The Holocaust Engine, page 9
Reagan twisted in his seat to look at where the Strattons sat, Mary and Krissy pressed against Charles, whose head was down. “You guys wait here.”
Mary looked as if about to say something, but only nodded.
A woman answered the door. She looked nearly fifty, her hair tight-cropped brown curls, her leathery face knotted in a look of suspicion. She wore a yellow raincoat over a paisley nightgown, and appraised at each of them up and down in turn. “Get inside.”
They followed her down the hallway at a respectful distance.
Two young men sat on a tweed sofa, both with guns—one a rifle, the other a shotgun propped up against the sofa. The one with the rifle was spooning beans out of a can, while the other nursed a beer. Neither one bothered to look up for very long.
The woman stopped suddenly.
Reagan stood at the mouth of the hallway with Spade in front of him, walls close on either side. If he had to move, his only escape would be back out the front door.
“I hardly got any sleep last night with all the noise,” said the woman, her voice a chain-smoker’s growl. “You ready for another crossing, Spade?”
“Yes, Momma.”
She looked over at Reagan with a little sneer that was somehow both a flirtation and a warning.
“So, this is it?”
Reagan lifted his gaze from the floor. “Sure is, Momma.”
“You not even gonna let me meet this little family of yours?”
“No, Momma. We’re a little pressed for time.”
Her smile showed yellowed teeth. “Rude. You’re a rude boy, Reagan.”
Reagan reached into the front of his waistband. He pulled out his pistol. From a pocket he drew the spare clip. “Two left in the mag. Nine more in the extra clip.”
“I’m supposed to accept this as your payment?”
“That and...” Reagan met her withering gaze flush on. His smile was both a flirtation and a warning.
“... And you not beating the shit out of any more of my boys. No, I get it. Rude boy.”
The two toughs on the sofa were now glaring up at him.
“You’re lucky you’re so God damn good looking. What do you think boys?” she called over a shoulder. “Do I have a shot?”
Her boys laughed momentarily. The one with the can of beans returned to his breakfast.
“Get him on his way, Spade.” Her voice was not angry. Even so, Reagan took his first three steps backwards before turning his back on the one they all called Momma Chic.
The street ended just north of the Marina. What had once been the marina. There had only been four boats left at the dock. Nnone of them serviceable. Still, the military took no chance that any of them would ever become that way again. At 1:30 that morning, rockets had destroyed the four boats and one of the buildings. All of the wrecks and part of the pier still smoldered. No one had come to put out the fires. The building fire had jumped to a neighbor overnight, since Reagan had first run to the sight and surveyed the damage. Both now billowed thick black smoke. In the distance, the water ended in a cloud of soot, like the crossing from some ancient Greek myth.
Perfect.
There was no sand at the water’s edge, the shoreline here a rough concourse of rocks and mangroves. Spade and Reagan got down on their knees and crawled to a mangrove stand more sparsely limbed than the others.
The girls helped Charles onto his knees, which took over a minute. The elder Stratton moved like a marionette with one of its strings broken. When he finally got down, he flinched at the touch of the gravel. His face flashed discomfort and something else.
“Is he okay?” Reagan asked.
“Not really,” said Krissy, her tone bitter and sardonic.
“We’ll be all right,” said Mary. “We’re going to take it slow. I’m worried about the water.”
The wind had started to pick up. For long seconds at a time, Reagan could now see the other side of the channel. He turned to Spade. “We push the raft out a few feet, and give the family time to crawl under.”
Spade nodded, smiled, then reached out to the thin mangrove stand, grabbed a branch, and pushed the entire knot of limbs out into the water. He then grasped a limb in each hand and slid down, his back rubbing against the rocks as legs, torso, head, and lastly hands disappeared beneath the leaves and branches.
Reagan checked the knot he had tied into the garbage sack one more time. Then he started into to the water and turned. “I’m going to be in the front. Krissy, we’re going to lift the raft. When we do, you get under quick. We’ll guide you into your spot. Mary, you’re coming last with Charles. We’ll give you two a few moments to get used to the water. Okay, Spade?”
“You’re the boss,” answered a muffled voice from the center the mangrove raft.
“When you guys are ready, say the word, and we’ll lift up the raft again. You’ll have to move fast. We don’t want to leave any part of this thing out of the water for more than a few seconds.” Reagan looked over to where the ominous section of demolished bridge would be if it were not obscured by smoke.
“C’mon,” he said to himself. “Just a few more minutes.”
Reagan slid down over the rocks, down into the cool water, and onto the bed of turtle grass that covered the shallows. He felt his way under the rear inner tubes, then worked his way into a squat, until his head touched the chicken wire. He floated the garbage bag into a tube in front of him. The mesh of wire had been bent out above the tubes, giving just enough room for Reagan to look through the collection of cut limbs jutting out of the wire.
Spade moved around a limb so that one eye and half a smile became visible. He flashed a thumbs-up.
They moved in unison, lifting.
Reagan said, “Krissy, go.”
She felt the water with a foot. “This is dumb. This is so dumb.”
“Just get in.”
She took two steps, then splashed in up to her waist
Reagan propped up the back, then grabbed her arm and pulled her down.
She sputtered water when her face appeared inches away from his. “Jesus, Cas.”
He paid no attention. “Gentle, gentle,” he said to Spade.
They set the rear tubes back on the water.
“Think of it like school,” he said without looking at her. “You’re sneaking out with the girls. It’ll be an adventure. Just like sneaking out with the girls.”
Back on shore, Mary helped her husband into the water.
Krissy looked on the edge of tears. “I think you’re lying.”
“Lying? What would I be lying about?”
“You don’t sound like you’re....” Her face curled up, disgust punctured with fear. “...sneaking out. You sound like this is dangerous. Really dangerous.”
“Of course, it is. We don’t want to get caught.”
“They shoot people, Cas.” She almost spat the words. “Everybody in the hospital talks about it. People are dying trying to get off the island.”
“Hey, Reagan—”
“They shoot at boats that don’t stop when they order them, Krissy. That’s what you’ve been hearing. If they find us, we give up. We stop. They won’t shoot if we stop.”
“Reagan—”
“But they won’t find us. This thing looks just like a clump of mangrove to the spotters. We go slow, and they’ll never even—”
Spade kicked him.
Reagan turned to see Mary and Charles up to their chests in the water, with Mary urging Charles farther and Charles flinching at the raft—the raft and the water. Even the pressure of Mary’s grip seemed to send him into a panic.
“He’s okay,” Mary reassured. She whispered into his ear, and he settled noticeably. After a moment, they moved again.
Reagan and spade lifted the raft, and Reagan pulled at Krissy. “Closer to me. Leave her back there with your dad.”
When they were all in, Reagan said, “Okay, everyone, just hold on to your tube and lift your feet. It’s real shallow through here. Most places you can touch bottom, but in a few spots it’s a little deeper. Just keep your feet up. Remember to keep your noses just above the water. Spade and I will do all the swimming.”
Even in the front, Reagan could hear Charles breathing. “It’s only a few hundred feet, but we can’t go too fast. If Spade and I stop, just try and be quiet. There’s a pair of poles running through the mesh. We’ll take them out and dig them into the bottom to keep the raft still. Just do what we say. It’ll turn out all right.”
When Reagan pushed up onto his toes, Spade began to paddle with one arm. Shortly after that, the two started to paddle in unison.
“I’m cold,” Charles said.
“A little loud back there,” Reagan hissed. “Mary?”
“We’re okay.” Then she said to her husband, “Sweetie, we’re okay. We are.”
The water grew deep, and Reagan paddled... slowly—a few seconds, and a powerful stroke with one arm. The raft drifted toward open water, and after a few more seconds, another stroke.
“I’m cold,” Charles said again.
“Mary?”
“He’s having trouble holding on. We’ll be okay when we get him out of the water.”
“I hate this,” Krissy said in a fevered whisper. “This stupid thing feels like a coffin.”
“Quiet down, Sweetie,” Mary said.
“Spade,” Reagan called out. “Speed up. We gotta take the chance. With me... faster.”
Spade’s smile wavered. “This ain’t nothin’,” he whispered loudly to the Strattons. “We took three kids over with us yesterday. Kids! They was just children. You guys shouldn’t worry.”
The whole raft bucked, and Reagan and Spade stopped paddling.
Charles disappeared under the water, and Mary stifled a cry. When he reappeared a second later, he took in great breaths as if he’d been drowning. Mary struggled to support him while holding her tube. “Reagan. Oh, Reagan! I think he’s going into shock.”
“What do we do?” Spade said.
Reagan motioned Spade for silence.
“She says he’s going in to shock.”
Reagan watched as Charles, breathing jackhammer breaths, looked at his surrounding as if seeing it for the first time. Stratton’s eyes narrowed and the skin around his nose pulled tight. For a moment, it looked like a wince, and then the older man bared his teeth.
“That’s not shock,” Reagan said.
“We gotta do something,” said Spade, his voice high-pitched with fear. “We ain’t even halfway and this whole thing is shaking.”
“Take them back.”
“They’re going to see, even with the smoke. They got drones and shit!”
“Take them back!”
“What?”
“Get them out of here.” Reagan grabbed Spade’s arm and snarled, “Get them back to shore.”
“We won’t make it. They’re going to be on us if he keeps this up. We got to get that guy to stop thrashing.”
“Like hell, they will. Mary,” Reagan called out. “Mary, Spade is going to take you and Krissy back. Charles will be with me.”
Spade craned his head to the water like an Indian in an old western listening to dirt for the sounds of approaching horses. When he spoke, his voice was pure fear. “I hear something. I think it’s a motor. I think it’s a motor!”
“If you hear shooting,” Reagan said, “ditch the raft and make them swim for it.”
“Reagan—”
“Stay with them. Now!” Reagan turned on Spade, his eyes filled with rage. “Move!”
Then Reagan went under. With a single thrust he shot into Charles Stratton legs, clutched the man’s ankles savagely,and ripped him down into the water. Even submerged, he could hear Mary shout. He spun the flailing man’s body around and dug both hands into his throat. When they touched the bottom, Reagan thrust up and back with both legs, driving them to the surface on the far side, outside the raft. He swam them both to a large copse of mangroves in the channel, the sounds inside the raft growing weaker. The entire way, Charles clawed at him with fingernails. Still twenty feet from the shelter of the mangroves, but now able to stand, Reagan spun him around, face to maddened face.
“I’m going to kill you, boy! I’m going to fucking kill you!”
Reagan simply clenched his teeth as hands that had laid brick for the last eight years squeezed.
Stratton’s face turned bright red and his eyes grew fish-large.
Reagan backpedaled the both of them up to the mangroves. When the water was waist high, he lifted Stratton up out of the water and said in voice that was steadied and resolved, “You lying sack of shit.” He gave Stratton enough of his throat to breathe.
The man gasped for precious air as, still thrashing, his movements began to slow. Part of his mind seemed to be considering his options but gave no answer.
Reagan gazed at him fiercely. “How many times did we talk about this? How many?”
Stratton turned his eyes to the water, and pulled his arm in to his chest around his bandages. “I’m not infected,” he said, the emotion draining out of his words. “I just need to get out of this water.”
“Not infected. Your memory is going. You know it. That’s why you don’t want to talk. That’s why you haven’t said two words these last couple of days. It’s not your breath. It’s not the lung. Your mind is going, and you don’t want to give it away.”
“I need a hospital.”
“You need a fucking firing squad!” Reagan nodded viscously to the raft. “That’s your family, asshole. You put them both at risk. You might have just gotten them killed!”
“You don’t know what’s wrong with me. You don’t know what I have. I don’t feel... I don’t feel....”
“What? Sick?” Reagan could hear a motor in the distance, steadily growing louder. “That’s how this thing works. It starts slow. Then you’re like a ninety-year-old who doesn’t know what day it is. You’re walking around one minute trying to remember what you were doing, and then out of nowhere something flips a switch and you’re in kill mode.”
Charles shook his head. “Not me.” He looked Reagan straight in the eyes. “I was going to tell them when I was sure, after we made it out—after I wouldn’t be strapped down in that little room with the others on this damn island. I was going to protect them.” He shook his head again. “Get to a real hospital. I didn’t lie. Not really.”
Now, through the smoky air, the boat’s engine grew louder.
“Real hospital, huh? You can’t buy you’re way out of a plague, Stratton.” Reagan looked in all directions, frantic. “We’re out of time. Act like you’re drowning. I’m going to pretend to save you. I don’t know if they’ll buy it or not—”
Charles Stratton’s lips puckered and he started to cry. “Let me go.”
Reagan laughed bitterly. “C’mon. Where you gonna go, Chuck?”
“Trust me,” he said softly.
Reagan considered him, his face lucid, and, with absolutely nothing to lose, Reagan set him on his feet.
Charles gently pushed Reagan’s hands away and began backing into the water. “You’re wrong about me.” His chest disappeared into the water. “Whatever you think of me—” He raised his hands in appeal, his shirt puffing out with water as it rose to his neck. “—I’m not a monster.”
And then he swam away towards the far shore, his strokes slow at first, then faster, then slapping at the water with his hands, smacking down on the surface, drawing up little fountains with each strike.
A nearby voice rang out from the other side of the mangroves. “There!”
Sharp realization Struck, and Reagan filled his lungs, his throat, his cheeks, and dove.
He fought against panic, maintaining steady strokes. He could hold his breath and swim for over a minute. He’d done it a hundred times. This was just another breathing exercise.
Steady strokes.
He told himself it was not his lungs burning from lack of oxygen, it was just his mind.
The water shook. High-caliber bullets pulsed through the channel with one tiny shockwave after another. He surfaced, gulped some air, and the current carried him down toward open water. He caught a quick glimpse of the shore, and went back down. He needed to reach the gap and get to the girls, to get them to cover.
Mangrove roots.
He pulled himself hand over hand around the stand of roots. More shots came and the water quivered ahead of him.
They’re shooting at the girls!
Reagan dug his hands into the bottom of the channel and came up with a stone. He could see the boat, so he gulped air and threw with all his strength.
The heavy gun spun toward him. In front of where he stood, not even waist-deep, bullets connected with water. Each strike sent up a shaft ten feet into the air, and a line of columns streaked towards him.
He dove again as the water quaked all around.
Steady strokes.
More shots, but these were farther behind.
Charles?
Then he felt a long stream of continuous gunfire, all of it near the boat.
What the hell?
He ran the last of the distance up to the gap. With legs driving and water splashing off his body, he turned and dove behind the shoreline mangroves. He could see the raft drifting down the channel. The car started, and Mary ran to him. When they met, he brought her low, but the shooting had stopped.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came. Then, “She’s shot.”
They ran slumped-over back to the car.
“Where?” he said.
“She in back,” Spade said.
“No... where’s she hit?”
“H-head.”
“Oh Christ.”
Reagan threw open the door. A headshot from the boat’s big gun would turn a pretty girl into a hideous corpse.
“We were crawling up the bank,” Mary said through tears. “She turned around, tried to get the sack from out of the water.”
Krissy lay across the back seat, the right side of her face covered in blood, hair stuck to the wound. Reagan looked a question. Her head was still intact. No way did this come from the mounted gun. Maybe it wasn’t even a bullet.
