Jake Morrison's Arc

Chapter 12 of 54

The truck rolled through the marina gate and stopped. Docks stretched ahead, a maze of gray planks and empty slips. Jake climbed out with the bat. Water slapped the pilings. Somewhere between all those boats sat Sofia's father's yacht, and he had no idea which one. He turned to Sofia. "Which slip?" Sofia hugged her bags and stared down the rows. Her face went tight. "I only came here as a kid. It's white. Big. Near the end." She pointed, then dropped her hand. "I don't know the number." Jake's stomach sank. The docks ran long in both directions. Dozens of boats. Search them all and they'd stand in the open too long. He'd seen how fast the wretches came to noise. "We split up and look," he said. "Fast. Anybody sees white and big, you shout." They spread down the planks. Marisol jogged one row, phone dark in her hand. Marcus took the far side, wrench swinging. Jake ran the center. His boots pounded wood. Boat after boat, all wrong. Small. Blue. Half-sunk. His breath burned. Time was bleeding away. Then Marisol's voice cracked across the water. "Here! End of the row!" Jake sprinted to her. She stood before a huge white yacht wedged between two pilings. Sleek. Three decks. A dark stripe ran its hull. Sofia caught up, and her eyes filled. "That's it. That's Dad's." But wretches had heard them. Three came scrambling down the dock, claws on the planks, jaws dripping. More followed behind. Jake raised the bat, then stopped. "No. Marcus, the truck." Marcus understood. He ran back and hauled a rifle from the rescue truck's cab, one the dead soldiers had left. He tossed a second to Jake. "Point and pull." The guns cracked. The first wretch dropped. The second spun and fell into the water. Jake fired into the pack blocking the boat's ramp. Rounds tore through them. The path to the yacht opened. "Go, go!" Jake shouted. They ran up the ramp. Sofia threw her bags aboard. Marisol swung a leg over the rail, then froze. "There's a harpoon gun. Mounted on the deck." A long steel launcher sat bolted near the bow, a barbed spear loaded in its throat. "Later," Jake said. More wretches poured onto the dock behind them. "We need to move fast." He looked at Sofia. "Start the boat. I'll untie us from the dock." Sofia ran for the wheelhouse. The engine growled, then boomed to life under Jake's boots. He dropped the rifle and grabbed the mooring lines. His hands ripped the first knot free. Then the second. The rope slid loose and splashed. The yacht drifted from the dock. A wretch leaped for the rail and missed, clawing air before it hit the water. The boat pulled clear. Between them and the open sea, only water now. But they had no idea if the yacht held fuel enough for eighty miles.