Here came the punch line and I knew it wouldn’t be humorous.
“I need to know if that warship of yours out there on the reef is repairable. Give me an honest answer and the end will come quickly for you. Jerk me around with bullshit and you will die slowly and painfully. You will be amazed what a round from a sniper rifle can do to the human body at close range.”
“I’ve seen the damage,” I snapped, nodding at Tony’s corpse on the ground to my right.
The guy smiled. “That was a kill shot, friend. He was infected so we did him a favor. It will take a few rounds to leave you in pain and unable to move from where you stand but you will live long enough for the dead to come back and feast on your dying body.”
“Sounds like a blast,” I groaned.
The guy huffed a laugh and pulled a pained expression. “It will be dark soon and we need to get going. Also, and no offense to you personally but I am growing bored of our conversation. So, what state is the warship in?”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. How could I come back with more time wasting quips or anecdotes? My time was up but I didn’t want to be left shot up and in agony for the undead to claim.
I had no choice but to tell the truth and hope for a quick, one shot death.
Chapter Seventy-Five
“Well…we dived down into the sea to take a look at the ship’s hull,” I started, deciding to prolong the diagnosis for as long as possible. The guy had already told me the militia planned on returning to the island in force and he obviously wanted to know if they’d have a fully operational warship hampering their arrival.
“Yes, I know all that,” the militia guy snapped impatiently. “Just tell me if it can be put back to sea.”
I opened my mouth to speak but heard and felt something hot shooting rapidly over my left shoulder. The yacht where the militia guy and the sniper were positioned erupted into a colossal inferno in front of me. The explosion rocked my senses and a huge fireball surrounded by thick black smoke plumed high into the air.
I hunkered down as red hot debris scattered the ground all around me. I scooped up the Glock and turned in every direction, wondering what the hell was going on.
The shower of fragments subsided but the flames still burned from the wreckage of the boat. My ears rung in a monotone sound and I felt totally dazed and confused. I spun around in a circle anticipating another attack from a different angle.
The ringing in my ears faded slightly and I heard the noise of the hurricane alarm still singing in the distance. Two guys emerged from a shaded recess between two beach bars facing the jetty. One was a thin, bearded man, dressed in dark green coveralls with his hands bound together with cable lock ties and the other guy was big and wore a pair of dark shades. He held some kind of large, smoking weapon at his shoulder and carried a green metal case at his side. I raised the Glock, aiming at the approaching figures.
“Don’t you hate it when assholes threaten you with torture? Anyhow, put the pop gun away, Wilde Man,” the big guy with the weapon said. “We got work to do.”
I lowered the handgun, with a combination of shock, disbelief and surprise. “Smith? How…I mean, what the fuck? You nearly shot me with that damn thing.” I pointed to the smoking weapon on his shoulder. “What the hell is that anyhow? And who is this guy trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey?”
Smith brushed by me and shoved the man in the green coveralls towards the jetty.
“It’s a SMAW,” Smith snapped. “Look, I know you have a lot of questions right now but we really need to get our asses on that damn boat and get the hell out of here. I’ll tell you all about it and answer all your questions on the way around the island.”
I was too confused, too shocked and too damn tired to argue with him. I simply plodded along the jetty after Smith and the dude in the green coveralls. We bypassed the burning yacht, keeping a safe distance from the flames and made our way to the flat bottomed tourist boat Tony had pointed out earlier. I turned back and studied the blazing wreckage but couldn’t see any sign of either the militia guy or the female sniper. I guessed they’d been vaporized in the explosion.
We hopped onboard the tourist boat and Smith put down his rocket launcher or whatever the hell it was and the green box he carried.
“Take this asshole down below and shoot him if he tries to get away or break out from his restraints,” Smith said, shoving the guy in the green coveralls at me. “Oh, and take a look out for any zombies while you’re down there.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I said, waving him a mock salute.
The boat’s upper deck was constructed of varnished timber and black painted steel and was around thirty feet long. An engine room and small wheel house was situated near the bows that pointed out to sea. The vessel was moored to the jetty by a couple of thick ropes that creaked every time the tide lowered and rose.
Smith made his way over to the engine room while I hustled the guy down a wide wooden staircase descending from the center of the upper deck. We clumped down the stairs, with the guy leading in a hunched and defeated gait. I aimed the Glock at his back as I followed behind him but had the feeling there was no real need for the firearm. The guy’s dejected body language told me he was in no mood for a fight.
The lower deck smelled of mold ridden wood, seawater and an underlying hint of old diesel fumes. The wood paneled walls were varnished the same light brown as the upper deck and a few round port holes were positioned on each side of the large, square shaped room. A closed door marked W.C. in blue lettering stood at the far end of the area, beside a slightly raised wooden platform that looked like a stage of some kind. Wooden bench seats stood in rows at the edge of a grimy, green glass floor and I waved the handgun, motioning for the guy to sit down.
I wasn’t sure if the guy spoke English but he understood my gesture, dumping himself down on the bench seat at the front of the row. We didn’t speak and I heard Smith banging around on the upper deck for a while before the rumble of an engine started. He’d always been a dab hand where marine machinery was concerned.
I kept my eye on the seated guy but also took a glance out of one of the port holes. The light was fading fast and I didn’t want to still be hanging around the jetty at nightfall.
Descending footsteps caused me to retreat further into the room and aim the handgun at the staircase.
“Relax, Wilde Man, it’s only me,” Smith huffed, flapping a dismissive hand. Both his hands and the front of his shirt were covered in oil and he wiped sweat from his face with his forearm. “I got the engine fired up but it’s not in good shape. It should get us around the island and back to the ship but it’s going to need a major overhaul when we get there.”
“You sure we’ll make it?” I sighed, redirecting the firearm at the guy in the coveralls.
Smith shrugged. “Only one way to find out, kid.”
“When are we going to get going? It’s getting pretty dark outside.” I nodded at the port hole.
“Right now. I need you to come up on deck and slip the ropes for me while I steer us away from the jetty. You know the routine. Just like New Orleans.”
I nodded. “What are we going to do with Laughing Boy here?” I waved the Glock at our new crew mate.
“Don’t worry about him. Bring him up on deck with us and I’ll keep a watch on him,” Smith said. “Hand me the gun.”
I gave him the Glock and he checked the weapon before he motioned for the guy to get up and climb the staircase.
“Come on, Daddio. We’re getting out of here.”
“Does he speak English?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Smith replied, nodding his head. “He was caught up with those militia guys and I found him snooping around the airport.”
“The airport?” I asked, a little shocked. “Why the hell were you at the airport?”
“Let’s get on the upper deck first, kid and I’ll tell you the whole sorry assed story.”
Chapter Seventy-Six
The three of us clumped wearily back up the staircase. This time Smith covered the guy in the green overalls with the handgun. Smith’s lack of firearms got me thinking.
“What happened to your guns?” I asked.
Smith shook his head. “Lost them. That’s really bad drills on my part, kid.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant but I didn’t push the subject.
“By the way, you got a blood stain on your ass.” Smith pointed the Glock at my backside as I reached the top of the staircase.
“Oh, I had a little accident,” I muttered. “I stabbed myself in the ass.” I felt a little stupid as I tried to explain.
“You stabbed yourself in the ass?” Smith queried, with an incredulous expression on his face. “Jesus, kid. You really know how to give yourself a hard time.”
I felt my face redden slightly and shuffled my way to the boat’s stern. Smith maneuvered the guy in the coveralls to the wheelhouse and tied his arms around a bollard on the port side. I hopped back onto the jetty and glanced towards the town square. The buildings were nothing more than shadows against the dark sky and I heard the faint sound of the hurricane siren still blaring out. The yacht still burned, although the flames had died down slightly and the remains of the vessel had started to sink.
“Okay, kid,” Smith shouted. “Slip the ropes and jump back onboard. We’re out of here.”
I nodded and pulled the ropes up and off the large steel bollards bolted to the jetty. I tossed both ropes onboard the boat and leapt back onto the deck. Smith hit the throttle, causing the engine to rumble in a deeper tone and we slowly pulled away from the jetty.
I stood on the deck for a few moments, staring at the remains of the burning yacht and the dark port town. My mind began to process and replay some of the more daunting moments that had occurred over the last few hours. The moon shone over the rooftops and through the narrow streets, reflecting in the broken glass window fronts. I wondered if I’d ever return to the port of
La Bahia Soleado. Who knew? Nobody could predict the future.
The wheelhouse was nothing more than a ten feet by ten shack-like structure with glass panel screens all the way around. The wheel sat in the center of the basic control panel at the front of the room and the guy in coveralls sat slumped in a chair in the corner to the right. Smith stood in front of the large wooden steering wheel, spinning it to the left. A lit cigarette drooped from his lips.
“Got one of those for me?” I asked, pointing to his smoke.
Smith tapped a pack of cigarettes beside a lighter on top of the control panel. He’d obviously found or stolen some smokes along the way. The Glock sat next to the cigarette packet. I took a smoke and lit it up. The burn felt good, although it made me cough slightly. I rested my one good ass cheek, perching on top of a waist high metal locker.
“You get these from the airport too?” I asked, raising the cigarette.
Smith turned on the navigation lights then flashed me a glance. “U-huh,” he muttered.
I knew I was going to have to coax Smith into an explanation as to his disappearance. “So what happened? Where did you go?”
“I told you. I went to the airport.”
“Why?”
Smith sighed. Look, after Dan got shot up on that rooftop we had to get down from there, right?”
I nodded. “Sure we did. Please, feel free to continue.”
“We got off the roof and made it into that house. I kind of figured you and Tony would wait in there. I guessed the two of you would hole up inside there until I got back.”
“Back from where?” I asked.
Smith flicked ash on the floor. “Tony was talking about Van Dalen smuggling shipments around from Columbia to Europe and pretty much anyplace in the world. He also said that the militia guys kept on going to the port town, even when they were safely tucked up inside that castle.” He glanced at me.
I shrugged. “So what?”
“I had a hunch those militia guys were searching for something on the island and they thought it was at the port but they were wrong,” Smith continued. “What they were looking for was still at the airport. They were looking in the wrong place for a long time.” He took a long puff on his cigarette. “Anyhow, after we got off that rooftop, I made it back to the outer limits of town, jumped in the truck and headed over to the airport to take a look-see. That weapons haul back in the big house by the village got me thinking. If Van Dalen had a plane and the ability to smuggle in batches of small arms and explosives, what else had he been smuggling onto the island, huh?”
The penny dropped and I understood what was going on. “He was smuggling in those rocket launcher things,” I groaned. “That thing you blew up the yacht with.”