Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset (53 page)

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News anchors filled the television screen in the living room. “Reports coming in today that two new water plants will be opening in Los Angeles and San Diego later this year.”

“That’s good news, Diane. Congress will be holding their final hearings on the impeachment of the president. The investigations from three months ago into the death of Congressman Jones lead to widespread allegations about the White House’s involvement with the passing of Jones’s bill, which exiled the southwestern United States from the rest of the union. Jones was also linked to providing the Mexican government with weapons through the diversion of secret funds in his role as chairman of the resource committee that didn’t have the approval of Congress. Experts are saying that while the president may continue to deny an association to those accusations, he will most likely not be in the Oval Office for much longer.”

“In financial news, the Strydent Chemical Company has declared bankruptcy in the wake of the Securities and Exchange Commission—”

The television screen went black, and Brooke tossed the remote on the couch. She opened the front door to the house and stepped onto the porch. The yard of dust and sand had been replaced by small tufts of green sprouting up from the dirt.

“John! Emily! Dinnertime!”

John scooped up the basketball he was dribbling, and Emily parked her bike. The two of them ran past Brooke into the house.

“Wash your hands before you sit down!” Brooke called after them.

The cool rush of air conditioning coming from the house clashed against the hot air outside. Brooke lingered there for a moment, listening to the sound of her children’s voices. A smile crept over her face, and she took a look at the construction crews working on the homes around her. The veins of life had made their way back to the area.

Brooke was home.

Salt water flung from the fishing line as it snapped taut. The clear nylon cord twisted left, the boat crew aboard the Wave Cutter scrambling to reel it in. “Fish on!” The soles of rubber boots squeaked against the wet deck, legs teetering back and forth as waves brought the bow of the ship up and down. The faces associated with the gloved hands reaching for the line were weathered, sundrenched, and cracked from the ocean air. Teeth chewed blistered lips as the crew clenched their jaws, pulling in the four-hundred-pound Bluefin tuna.

First Mate Mark Hurley grabbed the long spear and rushed to the starboard side, where the rest of the crew struggled with the line. “Are you boys fishing or jerkin’ off? Don’t be gentle with it. Put your back into it!” The crew gave one final pull, and the Atlantic waters erupted on the port side of the Wave Cutter, the tuna thrashing and drenching the crew and the deck of the boat in its cold waters. Mark lined up the spear and thrust it into the shimmering blue-and-gray scales on the side of the fish. The crew high-fived each other as Mark reached for the hook to pull the fish aboard.

Captain Dylan Turk watched the excitement from the wheelhouse then opened the salt-crusted sliding window. “The celebration happens after we get it in the boat, and after we’ve caught another twenty of those.” The two young men quickly helped Mark pull their catch aboard, and Dylan slammed the window shut. 

The hot sun beat down into the wheelhouse and had cooked Dylan a nice shade of brown this summer. It’d been hotter than last year, although he caught himself saying that almost every year. His tanned fingers hung off the wheel loosely, the diesel engine doing most of the work, propelling his ship along the eastern banks of Massachusetts. It was a route both he and the Wave Cutter were familiar with, like the worn path cut through a well-used trail.

Dylan rubbed his jaw, the scruff on his chin and neck coarse against his callous hands. He reached for the coffee mug resting in the plastic cup holder and sipped, trying to give himself a mid-afternoon burst. Light vibrations from the fish still flopping on the deck rippled up to the cabin but ended the moment Mark bled it out and their two other crew members, Billy and Tank, hauled it down to the storage units to pack it with ice.

Mark climbed the small ladder to the wheelhouse and joined Dylan inside. “Slow and steady today, Cap.”

Dylan gave a nod. “Third day usually is.” Truth was, they seemed to have to go out farther and farther to find the fish. Regulations, poaching, and the fact that there was big money to be had in fishing had increased the competition in the area over the past decade. “How are the greenhorns?”

“Useless,” Mark said.

Dylan grinned. Anyone that wasn’t Mark was useless in those old eyes of his. But while the first mate’s skin had wrinkled and cracked, his hands and neck freckled and rough, Mark was still as sharp as the first day Dylan had worked with him. “Well, that’s why I have you.” Dylan gripped Mark’s shoulder, gently swaying him back and forth. “Those boys will give Navy SEALs a run for their money by the time you’re done with them.”

Mark scoffed and shrugged Dylan’s hand off him. “I don’t know where you find these kids. It seems like each year they get younger and dumber.”

“Or you’re just getting older and more impatient.” Mark gave another scoff and grumbled to himself. One of the many endearing attributes of the man was the fact that he was fueled by competition. “You’ve seen what’s been happening, Mark.” Dylan’s tone darkened. “Everyone’s headed for the larger ships. They get more fish, and they get bigger paychecks.”

Mark spit out the window on the port side. “Bunch of lazy asses is what they are. I’ve seen those ships. Everything’s mechanical. It’s not fishing when all you have to do is press a button.”

The ocean had supported Dylan and his family for the past eighty years. His grandfather was a fisherman, his father, and him. Salt water flowed through his veins. There wasn’t a place in the world where he felt better than when he was on the water. His grandfather used to joke that Dylan didn’t start walking until his parents finally put him on a boat deck. He’d never seen a baby look so comfortable on two legs with the deck rocking back and forth.

A weather alert beeped from the satellite uplink and spit out a warning. Dylan ripped it from the printer and scanned the lettering then glanced up into the sky. Some dark clouds had gathered in the northeast, but the wind was still tame. They had a little more time. “Better go tell those baby seals to stow the gear. Might be a rough one.”

Mark wiped his runny nose along his sleeve. “Mother of Mary, if they start puking, I’ll throw them overboard along with their slop.” He descended the ladder, and Dylan heard his angered orders through the fiberglass of the wheelhouse.

Dylan took another swig of coffee as the bow of the ship crested a wave. He opened the windows, letting the salt air fill the cabin and whip his hair back. He closed his eyes, letting the breeze graze his cheeks and the sun soak his skin. When he opened his eyes, he glanced down at the picture taped between the speedometer and the wheel. Two faces stared back at him, one with a front-tooth-missing grin, and the other one with her tongue out. The picture was two years old but one of his favorites. Some of the color had faded and the edges furled from the wind and salt, but he refused to take it down. He barely got to see them as it was.

Then on the horizon Dylan saw the flash of a red flare. He reached for the radio and rotated the dial for the frequency. “This is Captain Dylan Turk on the Wave Cutter at coordinates 42.431566, -65.593872. I’ve got a distress flare from another vessel. Could need assistance. Do we have anyone in the area?”

The radio spat out static. Dylan waited a moment before he repeated the message. Then the raspy voice of a coast guard operator finally answered. “Copy that, Wave Cutter. We have a vessel ten miles from your location. Do you have any other information to pass along?”

“Negative. I’m going to take a closer look, make sure everyone is okay.” Dylan hung up the radio and whistled down to Mark, who was busy yelling at the deckhands. He pointed toward the direction of the flare, and Mark gave a thumbs-up. Dylan nudged the throttle down, pushing the engines to their peak, and the hull cut through the open waters.

The flare flickered out less than fifty yards from them approaching the vessel. It rocked back and forth on the waves, the anchor straining to hold the boat down in the growing seas. Dylan picked up the radio, scanning the frequencies to try and find any signal coming from the ship, but heard nothing. He scanned through one more time just to make sure, but again the radio spit nothing at him except silence.

The closer Dylan moved, the more he was able to see the ship itself. None of the crew was visible on the deck, and there was no sign of whoever had set the flare. He pulled back the throttle and turned the wheel left, allowing him to circle to the other side of the boat to get a better look. The windows of the wheelhouse had been tinted dark, and the nets and gear were stowed away, without a drip of water on them.

Mark ascended the ladder and stepped inside. “What’s wrong?”

Dylan shook his head, the bow of the boat veering around the distressed vessel’s stern. “Those buoys haven’t touched water, and I can’t get them on the radio.”

“You sure you saw the flare?”

“I’m sure.” They kept their eyes on the deck as they came around to the port side, and then a man waving his arms came out from under the deck, and then another mimicking the same gesture. “Maybe their radio was out?” Mark suggested.

“Maybe.” Mark exited the wheelhouse, and Dylan kept his eye on the two men on the deck as he sidled the Wave Cutter beside the distressed boat. Mark tossed a line, and the two men tied off the cleats while Tank tossed bumpers over the side to provide some cushion between the vessels with the growing waves. Dylan shut off the engine and opened the glovebox. He shuffled through some of the papers and pulled out a small black box with a lock. He rolled the numbers until he heard a click. The joints of the rusty box squeaked as he opened it and grabbed the black .380 revolver nestled inside. He opened the chamber to check the ammo. It was fully loaded. He snapped the chamber shut and stuffed the gun into his pocket before he descended from the wheelhouse.

Mark, Tank, and Billy were still on the deck of the Wave Cutter, pointing at the opened engine hatch, slowly enunciating their words and speaking loudly. “En-gine tr-ou-ble?”

The two men on the deck of the distressed vessel pointed at the open hatch and nodded. Dylan joined his men, and Mark was the first to speak. “I think they’re illegals.”

“Then how the hell did they get that gear?” While the boat itself wasn’t the most modern piece of equipment, the nets, lines, hooks, and other gear on deck were brand new and top of the line. Dylan walked to the edge of the port side, where the two boats floated together on the waves. “Do you speak English?” The two men looked at each other then shook their heads. They looked up to the wheelhouse and pointed, speaking in a gibberish that Dylan and his men couldn’t understand.

“Billy, Mark, you two see what you can do about the engine. I’m gonna radio the coast guard again to let them know what we’ve got.”

Billy and Mark nodded, and the moment they stepped over the side of the boat and set foot on the distressed vessel’s deck, one of the men grabbed Billy and pulled a pistol out of the back of his pants and jammed it in Billy’s temple. The man’s partner pulled out his own weapon and aimed it at Mark. “Anyone moves, and they die.” The man’s words were accented but still understandable.

Dylan felt the weight of the revolver in his pocket as he lifted his hands in the air. “Hey, nobody needs to get hurt.” Both men’s movements were jerky, and Dylan could see their fingers on the triggers.

“Off the boat! Off the boat!” The man with his pistol aimed at Mark motioned for Dylan and Tank to come over to their side. When they did, two other men descended from their wheelhouse, both their faces covered with bandanas. Only one of them spoke, his voice muffled by the cloth covering his mouth, and it was in the same foreign tongue as their comrades.

After an exchange, the two men in bandanas nodded then turned to head below deck, but Dylan stopped them when they had their backs turned. “What do you want?” The man that had aimed his pistol at Mark immediately turned on Dylan, screaming at him, and marched until the end of the barrel was against Dylan’s cheek. The piece of steel was hot against his skin from baking in the sun, and the man forced it into Dylan’s face with enough momentum to almost knock his teeth out.

The man moved close enough for Dylan to smell the stink of his hot breath. It smelled sour, rotten. “You do not speak to him unless spoken to.” The man with the mask barked a harsh order at Dylan’s captor in their native tongue, and the pistol was slowly removed from Dylan’s cheek, leaving a circular mark from where the tip of the barrel had rested.

Dylan squinted from the sunlight. The only sounds were the waves lapping against the two boats’ hulls and the thump of shoes from the man in the bandana making his way toward him. Sweat rolled down Dylan’s temples and broke out on his neck and chest. When the man was right in front of him, he lowered the bandana, revealing a thin beard of dark-black hair outlining his upper lip, chin, and jawline, all connecting in one fluid line. His eyes were a dark green, his face tanned. The dark circles under his eyes were the only sign of weakness that Dylan could see. While Dylan could tell that the man wasn’t hardened by the sea, there was no denying the look of someone who had bathed themselves in pain.

“I want you to hurt.” The words rolled off of his tongue with a light slur, his accent thicker than the other man. He looked around to the rest of Dylan’s crew, individually sizing each of them up, turning his back to Dylan. “I want all of you to hurt.”

It could be his only chance. Dylan wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, putting him in a choke hold, and reached for the revolver in his pocket. He thumbed the hammer back and jammed the pistol into the man’s temple. The man’s henchmen immediately scrambled for his own crew, aiming their pistols closer to Mark, Tank, and Billy.

Dylan felt the pulse pumping through the vein in the man’s neck against his arm. “You want your boss to live?” He started breathing heavily, his sweating increasing twofold. He kept readjusting his grip on the revolver’s handle, which slid against the perspiration oozing from his palm. “Drop the guns now!”

“They will not answer to you.” The man’s thick accent muddled Dylan’s ears. He took a step backward, dragging the hostage with him. “Both myself and my men are willing to die. Are yours?” The man spat a round of his foreign tongue to his men, and one of them grabbed Tank by his shirt collar and dropped him to his knees. He placed the barrel on the back of his head, and Tank began to sob.

Adrenaline and fear ripped through Dylan’s body. His stomach twisted into a knot, and his heart dropped to his feet. His throat went dry, and he readjusted his grip on the revolver’s handle. “I’ll do it! Do you want him to die?”

“My life is of no significance to them, or me. It will only take one of us to complete our task. Do you want your man to die?”

Tank’s face flushed red as snot and tears dribbled down his face. “Captain, please. Please, I don’t want to die.” He pressed his forehead against the boat deck, collapsing within himself.

Tank couldn’t have been older than nineteen. All Dylan could think about when he looked at him was his own son. Tank had a father somewhere, a mother, friends, people who loved and cared about him.