I agreed. No way to enter the city looked safe.
She moved her hand west of Marysville, across the bay from Everett. “We could travel through here. Right?”
It wouldn’t get us to Everett, but it was probably safe enough to ride on the motorcycle, especially if we went fast. I mused, “Not much out there. Not a lot of towns or people.”
“Why isn’t there more?”
“Indian reservation,” I pointed out the colored area and the map key in the corner.
“Well, there’s still not many buildings. But look at the coastline just to the west of Marysville where the reservation begins.”
I looked and saw a few small indications of houses, a marked boat ramp, and some camping. Nothing else. Sue was focusing on that part of the map, and in her concentration, she was ignoring me. “What do you see that I don’t?”
“There are beach communities along here.” Her finger moved along the coastline. “There are houses at Priest Point because of the roads the map shows. Not many, maybe, but some.”
“So?”
“If we could cut across Marysville to the north and get onto the reservation, riding fast on the motorcycle, we could reach the coast where the beach houses are in a half-hour or less from here. If a street is blocked, we can turn around, or ride the bike around it, or turn back, but seriously, I wouldn’t expect streets to be blocked out there in the country. Not yet. Not there, so we could reach the coast about here.” Her finger pointed at the place. I saw no reason to go there. We wanted to go to Everett and the marina, not the coast of an Indian reservation.
My eyes looked to where she pointed, her destination. Still puzzled, I asked, “Why do we want to do all that? Ride through the perimeter of the reservation, I mean?”
“To get to the beach communities, silly.”
I still didn’t understand.
She rolled her eyes and spoke as if I was a doddering old man, “Look at the map, silly. Really look at it. Beach houses have kayaks. You know, those plastic two-ended ones you see everywhere. People leave them outside on their patios and inside garages at beach houses. We could snatch two.”
“And?” I asked, still not understanding her intentions. Stealing kayaks and paddling for fun was not in my future. Besides, we had a motorcycle.
She tapped her map with her finger near a place on the coast called Priest Point, then with a smug smile in place, she slowly moved it due south across the map until reaching the Everett yacht harbor from the water.
Sue was a genius. If we used small boats like kayaks, we could slip right up to where the sailboats were moored without ever going into, or trying to travel across, the dangerous city. We could go around it and enter from the waterfront, like a backdoor.
The map made it clear how easy it would be and avoid the major obstacle holding us back. At a guess, the distance by water was five miles, maybe a little more. I started calculating, which is my way. Walking fast, a person can easily go three miles in one hour on flat ground. I’d never been in a kayak but had seen them scooting by much faster than I can walk. But being conservative, considering possible opposing tides and winds, even if we paddled half that fast, it was only a three- or four-hour trip.
Two hours if we only paddled as fast as we walk, or if the currents carried us in that direction. It was early spring, so the nights were not much longer than in the winter. Ten or twelve hours of darkness, easily. My mind was planning all the details again. The map made it clear she had found a way to get us there. The distance was doable, the time was probably less than using the motorcycle and going around, and we wouldn’t face any of the hundreds of problems we might encounter passing through a city.
Without electricity, most people were probably asleep by nine or ten at night. Many were sleeping by eight because they didn’t want to use candles or lamps and attract enemies and the sun was down even earlier than that. No lights after dark meant they might as well go to sleep. Of course, others were using the darkness to do their dirty deeds or hunt for food and supplies.
By midnight, few would be awake.
If two kayaks arrived at the harbor after midnight and the sun didn’t come up until seven in the morning, there was plenty of time to locate the right boat and use it to slip out of the harbor. On impulse, I turned and gave Sue a hug. No words were required. She had solved our major problems. We could avoid approaching Everett completely, and the same for navigating our sneaking through a city filled with unknown traps and enemies.
There would be other problems that would arise, and we would deal with them as they came.
CHAPTER SEVEN
We spent the next twenty minutes studying the map and making suggestions back and forth like a pair of giggling little girls planning a surprise party. Do this. No, try that. What if we . . ? The suggestions came fast and furious.
It made total sense to drive across the northern part of Marysville to reach the coast and work our way to the beaches, which was the far longer route but probably safer. In other ways, it made sense to ride the motorcycle to the south end of Marysville and cut across where there were only eight or ten blocks of suburban streets to ride through. Either way held advantages. And disadvantages. We went back and forth as we explored all the possibilities.
Sue pointed out that on the southern way was a road that was a straight shot through that part of Marysville which led directly to Priest Point. If we went that way, we could ride quickly through the suburb and part of downtown and spend less time in danger of meeting people.
As we were getting ready to walk the motorcycle back across the shallow river, she asked if I’d reloaded my gun after shooting the two men who had followed her at the house where we’d taken the motorcycle. I hadn’t. Her casual comment was a stern reminder that we lived in a new world where a full clip at all times was another golden rule. It was both silly and stupid not to have a full magazine in the gun when I had a pocket full of shells. The magazine ejected with a solid click and a full one replaced it. The half-empty one joined the last full magazine in my belt. I’d refill it at the next chance.
That made me think again of the thirty-two Sue carried. The requirements for her to survive had changed, too. Even in the last two days. A lot had. For the ride ahead, if we met with resistance, we needed some heavy firepower to carry that would intimidate others who would recognize and fear the weapons. Besides, her few shots left would last long and we had no more shells for the gun.
Was reminding me about my mistakes in not reloading her way of making me think about replacing her pathetic little gun? I didn’t blame her if that was her intention. If so, she had done well, and I should shut up about it before speaking. I needed her input.
We started the bike and used the engine to help move it along as we pushed it back across the river, with me again working the throttle. At one point, the tire spun and sprayed water, soaking me. As we crossed the deeper part of the river, the end of the exhaust pipe went underwater and burbled before reaching the other side and draining. I mounted the bike at the edge of the pavement, and so did she, fearful the water had damaged the engine.
As we accelerated, she waved to the hillside where the man who had given us the salmon lived. It was a nice gesture and I hoped he saw her. I kept the speed down, my eyes on the surrounding area. At a dirt driveway a half-mile down the road, I turned in and rode up the slight hill.
At the top of the driveway, there stood a house. There’s a different look to an empty house, even an unused driveway with new grass growing in the unused ruts. The house we found at the top of the small hill appeared abandoned—only worse. The large front window was broken. Only jagged spears of glass remained. One wet, limp curtain hung outside and moved gently with the breeze. Clothing, pots and pans, and even some furniture littered the lawn. I doubted the owner had done all that.