White Cargo

4

Cat dreamed. He dreamed heavy feet on deck, dreamed shouts, struggle, screams, strange laughter. Gunshots. In his dream there was light, but he could see nothing. Finally, the sounds went away. He retreated again into dark silence.

There was something cool, then he coughed, strangled, and came awake with the pain. He tried not to breathe; breathing hurt terribly. Then the strangling and coughing came again. There was a salty taste. Was he strangling on his own blood? Then he could see something, a word, sideways. Fuses. He knew that word, had written that word. Sideways. He hadn’t written it sideways.

His chest was a garden of pain, and he was swimming in and out of sharp consciousness. The bottom drawer under the chart table was marked “Fuses.” Salt water ran into his mouth, and he spat it out. He could not bear to cough again. Gingerly, he pulled an arm under him and lifted his head up and away from the water. A wave of nausea swept over him, but he kept pushing until his head and shoulder were propped against something and he could rest. He fought to remain conscious and orient himself. If he could see the drawers under the chart table, he was in the galley, his cheek pressed against the cupboard that supported the sink. There was an inch of water lapping at the bottom of the cupboard. That offended Cat. This boat had never had water over the floorboards, had never leaked a drop.

Where was Katie? Where was Jinx? The boat rocked gently, was silent; he felt absolutely alone. There was something he must do, he knew, if he could only remember. His eyes wandered over the navigation station a few feet away; their focus softened, then came back. Something orange. That was what he wanted. He struggled to think, then the orange thing came into his vision. Fastened to the cockpit bulkhead, just next to the companionway ladder. EPIRB. That was the word. What did those letters mean? He could never rattle them off, he always had to try hard to remember them.

Never mind. Don’t remember. Just get hold of the goddamned thing. He experimented with moving in ways that might not hurt. There weren’t any, as it turned out. He would have to move and hurt, too. He struggled until his back was against the cupboard, his knees pulled up. The trouble with moving was that it made him want to breathe, and breathing hurt.

Directly in front of him was the oilskin locker, and a yellow slicker dangled toward him. Why did it dangle toward him? It should hang straight down. The boat was listing forward, down by her bows, that was why. He got hold of the slicker with both hands. He would be able to do this only once, he was sure of that. Slowly, biting off groans, he pulled himself until his feet were under him, legs straight, knees locked. Then, for the first time, he saw the blood on his body. His chest was bright red, and his jeans soaked dark. Don’t think about that. Not now. First, EPIRB. What did those letters mean?

He could nearly reach out and touch it, two, three feet away, uphill. He would have to pull again. He didn’t want to pull anymore. He pulled on the slicker until he could rest against the oilskin locker, knees still locked, keeping him erect. He got an arm over the top rung of the companionway ladder and dragged himself sideways. He couldn’t hold on with his hands, couldn’t make a fist.

Now he could reach the EPIRB. He got a hand on it, but it was fastened into place by a steel band with a quick release clip. His fingers didn’t want to undo it. First, the switch. On. He could do that. He did. Now the clip. He pushed a finger under it. Like the pop top on a soft-drink can, he thought. He always had trouble with those. He pushed harder. God, it hurt, but it was almost a relief to have pain somewhere besides his chest. The clip moved, then suddenly released, letting the orange thing fall.

He was astonished that he caught it. He brought it close to his mouth, got the end of the tube thing in his mouth. What was the word? Didn’t matter. Pull, or it was all over. He couldn’t last much longer, he knew that. He bit the metal and straightened his arm. The chrome tube extended easily. Switch on, tube thing out. That was it. Very carefully, he reached up, over the companionway threshold, and set the EPIRB on the cockpit floor. There, done.

Katie and Jinx. They must be on deck. Oh, God, he could never make it into the cockpit; no strength left. Still, he must. Just like pulling on the slicker, he had to do it all at once. He did it, and his body vomited, to show its disapproval. He lay on the cockpit floor, in the thick puddle of his last night’s dinner, and tried not to pant, because panting hurt so much.

Soon, to his surprise, he was able to push himself into a sitting position. Something hurt his back, and he moved it. The EPIRB. He placed it on a cockpit seat and watched the little red light flash on and off for a while. He had to look on deck for Katie and Jinx, so he managed to get to his knees, facing the companionway. They were not on deck. Gone. Those people had taken them. Why? He sagged back on his heels and gazed stupidly into the cabin.

First, he saw the water, and there was more than an inch of it. Catbird was sinking by the bows, and the forepeak was already flooded.

What he saw next he saw only for an instant, less than a second, before he clamped his eyes shut, willing the sight to leave his memory. He turned away and curled into a fetal ball on the cockpit sole, making whimpering noises, trying to erase just that one, brief glimpse of a scene that would haunt him forever. He could not forget. His brain projected the image onto the inside of his eyelids, burned it permanently into place where he could not ignore it. Katie, lying on her back on the port settee, her nightshirt pushed up around her shoulders, her breasts bared. Her head jammed against the forward bulkhead at an odd angle, and her mouth open. Her face streaked with blood from her mouth that streamed in dried clots down the bulkhead until it met the rising water. There was not the slightest hope in his heart that she was not dead.

Jinx, facedown, naked, on the saloon table, her feet toward him, her face, thank God, turned away. The back of her head pulp. Her legs open, blood in her crotch and on the backs of her thighs. On her left buttock, clearly imprinted on skin kept white by bikinis, a large handprint. Not hers, the angle was wrong. Handprint of someone standing behind her. Handprint in her blood.

He stared up at the sky, wanting unconsciousness, but it would not come, not yet. His mind groped for something else to think about, something to blot out what he had seen.

EPIRB. What did those goddamned letters mean? Let’s see, yes, almost; got it! Emergency Position Indicator Radio Beacon!

But what did the words mean? He could not think anymore. He gave himself, gratefully, to the rising red and blackness.