Swarmed

by Simone Pond

  This is not at all what I anticipated. Why I thought taking a boat down a river to the ocean would be an easy task is beyond me. I slouch forward in complete defeat. The weight of this burden is too heavy to hold up. Noah notices I’m thoroughly spent.

  “What if we pay you?” Noah says.

  “But—” I start to say we’re broke, but he shushes me.

  “Handsomely,” he adds.

  Bob does some more beard scratching and pondering, while I shift side to side, biting my thumbnail.

  “It’ll cost ya. It ain’t no hop, skip and jump.”

  I pull Noah close and whisper, “What are you doing? We can’t pay him.”

  “O ye of little faith.” Noah holds up his gold pocket watch, and my heart drops to the wooden planks underneath my boots.

  “No. No way. That’s all you have left of your brother.”

  He smiles and taps his head. “No it isn’t.”

  Noah dangles the watch before the old man. His faded eyes light up and he snatches the piece to examine it the same way Old Petie at pawn might. Noah stands there like a stalwart, thought I know his heart is breaking. It’s never easy letting go of things—not when they carry so much meaning.

  Bob slips the watch into his the pocket of his trousers, then takes a good minute to get up out of his rocking chair. He holds out his calloused hand to shake Noah’s. “I’ll do it, but we ain’t leavin’ till morning. Waters are too rough right now.”

  Noah points to his DOD. “Sir, we don’t have time to spare. Tomorrow is our last day.”

  He shrugs half-heartedly. “If we go out right now, you’ll be goners. I ain’t ready to die yet. We’ll leave at first light tomorra.”

  “Deal,” Noah says, shaking the geezer’s hand.

  I sink down onto the steps, drained and wondering how we’re supposed to get to the island and to the SOB before my time runs out at midnight tomorrow. Noah sits next to me and wraps his good arm over my shoulder.

  “It’ll be okay, Kalliste. We’ll still have time. One more day.”

  “I know,” I mutter. “I just wish we could catch a break.”

  “We’ve caught many breaks,” he says.

  I smile and push through my pessimism. We’ve had some intense obstacles, but unlike poor Johnson and George, the two of us are still here. We’re still alive. I hate admitting it, but Noah’s right—and even though they’ve been heavily disguised, we have had many blessings.

  31

  (18 hours remaining)

  We wake up at dawn. It only takes me a minute to conclude that our sea captain Bob is gone. Noah’s convinced I’m wrong. He slams into the shack, bangs around some furniture, then runs up and down the mucky riverbank, shouting Bob’s name over and over.

  “He’s gone,” I say for the fourth time. “And you’re wasting valuable breathing time.”

  “You know what this means, right?”

  I remain calm because there’s no sense in both of us breaking apart. “It means we’ll have to take out the boat by ourselves.”

  He’s pacing through the dreck and mud, glowering at me like this is my fault. “I don’t know how to operate a boat. Do you?” He’s practically frothing, which makes me laugh a little.

  “It’s a motorboat. I’m sure we can figure it out. And we better get to it.”

  Noah stops and glances over at me, a faint smile appears. “Look at you, Miss Kalliste. Peacocking about like you’ve never been deathly terrified of water.”

  “I figure if I was supposed to drown, it would’ve happened by now. So far, I leapt off a bridge, crossed a river on your back, waded through gator-infested swamps and jumped out of a copter into a large body of water, and I’m still alive.”

  “You did what?”

  I hadn’t told Noah about that part because I wanted him to keep a cool head, but now I have to tell him. “Roman wasn’t taking me to the island to see my brother. He was planning to torture me until I gave up the safe house locations. Said he’d extend my DOD every single day until I broke.”

  Noah’s face darkens, and he yells so loudly a bunch of crows flock from the trees. “That son-of-a-bitch!”

  I grab his arm before he punches a nearby tree. “You’ll open your stitches.”

  “I knew that guy was bad news. You can’t read people at all.”

  Arguing would be futile because it’s absolutely true. My inability to discern fact from fiction is what got us into this mess. Had I known my brother’s true colors, I wouldn’t have left the grid. But I also wouldn’t have gotten to know Noah. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Maybe? I was wrong about a couple things, but I was a hundred percent right about that asshole. After this is over, I swear I’m going to find him and end him.”

  “Can we just focus on getting to the island?” I point to his wrist. “We’ve only got until midnight, if we’re lucky.”

  Noah nods sternly, though he’s still grumbling under his breath, which only adds to the comedy of this tragic situation. We grab a couple of moldy lifejackets from the shack. I find a water-stained map and a rusty machete Bob left behind in haste. We step into the piece of junk motorboat. I start giggling.

  “What?” Noah asks.

  “Not much of an ark.”

  He ignores my terrible joke and situates in front of the timeworn engine. After a few hopeless yanks on the ripcord using his good arm, Noah sits down defeated.

  I edge over and move him out of the way. “I should probably do this, since your shoulder’s injured. We need to put it in neutral with the throttle in the start position.”

  “For someone who hates water, you sure know a lot about boats.”

  “That’s what my father does to start his truck. It’s old.”

  The lever is stubborn, so I tug for a good minute before I can get the thing into neutral. It only takes a few pulls before the motor sputters to life. I shift the lever into forward, and the boat starts wading out into the river. The ride is bouncy and jerky at first, until I figure out how to steer. Noah sits nearby with the map to help navigate through the channels.

  “Looks like we can go around the north part of Saint Simon’s Island. So head east until we hit the Sound. That’ll take us out to the ocean, and then we go south.”

  The waters are rough and I’m struggling to keep the boat steady, but it’s actually moving forward. Surprisingly, I’m not freaking out. The view is scenic and serene, so I focus on that instead of the water surrounding our ramshackle boat.

  “How are you holding up?” Noah shouts over the gurgling motor.

  “Not bad. You?”

  He gives me a thumbs up. I get cocky and give him a captain’s salute, which immediately knocks the boat out of alignment. He cracks up as I quickly grab the lever with both hands and return my attention to the river.

  About four hours into the journey, we’re coming up around the northern part of Saint Simon when the motor starts rattling. It putts sporadically a few times and then completely stalls out, stranding us in the middle of the Altamaha Sound. Though the tide pools have shifted in our favor, we’re not exceeding more than a slow drift. I glance down at the oars, knowing we’ll never reach the ocean—let alone the island—by rowing. Hours we don’t have in our reserve.

  “What do you think’s wrong?” Noah asks.

  “How should I know?” I snap.

  “You’re the one who was spouting off all sorts of engine mastery earlier.”

  Noah gets up from his seat, shifting his weight onto the right side of the boat, making us wobble. I drop to my knees and curl into a ball. He laughs and nudges me with his boot.

  “Some water nymph you are.”

  “Shut up!”

  Staying close to the bottom, I kneel by the motor for closer inspection. I tug on the ripcord, change gears, mess with the throttle, then use one of the oars to smack it. But nothing happens.

  “It’s either dead, or we’re out of gas,” I conclude. I notice some boats tied up to a long pier not too
far down. “We should get back to land and try to find someone, or some gas.”

  “Do we have a choice?”

  Since Noah can’t use his left arm, I have to row us to the pier. He gets a thrill out of this, shouting admonishments over my shoulder and pointing to non-existent alligators to make me scream, which works every single time. When I get us safely to the pier and tie up the boat, I leave Noah to fend for himself, out of spite.

  We walk along the riverbed looking for an outpost, or any signs of human life. But it’s awfully quiet. Too quiet. After walking about twenty minutes, we come across an outpost with broken windows, rusty nails and rotting wood. We scope out the place deciding if we should approach. Who knows what is living out in these backwoods? The only weapon we have is the rusty machete.

  “Come on. We have nothing to lose.” I walk ahead.

  “Wait—”

  But it’s too late. I walk right into a fishing wire, and down comes a net, entangling both of us.

  “This really can’t get any worse,” I moan.

  “Please don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

  Someone cocks a shotgun and stomps over to where we’re bundled up under the massive net that reeks of old fish.

  “Whaddya we have ‘ere,” a man’s voice comes from overhead.

  I look up at the scrappy guy with hollow cheeks and glassy eyes. He’s wearing filthy overalls with nothing underneath. This is what you’d call the lowest of Low-Bottoms. “Please don’t shoot us. We’re just trying to find some gas for our boat,” I shout.

  “That ain’t yer boat. It’s Bob’s.”

  “Actually, Bob traded it for my friend’s gold pocket watch. He was supposed to take us down the river to Jekyll Island, but he was no where to be found this morning.”

  The scrapper starts cackling, showing off his brown cavity-ridden teeth. “That sure does sound like ol’ Bob. Prolly went to get high. But he prolly woulda come back to git ya.”

  “We didn’t have time to risk waiting on him.”

  “Whaddya mean, little girlie?” he croaks.

  “We have about twelve hours before we get swarmed,” I explain, twisting my hand through one of the holes to show him my wrist. My DOD has changed again. Only six hours remaining …

  “Well, I’ll be darned. I ain’t never seent one dem DODs up close and personal.” He pulls my hand closer, squinting his strung-out eyes.

  “We need to get to Jekyll Island as soon as possible.”

  He lets out another cackle. “Y’all ain’t never gettin’ to that island. Them guards will shoot you down before you reach the shore.”

  “We’re willing to take that risk. Not much to lose on our end.” Even as I say this, I’m not a hundred percent convinced. I don’t want to die somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.

  He rubs his scruffy chin, straining to think, then looks down at me and says, “I’ll take ya.”

  Noah groans and asks, “How will you get there without getting shot down?”

  “You’ll have to excuse my friend. We’ve had a helluva time trying to get to that island.”

  “Like I said, I can git ya there.”

  Noah isn’t buying it. “What’s it going to cost us? Because honestly, we don’t have anything left to give.”

  “Sure ya do,” he says with a wily grin.

  A lump rolls into my throat, fearing what most women would in this precarious situation. I know that look. I’ve seen it before in the speakeasies. “What’s that?” I ask cautiously.

  “Bob’s boat. I’ll take ya to the island, then I git to keep the boat.”

  I release a sigh. “Sure. Whatever. Keep the boat.”

  “You still haven’t explained how you’ll get us to the island without getting shot down,” Noah reminds the man.

  “Long as I put up the orange flag, we’ll be good.”

  “Flag?”

  “Lets ‘em know I’m one of theirs. I work for ‘em. Prolly expect I’m coming for a shipment,” he explains.

  Noah and I stare at each other, piecing it together. “You can definitely get to the island without fail?” I ask.

  “Do it all the time,” he says.

  “And all you want is the boat?” Noah must know something that I don’t.

  The man squats down and uses a serrated knife to saw through the netting, freeing us. He gives me his grubby hand to hoist me up, then Noah.

  “Name’s Shepard. Pleased to meet ya.”

  “I’m Scylla, and this is Homer.” I nudge Noah, who grins. This trip has been an odyssey.

  Shepard slinks off toward a wooden shack and gestures for us to wait while he goes inside.

  “Good thing we ran out of gas,” I say.

  “I suppose, but I’m still not convinced that Shepard is helping us out of the kindness of his heart.”

  “How’s your shoulder?” I change the subject.

  “Not great, but you know what would help?”

  “A hot shower?”

  He pulls me closer with his good arm. Leaning down, Noah kisses me softly. Time slows down in my favor, giving me a chance to appreciate the moment. Though it’s a tender and delicate kiss, sparks light up just under the surface of my skin.

  “Something you should know,” I mutter into his ear.

  “I know everything I need to.” He kisses my neck, and I sparkle like a diamond.

  “My DOD changed again.”

  Noah grabs my wrist and squeezes it so hard I yank it from his hand. He looks at his wrist, which matches mine.

  “I can’t wait to see your brother,” he sneers.

  Shepard hobbles out of the shack, lugging a container of gasoline and a bright orange flag attached to a metal pole. He hands me the can, liquid sloshing out of the spout, and we trek back through the woods to the river.

  At the boat, he secures the pole so that the iridescent orange flag waves in the breeze, then he refills the motor. “Y’all got any weapons?”

  “Only Bob’s rusty machete and Noah’s knife.” I put on my life jacket and help Noah secure his, trying not to induce too much pain.

  “Here, take this.” Shepard hands me a pistol.

  “I don’t know how to use a gun.”

  “Don’t matter. All ya gotta do is aim it in the right direction.” He yanks the ripcord and the motor putters to life.

  Noah and I sit across from each other as Shepard navigates down the river. The closer we get to the ocean, the choppier the water gets. Shepard knows what he’s doing. I wouldn’t have been able to steer us through these turbulent currents.

  “So, one thing I’m gonna need from y’all,” Shepard shouts over the motor’s loud hum.

  Noah looks at me, brows raised as if saying I told you.

  “What’s that?” I yell.

  “Gonna need y’all to lay low so the guard doesn’t see ya. When we get to the dock, you aim that gun at him until I get down the dock.”

  “What the hell for?” Noah shouts.

  “I’m gittin’ to the warehouse and pickin’ up my own personal shipment. If he comes after me, ya fire that gun, missy.”

  “I told you, I don’t know how to use a gun.”

  He leers over his shoulder, grinning with those nasty teeth. “Just pull the trigger.”

  “How about we aim for the back of your head?” Noah yells.

  “Do that and ya don’t git to that island, now will ya?”

  I place my hand on Noah’s knee. A huge ocean spray splashes my cheek, and I shout, “We’ll do it.”

  32

  (2 hours remaining)

  The tides pull and tug at the small boat. My stomach wrestles about. I situate myself in between Noah’s legs, resting my head on his thighs, and he strokes my hair gently. The cobalt blue sky radiates above, and puffy white clouds drift by, making me almost forget why we're here. For a few moments, I pretend like we’re two sweethearts on a date. Noah tugs on my ponytail and gestures ahead. In the distance, the northern tip of Jekyll Island comes into view. As we
get closer, Shepard instructs us to lay down and throws a tarp over our bodies. I run my fingers over the handle of the gun that’s tucked into the waist of my trousers. I’d much rather not use the thing if I can help it.

  Noah kisses my forehead. “We’ll be okay,” he whispers.

  For some reason I believe him.

  The motor shuts off, and the boat slows to a steady drift with Shepard guiding it to the dock. We come to a full stop, and I hear footsteps clomping down the wooden planks.

  “You’re a day early,” a gruff voice shouts.

  “I got a message to come today,” Shepard replies.

  I peek out from under the tarp. The guard is wearing a black uniform and has a hand resting on the gun in his holster. Shepard stands next to him, and somehow the scrawny no-account junkie is able to shove the man with enough force to knock him into the boat. He lands on top of Noah, who screeches. I scout out from under the tarp, holding out the gun, my hands shaking. The guard’s wide eyes register shock. This quickly turns to rage as he watches Shepard dart down the dock. He goes for his gun.

  “Don’t!” I yell.

  “What are you gonna do about it?” He inches toward me, making the boat rock. I don’t have anything close to sea legs, so I topple to my knees. The gun drops.

  The guard stands over me, chuckling. “You must be incredibly dim for trusting a Low-Bottom junkie.”

  In an attempt to stall him, I smile all sugary and say, “Desperate is probably more accurate.”

  “I could shoot you, but I’ll likely get a bigger bounty bringing you in for questioning.”

  “Actually you’re probably better off shooting me.”

  He laughs and holds out a pair of handcuffs. “Put these on.”

  I snatch the cuffs and toss them into the water. “Oops.”

  “You little—” He comes at me, but Noah has made his way out from under the tarp and slams one of the oars against the back of the guard’s skull, knocking him out.

  “Get the guns and let’s go!” Noah scrambles to get out of the boat and onto the dock.

  I toss the guns up to Noah and climb out of the boat. I take down the orange flag and untie the rope, then shove the boat away from the dock, hoping the tide takes it out before the guard wakes up. We run down the dock to the guard station where we look for any information about the island. Shepard is nowhere in sight. Probably getting high in the woods. Pinned to the wall inside the guard station is a map of the island, highlighting the path to the building where we’ll find the server tower. It’s about an hour of hiking. We have two hours remaining on our DODs.