Mark Adams's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

They found Sarah in the abandoned store, crouched behind a shelf with her father's pocket knife in her fist. Mark went down on his knees. His daughter stared at him like he might not be real. Then she dropped the knife and hit his chest hard, both arms around his neck. "You came," she said. Just that. Eva wrapped them both. For one breath, the island did not exist. "There's a boat," Sarah said. She pulled back and wiped her face with a dirty hand. "By the water. I saw it. It floats. I checked." She said it plainly, the way she said everything, and Mark believed her. A boat meant off this island. It meant the thing that hunted them could not follow. Sarah led. She moved fast through the trees, her pink backpack bouncing. On the ground near the path lay a child's doll, its stuffing spilled from torn seams. Sarah did not stop for it. Mark did not ask. The trees broke open onto black sand and gray waves. There, half in the surf, sat a little boat built from driftwood. Ropes lashed the planks. A rough mast leaned from the middle. "That's it," Sarah said. A storm was coming in fast. Wind flattened the waves and drove rain sideways. Mark grabbed the bow. "Push," he said. Eva threw her weight against the hull. Sarah shoved from the stern. The boat scraped, then floated. Cold water climbed to Mark's waist. He lifted Sarah over the side. Eva rolled in after her. Mark heaved himself up last, gripping the wet wood. The current took them. The island shrank behind the rain. Mark grabbed a plank to paddle and looked at his wife and daughter, both soaked, both alive, both here. "We did it," he said. His hands shook, but this time from cold, not fear. Then a sound cut through the storm. Barking. Sharp and fast, from the beach behind them. Mark turned. On the black sand stood a chained German shepherd, straining against its pole, snapping at the water. It was not barking at the boat. Beyond the dog, the treeline moved. Gray shapes came out of the forest. Not one. Many. They shuffled onto the beach and turned their ruined faces toward the water. Toward the boat. "Row," Eva said. Mark drove the plank into the waves. But the storm had them now. The wind pushed one way, the current pulled another, and the little boat spun. Water sloshed over the side and pooled around Sarah's sneakers. She started scooping it out with both hands. "It's coming in," she said. "Faster than I can bail." Mark paddled harder. The boat rode up a black wave and crashed down. A plank in the hull cracked. Cold sea rushed in through the gap. They were off the island. And they were sinking.