Jake Morrison's Arc

Chapter 17 of 54

The tank ran dry with a cough. The engine died. For a second the yacht drifted quiet, then a low grind rose from under the hull. Wood cracked. The deck lurched hard and threw Jake against the rail. Sofia grabbed the wheel to stay up. "We hit something," she said. Jake looked over the side. Rocks. Sand. The island's edge, right under them. The storm had pushed them further than the fuel ever could. They'd run aground. Water sloshed below. Marcus dropped through the hatch and came up fast. "We're taking on water," he said. He wiped grease and salt from his face. He'd trusted Jake's math through the whole storm, and now he waited on it again. "Cabin's flooding. She won't float long." Jake climbed to the bow. Fog sat thick on the water, gray and blind. He could see maybe ten feet. Somewhere ahead was land, but he couldn't tell how far. "Everybody up top," he called. "Grab what floats and what we need. Radio, food, the rifles." Marisol handed the dry locker up to him. Her black hair stuck to her face. She met his eyes and didn't flinch. "You said this was the way in," she said. "So we're in. Now what?" "Now we walk," Jake said. "The hull's stuck on rock. If it's shallow enough to catch us, it's shallow enough to wade." He swung a leg over the rail and dropped. Cold water hit him at the waist. His boots found stone. He grinned up at her. "Solid ground. Pass the bags." One by one they came down. Marcus took Sofia's hand as she lowered herself, and held it a beat too long after her feet touched. She didn't pull away. Marisol slid into Jake's arms and he steadied her. They formed a line, gear held high, and pushed into the fog. The water dropped to their knees, then their ankles. Jake's boots hit sand. A shape rose out of the gray. A dock. Past it, dark walls and steep roofs. Cabins, dozens of them, climbing a slope. Solar panels. Boats tied at slips. The camping island Sofia had promised, real and close. "We made it," Sofia breathed. She laughed once, shaking. They dragged the last bags onto the dock. Behind them the yacht groaned and settled deeper, the water swallowing its stern. Jake watched it go. No boat now. No fuel. No way back off this island. He turned to the cabins. "We need shelter before dark," he said. "And we don't know what's here." Then he saw it. On the sand between two cabins, a door hung open. It swung on its own in the still air. Nothing moved it. Jake's hand went to the rifle on his back. The island might not be empty