“Was Jackson sp—”
“Get as many people on deck as possible. If they get close, throw everything we have at them. Get them to turn away.”
“Turn away?” Chase asks.
McAfee furrows his eyebrows. “Do it, Chase. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” Chase says, then picks up the bridge phone and dials a three digit extension.
“The next ten-ish minutes is when they started throwing the meat,” Peach says from next to me. “You can fast forward through it.”
But I don’t. And when the first chunk of bloody whale meat slaps up against the bridge window and slowly slides out of view, I nearly laugh. Not so much because whale meat on a window is funny, but because of the abject horror that ripples through the bridge crew when they realize what’s just happened. There’s screaming and wailing like some dear family member is being tortured in front of them. The terror strikes everyone, except for McAfee. He’s looking out the bridge’s front window.
At me
, I think.
When he turns back toward the camera, I see a glimmer of a smile for a split second. Then it’s gone and he finally registers the meat on the side window. He curses loudly, almost like he knows it’s what’s expected of him, but his mind is elsewhere.
And that’s when I arrive. The camera turns toward me as I burst onto the bridge looking pissed and a little arrogant.
I look a little bitchy
, I think.
Jenny chuckles next to me when she sees herself step onto the bridge behind me and cross her arms. “I was doing my best Andre the Giant impression,” she says, and I wonder how someone so young knows who Andre the Giant is. But I think she’s from one of the southern states, so maybe she has a brother who’s into wrestling. Then again, maybe she’s into wrestling.
The scene plays out as I remember it. McAfee goes manic. I’m sarcastic. As we get close to the explosion, I feel Jenny and Peach both tense up next to me. We all know it’s coming.
Mr. Jackson offers his thirty-second warning.
And nearly thirty seconds later, McAfee shouts, “No time!”
Then it happens—the telltale sign that sent me into action.
McAfee covers his ears and ducks. I pause the image.
“Holy shit,” Jenny says.
“He
knew
,” Peach adds. “That son-of-a-bitch knew!”
“But why did he have you record it?” Jenny asks.
“Because he wanted to frame someone else for it,” I say. “Someone he had collected, or fabricated, evidence against. Someone they’d been watching. Someone who wasn’t who she said she was.”
“You,” Peach says.
I nod. “I’m his scapegoat.”
Jenny has a hand over her mouth. “That’s why he said those things about you when you came on the bridge.”
“And I didn’t deny anything,” I say.
“But the tape condemns him,” Jenny notes.
“Nothing that can’t be edited out in post,” I say and turn to Peach. “Right?”
She gives a slow nod and then surprises me by saying, “Play the rest.”
She never stopped recording, so there could be some graphic images, but then I realize it might reveal what happened to the rest of the bridge crew. I hit play.
The explosion happens right away and all three of us jump. The raft bobs in the water, but doesn’t come close to tipping thanks to the ballast system. The view of the bridge becomes a pixilated mess as Peach falls to the floor. The camera lands on its side. A second later, we all jump again as Garret falls into view. His eyes are wide. Blood pulses over the large shard of glass in his neck.
We watch him die.
It’s something I’ll never forget—seeing the life wink out of his eyes—and something I hope to never see again. As the first tendrils of smoke wisp into the picture, voices rise up. Our view is of Garret’s dead face, but the scene is easy to imagine.
“Get up!” It’s McAfee. “Let’s go.”
“Where’s Chase?” says someone.
“Over here,” Chase says.
“We need to abandon ship, right now,” McAfee says.
Smoke comes in heavy now.
Someone starts coughing.
“What about the others?” Chase asks.
“Dead,” McAfee says, and it’s hard to tell if he really believes it or if he’s just saying it to get people moving. But then, with a flurry of footsteps, they’re gone. After another minute, I hear myself coughing. Then a muffled conversation between Jenny and me. Nearly another minute passes. The smoke hangs thick in the air. And I crawl into view, my face contorting with disgust as I crawl over Garret’s body. The video shakes and bangs and becomes fairly unwatchable as I drag Peach toward the doors. The rest of the rescue plays out this way and I stop it once we’re all safe on board the life raft and Jenny whispers, “It’s pulling us in.”
When I look up from the now black screen, Peach is crying again, but this time her lip is quivering. She can barely speak. “You… you…” She gives up on speaking and throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around me and sobbing loudly into my sweater.
Now I know how my father felt. He wasn’t an affectionate man and I always went out of my way to hug him. He got all rigid and uncomfortable every time I did, and I find myself doing the same thing now. But I’m not my father. My heart’s not completely made out of stone. So I force myself to give Peach a pat on her back. She covered up the murder of several fishermen, spied on me, and unknowingly helped set me up to take the fall for a murderous act of anti-whaling piracy, but she’s still human.
Unlike McAfee. He’s a monster. And I’m going to make damn sure he hangs for the things he’s done.
8
We’ve been floating at the mercy of the Arctic wind and waves for nearly five hours. During the rest of the sleepless voyage, we turned our attention away from the drama of our escape and the men who left us to die. None of that will matter if we don’t survive, and there’s the possibility that they didn’t make it, either.
We’ve just finished taking an inventory of all the supplies included with the raft, and I’m a bit surprised. The eight-person raft has included eight, 16-ounce bottles of water and eight, 1000-calorie food ration bars. So we won’t starve.
Yet.
But there is so much more—a first aid kit, a fishing kit, sun block, flares, smoke signals, several small packages of moist wipes, two small jackknifes, four reflective blankets, sea sickness tablets, mini-binoculars, two LED flashlights, and more. They’ve even included a deck of playing cards to keep people from going crazy and killing each other. But they’ve also included a small Bible, so maybe the last person left alive can be forgiven. When I saw it, I thought of so many jokes to make—most of them inappropriate given our dire situation—but I couldn’t decide between them, so I ended up staying silent. Which was a good thing, because when Jenny saw the Bible she picked it up, put it in her pocket and looked a little less fearful.
As a stiff breeze rattles the life raft tent, I hold out a small magnetic compass included with the raft. I turn it side to side, watching it spin. I have no idea which direction we’re heading. It doesn’t really matter, since there isn’t much I can do about it. There are two collapsible paddles, but I don’t think they’d get us far.
Peach finishes putting the supplies back in their individual pouches. When she turns back toward me, her attention moves to my side. “What’s that?”
I turn around and see the backpack labeled “Survival” poking out from behind my back. I’d been leaning against it all night. “Found it with the life raft,” I say.
“What’s in it?” she asks.
“No idea,” I say, pulling it out from behind me.
She sees the handwritten label. “That’s Chase’s handwriting.”
“Open it up,” Jenny says.
I unclip the top flap and unzip the zipper. I look in and smile. “Jackpot.” I take out ten high protein energy bars. Beneath them is a device I don’t recognize. I pull it out. “No water, but there’s this.”
“It’s a water filter,” Jenny says, taking it from me. “Looks like it desalinates, too.”
“Great,” I say. “So between the water filter, the protein bars, and the fishing kit we’re going to live long enough to become hairy lesbians.”
Jenny and Peach both laugh, and Peach adds, “Hey, I can bat for both teams in a pinch,” which sets Jenny laughing enough that the life raft canopy shakes like one of those inflatable bounce houses full of sugar-high kids.
When I reach into the pack and pull out the next item, smiles fade. It’s a big black folding military knife. I disengage the blade lock and pop out the five-inch blade.
“Holy shit,” Jenny says, “That’s a serious knife.”
“Mm,” I mumble, wondering why Chase would think to have a knife like this.
“Put it away,” Peach says. “If you drop it…”
“Right,” I say, pushing the blade back down. I pocket the knife and don’t bother looking up to see if this bothers the other two.
There’s more in the bag. I’m surprised when the next item is soft. When I pull it out, I think it’s a big black, wool blanket, but there’s a hood.
“A cloak?” Peach asks.
“Looks like it,” I say.
“You should use it,” Jenny says. I start to argue, but then notice for the first time that Jenny and Peach are both dressed for cold weather, wearing insulated, water resistant pants and jackets. They both have hats and gloves, too. In my haste to witness the hubbub on deck, I didn’t bother to grab anything warmer than a sweater. If not for the tinfoil-like thermal blankets we found, I would have been much colder the last few hours. I look at Peach and she nods in agreement.
I throw the cloak over my shoulder and pull the big hood up over my head. “I’m Ugthar, son of Grondol, beware my magic missile.” Snickers fill the life raft. “Always knew Chase had to be a D&D guy.”
“I think it’s WOW these days,” Jenny says.
“Wow, indeed,” I say as I reach back into the bag, not expecting to find anything else. But I do. Its hard metallic shape is easy to identify.
Peach sees the surprise frozen on my face. “What?”
I take the gun by the handle and pull it out. Peach and Jenny lean away from the weapon. Neither say a word as I pop out the magazine, check the number of bullets and slap it back in. “It’s a .45 caliber Glock,” I say. “Small, powerful and accurate. Thirteen rounds.”
“Uhh,” Jenny says. “I’m not sure whether to be surprised by the gun or the fact that you’re holding it like it’s your boyfriend’s unit.”
I look at Jenny, then down at the gun in my hands.
Was I stroking the barrel
? I fight my embarrassment and say, “I’ve been to the range a few times.”
“The WSPA arming people these days?” Peach asks, only half joking.
“Military brat,” I say. “My father’s a colonel. Took me to the range a couple times a year.” I check the weapon’s unique safety mechanism and tuck the weapon into my belt.
“There a reason why you’re holding all the weapons?” Peach asks. She looks more afraid than confrontational.
“Aside from the fact that I know how to handle a gun and a knife? How about the fact that you were, until last night, in cahoots with the guys who were planning to pin a terrorist attack on me?”
Jenny raises both hands, “Hey, I—”
“Don’t worry,” I say, “I don’t think either of you had anything to do with it, but it takes a little more than apologies and hugging to gain my trust. So, until I trust you implicitly or there’s a reason for you to have a gun, I’ll hold on to the pointy things.”
“Works for me,” Jenny says. “With the knife and gun and cloak you kind of look like a female Van Helsing or something. It’s pretty cool.” She leans back, stretches with a grunt and then adds, “Ugh, seriously?”
The comment is clearly rhetorical, but Peach asks, “What’s wrong? Were you injured?”
“Nope,” she says, “it’s six o’clock.”
I notice she’s not wearing a watch. I glance at mine. Six o’clock. “How did you know the time?”
Jenny sighs. “I’m…regular.”
I let out a laugh, but Peach hasn’t understood. I look at her and say, “So, how does someone take a shit on this thing?”
Apparently, there’s no easy way to relieve yourself on the life raft, but we work out a system that I think will work…or might result in all three of us falling into the ocean. Jenny sits on the edge of the raft with her ass hanging out over the ocean. She’s leaning forward, arms outstretching and clinging to Peach and me. We’re holding on tight, and leaning back, providing balance.
“Can’t you go faster?” Peach asks.
With a grunt, Jenny says, “My ass is frozen and unless you’ve got a bran muffin, this could take a minute. How about you guys close your eyes and I can pretend you’re not here. This is embarrassing as hell.”
I’m about to respond when a loud hiss bursts into the air outside the raft. For a moment, I’m terrified we’re losing air, but Jenny screams and dives inside the raft.
“Something sprayed me!” she shouts.
I inch forward and lean out of the open tent door. A giant eye stares at me from the water. It’s surrounded by dark gray skin. A whale.
Peach joins me. “Oh my god.”
Jenny squeezes between us and sees the humpback whale watching us. “I got bideted by a whale.”
The whale bobs there for a moment, inching closer. I can’t help wondering what it’s thinking. Its interest is palpable, like I can feel it probing my thoughts. Who’s to say it can’t? We don’t fully understand whales. The thought of whales having some form of higher intelligence makes me cringe. If that were ever proved, there would be a lot more people like McAfee out on the oceans. Hell, I might be one of them. The encounter feels cosmic and before I know what I’m doing, I’m reaching a hand out.
The whale dips under the water for a moment, and I think it’s leaving, but then it returns. Its nose rises and touches my hand. The skin is slippery and soft, like a freshly shelled hardboiled egg. Peach and Jenny reach out and touch the whale, testing the limits of the raft’s ballast system. But we stay upright and the three of us share this earth-shaking moment.
The whale exhales, sending a fish scented spray hissing into the air. With a collective shout of surprise, we fall back inside the raft. Peach is the first to recover, nearly diving back to the open hatch. “It’s gone!” she says and I think she might start crying again.