Chapter 22: The Other Boat - Part 2
The trawler was close enough now to make out details. Three men visible on deck, rifles slung casually. Moving with the confidence of people who'd done this before.
"Weapons," Strand ordered. "Everyone below deck except Daniel and Jax."
"I'm staying," Madison said.
"You're a liability—"
"I'm a mother with a rifle. Try me."
Strand looked like he wanted to argue, then reconsidered. "Fine. Everyone else below. Now."
Travis herded the Robinson family and the kids down to the cabins. Nick stayed, grabbing one of the pirate rifles we'd taken from the armory.
"You know how to use that?" I asked.
"Point and shoot, right?"
"Basically."
The trawler pulled alongside, engines rumbling. Five men total—four on deck, one at the helm. All armed. All watching us with predatory interest.
Their leader stood at the bow—late thirties, shirtless, covered in tattoos that looked like they'd been done in prison. He smiled, showing gold teeth.
"Nice yacht. Real nice. You folks having engine trouble?"
"No trouble," Strand called back. "Just checking on the distressed vessel. We're moving on now."
"That so?" Gold Teeth gestured to two of his men. They climbed onto a motorized dinghy attached to the trawler. "See, we got a salvage claim on that sailboat. And since you're here, we got a claim on you too."
"There's no salvage law anymore," Madison said. "The government's gone."
"Then I'm the government now, sweetheart. And my law says your boat belongs to me."
[ TIMER: 11:47:18 ]
The headache was blinding. My vision kept shifting—normal, then tinged red, then normal again. The virus was preparing for the hunt, optimizing reflexes, sharpening senses.
Perfect timing. These men are a gift.
The dinghy motored toward us, two pirates aboard. Gold Teeth and another man, younger, with a machete strapped to his belt. They pulled alongside The Abigail.
"Everyone on deck. Hands where I can see them." Gold Teeth climbed aboard uninvited, rifle pointed casually at Strand's chest. "Nice and easy. Nobody has to die today."
"Then leave," I said. "While you still can."
He looked at me, actually looked, sizing me up. "You threatening me?"
"Warning you."
"Cute." He gestured with the rifle. "On your knees. All of you."
Madison knelt slowly, keeping the rifle across her lap. Daniel knelt, face expressionless. Nick knelt, hands shaking. Strand remained standing, jaw clenched.
I didn't move.
"I said on your knees."
"I heard you."
Gold Teeth's partner climbed aboard, machete now in hand. Two more pirates maneuvered their dinghy toward the sailboat where George's family was still huddled.
"Last chance," Gold Teeth said. "Knees or I put a bullet in your friend."
He aimed at Strand. I calculated distances, angles, reaction times. The virus was feeding me data—heightened perception, faster reflexes, predicted movements. I could feel every person's heartbeat, smell their sweat and fear.
"Okay," I said. Started to kneel.
Then moved.
Jax's medical training plus the virus's enhancements meant I knew exactly where to strike. I grabbed Gold Teeth's rifle barrel, pushed it aside as he fired—the bullet went wild, punching through the deck. My other hand drove Daniel's razor into his throat, severing the carotid.
He went down choking on blood.
The man with the machete swung at me. I ducked under the blade, came up inside his guard, drove my knee into his groin. As he doubled over, I took the machete from his hand and buried it in his skull.
Two dead in under five seconds.
The pirates on the trawler were shouting, raising weapons. Madison fired first—three-round burst that shattered the trawler's windshield. Daniel fired next, dropping one pirate as he tried to aim.
The fourth pirate jumped into the water, swimming away from the carnage. Nick tracked him with the rifle, finger on the trigger.
"Shoot!" I called. "He'll warn others!"
Nick fired. Missed. Fired again. The pirate's head snapped back, body going limp in the water.
Nick stared at the rifle, then at the body floating face-down. His hands started shaking.
The fifth pirate—the one at the helm—had ducked below deck when the shooting started. I could hear him scrambling, looking for weapons or an exit.
"I've got him," I said. "Madison, secure the sailboat. Make sure the family's okay. Daniel, watch for more boats."
I climbed onto the trawler, stepping over the dead pirate on deck. Blood everywhere, the smell copper-sharp and nauseating to anyone without enhanced senses. To me, it was information—body count, threat assessment, opportunity.
Below deck, the trawler was a mess. Sleeping quarters that smelled like unwashed bodies and diesel fuel. A galley with empty liquor bottles. And cowering in the head, the fifth pirate.
He was younger than the others, maybe twenty-five. Holding a knife with a shaking hand.
"Don't," he begged. "Please, I didn't want to—they made me—"
"Made you board a yacht full of families at gunpoint?"
"I had to! They would have killed me!"
"And now I'm going to kill you."
"No, please, I can help, I know where they keep supplies, I can—"
I grabbed his wrist, twisted until the knife clattered to the floor. He tried to fight, but the virus made me stronger than any normal human. I pushed him against the wall.
[ TIMER: 11:39:42 ]
Less than twelve hours. This was it. My only chance.
I pulled out the razor Daniel had given me, made a quick cut on the pirate's forearm. He screamed. Then I cut my own palm and pressed the wounds together.
Blood to blood. Infection initiated.
[ INFECTION INITIATED ]
[ TIMER RESET: 72:00:00 ]
The relief was instant and total. The headache vanished. The pressure released. The red tinge faded from my vision. I could breathe again without feeling like my lungs were full of glass.
The pirate stared at me, confused. "What... what did you do?"
"Gave you a disease. You'll be dead in eight hours, then you'll come back wrong. By then, I'll be long gone."
"You're insane!"
"Yeah. Probably."
I locked him in the head from the outside, wedging a piece of pipe through the door handle. His screaming was muffled through the metal. Nobody on The Abigail would hear.
I climbed back topside. Madison had secured the sailboat—George's family was shaken but alive. Daniel was cataloging the dead pirates' weapons. Nick sat on the deck, rifle beside him, staring at nothing.
"Status?" Strand called from The Abigail.
"Four dead. One ran off." I didn't mention the fifth, locked below. He wasn't running anywhere. "The trawler has fuel. We should siphon it."
"Agreed. Quickly. Before more of them show up."
We spent twenty minutes transferring fuel, weapons, and supplies. The trawler had food—canned goods, dried fish, rice. Not much, but more than we'd had. Plus ammunition and three additional rifles.
George helped, moving with the frantic energy of someone who knew they'd barely escaped death. His wife Helen held their boys close, whispering reassurances that sounded hollow.
"Thank you," George said for the tenth time. "If you hadn't come back—"
"We came back for the fuel," I said. "You were just fortunate."
"Still. Thank you."
We got everyone back on The Abigail. Strand started the engines while I checked the trawler one last time. The pirate in the head was still screaming, pounding on the door. I ignored him.
Eight hours until he dies. Ten hours until he reanimates. Twelve hours until the virus spreads to whatever's left of his crew's safe harbor. By then, we'll be a hundred miles away.
Dexter logic. The guilty get infected. The innocent get a head start.
I climbed back onto The Abigail as Strand pulled away. The trawler sat dead in the water, one very alive soon-to-be-dead man locked in its bowels.
Nick was still on deck, still staring at his hands. The rifle lay where he'd dropped it.
"First kill?" I asked quietly.
He nodded.
"How do you feel?"
"Nothing. That's the problem. I killed a man and I feel nothing."
"Give it time. The nothing comes first. The guilt comes later."
"Does it get easier?"
I thought about Calvin, about Matt, about the looter I'd infected behind the Clark house. About the pirate locked below deck on a trawler, counting down the hours until he became a monster.
"No. You just get better at carrying it."
He looked at me. "You've done this a lot, haven't you? Killed people."
"Enough."
"How many is enough?"
"I'll tell you when I know."
He laughed—hollow, broken. "That's not comforting."
"It's not supposed to be."
Alicia appeared from below deck, saw her brother sitting alone, moved toward him. "Nick? You okay?"
"I shot someone. I'm not okay."
She sat beside him, didn't try to offer platitudes or false comfort. Just sat there, present. That was enough.
I moved to the bow, giving them space. The ocean stretched endlessly ahead, sun sinking toward the horizon. Somewhere behind us, a pirate was dying. In a day or two, he'd reanimate, probably attack any survivors in his crew's base. More victims, more spreading.
All my fault. All necessary.
The System had been quiet since the reset. No new quests, no warnings. Just the timer ticking down from seventy-two hours, giving me three days before I'd have to do this again.
How long can I keep this up? How many people will I infect before someone notices the pattern?
No answer. There never was.
Strand found me an hour later. "We need to talk."
"About?"
"About you nearly getting us all killed for strangers."
"We needed fuel. The trawler had fuel. Simple math."
"Simple math that involved confronting armed pirates."
"They confronted us. I responded."
"You escalated. You could have surrendered, let them take the yacht—"
"And then what? They'd have killed us anyway. Pirates don't leave witnesses." I turned to face him. "You know that. You're not stupid."
"I'm pragmatic. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
He studied me. "You fight like someone with training. Military? Police?"
"Medical resident. Trauma rotation. You learn to handle violent patients."
"Medical residents don't move like you moved. That was combat training."
"Believe what you want."
"I will." He crossed his arms. "The Robinson family. They're leaving at the next safe port."
"Good. We don't have resources for fourteen people."
"You agreed to rescue them."
"I agreed to not let them die immediately. That debt's paid."
"Cold."
"Practical."
He smiled slightly. "I think I'm starting to understand you, Jax Mercer. You do good things for bad reasons. Or maybe bad things for good reasons. I haven't decided which."
"Let me know when you figure it out."
He left. I stayed at the bow, watching the sun sink lower.
[ TIMER: 71:15:33 ]
Three days until I'd need to find another target. Three days of peace before the pressure started building again.
I closed my eyes, feeling the ocean breeze, trying not to think about the pirate locked in the trawler. Trying not to calculate how many people he'd infect before someone put him down permanently.
Trying not to admit that I'd become exactly what I feared—a necessary monster, doing terrible things and calling them survival.
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