The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (5 page)

“No, I’m okay,” she replied with as much honesty as she could manage. “Unless you need to?”

“Nah, the sooner we’re on the water, the safer I’ll feel.”

“Did you grow up around boats?” Michelle realized, somewhat guiltily, that she knew little about her companion. From their night-shrouded escape from New Cuba, to the discovery of the military base and all that followed, Matt had simply been a presence, albeit one that had certainly assured her own survival.

“Yeah, my dad was the owner of a small marina in Miami. Well, he started out as a mechanic, but eventually bought the place a few years before the virus,” he told her. From the slight scratch in his voice as he spoke, Michelle remembered that everyone had their own set of painful memories. “We had a small house boat that we lived on when I was little. Couldn’t afford a real house, but the guy who hired my father let him keep the boat there for free.”

“That must have been amazing, though. Always on the water,” she said with an easy sigh. For Michelle, a life on the open seas, or simply on a beach, was overly romanticized, no doubt due to being raised quite poor in the land-locked state of Tennessee.

With a mild laugh, Matt explained. “It is now, but back then I was always jealous of my friends with backyards. I used to love going over to their houses and just feeling the grass on my feet. But, now I realize we had a much bigger backyard… the Atlantic.”

“You know, I had never been to the beach, I mean a real beach, until we left for Cuba.”

“No way! That was your first time to a beach? I can’t believe it. What did you think when you got there?”

“Well, we were being shot at and chased by Tils at the time, so it wasn’t really the best experience.” As she said the words, Michelle was surprised to feel the distantly familiar tug of a smile at the corners of her mouth. For the next while, she and Matt talked about youth, finding much commonality in the meager means by which both their families had lived. It was easy to share those stories with him since they were from a time before Andrew. The memories were not painful reminders of his absence.

As time passed unnoticed and the distance travelled increased, the scent of salt-water air steadily became more evident. Realizing she had talked more in the last three hours than in as many weeks, Michelle was surprised when the view from the vehicle’s windshield held the vast blue of the Gulf of Mexico.

Following the faded signs, Matt steered the armored truck through a maze of seaside streets until reaching the entrance of Sharky’s Marina, far smaller than massive ports she had grown used to in Havana. Several watercraft still bobbed restlessly, straining against the aged and worn dock lines securing them to the docks. Many others, however, had succumbed to years of rain, wind, and storms. The tall mast of a sail boat stood several feet above the water, the rest of the ship submerged in the nearly clear waters. Evidence of a past hurricane was visible in the number of boats that had been deposited haphazardly along the parking lot. Where once stood a small building, likely a manager’s office, there was now a pile of shattered wood and glass.

With practiced precision, Matt backed the boat trailer down the concrete ramp until the vessel lifted from the trailer and floated on the water. Helping as best she could, but cautious not to get in his way, Michelle followed his soft spoken directions. Soon after truck and trailer were parked nearby, they both lowered themselves into the boat. Without hesitation, the craft’s engine started, and he angled the boat towards the open sea. Though Matt claimed it would survive the seven hundred mile direct crossing to New Cuba in one go, their lack of fuel forced a charted course that hugged the Gulf coast, refueling at other marinas along the way.

Beyond the shallow waters of the marina, he gave the boat more thrust and soon the water sliced apart. Sprays of sea water sprinkled Michelle’s face, quickly chilling her in the increased wind. Matt seemed unfazed however. A look of simple rightness covered his face as he stared out at the horizon. As the minutes passed, she began to understand his longing for the water. Even though land was still in sight, the threat of Tils evaporated at the water’s edge, and for the first time in years, she realized that the infected could not harm her. Even her time of ignorance in Havana had not held the same safety she now felt.

Shifting herself to avoid the mist coming up over the sides, Michelle moved to a dryer spot at the center of the boat’s rear deck. Her eyes followed the white lines of unsettled water that trailed in the craft’s wake. She watched, hypnotized, as the aquatic wound from the boat’s passing healed and returned to its unmolested wildness. With land off to her right, the view she studied was an endless plane of water save for one black speck in the distance. Several minutes passed before she broke away from the wake and climbed the short metal ladder to the boat’s bridge.

Matt rested his hands on the wheel, making slight alterations in course from time to time. The shaggy locks of his chestnut hair crested out beyond him and she could see the easy smile he carried.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked her, his voice raised to compensate for the engine’s roar.

Nodding agreement, she stood silently beside him as she tucked her own windblown hair behind her ears. Her only other experiences at sea, the first to escape to New Cuba, and the second to flee from that very place, had been rushed and riddled with danger, allowing no time to truly appreciate the wonder and freedom Matt knew so well.

“Take the wheel,” he said to her, stepping aside to allow her room. Sheepishly, and slightly intimidated, Michelle placed her hands on the wheel. Matt began to explain the various controls. She could not stop a laugh—her first in weeks—when he showed her how to make tight circles with the boat. As the craft danced gracefully, her eyes once again fell on the black speck in the distance. Almost impossibly, the object was much closer than it had been before. She pointed it out to Matt, who retrieved a pair of binoculars from beneath the control console. Michelle slowed the boat as he gazed through the lenses.

“What is it?” she asked him as he slowly lowered the binoculars.

“The Mohawk.” The words chilled her more than the sea spray and wind. The Mohawk was a U.S. Coast Guard ship that was currently in the service of the National Council of New Cuba. It was that vessel that had transported Paul Jenson and his team, Lisa included, to Texas to begin a rescue operation. They also knew, however, that that mission was a false flag for Adam Duncan and his Ira Project. Its true goal was to deliver Lisa to the US, so she could collect any remaining evidence of the Ira Project from the Fort Polk facility. The crew had been given the directive to allow Lisa—and only Lisa—to return to New Cuba, and they were loyal to Duncan.

There had been some doubt regarding Lisa’s information, but with the ship now bearing down upon them, that doubt was quickly erased.

Taking the wheel from Michelle, Matt returned the boat to its previous course and steadily throttled the engine to its full capacity. She struggled with the binoculars, as the boat cut powerfully through the water.

“Can we out run it?” she shouted over her shoulder.

“For now, but they’ll gain on us once we stop to refuel.” Without a guarantee of securing fuel at the first marina at which they stopped, the Mohawk might well overtake them as they searched. “We’ll put as much distance as we can between us before we go to port.”

Though the boat supported mounted machine guns at bow and stern, the ammunition available to them was limited. Even fully stocked, Michelle doubted their small boat could withstand the firepower of the superior ship. Their only hope was to outpace it, but she could see from the worried creases on Matt’s once calm face that hope was dwindling with each minute of spent fuel.

Once the ship returned to being a small speck on the horizon, Matt steered their own boat towards the coast. Only luck would provide them with enough fuel to survive. But when has luck been on our side? Michelle thought silently.

The first marina had been wrung dry of fuel, both from the small scattering of boats and the dockside refueling station. As was the second. Finally at their third stop, Matt found a marina whose fuel tanks had not been depleted. Running a length of tubing from the boat to the tank, Matt began the process of replenishing their fuel. As he manned the action, Michelle strained to locate the ship in the distance. The marina’s location, inset into a small bay, made it difficult to see past the buildings and wildlife. Minutes passed and her anxiety rose as the Mohawk still remained beyond her view.

Indicating their tank was full, Matt hastily rolled a rusted fuel drum onto the deck and ran the hose into it. Soon she could hear the gasoline splash into the drum. Securing a reserve was wise, she knew, but the minutes lost worried her greatly. In all perhaps ten minutes had passed before Matt returned to the bridge and once again started the engine.

Wary of submerged vessels, he maintained a slow pace as they exited the marina. Out beyond the visual obstructions, gasped Michelle audibly when the hulking mass of the Mohawk came into view. Near enough now to not require binoculars, the black lettering along the ship’s side was as sinister as the devil itself. She could see the stick-like forms of members of the ship’s crew dotting the steel beast. It was the white dome on the front deck, with its massive muzzle turning slowly towards her, that drew her attention. Matt clearly recognized the threatening movement and shifted the boat into higher speed.

Buffeted by the sudden wind, Michelle clung desperately to the railing along the port side. Seconds later, the spot where the boat had been erupted into a massive funnel of water. Booming percussions sounded in the distance and further eruptions drew ever closer to the smaller boat’s stern. Tacking left and right, Matt steered the craft into a zigzag pattern. Though its target moved swiftly, the Mohawk’s weapons continued to fire in rapid succession. A heavy splash of displaced water soaked Michelle and the boat lurched dangerously as a shot struck the sea two feet from the starboard side.

With eyes still stinging from the saltwater, she fought through blurred vision as she saw two smaller shapes emerge from the smoke drifting away from the Mohawk. Two boats, dwarfed by the enormous metal ship, bounced across the waves, speeding towards their own. Instincts in command, she pulled herself towards the rear-mounted machine gun, gripped the wet metallic handles and spun the weapon on its base towards their pursuers.

The weight of the gun and the reckless crashing through the waves made it difficult to train the sight. Unsure how to operate it, Michelle moved her fingers towards what she assumed to be the trigger mechanism and fired several rounds into the distance. Falling far short of the target, she could only wait with dread until the swift boats chasing them entered range. Far outpacing the ship that launched them, the twin crafts steadily closed the distance.

As they neared, she could see each carried five men, garbed in black clothing with smooth helmets, all well-armed. Positioning the heavy gun, Michelle hoped the range was close enough as she launched a steady volley of gunfire. Sweeping to either side of her aim, the two rugged inflatables easily avoided the measure, and continued to draw nearer.

Over the din of the engine, and the crashing waves, she could hear Matt shouting, but his words were lost in the noise. The massive shots bombarding them from the Mohawk had ceased now that the two intercepting boats were in close pursuit. The immediate threat from the ship was removed, and he cut sharply towards the coast. Turning the machine gun to the right, Michelle again opened fire. The second barrage had come closer to her target, but had still failed to slow the advance.

Wet strands of hair whipped at her face as she spared a seconds-long glance over her shoulder. Matt was steering the boat closer to shore and she could see an endless series of docks reaching out into the gulf. Even in the brief time of distraction, the lightweight crafts had drawn incredibly close. With blinding desperation, Michelle again engaged the gun in a wild slice across the water’s surface. Confusion gripped her briefly as she watched the nearest boat break high across the waves. The vessel turned bow over stern as its occupants were thrown without care into the churning waters. She offered a hurried sigh of relief before redirecting the weapon at the remaining inflatable.

A sharp whistle of wind snapped through the air and she realized that the men giving chase were now within range to fire their own hand-held weapons. Pressing her body lower against the machine gun, Michelle watched several sparks flare and vanish as bullets struck the metal of the gun’s cradle. She set her jaw tight and leveled a responding volley that failed to hit the mark. Before she could adjust her aim, Matt again swung the boat sharply and she saw several abandoned boats of varying sizes fill the open spaces off either side of the boat. Steering them through the obstacles, he guided the craft seamlessly as the pursing inflatable struggled to follow.

With her target slipping from view, Michelle scanned the area in hopes to determine Matt’s plan. Watercraft on all sides tugged on their moorings as the propeller-driven waves crashed along. Several of the vessels had capsized over time, while others stood proudly, boasting their survival amidst the wreckage. Closer in size to the immense ports of Havana, Michelle estimated over a hundred boats and ships now provided temporary cover.

Far slower now than before, Matt allowed their own boat to coast gently, turning nearly soundlessly among the other crafts. Their enemy still followed, detectable now only by the roar of their motor.