Jake Morrison's Arc

Chapter 15 of 54

The yacht held its course under a gray sky. Sofia stood at the wheel with Marcus beside her, both bent over her father's charts. Marcus was the mechanic who once bluffed Jake with an empty gun. Now he traced the fuel math with a grease-stained finger. He looked up and grinned. "Ten knots," Marcus said. "That's the trick. Push her faster and we drink the tank dry before we're halfway. Hold ten knots, and we make eighty miles in eight hours. We even keep a little fuel in reserve." Sofia checked the gauge, then the chart. "He's right. My dad ran it slow when he wanted to save gas. Ten knots gets us there." She eased the throttle back. The engine dropped to a low, steady hum. The needle stopped falling. Jake let out a breath he'd held for hours. "Then we hold ten. All the way in." "I've got the wheel," Sofia said. "Go sit down. You look half dead." Jake walked to the stern with Marisol. They sat on the wet bench, the wake trailing behind them. For the first time in days, no one was chasing him. He watched the water and found the words. "When this is over," Jake said, "I want a family. Kids. A porch. Something normal." He rubbed his tattooed arm. "I never let myself say that before." Marisol turned to him. A smile broke across her face, soft and real. "You'd be good at it." "You think so?" "I know so." She pulled her knees up. "Everyone lost the old world. But this one's blank. No rules. No one telling me what to make." Her eyes moved over the sea. "I could paint again. Build things. On that island I could make anything I want." Jake took her hand. "Then we'll build it together." They sat quiet, the engine humming, the miles falling behind. Eight hours felt possible now. The plan was working. The fuel was holding. Then Marisol went still. She stared past his shoulder. "Jake." He turned. Far off, where the sea met the sky, the gray had gone black. A wall of cloud stacked high above the water. Lightning flickered inside it. The wind shifted and hit his face, colder now, carrying the smell of rain. Marcus shouted from the wheelhouse. "You seeing this?" Sofia had one hand on the throttle, the other white on the wheel. "Storm. Coming straight at us." Her voice cracked. "Dad never took this boat through weather like that. Not on a full tank." Jake stood. The storm ate the horizon where the island waited. Ten knots would carry them right into it. Push the throttle to outrun it and they'd burn the fuel they needed to arrive. He looked at the black wall, then at the three faces waiting on him. "We can't go around," Jake said. "Not with the fuel we've got."