Sure, they could scavenge every place they came across, risk running into a surprise each time. Or they could skate along the southern edge of the Research Triangle until they located a hospital. He could find a secure place for the others to wait while he set off on foot.
“Dad?”
“Sorry, Em,” he said. “Thinking is all.” He glanced over his shoulder, watched Barbara for a moment, then met his daughter’s stare. “I can help her, but I need medical supplies.”
“There’s a first aid kit in—”
Sean cut her off with a wave. “I need more than what’s in there. I need to extract the bullet and check for infection. If one has set in, she needs antibiotics and we’ll need a stack of fresh dressings. I can stitch her after the infection clears.”
Emma’s eyes swelled with brine. “She’s gonna die, isn’t she?”
He felt three sets of eyes on him. Four, if he counted Marley.
“I’m going to do everything I can to help her.” He adjusted the GPS so that everyone could see. He pointed to Chapel Hill. “You see that area? We’re going to find a hospital near there and get what we need. And if not there, we’ll find it near Raleigh.”
Sean didn’t feel that it was an appropriate time to mention leaving the women behind. No point in fighting the objections twice.
The women voiced no objections, and after a few minutes, Addison, Jenny and Emma walked Marley into the woods.
Sean climbed into the backseat. Barbara was hot, her skin coated in a layer of sweat. He peeked at the wound and grimaced at what he saw. The bullet had damaged the muscle and her upper humerus. A surgeon could repair it in a few hours. Which meant under these circumstances, Barbara would never enjoy full use of her arm again.
If she survived the blood loss and possible infection.
Sean reached into the rear storage compartment and grabbed the white case with a red cross stenciled on it. Inside were basic first aid items, none of which was of use to him. He fished through the container until he found a thermometer. It slid between Barbara’s lips with no resistance. Sean waited a minute before extracting it. The thermometer registered a temperature over one hundred and four.
“Shit,” he muttered. The pack didn’t contain anything to help fight fever. Where the hell did they get it, a toy store? He leaned in close. “Hang in there, Barb.”
Do I mean that? Really, do I?
The woman was a hindrance. Even when healthy. But deep down, he didn’t wish for her death. Get rid of her? Yes. But only if that meant placing her with someone competent enough to help Barbara find her place within a group of survivors.
Sean paced around the ATV, stopping to stare off into the woods, until Emma and the women returned with the dog. Marley ran up to Sean, waited for a pat on the head, then hopped into the backseat where he resumed watch next to Barbara.
“Ready?” Sean said with a clap of his hands. He wasn’t keen on staying in one spot for too long. The ATV had alerted anyone within earshot of their presence. And not only anyone—anything.
“Can I talk with you for a minute?” Addison asked, stepping away from the ATV.
Sean took note of the nervous look on her face and the way she retreated. He nodded, pointing to a spot away from the group. The M4 strapped around his shoulder tapped his back every couple steps, reassuring him it was there, ready for duty.
What was the younger woman concerned about that she had to speak with him away from the group? Had Emma said something? Revealed something? Was Addison worried one of them was sick?
He turned to her, ready to speak, but was taken aback by the tears in her eyes.
&
nbsp; Then fear set in. “Are you sick?”
Her lips parted and her head inched backward as though he’d slapped her. The verbal blow appeared to have taken her breath away.
“Sorry, I just…”
“No,” she said. “It’s okay. I understand. It’s always running through my head, too. What if one of us has it? What if we meet someone who needs help, but looks sick?”
Sean nodded. The thoughts were always in the back of his mind. “Anyway, what is it you wanted to talk about?”
“My grandparents.”
Sean said nothing and waited for her to continue.
“I…they aren’t far from here. By car, it would be a couple hours. I figure we could do it in six or seven with no stops.”
He glanced over at the ATV. There was only so much fuel available. Once it was gone, they had to risk their lives in order to find more by approaching gas stations and abandoned cars.
“They have a big farm, Sean. Lots of acreage. I mean, in the thousands. Hundreds of head of cattle. Chickens, goats, sheep. A massive garden that they live off of. In fact, they always produce so much, they donate it to homeless shelters in Charlotte.”
The swelling of hope that had filled him of having a safe place to leave Barbara and the women deflated at the naming of the western Carolina city.
“Charlotte?” he said.
She nodded, a smile on her face. “They’re a good forty-five minutes from the city in the middle of nowhere.” She added, “To the west. I figure fewer people are going to be traveling through there since it’s so rural.”
“Addison.” His voice trailed off to a whisper. “We don’t have the fuel to get there and then to Charleston.”
“They have fuel. My grandfather gets it delivered for their tractors and harvesters and whatnot. I know he wouldn’t have any trouble giving you enough to complete your journey. Or—,” she looked down while tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “you guys could stay. Help run the place. It’s safe there. I know it is.”
