The dive well was open, a mirrored square under the hull. Crashing his reflection, Ray came up in the dim green light of the well, gasping for air. He was shivering uncontrollably, his nose dripping blood. It was so cold he could see his breath. The second door was just above his head, a watertight hatch into the main hold. It, too, was open. Barely able to feel his extremities, Ray cautiously climbed the ladder and peered above the raised rim. Immediately, he realized there was trouble.
To his left, through the doorway of the galley compartment, he could see a woman’s legs-presumably the legs of Sandoval’s associate, Chandra Stevens. Her legs were awkwardly splayed as if she were unconscious or dead. There were signs of a struggle and food ransacked from the storage bins. To Ray’s right rose the aft companionway, at the top of which were two heavily armed men staring out the port-side window. There were many more weapons lying loose all over the cabin: shotguns, pistols, machine guns, rocket launchers, grenades, and multiple cases of ammunition.
Too cold to wait, Ray grabbed a loaded revolver, and said, “P-p-put down your g-guns or I’ll shoot.”
One of the men spun with his shotgun, and Ray surprised himself by firing first. It was loud and quick: the bullet struck the man in the chest, and he tumbled down the stairs. The second man froze and set down his gun.
“Whoa, whoa,” he said. “We’re cool, baby, we’re cool. Damn, did you just swim up in here?”
“What did you assholes do to her?” Ray demanded.
“The doctor lady? Nothing, I swear! She hurt herself resisting so hard-hurt us, too. But we weren’t about to kill her; she’s too valuable to lose. We just wanted to throw in with y’all since we could obviously use each other’s help. Chace is gonna make this his personal flagship, and he needs an experienced crew. I’m Brother Lake Snyder, and that poor bastard was Father Frederick Arnott. But it don’t matter now-what matters is obviously you’re somebody who can get shit done. We need people like you for the big march on Washington.”
Barely listening, Ray knew something had to be done fast, or the people under the dock were going to die of hypothermia. He said, “Okay, take all your weapons off, all of them. You’re going for a swim.”
“Are you crazy? I can’t swim!”
“Do it! Do it now!” He stepped aside to give the man room.
Lake Snyder wavered, then disgustedly shed his arsenal and peered into the green light of the well. “This is ridiculous.”
“Get in there, or I’ll shoot you!”
“No you won’t,” said the dead man from the floor.
Turning, Ray felt something hard strike him behind the knees, causing a bright flash of agony. Going down, he thought, Dummy. As the men seized and disarmed him, he could see that the man he thought he had killed was wearing a bulletproof vest. Just playing dead-of course.
“You got him, man!” whooped Brother Snyder.
Just as he said this, a woman’s face rose out of the dive well behind him. It was one of the Immunes, the one named Fran. Her lips blue with cold, her long hair stringy as wet seaweed, she held the oxygen tank from the ambulance, and before either man could react, she brought it down like a sledgehammer on Lake Snyder’s head.
“Shit!” cried Father Arnott. He went for his gun, but Ray kicked him in the face and fought him for it. It was a short fight: the older man was much bigger and stronger, an experienced warrior, while Ray was just a skinny kid who liked to dance. As the man broke Ray’s grip and knocked him over, there was a loud bang, and Father Arnott toppled to the deck with a hole in his head.
“Gotcha,” Sandoval said from the top of the stairs.
“What’s going on?” Ray asked.
“I just cast us off. We’re drifting out with the tide, and in a minute I’m going to fire up the engines.”
“How? Where’s Chace?”
“Chace decided to stick around for the encore.”
Deena and Todd emerged from the dive well, both shivering uncontrollably. Ray closed the hatch behind them, dogging it tight, then he went to see about Chandra Stevens. He knew her only slightly as one of Sandoval’s many science connections, along with Alice Langhorne and Uri Miska. In the aftermath of Agent X, they were a very select group.
Propped in a corner, the gray-haired woman was conscious, her eyes trying to focus. When Ray reached for her face, she twisted away, moaning.
“Relax, it’s okay, I’m just taking the duct tape off your mouth.”
She went limp, nodding.
As gently as possible, he peeled the tape off, and said, “I’m just going to untie you, okay? Hold still.”
“Who are you?”
“A friend. I’m here with Jim Sandoval.”
“Jim’s here?”
“Yes.”
She relaxed and closed her eyes as the engine rumbled to life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SAILING
Ray Despineau awoke to the smell of coffee. For a long time he just stayed in his bunk, enjoying the thumping motion of the waves, his bleary eyes scanning the familiar bookshelf.
Lots of sailing books: knot tying, navigation, and other basic seamanship. A few old-timey sea stories: Treasure Island, Two Years Before the Mast, The Sea-Wolf, Melville’s White-Jacket and Typee. He had read them all.
He felt pretty good, though his memory of recent events was sketchy. Even not-so-recent events: In the first few minutes of waking, he forgot everything that had happened since New Year’s Eve. He blanked out the entire Xombie Apocalypse and imagined he must be aboard Sandoval’s boat for a pleasure cruise, perhaps to Bermuda. That would be awesome. Flashes of something unspeakably hideous kept poking through the calm, but he refused to think about it.
He heard snoring from the lower berth and leaned over to see who it was. It was a familiar face, the face of a friend, yet also a face that had no business in that boat. A face that instantly evoked everything they had lived through together for the past six months. Todd Holmes. Todd’s ratty, scorched dreadlocks told the whole tale.
Ray remembered.
He got up and boosted himself out the forward hatch.
It was a beautiful summer day, breezy and cool, with the sun mounted like a diamond in the satin blue sky. Just a hint of chop-it was a crime not to let the spinnaker out. He did so, and the boat leaped forward, heeling steeply as it bounced over the swells.
Jim Sandoval hastily appeared from below, looking weary and overcaffeinated. He had rigged up the auto tiller so he didn’t have to man the helm every second. The device was basically a hydraulic piston connected to a GPS, a robot arm that steered the boat in a fixed direction by constantly making small course corrections. But it still required someone to constantly stand watch.
“You’re awake,” Sandoval said, relieved.
“Yeah, I’m sorry I slept so long. How long was I out?”
“Almost twenty-four hours. I guess you had some catching up to do. We passed New York and New Jersey during the night-you would’ve thought it was the coast of Borneo. No, Borneo would have more lights. I figured as long as the weather’s holding up, we might as well blow past the big metroplex, just to avoid any more refugee situations. We should be around Maryland now.”
“Jeez, you should have woken me up so I could take a turn standing watch.”
“I know, but you were so zonked out, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Chandra and Fran have been sharing the duty so you guys could sleep.”
“Have you seen any other boats?”
“No. We’ve been staying out of sight of land as much as possible.”
“Right… definitely.” Ray still vividly remembered the sick feeling of being approached by boatloads of desperate refugees while the submarine had sat at anchor. It was not something he ever wanted to repeat.