Apocalypse Drift (18 page)

Wyatt never quite understood why he slept so well on the boat. The master cabin was like similarly sized boats; it sported a queen-sized bed, but offered limited headroom. When they had first acquired Boxer, Wyatt hoped that no one was claustrophobic because every square inch of wall and ceiling was carefully utilized, giving the craft a “more than snug” feel.  

In addition to the tight space, every boat rocks, regardless of where it is docked or how calm the water is. Wyatt credited the soft sway of the boat, combined with the salt
air and large doses of sunshine with the best rest he’d managed in years. He’d heard others comparing the experience of sleeping on a boat to that of a baby inside the womb, but never believed it. Now, he looked forward to climbing into his berth as often as possible, its magic melting away whatever the world threw at him. Morgan claimed she rested so well that she could save a fortune on makeup; after a couple of days at the marina, her skin fairly glowed. 

Wyatt was
deep in a REM cycle when something wakened him. Disoriented and irritated for just a moment, he recognized David’s voice whisper, “Dad, you need to wake up. Dad?”

“Yeah,
David…yeah, I’m awake. What’s wrong?” He whispered back.

David’s
tone was serious. “You need to come out here.”

Wyatt carefully threw off the covers and slipped on his shorts. Rubbing his eyes, he vacated the cabin as quietly as
possible, sliding the door closed behind him so as not to disturb Morgan. “What’s going on, son?”

David’s eyes darted toward the back of the boat. “Someone is
outside. I keep hearing noises. I think we’d better check it out.” David was holding the shotgun.

“Aren’t you a little old to be worried about the boogieman?” Wyatt teased, nodding toward the gun.

David smirked, but then a serious look crossed his face. “I hope that’s all it is.”

They moved closer
to Boxer’s stern, pausing on the deck to listen. Only the normal night sounds drifted across the water. Even the red glow over Houston didn’t seem out of place anymore. The wind had shifted again, bringing with it a sharp stink of ash and burning plastic from the fires to the north. Other than drifts of the rancid odor, the marina was peaceful.   

Wyatt stood, trying to decide between a flashlight and the night vision. He hadn’t used the starlight
device but once, a quick test long ago. He lifted a bench seat, removing a small flashlight from the compartment below. 

The sound of breaking glass startled both men. David flashed a look of “I told you so,” and then moved to the back of the boat. Both men stepped off Boxer and onto the wooden pier, searching for the source of the noise.

Even without the normal lighting along the pier, they could see reasonably well. The glow from the north and a nearly full moon illuminated all but the darkest shadows. They crept to the center of the walkway, a habit most boaters develop early, so as not to fall into the water. A rustling racket, followed by a thump and then whispered cursing sounded from a nearby boat.

They moved together cautiously, approaching a boat named Money Pit that was tied up a few slips down. The
newer sports fisherman was owned by a retired lawyer named Bill. Wyatt couldn’t remember the man’s last name, which wasn’t unusual among boaters. Pier mates often became good friends without knowing much at all about the normal, weekday lives of their neighbors. It was a matter of social politeness that the trials and troubles of everyday life were left behind and unmentioned while at the marina. Wyatt had one neighbor in slip #25 who stilled called him “Wright,” despite four months of seeing each other almost every weekend.

David and he paused at the back of Money Pit, listening intently. They detected movement inside the boat as it shifted just slightly, small ripples of water vibrating off the hull and spreading across the otherwise glass-smooth water. Wyatt looked at David and then at the entrance to the boat, “Hello onboard Money Pit
. Bill, is that you?”

No answer. Wyatt repeated his greeting, slightly louder than before. Still, there was no response.

Wyatt switched on the flashlight and directed its beam at the pier. He maneuvered carefully, stepping over the shore power cables and a BBQ grill that had been stationed on the dock. Wyatt started to step from the pier to Money Pit’s transom and froze mid-stride. There were dark spots of blood presenting clearly on the glistening white swim platform. The red stains appeared wet and fresh. Wyatt glanced at David and motioned him over to examine the anomaly. With his son peering over his shoulder, Wyatt moved the beam of light up to Money Pit’s fishing deck. Two more small crimson puddles shimmered in the flashlight’s beam.

David was really uncomfortable.
“Dad! Let’s get out of here.”

Wyatt motioned with his
hand for David to calm down. He turned back to Bill’s boat and pointed the light through the large sliding glass door that led to the salon. Again with a raised voice, “Bill, is that you? It’s Wyatt. You okay, man?”

The sound of muffled movement came from inside Money Pit. Finally, a voice called back, “Wyatt, is that you? Thank
God! I’ve been shot. Please help me.”

“Go get your mother,” Wyatt instructed his son. The older man stepped over to the swim
platform and then onto the fishing deck. Bill appeared at the doorway, holding a towel against the side of his head. The cloth was bloody, and the man’s skin an unnatural, pale gray.

Wyatt helped Bill rest in the
fighting chair, gently removing the towel. A long gash asserted itself along the side of his temple, and half of Bill’s sideburn was missing. Bright rose-colored trails reflected in the light, the blood running down his neck and soaking his shirt. Despite the grisly-looking injury, Wyatt knew instantly Bill wasn’t in immediate danger. The bullet hadn’t hit anything critical. “Bill, you’re going to be okay, buddy. It just grazed you. All head wounds bleed like crazy, but you’re going to be all right.”

Wyatt could hear Morgan, David, and Sage rushing down the pier, the jerky
motion of flashlight beams betraying their urgent pace. Words poured out of Bill, “There was a roadblock. You know, I only live five miles from here. The police wouldn’t let me pass and told me to go home. I tried to tell them…I tried to say I
was
going home. I mean, like, the boat is really my home. They wanted to see my driver’s license, but I had forgotten it. Some other man was arguing with them, and then somebody started shooting. My windshield was sprinkled with tiny spots. Small little holes just appeared right in front of my face. I ducked and hit the gas. I think I hit somebody’s car…maybe it was a person. I dunno. They shot me. I didn’t even feel it, but then the blood started running down my…”

Morgan took Bill’s
hand, “Bill, it’s all right now. You’re okay. Shhhhhhh…just settle down, we’ll help you.”

David spoke up, “Dad, get pressure on that wound. He’s lost a lot of blood. We need to get pressure on it ASAP,
or he might go into shock.”

Morgan blurted out, “David’s right. Shouldn’t we call an ambulance or the police or somebody?”

Sage dug the ever-present cell phone out of a pocket, checking the display. She returned her parents’ gaze, shaking her head - no signal. She offered, “We could drive him to the ER, it’s only a few miles away.”

Bill protested, “I’m not going out on the road again.
No, thank you. Not again! You guys have no idea what it’s like out there.”

Sage retrieved Boxer’s medical
kit and began digging around to locate bandages. It took a while, but eventually the makeshift paramedics stopped the bleeding and bandaged Bill’s wound. They got him to swallow some pain tablets, followed by a large glass of orange juice.

While the kids kept an eye on the patient, Morgan motioned Wyatt aside. “I guess that answers any question about trying to leave.
What’s happening, Wyatt?”

Her husband didn’t answer the question, mostly because Morgan’s eyes showed she already knew the answer. Instead, he tried to reassure his wife, “We have everything we need for right now. I’m sure things will settle down. Everyone is frightened,
but things have to get calmer. I don’t know of anything else to do but wait it out.”

Morgan nodded her agreement, “I guess I should be thankful. There are probably a lot of people in worse shape right now. At least we’re
comfortable.”

Eventually, Bill calmed down and everyone began yawning again. After all hands were back aboard Boxer, Wyatt stared at the glow to the north and shook his head. He locked the
salon door, deeply concerned over what tomorrow would bring.

February 16, 2017
Southland Marina
Kemah Bay, Texas

Wyatt woke up at six and headed to the galley, a hot cup of coffee being the first priority of the day. He filled a cup with water from the sink and shoved it in the microwave. While the water was heating, movement outside on the deck caught his eye. David was up already, apparently using the early light to clean the rifle. After his cup of instant brew was topped off with a dash of milk and sugar, Wyatt joined his son.

“
Morn’n.”
David looked up and smiled, “Hey, Dad, did you get any sleep?”

Wyatt winced slightly
, “I’m good. Have you seen Bill yet this morning?”

His son nodded.
“Yes, sir, he stuck his head out a bit ago and waved. He mumbled something about a headache, but said he was okay.”

Wyatt perched on the edge of the transom, admiring the confidence with which David handled the gun.
The kid seemed to know
exactly
what he was doing. After a few swipes with a rag, David snapped the weapon back together and worked the action. He then sliced open the case of ammunition with his pocketknife and began loading the two magazines that accompanied the weapon.

Wyatt cleared his throat, somehow
a little uncomfortable watching his son casually prepare such a deadly device. “Hey, any chance we could get a line wet this morning? You know the flounder should be running up the lake. Remember those two big ones we caught a few years ago - down at the end of the pier?”

David smiled, “Yeah I do.
Man, that one I hooked really put up a fight. Sure, Dad, let me get this rifle ready, and then let’s go. Do you have any bait?”

Wyatt smiled internally, “Yup. I have a couple of pounds of frozen shrimp. It’s not as good as fresh, but we might get an interested customer if we hurry.”

David put the rifle away while Wyatt grabbed a couple of poles. He was excited at the prospect of fishing with his son for the first time in two years. David had been away at college and then the army. There just hadn’t been time for them to enjoy what used to be one of their favorite activities together.

They ambled
toward the end of the pier, and after a few minutes of tying rigs and baiting hooks, both men had lines in the water. Wyatt noted the incoming tide and realized that should help the fishing. Even though they were almost five miles inland from Galveston Bay proper, the marina still experienced an eight to ten-inch tide.

The two fishermen garnered
a few strikes, David landing a rather anemic catfish. The sun rose higher in the early morning sky, and both of them knew the chances of catching a tasty, game fish declined with the light. After a little over an hour, Wyatt flashed a wry smile, “I think your mom can put away the tartar sauce today, son.”

“Looks
that way. We got started a little late; maybe we can give it a shot again tonight?”

Wyatt nodded, “One more cast
, and then let’s call it quits.”

David spied
some surface activity and reared back, letting fly a long cast toward the disturbance. His throw was perfect, and he let the bait settle to the bottom. After a few seconds, he began the usual motion of bouncing the rig along the harbor floor, trying to convince any fish in the area that an injured meal awaited. On his second tug, he felt resistance and jerked the pole hard to set the hook.
Wyatt grew suddenly interested. “Got something?”

David didn’t answer at first. The lin
e felt different, and he figured it was snagged. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. I think I might be hung up on something.”