Jake Morrison's Arc

Chapter 25 of 54

Eighty miles away, Marcus and Jake had finished loading the skiff at the marina. Crates of canned food filled the bottom. Nine survivors sat packed shoulder to shoulder. The little boat sat low, water lapping close to the rail. Jake gripped the wheel and felt his stomach drop. "She won't make open sea like this," he said. "One big wave and we sink." Marcus wiped grease from his hands and crouched at the stern. He was the mechanic who had once held Jake at gunpoint in the supermarket, then admitted the pistol was empty. Since then they trusted each other with their lives. "You're right," Marcus said. "Too much weight. We drop half the food or we drop people. Pick one." Jake looked at the nine faces. He would not leave anyone behind. "The food stays balanced, spread it out," he said. "But we ride shallow along the coast first, then cut across where it narrows." They shifted the crates fore and aft. The skiff rose a few inches. Jake nosed it out slow. For a mile the plan held. Then the water beside them broke. A wretch surged up from below, gray skin torn, one yellow eye fixed on the boat. Its claws hooked the rail. "Down!" Jake shouted. The survivors screamed and lurched. The skiff tipped hard. Water poured over the side. Marcus swung his wrench and caved in the creature's skull. It slid back into the sea. But two more climbed the hull. Jake grabbed the hunting knife from his belt. He drove it through one wretch's throat and kicked the body off. The boat rocked. A woman lost her grip on a crate and it splashed overboard, gone. "Let it go!" Jake yelled. Lighter now, the skiff steadied. The last creature clawed over the rail and lunged. Jake caught its arm. Its teeth snapped down on his forearm before he could pull free. Pain flared white. He roared and buried the knife in its eye. It went limp. He shoved it into the water and pressed his hand over the wound. Blood welled between his fingers. Silence fell. The sea went flat. The skiff floated level, one crate lighter, all nine survivors still aboard. Marcus stared at Jake's arm. The two red half-circles of a bite. "No," Marcus said. His voice cracked. He knelt and yanked off his shirt to bind the wound. "We'll check with the doctor when we land. Maybe there's a way." Jake watched the blood soak through the cloth. He knew what a bite meant. He had killed men for less. "No," he said, quiet and grave. "If I turn—" "Don't." Marcus tied the knot hard. "At least spend time with Marisol first. You owe her that much." Jake looked toward the island they couldn't yet see. He started the engine. The skiff cut forward across open water, level at last, carrying food, nine people, and one bitten man racing the clock home.