“Pardon?” Robby asked.
“Take the helm. Head for just to the right of that marker. I’ll stow everything below. Steering will help you deal with your seasickness,” she said.
“What if I have to throw up?” Robby asked. He knew it would only only be a matter of time before his nausea kicked into overdrive. The swells in the harbor were tiny compared to what they would find once they cleared some distance from the island.
“Here’s a barf-bag,” she said, rooting through the backpack, “and I packed you some soda crackers. Keep chewing on these.”
Robby’s stomach felt like a tight knot. Tart saliva started to water in the back of his mouth. A tiny headache formed at the top of his skull. These were all signs of imminent upchuck. He took the wheel and gripped his fingers at ten and two. He understood the logic immediately—he was focused on the horizon, steadied by the wheel, and concentrating. All these activities should settle his stomach.
The wind picked up. A sudden squall of snowflakes decreased visibility and the wind made Robby correct the wheel to get back on course. Robby squinted through the wall of snow.
Sarah stowed the last of their supplies in the space below the bow deck and then closed the cabin door.
“Is there heat in this thing?” she asked.
“Huh?” Robby asked. He turned to look at his mom and instantly regretted it. The quick swing of his head disturbed the delicate truce he’d negotiated with the turkey sandwich. He doubled over with a big retch and coughed up the contents of his stomach into the barf-bag. Sarah reached over and held the wheel while he puked.
“Here,” she said, handing Robby a towel.
“Thanks,” he said. He put his hands back on the wheel and fixed his eyes back on the horizon.
“I’m going to figure out how to get the heat on,” she said.
“Can you wait?” Robby asked. “The cold is actually helping a little.”
“You’re the Cap’n,” she said. Sarah propped her feet up on the console and sat on a storage locker. She massaged her temples and sighed, looking out the back window towards the island. “We’re going to be okay,” she said.
“I know, mom,” Robby said.
“At some point you’re going to have to figure out this GPS,” she said. “It’s like the space shuttle in here.”
“Okay,” Robby said. “Maybe you can describe what you see and then I can keep my eyes forward?”
“Aye aye, Cap’n,” Sarah said.
Sarah talked through the buttons and displays while Robby guided the boat. He pieced together a mental picture of the controls until she got lazy with the narrative and he stole glances down at the panel. His churning stomach reminded him not to look away from the horizon for too long. With her son’s guidance, Sarah got the instruments powered up and gave Robby a heading to follow.
The crossing by ferry usually took between seventy-five and ninety minutes. Sarah expected their trip in Carl’s boat to last a bit longer.
“Your dad insisted on bringing enough supplies for days,” Sarah told Robby.
“Makes sense,” Robby said.
“He wouldn’t say why,” Sarah said.
“I think he wanted to take us south, but didn’t want to say anything in front of the Nortons,” Robby said.
“How far south?" Sarah asked.
“Until we found people,” Robby said. “From the TV and the radio, dad would have guessed that the same thing that happened on the island was also happening on the mainland. The best bet would be to head south.”
“Until we find people,” Sarah said. She shook her head and bit her lip. “I wish we’d just stayed put.”
“We weren’t safe there,” Robby said.
“What the hell is happening?" Sarah asked.
Robby didn’t have an answer. “Do you want to head south?” Robby asked.
“On a boat? No. It would be easy for your dad, but not with just us,” Sarah said.
“Good,” Robby said. “I hate boats.”
“I know you do, honey,” Sarah said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Inland - SUMMER (five months earlier)
“FAX? YOU MEAN like fax machine?” Brad asked the phone.
He sat in his special high-backed desk chair—the kind that cost more than a good used car.
“Yes,” Phil said. His voice came from the speakers on either side of Brad’s computer monitor. “You do have that capability, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Brad said. He pondered the idea. He could crawl through the attic, find his fax machine, print out his estimate, and then send it over, but why? He’d already emailed the document; why would anyone need a faxed copy? Brad suddenly realized he could probably find an online service to turn his email into a fax. He calmed down a bit, now that he could dismiss the chore of going up to the stifling-hot attic.
“We’ll review your quote and get back to you by the end of the week,” Phil said. “Then you’ll start right away?”
“Absolutely,” Brad said.
“Great,” Phil said. “Talk to you soon.”
Brad flicked his computer mouse to wake up his monitor. He disconnected from the call.
He pushed back and put his feet up on his desk. Phil would probably stand by the fax machine, waiting for his transmission, but Phil could wait. Brad knew that Phil would never get approval by the end of the week. If Phil promised you a contract on Friday, he really meant you should expect it sometime in the next month.
The project had turned into a nightmare. Phil talked him into a five day engagement that turned into six weeks of work. Worse than that, Phil convinced the Cincinnati office to use another contractor so Phil could have Brad all to himself. Brad liked to to make himself indispensable, but Phil was turning into a stalker.
Now, with the project nearly complete, Phil let the stakeholders change several major requirements. Two major sub-systems would have to be reworked, and one of the supporting applications overhauled. Brad produced an estimate for the change order, and now waited for Phil to get approval for the work.
“I’ll be lucky if I hear from him by September,” Brad said to the ceiling. “On the other hand, I don’t have to work until September, if I don’t want to.”
Despite the lower hourly rate, Phil’s insistence on overtime and weekend work netted Brad a huge windfall for June and July. He always kept a decent financial cushion to weather the lean times. Now he had enough money saved to coast for a year without another contract; not that he would ever indulge himself to such a degree.
Brad intertwined his fingers behind his head and leaned back farther.
“What if I just quit?” he asked nobody. “What if I just fax over a picture of my middle finger? Phil can get one of the Prague guys to finish up this mess. Sure, it will take him three times as long, but they only charge half as much. He’ll be a hero until they figure out the Prague guys don’t know jack shit about their data.”
Brad closed his eyes and tried to imagine what his life would actually be like if he quit. He always pictured a perfect life—he would have time to work on the house, clean up the yard, or maybe meet some new people in town. But he knew better. Between jobs he always obsessed about money and trying to find a new job. He wouldn’t be able to enjoy a stress-free life; it would make him anxious.
He shifted his weight and dropped his fingers to the keyboard. In a few minutes he figured out how to fax his estimate to Phil.
“Now I just have to wait,” he said to the monitor. The clock on his computer read half-past ten. “Looks like a good day for a pre-lunch walk.”
BRAD STARTED DOWN the path looking at his feet. This time he wanted to be careful where he stepped. Remembering his encounter with the mystery vines over a month before, he wore his hiking boots and jeans. A clicking sound ahead made him stop and look up. He stood, still a hundred yards from the place where the vine had wrapped around his leg, and listened to the clicking.