Chapter 21: The Other Boat - Part 1
Thursday - 11:47 AM
The distress call came over the radio at noon.
"—nyone out there, please, our engine's dead, we're drifting south, we have children, please—"
Strand was at the helm immediately, adjusting course away from the signal. Travis grabbed his arm.
"We have to respond."
"We don't have to do anything."
"There are kids—"
"There are always kids. And parents. And sob stories designed to make you lower your guard." Strand pulled free. "Every boat is a trap. We keep moving."
"They could die!"
"They will die. The question is whether we die with them."
The argument escalated. Madison joined in, then Daniel. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone except me.
I was studying the radar screen, tracking the distress signal's origin. Single vessel, small displacement. Approximately twelve nautical miles northeast.
[ TIMER: 14:22:11 ]
Fourteen hours. The pressure was crushing now—a constant roar in my head, my vision tinged red at the edges. I needed a target. Needed it desperately.
And maybe this distressed vessel would provide one.
"We approach carefully," I said, cutting through the argument. "If it's a trap, we're prepared. If it's genuine, we assess."
"You don't give orders on my boat," Strand said.
"I do when you're wrong."
We locked eyes. The standoff lasted ten seconds. Then Strand adjusted course toward the signal.
"Armed reconnaissance only. We get close enough to observe, no closer. Anyone comes at us wrong, we leave."
"Agreed."
The Abigail changed direction, engine thrumming. Madison distributed weapons—rifles for Daniel and Travis, pistols for herself and me. Alicia and Nick stayed below with the others, ready to defend if boarding was attempted.
The distressed vessel appeared through binoculars twenty minutes later. A sailboat, maybe thirty-five feet, listing badly to port. Figures on deck waving frantically—one man, one woman, two small children, possibly an elderly person in a wheelchair.
"Looks legitimate," Travis said.
"Looks can lie," Strand countered.
I studied them through the binoculars. Their body language read as desperate—frantic gestures, constant movement, checking the horizon repeatedly. Not the controlled behavior of ambush predators.
But something else was wrong.
"There's another boat," I said. "East, maybe three miles out."
Strand adjusted his binoculars. "Fishing trawler. Moving fast. No running lights."
"Pirates?"
"Or opportunists. Same difference." He lowered the binoculars. "We're leaving."
"They'll reach that family first," Madison said.
"Not my problem."
"It will be when they're done with the family and come looking for other targets."
Strand hesitated. The calculation was obvious—ignore the family and risk the pirates noticing us anyway, or intervene and control the situation.
"Full speed," he ordered. "We get there first, extract anyone viable, destroy the sailboat so it doesn't attract more attention."
"Destroy it?" Travis protested.
"It's a beacon. Pirates see it, coast guard—if there still is a coast guard—sees it. We can't leave it floating."
We accelerated. The Abigail closed the distance fast, superior engines eating up the miles. The family saw us coming, waved more frantically.
Through the binoculars, I could make out details now. The man was forties, sunburned, wearing a life vest. The woman younger, holding a child maybe six years old. Another child, older, stood at the railing. The elderly person in the wheelchair wasn't moving.
"That's a corpse," Daniel said, looking through his own binoculars. "The person in the chair. Dead for days."
"Then they've been drifting longer than we thought," I said.
We pulled alongside carefully. Strand kept the engines running, ready to bolt. I moved to the railing with Madison and Daniel, weapons ready but lowered.
The man called across the water: "Thank God! Our engine died three days ago! We've been drifting! Please, my kids haven't eaten since yesterday!"
"Where are you from?" Madison called back.
"San Diego! We were trying to reach Mexico when the engine failed!"
"What happened to the person in the wheelchair?"
The man's face crumpled. "My father. Heart attack. Two days ago. We couldn't—we don't know what to do—"
"You need to deal with the body," Strand said flatly. "Throw it overboard. Now."
"What? I can't just—"
"You can and will. Or it reanimates and kills your family."
The woman was crying. "He's my husband's father. We can't just throw him away like garbage."
"You can or you all die. Choose."
The trawler was visible now on the horizon, moving fast. Maybe ten minutes out.
"We don't have time for this," I said. "Madison, Daniel—board them. Get the family and anything valuable. Strand, prepare to take them on. I'll handle the body."
"You can't—" Travis started.
"Watch me."
I jumped to the sailboat, landing unsteadily on the tilted deck. The family backed away, frightened. The corpse in the wheelchair was indeed dead—gray skin, no movement, starting to smell.
"You want to live?" I asked the man.
"Yes. God, yes."
"Then help me move this." I grabbed the wheelchair. "Now."
Together, we lifted the body and tipped it over the railing. It hit the water with a splash and sank immediately. The woman wailed. The children were crying.
"I'm sorry," I told them. "But he was gone. This just prevents him from coming back wrong."
Madison and Daniel were already helping them onto The Abigail. The woman, the man, the two children. They moved with the desperate speed of people who knew rescue was temporary.
I grabbed supplies from the sailboat's cabin—food, water, a first aid kit. Threw them across to The Abigail's deck.
"Thirty seconds!" Strand called. "That trawler's closing fast!"
I climbed back onto The Abigail. Strand had a flare gun ready.
"What are you doing?" Travis asked.
"Making sure they don't follow the beacon." He fired into the sailboat's cabin. The flare ignited something—fuel or alcohol—and flames spread fast. Within seconds, the entire boat was burning.
"Move! Now!"
The Abigail pulled away at full speed. Behind us, the sailboat became an inferno, black smoke pouring into the sky.
The trawler changed course, heading for the burning vessel. Probably thought there was salvage, or maybe they were genuinely trying to help. Either way, they weren't chasing us.
We'd gotten away clean.
The rescued family huddled on deck, soaked and shaking. The woman held both children close. The man stared at where his father's body had disappeared.
"Thank you," he managed. "Thank you for saving us."
"Thank Jax," Madison said. "He made the call to come back."
The man looked at me. "I'm George. This is my wife Helen, my kids Sophie and Max. We were teachers. Before."
"You're survivors now. That's all that matters."
"What about our boat—"
"Gone. Destroyed. It was attracting attention we couldn't afford." I gestured to Strand. "He's the captain. You follow his rules or you swim back."
George nodded shakily. Helen was still crying, children pressed against her.
Strand gathered everyone on deck again. Fourteen people now, cramped into spaces designed for six.
"New rules," he announced. "The same ones, but louder. No approaching other vessels. No distress calls. We see another boat, we run. Understood?"
"What if they need help?" George asked.
"Then they die. Or find someone else to save them. We're at capacity."
"That's inhuman—"
"That's survival. Don't like it? The ocean's right there."
George closed his mouth.
I moved away from the group, leaning on the railing. My head was splitting now, the pressure almost unbearable. The visual distortions were constant—shadows that moved wrong, colors too bright.
[ TIMER: 12:48:35 ]
Twelve hours. Half a day.
Alicia found me there, as she always did. "You did a good thing. Saving them."
"Did I? Or did I just add four more mouths to feed on limited supplies?"
"You saved a family."
"For now. What happens when we run out of food? When we have to choose between them and us?"
"We'll figure it out."
"Will we?"
She touched my arm. "What's wrong? You're shaking."
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"Stop lying to me."
"I'm—" The words died. I couldn't keep lying. Not to her. "I need something. Something I don't have. And I'm running out of time to find it."
"What do you need?"
A target. Someone guilty. Someone whose death won't haunt me.
"I can't tell you."
"Then show me. Whatever it is, let me help."
"You can't."
"Jax—"
A shout from the helm. "Boat approaching! Port side!"
Everyone scrambled. The trawler had changed course again, heading straight for us.
Pirates. Definitely pirates.
And maybe, finally, the solution I'd been looking for.
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