EVE OF DESTRUCTION
Back on his sanctuary hill, he returned to the wall, scratched the third item off his list and moved his attention to the fourth: #4 Reunite Eve with Adam. His body was weakened to the point he was unsure he could continue, but his bitter anger drove him forward, finding reserve strength in a three-finger pour of Plymouth gin.
Uncapping the new bottle retrieved from the hutch, he filled a glass with Plymouth and three ice cubes, and began to pace the kitchen, formulating his next move. He glanced at his watch and realized he still had enough daylight to deliver her today. But he had not yet selected an optimal drop location for maximum destruction. Normally his obsessive-compulsive behavior would have immediately aborted the plan, causing days of ocean-floor research into canyons and valleys leading into the Los Angeles basin, as he did with Adam. Instead, the sense of urgency from his rapidly deteriorating physical and mental health swept him away into an impetuous devil-may-care decision. He upended the glass, gulping the gin in three large swallows, grabbed a light jacket from the hall tree, and headed toward the boathouse.
The elevator ride and short trip across the sand were more arduous than yesterday. He was losing his mental acuity and strength by the hour and he knew it.
Shuffling in pain across the old pier toward the boathouse, he misstepped through the missing boards he had learned to traverse. His foot slipped and, howling, he tumbled into the wet sand below. Though it was only a four-foot fall, it injured his leg and tore a six-inch strip of rotting skin from his calf. Sand flew as he dusted himself off and climbed back on the pier. Pain from the open wound on his leg attacked his mind, shutting down his reasoning. He was nearly incapacitated now, sudden spasms and stabbing pains consuming his concentration, yet he continued on, fueled by his burning need for revenge.
Entering the boathouse, having crawled over the missing steps, he tried to stand upright but fell back to the floor. Now, angry at his weakness, he crawled to Eve’s workbench, threw an arm over, and pulled himself to his feet. Feeling able once again, he glanced around the table, found an old grease rag, and tied it tightly around his bleeding calf. Testing his stability, one tiny step forward without falling boosted his spirits so that he shuffled to the Sea Ray intent on donning his lead-lined protection. Instead, feeling impervious to further damage from the deadly radiation, he grabbed the crane arm, extended it and swiveled the drop claw over Eve.
He stood, panting, planning his next move, then sluggishly raised and lowered Eve onto the deck of the boat. She settled snugly into the dents left by Adam during his last-moment free fall. The rope burns from hoisting Eve into the boat added to his ever-growing pain, causing a numbness to fall over him. He felt himself a robot now, going through the motions without pain or emotion. It served its purpose and he smiled.
Before boarding the Sea Ray, he looked around, pitched the heavy. leaded coat and hood out of the boat, and removed the mooring ropes. Everything was set. He checked the gauges on the dashboard, and seeing that he had enough fuel for a one-hour trip, climbed aboard. Without a predetermined drop location, his plan was to motor out for thirty minutes, drop Eve and then return. A simple task even a child could do.
With the turn of the key, Eve was on her way into history. He headed the Sea Ray into the waves for thirty minutes, averaging about seven knots. That would place her four miles out at sea, a comfortable distance for the creation of a radioactive tsunami, yet far enough out to remain undetectable by standard search procedures. Studying the fathometer, he read and recorded the depth below the boat at three-hundred and sixty meters, bringing a wide smile to his face. Repeating Adam’s launch procedure, he activated the Skyhook, took a quick GPS reading, and recorded it in the log. Before starting the offloading, he armed Eve, removed her key, and tossed it overboard, then sealed her o-ring and cover with the eight locking levers. Everything was ship-shape.
From there, the delivery proceeded as Adam’s, until Eve, dangling over the water from the end of the crane tipped the boat to port just enough for waves to wash onboard. He struggled, climbing across the listing hull to release the outrigger and went white! He had forgotten to attach the second outrigger before leaving. Looking back at the waves rushing into the boat, he screamed, “Shit!”
The Sea Ray now listing so severely, beyond its tipping point, could not possibly be righted. He tried anyway, by rushing back and pulling the claw release rope. Eve, already halfway submerged, disappeared into the waves without a sound, peacefully sinking out of sight.
Meanwhile, he watched the Sea Ray continue to take on more water without righting itself. By now, its bow was sinking rapidly below the waterline with no indication of slowing. He reached and activated the bilge pump hoping for some miracle to save him. Instead, a forceful fountain of seawater ripped through the boat destroying everything in its path including the onboard flotation packs. He helplessly watched them float off; his last hope disappearing.
Panicking, he tried to key the radio with a mayday call, but the radio sputtered and sparked in the salty water. He threw the microphone into the rising water, then unhooked a life vest from its mounting under the dashboard and slipped it over his shoulders. His screams from the salty vest and seawater flushing his upper-body radiation burns went unheard. Within minutes, he knew he would be submerged in seawater and the pain would exponentially increase. He braced himself for it as the boat drifted away under him. Then suddenly, he was floating alone, writhing and screaming in pain, as he saw distant dorsal fins begin to circle around him, approaching slowly for the kill. Remorsefully, he began to pray.
DISCOVERY
Officer Mica Briscoe, a veteran California Highway Patrol employee, loaded his cruiser that morning ready to take on the day’s chaotic California traffic. On an average day, he would help over fifty stranded motorists, issue twelve speeding tickets, five warning tickets, and eat six donuts, downed by eight cups of black coffee. With nine years on the force, he was the perfect law enforcer, tagged Magic Mica by his peers and unit commander. He enjoyed the title and on occasion would embrace it by strutting his small beer gut while holding a six-pack of beer over it. However, when on duty he was serious business; he was the first to arrive on shift and the last to leave. Everyone in his unit loved and respected him for that.
“Hey Mica, didn’t I see your cruiser in that crazy car chase on the I-10 yesterday? Looked like yours. That was some chase.” The question came from Officer Julian McCoy, a young rookie who shared the morning shift with Briscoe. Smiling, he stood at his nearby cruiser waiting for the answer.
“No, Jules,” he answered, “don’t believe so. I was covering a SigAlert on the lower PCH most of yesterday. Six-car pileup. Some bozo going sixty dropped a La-Z-Boy recliner in the fast lane. I picked up wood, springs, and screws for hours. Never get the fun times.” He laughed, cocked his head, and continued, “How would you recognize mine, anyway? These zebras all look alike.”
McCoy pointed up to Briscoe’s light bar and answered, “One of them had a broken lens over the center blue light, just like yours.”
He opened the door and stood, staring at the broken lens. “Well I’ll be damned. I guess I need to pay more attention to my ride. Must have been a thrown rock. I heard one whistle by my head on a speeding stop but never heard it land. That lucky light must have caught it.” He shook his head, smiled at McCoy and reentered his cruiser.