The Scourge (Book 2): Adrift Read online

  He couldn’t remember now how many times they’d fended off would-be pirates, thieves who had a boat and nothing else to lose. They’d attack the Rising Star, trying to take provisions by force.

  The first time they’d come, on day twenty-six, they’d given in to the pirates and lost a week’s worth of dry goods plus their store of fresh fish. The next time, the nine of them lost nothing, but the pair of thieves lost their lives.

  Mike was convinced every boatload of pirates who attacked them had stolen their rides. None of them seemed to know the finer points of seamanship. Not that Mike did either. The Rising Star wasn’t his boat. He was a guest.

  Mike watched the Whaler approach with purpose. As it drew nearer, the sound of its engines alternately whirred and gurgled as the boat punched its way through the water. The craft was on plane, its bow lifted high into the air so that Mike couldn’t see how many people were aboard. He figured at least four. There were rarely fewer than four.

  From behind him, he heard the thud and scramble of the others coming up onto the deck. He wheeled around to see the boat’s owner, Barry Miller, wide-eyed and armed. His wife, Betsy, was behind him. Miriam reappeared with Mike’s friend Brice beside her. There were five of them on the aft deck now, standing underneath the custom canvas camper back, which provided shade over the cockpit. The canvas was once a deep blue that matched the boat’s hull. The relentless Florida sun had bleached it to a stone-washed gray. Other than the faded color, the top was in good shape.

  “Where’s Phil?” asked Mike. He put his hands on his hips, one grazing the top of a diving knife he kept on his waist at all times.

  “He’s below deck with Kandy,” said Barry. “She’s not feeling good. They’re both in the end suite.”

  Phil was a longtime family friend of the Millers. Kandy, a television reporter in Orlando, was his girlfriend.

  Mike nodded. “And the kids?”

  The end suite was another room with a queen bed and a full bathroom, complete with a shower, head and sink.

  “In our cabin,” said Betsy. The Millers shared a queen berth with their children. It was at the stern of the boat and Barry referred to it as the Aft Suite. “Safest there.”

  The Millers had two children, Jimmy and Sally. Neither was old enough to fight.

  Barry took two steps toward the port side and handed Mike a shotgun. In his other hand he held a rifle. Betsy had a nine millimeter in her right hand. Only Miriam was on the deck and unarmed. She’d take the wheel if they ran.

  The sixty-foot yacht was the only one of Sea Ray’s many models with so much living space. Besides the two suites, a third bedroom was on the starboard side of the boat and featured twin bunk beds. All of the berths were off a large salon, which contained the kitchen, a comfortable eating area and a flat-screen television. In the salon’s roof were two sliding sunroof panels that opened onto the foredeck.

  “Do we sit and wait?” asked Mike. “Or do we run?”

  “Neither option is good,” said Brice.

  They’d tried both with success. Mike enjoyed running. It was less confrontational. He could kill from a distance. When they sat in the water and waited, the fighting was close contact.

  Despite everything he’d experienced since the Scourge altered the planet, Mike was uneasy with conflict. His stomach would roil and tighten; he’d sweat and become light-headed. The overwhelming sense of dread that once paralyzed him wasn’t as powerful, but it remained nonetheless. Like all of the survivors on the boat, Mike was hardened. But he wasn’t hard.

  Running wasn’t an option. Through trial and error, they’d honed their defenses. They all knew the most effective way to combat would-be thieves. It was practiced, refined and ultimately brutal.

  “We should save fuel,” said Barry. “Let’s sit. I think you already knew that, though.”

  Mike pressed his lips into a flat line and nodded. The boat was far enough from them he was pretty sure the pirates couldn’t see them. Not at their distance and not with the bow planing above the water.

  “How do we do this?” asked Mike. “Usual spots?”

  Barry rubbed his chin then raised the rifle. Through its scope he studied the approaching boat. It was a mile away now.

  “Mike,” he said, “you like the water. How about you take a dive? I’ll take a position on the starboard side and stay low. Everyone else below deck.”

  Brice frowned, his eyes darting amongst the others on deck. “What about me?”

  Barry motioned toward the angled ladder that led down. “Below deck. Man a gun there.”

  Most of the Sundancer was below the forward deck, which was surrounded by a stainless steel bow rail. The fiberglass foredeck was good for lying out in the sun and little else. It certainly hadn’t proven a good spot from which to defend the vessel at close range. But the large living space beneath the deck and the modifications Barry had made to accommodate their defensive strategies proved more than enough. Being in the water was fine with Mike. It meant he was less likely to add to the number of men he’d killed in defense of his own life. He didn’t like to think about that number. The men’s faces haunted him when he slept, if he slept.

  Mike put a hand on the stainless steel frame that supported the canvas camper top and swung his body to a storage chest next to the wet bar and ice maker on the port side of the cockpit. From it, he pulled a full-face snorkeling mask, a pair of black Scubapro fins and a pneumatic spear gun.

  As the others took their positions below deck, Mike loaded the gun. First he used a small screwdriver to twist a valve at the back of the fishing weapon and release the internal pressure trapped from the gun’s previous use. Then he took the spear, which was attached to the gun with a long string and pushed the rear end of it into the top of the gun. Using his foot to give him leverage, he forced the spear past the gun tube’s initial resistance and then locked the barbed spear into place. He checked the flip switch above the trigger and thumbed it into the higher of the two pressure positions.

  With the spear gun loaded, Mike checked the approaching Whaler. He had a few minutes before they’d be in range. Quickly, he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the cockpit’s fiberglass floor.

  He held the full-face snorkeling mask toward himself and spat into it, spreading the spittle across the plastic visor with two fingers. It would keep the mask from fogging. Once he’d coated the entire mask in a thin sheen of his saliva, he put on the mask and adjusted the four straps at the back of his head. Two of them controlled the fit around his eyes and two the fit at his jaw and chin.

  Mike took a normal deep breath through his nose and dropped to the deck. He slid his feet into the flippers and pulled the rubber up over his heels. He was ready and checked the Whaler once more. Certain nobody aboard the pirate boat could see him, he dropped into the water over the starboard side.

  The water was cool enough to make him gasp. The mask pressed against his face, securing the seal and he stayed under water until he’d kicked his way to the bow. At the starboard bow, he resurfaced. With force, he blew hard to force air from the breathing tube. It wasn’t necessary. Unlike a traditional mask and tube, which had a purge valve at the mouth and a semi-dry valve at the top of the tube, the full-face mask was constructed such that water couldn’t get into the tube at all.

  He was breathing normally despite his heart racing from the water temperature, one hand holding the spear gun and the other pressed against the hull. Beneath the water he slowly kicked his legs back and forth in a scissor motion. It kept him in place and his head above the surface so he could watch the oncoming boat from the protection of the bow.

  The Whaler’s engine was louder now. Mike guessed she was no more than one hundred yards away. He imagined and hoped, that to the pirates the boat would look as if the passengers were all asleep below deck. He assumed they would figure this an easy target. They would be wrong.

  Mike listened to his own breathing. The water lapped at the underside of his neck and at h
is ears. His heart rate slowed until the sound of the Whaler’s engine softened to a purr. The pirates were here. Adrenaline shot through his body. Showtime.

  He took a deep breath and, using the hull, pushed himself under the water’s surface. With the spear gun in both hands, he kicked forward. Looking up through his mask, he saw the sunlight refracting through the surface a few feet above him. The fins propelled him with minimal effort as he held his breath. To his left, the hull of the Whaler came into view. He kicked harder, whipping his legs up and down in a smooth rhythm to speed his approach. At the boat’s stern, he saw the churn of water from the twin outboards. The wash was minimal, but he didn’t want to get too close to it. He spun his body to position himself at the port stern of the Whaler, which was slowly pulling alongside the Rising Star, positioning itself bow to stern.

  Mike straightened himself and rose to the surface. As silently as he could, he lifted his head above the water and exhaled. He drew in another quick breath and surveyed his surroundings.

  Before he could focus on how many men were readying their attack, the crack of a rifle shot cut through the air. It was quickly followed by a scream, cursing and the sound of something heavy hitting the hull of the Whaler.

  Time slowed. And the world exploded in gunfire.

  From the edge of his vision, he saw Barry and Becky taking aim through the twin sunroofs on the foredeck. They were unleashing a barrage of semi-automatic fire on the unsuspecting attackers. He didn’t see Brice or Miriam.

  I’m useless in the water. They’ll take care of the threat in an instant and it’ll be over.

  It wasn’t.

  The Whaler rocked hard, as if riding a wake and Mike saw a man appear near the bow of the Whaler. He was armed with a pistol and was positioned such that neither Barry nor Betsy could get a good angle on him.

  Mike lifted the spear gun and, leaning onto his back, kicked away from the boat. It exposed him to whoever was on board but gave him a better vantage point. The kick also lifted his torso higher above the surface. An errant shot zipped by his head. Another grazed his left arm. He ignored the burning sting of it and focused on his task.

  There were three men on the boat. All armed. Muzzle flashes popped like strobes.

  The one closest to the stern jerked violently to one side. He grabbed at his shoulder before another pop preceded a second spasm. The man fell awkwardly into the water on the opposite side of the boat with a thunk and a splash between the two vessels.

  Mike had one shot. That was it. There were two men. If he missed, he was a sitting duck.

  He took aim at the one on the bow, the one readying himself to climb aboard the Rising Star. Mike was dumfounded the pirates hadn’t cut bait and run.

  The gun was already primed. He leveled the business end and applied pressure to the trigger.

  The gun kicked with a thwack and the pop of releasing pressure. The spear shot straight and Mike’s aim was true. It pierced the back of the target’s left leg below the knee. The man stumbled and lost his balance as Mike kicked away from the boat and jerked hard, pulling the line taut and setting the barb into the man’s flesh. He cried out in agony and his pistol bounced off the deck before dropping into the water. At that same instant, the churn at the back of the Whaler bloomed and the boat moved quickly from alongside the Rising Star. They were leaving.

  Mike took a deep breath and dove underwater. With his free hand he drew his diving knife from the sheath at his hip and sliced its serrated edge across the line connecting the spear to the gun. He kicked his legs to move away from the expected path of the boat. The Whaler drifted in place next to the larger Sea Ray. Looking straight under the hull of both boats, he saw a man’s body. Or was it a body? Through the dark cloud of lingering blood darkening the water, he couldn’t be sure. Then he was sure it wasn’t a man at all. It couldn’t be. A dead man wouldn’t sink only so far. He’d go to the bottom. And a dead man wouldn’t grow in size or move so fast.

  It wasn’t a man. It was a shark.

  Panic shot through Mike’s system. His heart accelerated like he’d pushed a pedal. His chest tightened and he froze.

  The shark was large, at least twelve feet. He guessed it was a tiger shark. He’d seen them before from the safety of the boat when fishing with Barry. They were fast. They were strong. Next to great whites, they attacked more humans than any other species of shark.

  The animal swung to Mike’s right and dove, circling around and below him. It disappeared into the darkness of the deep blue water beneath him. He knew from the depth finder aboard the Rising Star that the water two miles from shore got deeper quickly.

  Mike tightened his grip on the spear-less gun and spun in the water, searching for the shark. He didn’t see it, but did catch a thin puff of blood expanding from the wound in his arm.

  Not good.

  Kicking his fins hard, he surfaced to get another breath of air. He was near the bow of the Whaler and the stern of the Sea Ray. Though he couldn’t see anyone in either boat, he heard shouting.

  “Sharks!” Miriam yelled. “Mike, get out of the water! There are sharks!”

  Then Brice. “Duuude. Shaaarks. There. Are. Shaaaarks.”

  Sharks? Plural?

  Mike dipped his face back into the water and saw two dark shapes moving below him. Then three. Something hit the back of his leg. It spun him around and Mike saw the beast swim away and arc back toward him in a wide circle.

  Four.

  Mike was in the middle of a circle closing around him. The sharks were testing him, measuring him. From above him, he heard several voices shouting at him.

  The largest of the sharks, close to fifteen feet, changed its course and moved close with its next pass. It flexed its jaws as it passed by him, its identical rows of sharp, serrated teeth visible on the top and bottom.

  Mike thought he saw a human hand inside the mouth. He wasn’t sure. He was sure he was running out of time.

  He moved the spear gun to his left hand and unsheathed his diving knife with his right. Now his hands were occupied, but he was double-fisting his defense. Mike dipped under the hull of the Whaler, keeping his back against the underside of the vessel, scissor-kicking himself toward its stern.

  By having the boat at his back, he didn’t have to worry about an attack from above and he could see what was coming at him from below. Barry had warned him that sharks liked to attack from underneath and behind. While being against the boat’s hull limited his escapability, that was the least of his obstacles.

  One of the four sharks came at him. Mike tensed and stopped kicking. He braced himself. The shark, its flat snout aimed at him, veered at the last second and bumped against the boat. It rocked above him. A pair of pilot fish scurried along its underside.

  Mike’s air was low. He didn’t have much time to reach the stern. Getting aboard the Whaler was his only hope, even if a pirate was aboard it and alive.

  Mike moved his arms in front of him, waving them to aid his backward movement in the water. His lungs burned. He shook his head against the lack of oxygen and swallowed several times in succession.

  It can’t be much farther. The boat isn’t that big.

  He glanced over his shoulder, his vision clouding and saw the largest shark feet away and closing. Its jaws were open. The hooked, serrated teeth looked huge as the powerful animal surged at him.

  At the last instant Mike swung around and, with his hand wrapped around the knife, punched the shark squarely in the snout. The fist landed hard and the shark twisted away. Mike turned his hand over and the star blade dragged along the animal’s left side, cutting a deep gash more than a foot long. Blood poured from the shark in a bright red trail that spread and dissolved into the ocean.

  Before Mike could celebrate the win, a second shark came straight at him from underneath. Its jaws were wide open enough Mike could see well beyond its mouth and into the blackness of its body. Instinctively, he jabbed his left hand toward the shark and jammed the spear gun into its m
aw. The shark thrashed, trying to free the weapon from its mouth. A whip of its caudal fin slammed into the side of Mike’s head. It spun him in the water, disorienting him. The last of his stored air was gone. The edges of his vision darkened. He ripped the mask from his face and saw it float up. Mike tilted back his head and saw shimmering daylight. He was no longer underneath the Whaler and was close to the surface. With what energy he had left, he kicked his feet, scissoring them until he broke the surface.

  He didn’t look behind him or to either side. He kicked and thrashed and moved his way to the back of the Whaler. He reached it and grabbed the stainless rail of a deck ladder. He tugged and the ladder flipped down.

  With a knife in his right hand, he grabbed both sides of the ladder and heaved himself up onto the teak rungs. One foot was out of the water. He reached for the metal cleat ahead and to the left.

  He couldn’t reach it. Something had his foot. Or his flipper. It was jerking hard and it pulled Mike from the ladder. His lower body was in the water. He grabbed the ladder with his left hand and saw the top half of the shark. It had him. But he didn’t feel any pain.

  Miriam screamed. Brice yelled something. Mike let go of the ladder.

  In a final desperate move, Mike spun, wrenching his body away from the boat and slammed his right fist downward onto the shark’s head. The knife plunged into the skin and cartilage. It crunched and the pressure on Mike’s foot was gone. He was free.

  Holding the knife, he pulled away from the shark and scrambled back to the ladder. He climbed aboard the Boston Whaler and flung himself onto the stern.

  The boat rocked hard. Mike pressed his body flat and closed his eyes against the sting of saltwater.

  It was quiet now aside from the splash of water against the sides of the boats and the cries from aboard the Rising Star.

  “Are you okay?” Brice called out. “Are you hurt?”

  Mike couldn’t speak. He was struggling to breathe, to control his rapid-fire heartbeat. Facedown on the deck, he lifted an arm and waved.