The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid (16 page)

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Authors: Scott B. Williams

BOOK: The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid
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“I sure hope we don’t need
that!
” Artie said.
“I’ve always kept a shotgun on board whenever I could,” Larry said. “Never had to use one, but things could be different now—a
lot
different. I just wanted to let you know where I’m keeping it. There’s a hidden compartment right under the shelf that’s over your bunk in the nav station. I’m sleeping in the galley hull myself—where the food and coffee is.”
“What about Scully?”
“He’s got the forward single bunk cabin in the port hull when we’re at sea, but he prefers to sleep on deck in all but the roughest weather.”
Before they left the harbor, Pete and Maryanne rowed over from
Celebration
to where the
Casey Nicole
was anchored to share a cup of coffee and wish them luck on the voyage. By the time they left, the afternoon trade winds had kicked in, and Larry said it was time to go see what the new boat could do. Getting underway was much easier than it had been on the larger
Celebration.
As soon as Artie had the anchor on deck, Larry and Scully working together had the main and jib set and Larry steered off the wind to let them fill. Artie was totally unprepared for what happened next. Instead of heeling over and slowly gathering way like the schooner
Ibis
and the big cutter-rigged Tayana had, the catamaran simply accelerated, converting wind power to forward motion with a suddenness that almost caused him to fall. The twin bows sliced through the chop of the harbor with spray flying on both sides and made for the opening to the sea. Larry and Scully whooped with delight and Artie joined in. It felt like they were practically flying over the clear water, and he thought that if they could just keep this up, he would be reunited with Casey in no time.
Once they put Culebra astern, Larry aimed the bows toward the big mountain on Puerto Rico and soon they were in the heaving swells of the open ocean, the boat pitching fore and aft but not rolling from side to side as had the only other sailboats Artie had experienced. The distant island grew more distinct by the minute as they closed on it at 17 knots, changing from a hazy blue outline to a landscape of mountains that rose sharply behind slivers of sandy beach interspersed with condos, houses, and hotels. Larry was clearly pleased with his new boat and was grinning from ear to ear as he pointed out various design elements that contributed to her seaworthiness and speed. When they were about six miles from the main island, he steered for a tiny outlying islet that rose like a mirage from the coral-studded waters not far from a larger cay to the north. The islet was the postcard-perfect image of a deserted tropical isle—a rounded, sandy hump of beach, shaded by a grove of tall coconut palms and little other vegetation. It was the kind of place a cartoonist might draw to depict a scene in which a castaway is washed ashore in paradise.
Larry and Scully doused the spinnaker and brought the cat around to sail up to within 20 feet of the shore, where the water was only waist deep. Scully leapt in and carried the bow anchor up on the beach, while Larry hauled in on the rode of a stern anchor he’d deployed as they approached. When the lines were adjusted, the
Casey Nicole
floated almost motionless over transparent waters alive with multicolored fish.
“Welcome to Isleta Palominito,” Larry said. “This is one of the coolest little islands in this part of the Caribbean.”
“It
is
beautiful,” Artie admitted. “I didn’t know there were still uninhabited islands like this, especially so close to a crowded island like Puerto Rico.”
“Oh yeah, there are a lot more than you’d think. This one is one of the best, though. I’ve brought more than one of my
Puertorriqueña
girlfriends over here for a night or two of playing ‘castaway.’”
“I’ll bet you have.”
“It gets crowded with weekend boaters from the main island, but even in normal times it’s usually deserted during the week. And now—I wouldn’t expect anyone to bother coming over here. It’ll be safer than anchoring near Fajardo, and there’s nothing we need from a city like that anyway. So enjoy your evening, Doc. It’ll be your last chance to go ashore for a few days.”
Larry and Scully worked on tightening the rigging and making other adjustments necessary after the first sail, with Artie helping as much as he could, following their instructions, but not really knowing what to do or how to tie the fancy nautical knots they both made look effortless. Then Larry was in the water with his mask, snorkel, and speargun, while Scully climbed two of the tall coconut palms ashore and cut down more than two dozen green drinking nuts, bringing them back aboard to store for the voyage. At sunset, Artie walked around the sandy perimeter of the tiny island, which only took a few minutes, as it was less than an acre of total land area.
That evening they cooked the grouper Larry had speared over a small fire on the beach, the smoke and the steady sea breeze keeping away the no-see-ums that had tortured Artie on the beach at Culebra. Artie realized that in other circumstances, if he had not been so desperate to find out if Casey was okay, nothing could have persuaded him to hurry away from such an idyllic setting, and he began to understand his younger brother’s obsession with boats and the island lifestyle. He wished Casey could be here experiencing this with him, and that this nightmare was really just a bad dream they would wake from to find themselves all together on a vacation in paradise.
When he crawled into his bunk later that night, with the smoked acrylic hatch over his head open wide to give him a view of the uncountable stars arcing overhead in the Milky Way, he felt a sense of peace and assurance that Casey was okay and that he would soon be with her, whisked across the sea on his brother’s wonderful boat. Sleep came easily, and the noise and confusion that shattered his dreams after midnight didn’t seem real, until finally he was wide awake and realized they were.
Voices of strange men, yelling orders in a language he recognized as Spanish…. Scully yelling back in his West Indian accent…. A scuffling and stomping of feet on deck…. Something banging against the side of the hull…. A ringing clang of steel hitting steel…. A muffled scream of pain and then a big splash….
Artie sprang to the main hatch leading to the deck and looked out. Scully was crouched on the forward slatted deck, wielding the machete he had used earlier to open coconuts like a sword, as he parried the blows of a smaller man slashing at him with a similar weapon. When Larry yelled as he started out of the port hull where he’d been sleeping, a second stranger in the cockpit, also armed with a machete, turned in his direction and attacked him with a murderous downward blow. Artie saw his brother raise his right arm in an attempt to defend himself just as the blade came down, causing him to fall back into the companionway opening and out of sight. At that moment, he remembered the shotgun Larry had placed near his bunk and ducked back below to grab it. He hadn’t handled a 12-gauge pump since the last time he and Larry had hunted pheasants with their father when he was still in high school, but neuromuscular memory took over when it was in his hands, and he racked the slide to chamber a round and pointed the muzzle toward the opening to the deck just in time to see the assailant who had stricken Larry looming over his own hatch. He’d seen enough in the brief seconds he’d looked on deck to know that he had no choice but to pull the trigger. He winced at the blast of the 12-gauge buckshot shell, so loud inside the tiny confines of the cabin that he heard nothing but ringing that felt like a vise tightening on his brain from the outside in. The muzzle flash in the dark blinded him temporarily, and when his eyes readjusted, the man trying to get at him from the deck was gone. Artie racked the slide to chamber a fresh round and climbed up the steps to help Scully. He expected to see the man he’d shot sprawled across the cockpit floor, but there was no body there. The white paint of the cockpit floor shone brightly in the moonlight, unmarred by blood or any other sign of the intruder whom he was certain he’d hit point blank.
Looking to the forward deck, he saw that the wild-haired Rastaman didn’t need any help and that he was the only person still standing on the boat. The smaller man that had engaged him in a deadly machete duel was now draped lifelessly over the forward crossbeam. Scully pushed the body the rest of the way overboard with one foot before he noticed Artie had come on deck.
“Scully! Are you all right?”
“I an’ I okay, but you miss dat udda mon. Quick, don’t let him go. Shoot ’im in de boat, ’cause he be comin’ bok wid he friends if he get away!”
Artie turned in the direction Scully was pointing. He could make out a small boat in the darkness—a rowboat manned solely by the last of the assailants, who was pulling desperately at a pair of oars to get away from the scene of the foiled attack.
“I can’t just shoot him. He’s running away,” Artie said. He still couldn’t believe that his shot from down in the hull had not blown the man’s head off. Apparently he had seen the muzzle of the 12-gauge pointing at his face just in time to move out of the line of fire and had decided to abandon the attack.
“How many were there, Scully? Just those two?”
“No, t’ree, mon. I kill de first one before you an’ de Copt’n wake up. Den dis last one keep tryin’ to cut me up, so I killing him too. You missed dat one an’ now he escapin’ to come bok again.”
All Artie needed to know was that the attack was over and he could focus on his brother. He passed the shotgun to Scully and rushed to the port companionway, terrified of what he might find after witnessing Larry receive such a vicious blow with such a big blade. Quickly descending the steps into the hull, he heard two more blasts from the shotgun as Scully fired at the man in the rowboat, but he couldn’t be concerned with that now. He held his breath as he dropped to his knees on the cabin sole, where Larry was curled up in a fetal position, clutching his right forearm with his other hand in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood that was welling out from beneath his fingers, soaking his shirt and pooling on the floorboards around him. He reached for the battery-powered lantern Larry had mounted over the galley stove and turned it on. He saw that his brother was also bleeding profusely from a long cut across his forehead that extended from his hairline to his right eyebrow. His attempt to parry the machete blow that would have split his skull succeeded in absorbing most of the force, but at the expense of a wicked cut to the blocking arm.
“It’s all right, Larry. I’m here now. You’ve just got a couple of little cuts.”
“Scully?”
“He’s fine. Not even hurt. He took out two of those guys single-handedly. The other one’s gone, or maybe he got him too.”
Larry grunted approval, but didn’t reply. He was clearly racked with pain. The blood from his scalp wound ran over his face and eyes unchecked until Artie reached for a roll of paper towels near the sink and wadded up a bunch of them to form a temporary compress.
“Scully! I need your help down here!”
When Scully reached his side, Artie instructed him to keep pressure on Larry’s head wound while he went to work on the far more serious slash to his brother’s arm. Holding pressure above the cut to control the blood flow, he pulled Larry’s left hand away so he could see the extent of the damage.
“It’s bad, huh, Doc?”
“Yeah, but at least you still have your arm.” Artie could see that the machete had cloven nearly halfway through his brother’s arm. Probably the only reason it didn’t sever it completely was that his arm gave with the force of the blow, like a shock absorber, allowing some of the energy to reach his forehead.
“Can you fix it?”
“I don’t think you’ll lose it, if that’s what you mean, but we need to get you to an ER, and ASAP.”
“You know we can’t do that, Doc.”
Artie had momentarily forgotten the larger situation in his haste to take care of this immediate crisis with his brother. His trained response was to rely on hospitals and the rest of the infrastructure supporting them, but he knew Larry was right, that was not even an option now. “Larry, I haven’t dealt with trauma patients since my internship. But I do know that you can’t fool around with a wound like this. You could lose your arm or even die if this gets infected.”
“I’ve got everything you need to take care of it in the ship’s first aid kit, over in the nav hull. Look under the chart table. Go! Scully and I will hold pressure on this ’til you get back.”
Artie returned with a big yellow Pelican case with a plain red sticker on it in the shape of an emergency cross. His brother was shivering despite the warm tropical night, so he grabbed a blanket off the bunk to cover his bare legs and feet. There was barely room in the slender catamaran hull for him and Scully to crouch, with Larry taking up most of the narrow cabin sole. Artie didn’t want to move him to the bunk until he knew the bleeding was under control.
His assessment of the damage led him to the conclusion that the ulna, the outward of the two forearm bones, which had been facing upward and outward in his blocking motion, was almost cut in two by the chopping blow of the sharp blade. It was no wonder that his brother was in severe pain and borderline shock. The damage to the bone would heal, much like a clean break, but Larry was facing a long recovery from the inevitable nerve and tissue damage. But the more immediate concern was stopping the flow of blood from the severed ulnar artery and numerous smaller vessels that had been cut.

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