Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset (56 page)

Right now they were two hundred yards from the shore. It’d take the pirates at least five minutes for the trip, and just as long to unload whatever they had, then five minutes for the journey back, perhaps shorter since they weren’t so heavy.

Dylan’s eyes roamed the cabin, trying to catch anything in his peripherals that he could use, while keeping a watchful eye on the fingers curled over gun triggers. The two pirates watched them like hawks, and each moment that passed was one less second they could be using to get away. “You speak English?”

Neither man responded. Mark finally broke his gaze on the pirates and turned to Dylan. Billy awoke from his fatigued stupor. “Hey!” Dylan shouted, triggering the pirate’s foreign dialect and the barrel of his rifle to be shoved in his cheek. Dylan shoved the rifle’s barrel away from his face, but the pirate still kept a bead on him. Dylan forced the adrenaline coursing through his body to stop his muscles from trembling, and he gritted his teeth. “I know you can understand me, you piece of shit.”

The pirate grabbed Dylan by the collar and flung him across the inside of the cabin. He smacked into one of the cabinets, and plates and utensils spilled out. Mark and Billy jerked from their seats, but the pirate’s comrade kept them at bay.

Dylan fumbled his hands to try and grab a fork that had fallen to the floor. When the pirate lunged for Dylan again, he jammed the fork’s prongs into the side of the pirate’s neck. Blood spurted over Dylan’s fingers as the pirate squirmed and flailed. The pirate’s comrade aimed the rifle at Dylan’s head, and just before he squeezed the trigger, Mark barreled into him, sending the bullet off kilter and into the cabin’s wall. Dylan repeatedly jammed the fork into the pirate’s flesh, each new set of holes provoking fresh blood. More gunshots fired down the cabin hallway, where Mark had tackled the pirate and Billy had gone to help him.

The pirate Dylan had stabbed twitched, and the struggle slowly faded from his face as Dylan dropped the bloodied fork and pushed the dead body off him. He picked up the pirate’s rifle and stumbled into the hallway, where Mark rested on top of the pirate’s comrade, and Billy was slowly picking him up off the dead body.

“Mark!” Dylan rushed to help the first mate off the floor. Mark clutched his stomach, his hand covering a bloodied wound.

“Son of a bitch shot me.” Mark groaned as Billy and Dylan helped him to the seats by the kitchen table.

Dylan ripped the hole wider in Mark’s shirt to examine the wound underneath then checked his back. “No exit wound. Just hang on, Mark.” He grabbed some cloths and pressed them firmly over the wound. “Keep pressure on it. Billy, with me.”

The two rushed up the cabin steps and onto the dock. In the distance, he could hear the boat turning around. “They heard the gunshots! Pull up the anchor, now!” Dylan climbed the rungs of the ladder two at a time. He skidded to a stop, his feet almost sliding out from under him. He gripped the wheel for support, and the blood from his hands smeared against the old polished wood.

“Anchor’s up!” Billy shouted.

Bullets peppered what was left of the shattered wheelhouse. Dylan ducked, cranking the engine to life as he did. He pushed the throttle down, and the boat jerked forward, gunshots continuing to thunder behind them. Dylan straightened the wheel, and when he looked up, the pirate’s boat was right alongside them, firing into his ship’s hull.

Dylan turned the wheel hard left, knocking the small vessel back, and the driver veered out of their path, but one of the pirates leapt over the edge of the boat, onto the side of a cargo hold. “Billy! Cut the cargo rope off!” Dylan accelerated the boat and maxed out the engines at thirty knots then slid back down the wheelhouse ladder to help Billy.

The pirate swung the barrel of his rifle over the side of the boat and fired blindly, blanketing the boat deck with lead and tearing holes into crates, the hull, and equipment. Billy ducked behind a cluster of buoys while Dylan stayed behind the cover of the wheelhouse on the opposite side. The firing stopped, and when Dylan poked his head around, he saw the pirate swing his leg over the edge of the hull. Dylan sprinted toward him, and just before the pirate could fire the rifle, Dylan shoved him back over the side. The pirate grabbed the sleeve of Dylan’s shirt on the way down, bringing Dylan off the side of the boat with him.

The two men clung to the cargo net as waves of salt water washed over them, the boat still plowing forward. The pirate aimed the rifle, and Dylan kicked it away, losing his grip with his left hand and almost falling from the net. The rifle splashed into the water, and Dylan saw the smaller sixteen footer struggle to keep up with them. The pirate pulled a knife and sliced open a cut on Dylan’s arm before he could move out of the way.

Gunfire broke though the sprays of water puffed from the ocean as the small vessel tried to chase them. The pirate swung his knife violently at Dylan, who kept trying to pull himself up the net, struggling against the chop of the waves. Dylan finally caught the pirate’s arm, locking it under his own, and slammed his forehead into the pirate’s nose. The blade splashed into the ocean, and Dylan flung the man from the net in his disoriented state and watched his body skip across the water.

“Captain!” Billy peered over the side of the boat and extended his hand. Dylan reached for it but slipped, due to the beads of water slick on his arm. “C’mon, Captain!” Dylan lunged again, and this time the hold stuck, but a loud whistling came through the air, and then the water erupted into an explosion five feet from where Dylan struggled to reenter the boat, sending up a geyser twelve feet high.

The explosion left a ringing in Dylan’s ears, and he almost pulled Billy over the side with him but managed to keep his footing and flopped onto the deck.

Dylan caught his breath and checked his arm as another explosion rocked the stern on the starboard side of the ship. Dylan rolled to his stomach and pushed himself up, blood streaming down the side of his arm. He looked behind to see the pirate’s craft struggling to keep up, launching mortars from the ship’s bow. “Billy, get below into the cabin with Mark, now!”

Another long whistling sounded as Dylan rushed back up to the wheelhouse, and the mortar explosion rocked the port side of the boat, this one close enough to shift the vessel right, turning them back around to their captors.

Dylan reached for the wheel, straightening them out, and then swerved left, trying to give the pirates a harder target to hit. He spun the wheel back and forth in sharp turns, the movements causing the cut on his arm to gush more blood. The throttle was maxed out. Dylan checked behind him, and a mortar exploded directly behind the boat, sending a shockwave through the vessel.

A few more sporadic gunshots, and Dylan watched the pirates swerve off, giving up their pursuit, the small vessel no longer able to keep pace. Dylan collapsed on the wheel, his own weight crushing him. With the adrenaline subsiding, he suddenly became painfully aware of the burning sensation in his left arm. He ripped off a piece of his shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound, trying to stanch the bleeding. “Billy! How’s Mark?”

“He’s okay! A little lightheaded, but he’s still breathing!”

Dylan let out a sigh and checked the water-and-blood-soaked map on the console’s dash. He adjusted their heading to the northwest and set them on course for the nearest marina. He made Billy give him constant updates on Mark’s condition, but when Billy started screaming that Mark wasn’t breathing anymore, he rushed down to the cabin, leaving the ship on its speedy course to the harbor.

“He just passed out!” Billy screamed, holding Mark’s head with his own two hands.

“Help me get him on his back,” Dylan said, grabbing hold of Mark’s legs. The two men laid him flat on the floor, and Dylan checked Mark’s airway passage. Once it was clear, Dylan opened Mark’s mouth and applied two breaths then placed his hands on the man’s sternum and pumped fifteen compressions. The boat rocked and bumped along the waves, making it difficult for him to keep a steady hand. “C’mon, Mark.” He checked for his breathing again; still nothing. Two more puffs of air followed by fifteen compressions, then two more and another fifteen, then again, and again, and again.

“Dylan,” Billy said, placing his hand on Dylan’s shoulder.

“No.” Dylan shrugged Billy’s hand off. “He’s not dead. Not yet.” With each compression thrust into Mark’s chest, Dylan felt the crunch of his friend’s ribs. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. He leaned down to Mark’s mouth and felt the light puff of air hit his cheek. “He’s breathing!”

Billy quickly jumped around to the opposite side and held Mark’s hand. Dylan grabbed Billy by the collar. “You check his breathing every twenty seconds, understand? If he stops again, do exactly what I did. Tilt his head back, open the airway, and breathe two long breaths. Got it?” Billy nodded.

The harbor lights were in view when Dylan made it back up to the wheelhouse and picked up the radio. “Harbormaster, this is Captain Dylan Turk. I need medical assistance at the docks immediately. I repeat, this is Captain Dylan Turk, and I have an injured man on board with a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He has severe blood loss and is in need of an ambulance.”

The radio crackled, and a few seconds later the harbormaster came on line. “Copy that, Captain, we have notified the authorities, and we have an ambulance inbound.”

Dylan blew past the No Wake signs, keeping the ship at full throttle. The sun was still an hour from coming up, but the docks were already busy with fishermen stocking their boats with supplies, getting ready for their day at sea. Horns blared, and the dockworkers shouted at him to slow down as his wake rocked the boats still docked. Dylan eyed an open slip, and just before he crashed, he reversed the engines, coasting him into the slip and giving the dock only the slightest nudge. He tied a line off and rushed down to help Billy bring Mark up. He threw Mark’s left arm over his shoulder, and Billy grabbed the other side. 

The cursing sailors stopped their shouting about Dylan’s speed at the sight of their bloodied arms and legs as they pulled Mark out of the cabin. “Give us a hand, will you?” The sailors immediately came to their aid, and Dylan heard the sirens from the ambulance up ahead. The paramedics met them on the dock with a stretcher, which they loaded Mark onto. Dylan turned back to Billy, who stood there slack-jawed, looking at the blood on his shirt and arms. “Billy, stay with the boat, okay? Call the police, and tell them what happened. I’m going with Mark to the hospital. I’ll call you when I can.”

Before Billy could say anything, Dylan was already down the dock, fighting with the paramedics to let him inside. “I’m his brother.” The small lie seemed to work, and the paramedic finally let him in. The ambulance sped off as Dylan watched the paramedics work on Mark, shoving tubes in his arms, placing an oxygen mask over his face. He’s going to make it. Dylan repeated that to himself like a mantra.

“Hey, how did this happen?” the paramedic asked.

It took a second for Dylan to retrace the events in his mind. Sitting there in the back of the ambulance, it seemed foreign. His mind blurred and flashed with everything that happened. “We were attacked. They… they tried to kill us.”

“Who?”

Dylan squinted his eyes shut, trying to remember the outline of their faces, the sounds of their voices, what they wore, what they said. He knew he’d have to tell the authorities. “They had guns... and... and something else.” He suddenly remembered them moving gear on his boat, gear which was still there. “Something bad.”

Kasaika’s men lifted the rest of the cargo into the back of the van then pushed the boats out to sea and watched them sink. Kasaika removed the soggy boots from his feet and dumped out the water inside. The thrusts were forceful, angry, as the sea water splashed onto the sand. He put his boots back on and climbed inside the passenger side.

The caravan of three vehicles traveled down the back roads, keeping off the highways and interstates, going out of their way to make sure they avoided any detection. Even sitting there in the van, Kasaika still couldn’t stop feeling the rock of the ocean waves. The week at sea refused to relinquish its hold on his mind, which only added to his distaste of the water.

Kasaika always believed the ocean was unstable, too fluid, easily bent to the will of whatever the user of the water wanted. The entire trip across the Atlantic, his legs and body yearned for the solid foundation of land. Men weren’t designed to live at sea.

The caravan’s headlights offered the only illumination on the back roads, and when the van slowed, Kasaika looked in the distance to see a deteriorating structure surrounded by an equally decaying woods. “Is there no place that death hasn’t touched this land?”

“It’s an abandoned coal mine,” the driver said. “It hasn’t been active for decades.”

Once parked, Kasaika walked with three other men while the others unloaded the vans. The two men that flanked him were Kasaika’s contacts in America. The two men had migrated eight years ago in an effort to establish themselves as natural citizens. Sefkh was Kasaika’s brother-in-law, a man whom he trusted above all others, and not just because of the marriage to his sister. The two had shared a bond ever since they were boys, during the rule of Anwar Al-Sadat in Egypt where they grew up. It was there the boys received their first taste of Americans. Both Kasaika’s and Sefkh’s fathers were opposed to any US interference and attempted to undermine the growing relationship. Neither of their families wanted any part of any country or people that sided with Israel. The only way to God, to eternity, was through Islam.

“It is good to see you, brother,” Sefkh said. “You will be glad to know that you’re an uncle now.”

Kasaika stopped dead in his tracks. “Tatara had her child?” He clutched Sefkh’s shoulders. “When?”

Sefkh smiled. “Two days ago. Both she and the baby are healthy, fine.”

“Subhaan Allah.” Kasaika embraced his brother in a hug. For the first time since he’d started this mission, he felt himself feel like it was before. Before all of this death, before all of the pain and anguish. “This is a great blessing of fortune, Sefkh.” It took all of Kasaika’s strength not to run to his sister, find her, hold both her and her newborn. But there was still work to do. “We give honor to your new family by our will. Maashallah.” Kasaika bowed.

“Thank you, brother,” Sefkh replied.

“Jazakallaho ahsanal jaza,” Zet said, embracing both Kasaika and Sefkh.

Zet had been like a brother to Sefkh, and while Kasaika never truly warmed to the man, there was no denying his commitment. Out of all of them, he’d lost the most. Kasaika returned a smile with the hug. “Your family will soon be honored as well, Zet. We will make sure of that.”

The news of his sister’s blessing could not cloud the mission, which had already been set back. “We encountered an issue during transport. The captain that was sent, along with two members of his crew, escaped.”

“That is of no concern, brother,” Sefkh replied. “We have everything in place. By the time the US government finds out about what we’re doing, it will have already been done.”

“That’s not all.” Kasaika gave a heavy sigh, turning away from the group and watching the men unload the vans. “Half of our bombs are still on board the ship.”

“What?” Zet asked, marching toward Sefkh, switching his jaw-slacked gaze between Sefkh and Kasaika. “We can’t hit our targets with only half!” Zet’s face flushed red, a dribble of spit rolling down his lips into the coarse black beard extending from his chin.

“Kasaika, he is right,” Sefkh said. “We cannot pull this off without all of the devices. Our men are already in place.”

“We will improvise,” Kasaika answered, the authority of his voice returning under the duress of the moment. “Our primary target will remain Boston. The others will have to resort to household devices until we can regroup our resources.”

Zet jumped between them, his words quick with anger. “When the Americans find out what we’ve done, we will not have the luxury and advantage of surprise. The entire country will be on lockdown, and if this captain is able to identify you, then it will lead to the rest of us.”

Sefkh smiled. “Calm yourself, Zet. The Americans aren’t the only ones capable of intelligence gathering.”