Humanaty's Blight

CHAPTER NINE

The old man went to sleep on me while sitting in his recliner. Well, not on me, but in his chair, his head laid back, his mouth open, a beer near his outstretched hand. There was so much to learn from him. Sue and I expected to be up most of the night, and we took long naps so we wouldn’t fall asleep. He awoke late in the afternoon when Sue and I were getting ready to leave.

“Where you goin’?” he asked.

I said, “We have to sneak over to one of the houses nearby and locate kayaks or a boat of some kind. We were going to tell you goodbye and how much we appreciate your help.”

“Not so fast,” he said, standing on weak legs and limping to the door. He pointed along the shoreline. “There’s a trail down there. It takes you to the next house along the shore. Go there. Use the side entrance to the garage and see if they still have their kayaks stored inside. Probably do. Don’t go inside the house. Mom, Dad, and three kids died in there. Just leave them be, not that you could stand to go inside with the smell. I got a whiff of it when I went to check on them a few days ago.”

“I’ll go take a look,” I said to Sue. “Why don’t you try to make a good meal for all of us?”

The little trail took me a hundred yards along the shoreline to the next house. The side door to the garage was padlocked, but the hasp had been pried off and hung limply. I assumed the old man had done it. Nothing else seemed out of place. I told my nose to stop sniffing for decomposing bodies, but it refused to cooperate.

With the side door open, plenty of light streamed inside the garage. There were six kayaks, each stacked neatly on a rack made of two-by-fours against the rear. Two kayaks caught my eye. They were longer, slimmer, and had rudders operated by the user’s feet. I hefted one to my shoulder and carried it to the rocks at the bottom of the hillside, above the tangle of trees, and debris at the high tide mark.

The other soon joined it. I selected a pair of double-ended paddles, and two lifejackets, then I made sure the door was pulled closed in case the old man needed anything else from inside. I followed the path back to the other house.

Sue was stirring something on the stove when a buzz of sound interrupted. I turned to look behind me where the sound came from just as the old man pointed at the small windows and said softly, “Company.”

Two men and a woman were moving down the driveway, each holding a rifle. They didn’t look like bikers, at least none wore the garb of the bikers. She was heavy-set, the men were much the same. They moved slowly, their eyes taking everything in. That is, they looked at everything but inside the small windows where we were.

They couldn’t have missed the fresh tire tread imprints in the soft dirt. They expected to find people, expected to sneak up on them. One tire track from our motorcycle entering with none returning to the road, recently made, meant the rider was still in the house. One person. Easy pickings.

The old man reached for a Winchester rifle that could have been used in every western movie ever made. I said, reaching for the rifle I’d taken off the biker, “Let me talk to them.”

He frowned, then nodded as he aimed.

“I don’t want any trouble,” I called, not wishing to warn them there were three of us. Sue had her shotgun ready, and while the distance was too great to hit them, the sheer amount of noise should be enough for rational thinkers to flee.

They pulled to a stop, consulted with each other briefly, then one man turned to face me. “We’ve talked it over. If you come out with your hands up and nothing in them, we’ll let you leave.”

The woman giggled, an evil sound that edged the two men a few cautious steps closer. The old man at my side said, “You tried. I’ll take the one on the right.”

As I raised my rifle, the woman lifted a military-style rifle hidden from us. It had been at her side. She sprayed thirty or forty bullets in our direction in one long burst. The men beside her peeled away and dived into the weeds, all but disappearing as they raised their weapons and fired. Both Sue and I ducked from the firing of the machine-guns, while I quickly realized that not one bullet had come through the small windows. None of the glass had broken.

They didn’t know where we were and all the slugs had torn up the first floor of the house instead of the basement.

Both the old man and Sue fired at almost the same time. I fought to steady the scope until I found the man on the left aiming his weapon lower. He now knew where we were.

I shot him just above his left eye. I’d been aiming lower, but my hands were shaking. The old man had shot the other man, and the woman had ejected the magazine in her gun and inserted another. Sue put her shotgun up to the window and fired again. Pumped and fired. Pumped and fired. The old man got into a position to shoot the old thirty-thirty. He fired once.

He said, “Well if that doesn’t bring the whole damned city here, nothing will. It’s like sirens on firetrucks. Everybody’s got to go see what’s happening when they hear them. By dark, there’ll be ten more bodies out there. You two, get out of here while you can.”

“Come with us,” Sue begged.

He shook his head. “Can’t do it, bad leg and all. Besides, my heart pills run out in two more days, and without them, I’m done anyway. I might make it three or four days, or just put the barrel of this in my mouth and end it without suffering the pain that’s coming my way. Sorry, kids. Make a break for it while you can. Sit out there in the bay until dark and good luck.”

“Maybe we can get your pills from a pharmacy,” I said.

He shook his head. “They’re stripped bare or burned. I went into town and looked.”

Sue gave him a hug and whispered something in his ear. I shook his hand and escorted Sue down to the rocks and the kayaks, almost pulling her along. We donned lifejackets, tossed our few belongings inside the footwell where they might stay dry, and pushed the long, narrow boats into the water. I held Sue’s while she adjusted to the tricky balance required to keep them upright, then I adjusted her seat to fit her short legs. When she had the idea, a push sent her fifty feet from shore. She turned back to watch me.

I managed to climb in without tipping it over, but the bottom got scraped as it settled, and I had to use the paddle pressed to the mud to get it moving. When it did, the boat moved side to side with each stroke and advanced hardly any distance.

“Reach back and put the rudder down, silly.”

Sue was grinning. I did as she suggested. The adjustment for my long legs was too short, but the rudder in the water solved most of the problem. If the boat moved to my left and I wanted to go right, the rudder foot-peddles helped. A few more strokes and we were a hundred feet from shore.

We kept going, using the paddles slowly so we didn’t tire, and we didn’t go near the shore where anyone might shoot at us. We traveled together and talked little. I managed to adjust my seat, so my feet touched the pedals.

From behind, we heard more shooting an hour later. I recognized the crack of the old man’s rifle, but the boom of a much larger shell also sounded. We looked behind and found we’d only traveled a quarter-mile or a little more, mostly drifting and waiting for darkness to fall. On the beach, a man appeared. Then another. One shouted, “There they are.”

There was no hurry. We had hours of daylight left and I didn’t want to give anyone on the Everett side of the bay an idea we were heading in their direction, so they could meet us.

I had no doubt those behind had spotted us after the warning shout. We were so far away I was surprised I’d heard the man who said it could see us. Unless they had a fast boat and were willing to sacrifice it to the number of bullet-holes I intended to put in it if they came this way, they had better not follow.

One of them took aim and fired. A splash off to our side and a little in front of us said we needed to paddle faster and put more distance between us. Maybe we were not far enough away, after all.

We put our backs and arms into it. The kayaks sliced through the water as another shell landed, not far from us. The shooter must have been using a scope and was a good shot. We could zigzag but that would slow our overall progress. Another rifle fired, then a third. We were floating targets, but we were gaining distance. Bullets splashed closer as they got our range. We should have paddled faster from the beginning. A shell landed close enough to splash water on me. We were both getting the hang of paddling and were going so fast we left wakes.

A huge explosion behind us erupted so forcefully the concussion felt like the slap of a giant hand. We turned and found an orange ball of fire expanding around and consuming the house we’d been inside an hour earlier. The impact of sound that struck us a few seconds later was a physical thing. We were watching the aftermath. The ball of fire continued to expand, changed colors to a dull red, and then morphed into mostly black smoke that drifted away with the breeze.

The men who had been on the deck of the house shooting at us were nowhere in sight. Neither was the deck or house. The old man must have set a trap.

More likely, he’d set it off himself, not trusting a simple tripwire or similar device that might injure innocents. I remembered the rack of propane bottles I’d assumed were empties even though they appeared to have been recently placed on the ground under the deck, next to the house. A row of seven or eight.

He’d probably barricaded himself inside somewhere, and when the time was right, he set it off, allowing us to escape while taking out most, if not all of the attackers. One final act of revenge and friendship in a ball of fire.

“What happened?” Sue asked.

“That old man refused to be defeated.”

“He blew up his house and those people? On purpose?”

I paddled beside her, keeping my voice soft and fighting back tears. “He was only going to live a few more days. This way, he did some good and killed people we don’t need in our world. And avoided the pain he was going to suffer. That’s what he told me.”

She took a few strokes and finally said, “I could never do that.”

I glanced behind and saw the black smoke still rising. Where the house had been only a part of the concrete foundation remained. The old man was part of the smoke, rising into the late afternoon sky where he could watch our progress from up there. I felt like saluting.

Instead, I paddled slow and sure. The kayaks scooted along, and the mouth of the Snohomish River was directly ahead. The kayak I sat in was bright red, Sue’s yellow. Anyone looking from the shore would spot us instantly and might anticipate where we were going, or they might follow us along the shore.

“We need to turn away as if we just want to take a look at the city from afar.”

“And go where?”

“That island out there,” I pointed to a rugged-looking island with a tall cliff and evergreens growing on top. At a guess, it was a few miles away. “Hat Island, I think. Paddle real slow and we’ll make it seem we’re either going there or back to Marysville.”

Again, she declined to question or argue. That was good, of course, but for me, it provided time to think. Stealing a sailboat was about to get real. I’d had ideas, but the old man had given me a wealth of new information and I intended to use what he taught me. My mind required time to think and digest his advice, then decide how to put it to the best use.

The task was daunting, now that I was actually considering doing it. We had no food, no water, and I had to pee. We were a mile or two from the nearest land. I couldn’t resolve those minor problems, but was considering turning pirate, creating more problems that would magnify exponentially.

A small wave bumped the side of my kayak and nearly tipped me over—as if the sea-gods were teasing me. All the while I refused to look back at the column of smoke because some of it contained what little remained of the old man who had become my friend in a few hours.

I chuckled because I thought he’d have found that idea funny.

Sue gave me an odd look and paddled closer. I reviewed and tried to prioritize everything he’d told me to look for. First, it seemed to be that all sailboats are pretty much the same. The difference was in the details. Taking one too small would be a complete mistake. One too large was the same, but for different reasons. He had said to look for one about thirty-five feet.

The one item he’d stressed was to find on a boat with solar panels. After that, he had mentioned other things, but that seemed to be the one item he felt we would need the most.

The other important thing was the engine. Diesel. I assumed most were diesel. So, then he’d said to use the glow plug starting option for thirty seconds because the boat may not have been run for a while. It all sounded confusing. Maybe too confusing.

“Sue, listen. When I go ashore to do this, I want you to tie my boat to yours and paddle out into the channel where it is darkest and wait. If things go wrong, I’ll dive into the water swim out to meet you and we’ll paddle to that Hat Island to spend the night. Tonight might end up being just a dry run, to see what is there and what options we have.”

“We were standing in the snow up to our knees a few days ago. Do you know how cold the water is?”

“Can’t be helped. Besides, how crazy would someone else have to be to jump into the water and swim after me?”

She didn’t laugh. So, I wouldn’t mention my observation about the old man and the smoke. She said, “What do you think can go wrong?”

I counted on my fingers. “Someone may spot me and shoot me. Or see the sailboat start to move and investigate, then shoot me. Or they might hear the engine when I start it. Or it won’t start. Or I crash it into other boats because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I can go on.”

“I get the picture. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing—other than trying to grope around in the dark to take a boat you don’t know how to drive when there might be people shooting at you. I think I get it. You don’t have to bite my head off just because I ask you a question. What else?”

“I have to pee.”

She smirked. “Oh, I took care of that problem long ago. That reminds me, I may need a bath sometime in the next few days.”

Well, that was one problem that I could also solve, although why I hadn’t done the same earlier attested to the fact I hadn’t yet adjusted to the new world we lived in. I let it go and instantly felt better. The sun was still high enough that it wouldn’t be dark for a few hours. I could use a nap, but with the pee and the little water that had seeped inside sloshing back and forth, sleeping in the narrow boat didn’t seem an option, even if I could get comfortable as I tried to stretch out.

I leaned back, put my head on the top of the seat, and closed my eyes. If nothing else, I could rest and review my plans along with all the old man had told me. I silently thanked him again.

When I opened my eyes, it was almost dark. Sue was floating right beside me, her hand braced on my kayak to steady it. I’d scooted way down in the seat, my legs placed up on the front of the boat. A kink in my back kept me from sitting upright until I worked it out.

Sue said with a cruel grin, “All that worrying didn’t keep you awake, I see.”

My mind felt refreshed. We let the wind and currents push us where they wished. I now had total confidence in the small craft, and in our abilities to paddle them. Only a storm would challenge us, and we might welcome a storm because it would keep others inside while we stole a sailboat probably worth as much as a small house.

Sue wanted to talk and talk. Nerves, I think. She told me about her school and how the girls had formed cliques in the last couple of years, the gringo blonds became cheerleaders, others became geeks, jocks, kickers, or farmers. Few of the names she used were complimentary.

“Race?” I asked.

“Not so much. Different likes. Culture. And money, of course.”

That was observant of her. The cliques when I was in school were not about race either. They were about interests. Maybe a little about economics. A boy who had brown skin and a nice white smile, along with a pretty car made him just as popular as others. Of course, if he was on the football team, that also helped.

Since leaving school and later becoming a hermit-geek, I’d spent little time thinking about the racial issues that others said were tearing the country apart. From my experience, which was admittedly one-sided, I had my own opinions about that. People were people. Some better than others at sports, academics, or social games. Race or color had little to do with it, just as the fourteen-year-old in the other boat had said. How she got that smart in so little time, I didn’t know.

For me, it started at the beginning of my education. First grade is a distant and vague memory. However, in second grade, our class had been mostly girls and that changed a lot. Of the eighteen students, ten were female and every boy knew not to spend time with them! That left seven boys, besides me. Of them, I had to find a friend, because everyone knew a boy didn’t choose a girl for a friend at that age. One boy was fat and ate all the time. Another cried over something different almost every day. That left a pool of five boys to make friends with.

Of those five remaining, three had been in the same class the year before and were a trio of best friends, doing and saying the same things, and they didn’t want any joiners. That left me with a choice between a white athlete who was something of a bully, and a skinny brown kid from somewhere in Central America. Well, his parents were from there, he was from North Seattle. But Juan and I were thrust upon each other to avoid the rest.

He was a computer guy, more into hardware. I was into software. We formed a friendship that lasted for five years until my folks bought the house in Arlington and we moved up there. We stayed in touch for a while, but it wasn’t the same. I hadn’t thought about his color since the first few days of school that year. He was simply, Juan. My only friend.

No one in Arlington had replaced him. Most had attended the same classes since kindergarten, and I was the outsider. That is not really a fair assessment, of course. Most were nice enough, I just didn’t click with one, and any girl I pursued quickly rejected me. I remember walking the halls of the school day after day without a single one of them saying hello or offering a smile. On reflection, that was more my fault than theirs. If I had offered a smile, I may have received one in return.

I hoped my friend, Juan was immune to the flu and he was doing well, although the odds I’d been calculating before Sue showed up were not promising. With an eighty percent extinction rate, or even seventy, coupled with the deaths sure to come within the first month from people killing each other, put the total death rate nearer ninety.

Ten out of every hundred seemed an optimistic survival rate if Marysville was a gauge. Yes, it had seemed that way when we’d ridden through, but I quickly realized there may have been many more hidden in basements, people hiding in the nearby forests, and other places. They were doing what we were—staying out of sight. As they emerged, the percentage of survivors might be significantly higher.

Wishful thinking, I chided myself, reversing my optimistic thinking. Each of the survivors would then become an enemy until he or she proved different. The old man at the house that exploded had told me that. I believed him.

“We should head in,” Sue said, interrupting my attempts at solving all the problems of the world.

She was right. Clouds hung low to the west and the sun had sunk behind them, making the twilight last longer and the sky surreal with pinks and oranges. In the dimming light, I doubted if anyone ashore could see us. As we paddled closer to shore, the darkness would intensify until we might not be able to see at all if the clouds moved in and blocked the stars. There might not be any lights on the shore to guide us.

“Not too fast,” I muttered, also thinking I could use a little more time to plan and shed some of my nerves. That was true before I made most major moves for the last few years, and as a result, I’d talked myself out of doing many things. Fear can be a motivator—and for me, it was usually a deterrent. Instead of solving the issues, I dodged them by doing nothing.

This was something I had to do. I forced my mind to understand and accept that. The sailboat was our answer to long-term survival. Failure to steal one was not how I wanted to die. Mental images of ravenous hordes of faceless degenerates attacking me consumed my thoughts as much as the possible reality of them eating me. That fear pushed me onward.

It was success or failure tonight. If we failed to locate a sailboat, we could try again in a day or two and know more about how to do it and what to watch out for. Tonight, as we’d discussed, could become a scouting venture. If the marina was heavily guarded, or if we tripped an alarm, or couldn’t find a boat we could take, we’d learn valuable information for another try.

Hell, if it came down to it, we could use the kayaks and paddle north along the shoreline, go ashore at night and scrounge for food and water, then paddle north again the next day. We’d find a boat of some kind, eventually. A sailboat if we were lucky, along the way. There must be hundreds of motorboats we could steal and go north to relative safety.

My spirits perked up. If I encountered danger, I’d leap into the water and swim to the waiting kayaks and escape in the darkness. Then, as my mind often did, it brought up an obstacle. Can a person get into a kayak in deep water? If so, it probably took skill and practice and I had none. Sue would have to meet me where the water was shallow.

The sunlight failed and clouds covered most of the sky, which was good because it made it darker and harder for others to see us. There was no moon yet. No lights were on the shore, no candles, campfires, or gas lanterns. Everyone was scared to use them and draw others to them, I guess.

To the east, a vague dark shape was the high hill the city was built on. It loomed over us. Below was the marina.

In the darkness, we almost paddled into the rocks of the breakwater. Only the faint sound of the wavelets slapping the rocks a few feet away warned us where we were. We turned and paddled parallel to the breakwater, finally reaching the end.

It occurred to me that, in the darkness, Sue would never find me if I had to swim for it because of danger. I paused and said, “Hey, if we get separated and there is trouble, paddle outside the harbor as we talked about. If there is trouble, don’t try to help me, just get away. Meet me on the other side of the breakwater where we are. I’ll swim out to it and climb over the rocks. Paddle along the edge and wait for me to call you. I can get into the kayak here and we’ll escape and come back in a day or two.”

“Good idea,” she said.

We paddled around the end of the breakwater and proceeded slowly to where the boats were moored. There were hundreds, many identifiable by the masts rising into the night sky. Either our eyes had adjusted to the darkness, or the clouds had thinned a little. As we neared the nearest, the sounds of the night increased.

Something metal tapped against the aluminum mast of a boat and ropes tapped out an irregular beat on another. Boats rode up against protesting plastic fenders as the water moved against the hulls. Each boat contributed two, three or more unique sounds to merge with the thousands of others. It reminded me of a beehive with each bee contributing a little buzz of its own until the whole thing was a hum that could be heard fifty feet away.

What we didn’t hear were voices, footsteps, or other noises from humans until a shot from a rifle or large caliber pistol split the night. It had come from above us, in the city a hundred feet in elevation higher than the port. The shot was quickly followed by two more, of smaller calibers. Then silence.

We paddled again, slowly and silently. No talking. The masts looked like a forest of bare trees rising up in the darkness. More gunshots sounded—this time from a different direction. They came from ahead of us and to our left, down where an industrial area and papermill had dominated the waterfront for a hundred years.

Behind us, a half-mile away, was where a small naval base had been built. The last few times I’d passed by, there were no ships tied up, but a fair number of sailors still worked there. It seemed odd to build a navy base and then not use it all the time, but again, I know little about the military.

The yacht harbor of the marina was split into two parts, one set of docks on the south side, another on the north, with a waterway like a main road separating them. Any boat leaving would have to pass through that one opening. Before finding a boat, I wanted to inspect both sides of the opening.

I wanted to look for signs of people, of course. But also, examine the boats. Sailboats dominated the nearer spaces, but closer to shore were covered boat docks of every size, where motor-cruisers tied up. Yachts, to my way of thinking.

We paddled to the north side, where a smaller cluster of docks held several hundred boats. I climbed out and knelt on the floating dock while Sue drifted a few feet away holding my kayak alongside hers. If she needed to hurry, she could paddle away and leave mine.

Once on the dock, I kept to the deepest shadows and moved silently—my gun was drawn and ready. If I needed to use it, I wouldn’t hesitate to make whatever amount of noise was required.

The docks shifted under my feet as I moved on the floating platforms. No lights came on, no alarms or sirens sounded. There was no sign of watchmen.

A larger sailboat was tied up to the end of one dock, more of a ship than a sailboat. It was an older design, the squat hull made of iron instead of sleek in design made of high-tech plastics. It had two massive wooden masts instead of the usual metal one. What caught my attention was that in the dim light I noticed the larger mast had squarish rings attached to it. A ladder. From up there, my view of the marina would be excellent, even in the dim light.

I climbed aboard, climbed the ladder as if being chased, and reached a small platform where I could stand. Using all my senses, I felt, sniffed, listened and even tasted the air for anything out of place. My eyes darted to every corner where a person could hide. Once assured I was alone, at least for now, because there could be people sleeping inside the boat cabins, I almost relaxed.

The clouds thinned a little more and allowed the rising moon to send fingers of white light over the horizon. There were boats obviously too small, others too large, many were cruisers and fishing boats. While I didn’t know how long a thirty-five-footer was, there were dozens of the general size we wanted. I estimated ten steps is about twenty feet, so we needed something in the range of fifteen steps along the dock, as measured by my eyes.

Only one dock away from me a glint of light reflected off the roof of the cabin of a boat about the right size, if maybe a little larger. It was the kind of glint that a solar cell reflecting moonlight might make. While I couldn’t be sure that was what it was, I decided to investigate that boat. The reflected light could have come from chrome fittings, a sliding window like a sunroof, or plastic hatch, but it was about the right size boat, and I felt lucky.

I slithered down the ladder and leaped back to the dock in total silence. The docks were laid out like a giant E, only with more arms. An E with twenty crosspieces. To reach the boat I needed required me to run to the head of the dock I was on, down a ramp and up the next arm of the E.

My feet were light on the dock, and I was listening and feeling for the vibrations of other footsteps on the dark metal docks. I paused at the next section of the dock and planned my next move. A dart and a sprint took me to another place of concealment, or another shadow.

By now, I hoped Sue had paddled to the end of the breakwater. She must have seen me climb the mast of the large boat, so she knew to move off. I went down the arm of the dock I wanted and the third boat from the end. It was the one I wanted.

My heart pounded, my breath came in uncontrollable pants anyone close by would hear, but I remained alone. I stepped aboard and squatted. When nothing happened, I scooted to the front of the cabin and reached up to touch the roof. It covered in solar cells; a mat of thin plastic tied to the roof with small fasteners and Velcro. The entire roof seemed to be covered with them. In a splash of light from the moon, I saw my guess was right.

My eyes had adjusted to the dim light and I could almost make out details. I went to the rear of the boat and stepped into a shallow bathtub sort of area, surrounded by padded seats. A heavy canvass was folded on a seat, probably from where a workman had left it. A huge upright steering wheel stood in the center. I sat behind the wheel on a little stool attached to the floor, letting my eyes further adjust while my fingers groped until they found a square recess about four inches on each side.

There were chrome letters imprinted on the lid. I knelt and twisted and turned my head until a bit of light from the moon glinted on the letters. The bottom word said, start. Above it was, run. Then off. And above and to the left a bit, glow.

That told me the engine was diesel. Solar panels and a diesel engine. A single upright mast so the boat was not too large. And there had been no warning or sighting of me. The only thing that would have made it better was if there had been an ignition key in the slot near the four words. Just like a car, the sailboat needed a damn key to start it. Nobody had mentioned that.

I should have spent time on the internet researching how to hotwire a sailboat. Until I figured that out, the boat was not moving. I didn’t know how to sail, let alone spread one to catch the wind. My heart fell. I’d have to come back after solving the problem.

Wait.

If I had a boat and wanted to go out sailing on it, I wouldn’t want to get all the way to the marina and find I’d forgotten the key at home. I’d have a spare. The spare would be on the boat.

Inside the tub area, I went to the door or hatch to the inside and found a secure padlock holding it closed.

“Calm down,” I told myself. “You can always return tomorrow night. Now, think.”

The hasp was solid, not like those cheap ones you buy in hardware stores. The lock was the kind that was advertised as unbreakable. I circled the cabin on the little walkway that ran around the sides. I looked inside through the windows, but it was far too dark to make anything out but a few tiny pricks of light. The windows seemed like the kind that slid open, but they were all firmly locked on the inside.

The folded canvas on the seat gave me an idea. I went back picked it up. It was heavy, stained with dried paint splattered on it. At the side window of the cabin, I used the railing above it to hold the canvas in place while I refolded it to the right size and had six layers of canvas packed as tightly against the window as possible.

Planning ahead, I went to the dock again and made certain there were no locks or devices that would keep me from releasing the mooring ropes and pushing the boat free. I unwound the loops of rope on the dock cleats until only one or two remained and when I was ready, they could be undone in seconds. I disconnected the hose for water, and unplugged the electricity—although there was none, the heavy weatherproof cable was plugged into a unit on the dock.

Back on the boat, I waited, then gently pushed on the canvas cover over the window with my shoulder. Nothing happened. I pushed harder. Still nothing. So, I backed up and gave it a solid kick.

The window broke, but most of the noise was obscured and absorbed by the layers of canvas. A dull thump was followed by the muted tinkling of falling glass inside the cabin, and that was quickly lost in the rattles, thumps, bumps, and sloshes of the marina.

However, I waited, gun in hand, for what I hoped was ten minutes. Then, so I didn’t cut myself, I carefully broke the remaining glass from the frame. I rolled through the window and slipped inside to find myself on a sofa. My eyes adjusted and immediately found a little desk, complete with switches and the few tiny lights I’d already seen. My fumbling hand found the little drawer and pulled it out, hearing pencils rolling on the bottom.

I reached inside while my eyes searched the array of switches for a hook to hold a key. I touched a soft-rubber oval most boat owners have, and my fingers found three keys on the end. My heart was pounding. The foam thing kept the keys from sinking if they fell overboard. The ignition key had to be attached to it.

I went to the window and quickly climbed out and went back to the wheel. The second key went into the slot. I turned it to the on position, but not to start. It was the right key.

Now the fun began.

I turned the key to glow for the longest thirty seconds of my life. Then I turned it back to off. According to the old man, that warmed the cylinders for easier starting, although he said it is not needed on newer engines. No matter, if it made the engine start a tenth of a second quicker, that was good.

I knew how to squeeze the throttle handle to make it go into forward and reverse.

I wanted to sit and plan some more. I needed that reassurance. And I also knew that there is a time to plan and a time to act, like when I’d decided to grab the motorcycle and ride away with Sue. That had not been a desperate, unthought-of act. It was made because I’d thought about the future and the possibilities and that was the best choice at that time. It was just that I’d done the planning in a few seconds.

Action was the best thing for me now. I’d accomplished all we’d come for. Circumstances might be worse tomorrow. There is a time to take chances and react. I’d already done all the planning I could. What happened next was random and couldn’t be planned, no matter if I stole the boat tonight or tomorrow. Returning tomorrow or remaining on the boat tonight meant more chances that others scrounging, or exploring, or protecting, or whatever they were doing at the marina, would see or hear me.

My mind made up, I jumped to the dock and untied the bow rope, then ran to the stern and untied the other. The boat gently moved sideways from wind or current. I pushed it back barely clearing the space between it and the next craft, which was not much. Between the two actions, the boat finally went in the right direction. But it went there without me.

Only a leap an Olympian would envy prevented me from landing in the water as my ride floated away. I grabbed the railing after jumping and pulled myself aboard, while it continued to float away. Once onboard, I scrambled to the ignition key and turned it. The engine instantly caught.

The breeze and current were still pushing the boat. The stern of my boat was about to crash into the bow of another and that would wake everyone in the marina. I moved the throttle forward a little and the boat continued backing. The sound of crunching plastic, bending metal, and other ugly sounds spurred me to push the throttle more.

The hell with being quiet. The engine raced. I felt the boat surge ahead and looked up. Another boat was right in front of me, not twenty feet away! I spun the wheel and put the engine into reverse as the first shouts of alarm from the docks, maybe from other boats, sounded. I shoved the throttle the other way to slow us down.

The boat finally slowed before ramming the one in front, but it immediately started backing again, this time gaining speed quickly. I spun the wheel the other way and put it in forward. The way was clear. I gave it more throttle and damned if it didn’t more or less go where I wanted.

The boat scraped against one other but kept moving steadily ahead. I turned the wheel again and the boat was slow to react. We were going to hit the boats on the south side of the marina if I didn’t do something. I slammed it into reverse and turned the wheel the opposite way like trying to parallel park a car in a small space. The boat responded, and before it fully stopped and could begin backing us into something else, I pushed the throttle forward. Not all the way.

The boat moved ahead slowly, just as three or four men ran past me to the end dock where I’d have to pass right by them, and they would have clear shots at me. Of course, I intended to dive to the bottom of the bathtub area until past them, only looking up to steer if I had to.

One fired wildly, while still running. I had no idea where the shot went, but it alerted the world to my actions.

In return to that single shot, three well-spaced shots came from the darkness of the water outside the docks. Against my instructions, Sue had waited nearby, and those three shots had come from her. They were a surprise to all of us.

I chanced a look and found all three men who had been running to intercept me were now laying on the docks protecting themselves. One was crawling to the edge where he could fire at Sue. Maybe he could see her in the kayak. I fired three shots at him, waited a few seconds, then three more. He howled, or one of them did, as either one of my shots or one of Sue’s hit.

Immediately after that, the boat cleared the end dock and I needed to make the turn. The breakwater made of large concrete slabs was coming up fast. Using reverse would help me make the turn, but there was no way I’d slow down and present myself as a target to those still on the dock while the boat was almost standing still.

The men behind me were screaming and shouting as if I’d stolen their boat. They had hundreds more to choose from. I wanted to tell them that but was too busy spinning the wheel that was almost as tall as me. Instead of backing, I gave it more gas. Or diesel. But whichever, the boat seemed to turn better if the engine went faster.

I heard no more shots from behind me and I assumed the boat was out of range or hidden in the darkness. I imagined Sue was paddling fast enough to skim across the water, probably going faster than me. I almost smiled, then came to my senses.

My hand reached for the throttle and pulled it into neutral. The breakwater was well off to my right, the other docks or whatever was at least as far off to my left. The dock where I’d stolen the boat was a few hundred yards behind. I let the sailboat slow, putting it in gear only long enough to keep the bow pointed in the right direction.

The wind or tide kept turning me. I nudged the boat ahead twice more before hearing faint paddling noises. Sue pulled up to the rear and handed up her shotgun, then my rifle, and then the arm of a shirt.

“Hold onto that,” she ordered as she groped for a handhold on the sailboat.

Instead of climbing aboard, she reached down and grabbed the bow of her kayak and pulled. I belatedly helped her pull it aboard, then we did the same with the other that she’d tied with the shirtsleeve. Their bows were positioned down in the bathtub area near our feet, the rudders high above the cabin. Smart girl.

She wore only her bra. She untied the shirt as I pushed the handle forward and the sailboat gently eased ahead. The end of the breakwater came into view as a black mass on our right side that ended, and I maintained our course. The water depth worried me—or the lack of it after what the old man had told me. We went around the far end and out into Puget Sound. I kept the speed as slow as the engine would allow and when I judged we were miles from any land, I cut it.

“Damn, dude,” Sue hissed in my direction. “You did it!”

That said it all.