

### The Island

Part 2

by

Michael R. Stark

PUBLISHED BY: Michael R. Stark on Smashwords

The Island - Part 2

Copyright © 2012 by Michael R. Stark

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced without the author's written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Chapter VI - Stranded

I brought _Angel_ in and tied her alongside the dock. Fears of clashes with tour boats had faded with news of the ban. Any craft within miles would be headed to a real port: Ocracoke, Hatteras, or south to Wilmington. With fenders in place to keep her from rubbing against the heavy wooden pilings, I set about getting ready for nightfall.

Elsie and Daniel could use the bunks aboard the boat. "Bunk" might have been an exaggerated term for what amounted to four inches of foam rubber laid over plywood. Still, I doubted either would be complaining by morning. I knew what it felt like to sleep aboard with water lapping at the sides and _Angel_ rocking gently. The effect went beyond soothing and ventured into the land of the comatose. I'd probably have to drag them both out of bed come daylight.

I stretched a tarp across the back, using the boom to make a tent over the exposed cockpit. The skies looked clear enough. The wind had picked up a bit too, meaning no dew-covered seats to dry with the backside of my pants. Not that I made a habit of drying seats that way. It's just the way life worked. No matter how much I dried them with something else, my rear ended up cold and wet. The tarp would rectify that problem. The makeshift shelter would also act as a wind-break and keep the cabin a bit warmer.

Once I had the boat secure, I dug the tent from a locker and headed for the shore. A quick search along the undergrowth at the edge of the beach revealed the small opening that Joshua and the girl had used earlier. I eyed the break suspiciously and poked around the twisted mass of dead wood and weeds. The entire shoreline looked like a perfect haven for rattlesnakes and copperheads. I might have come to the island expecting to die, but I didn't want to do it with a pair of holes gouged into my leg and my skin rotting off.

Inside, the path led through a thicket of brush and pine, rising gently for about twenty yards. Thick, hairy vines wrapped around many of the trees. The same plant, poison ivy, also grew as a shrub underfoot. I gritted my teeth and stepped inside, edging along a tiny walkway that looked more game-trail than footpath.

I emerged into a long, wide clearing, ringed by trees and carpeted with grass that looked more like a lawn than a field. Here and there, aggressive and fast-growing weeds popped up thin, reedy heads, but for the most part, the grass rose only a few inches high. Had anyone asked me to describe the place with one word, I'd have chosen glade. Most of the clearing lay in cool shade with the dying sun dappling the far end in wide swaths of golden light. Trees loomed again in the distance, but spaced far apart and devoid of the tangled growth along the beach. Nestled in a little green nook on the left side, gravestones cast long thin shadows across the grass. Unlike modern cemeteries where the tombstones stood in perfectly aligned rows, these jutted from the ground like old and crooked teeth. A few had surrendered to time and wind and collapsed. Others leaned at crazy angles as if threatening to join their fallen brothers.

Like the town, the graveyard had been abandoned, and it showed.

Wonderful.

Not only did I get to sleep on the ground, I'd also have the pleasure of sleeping next to the dead.

The thought of eating dinner near the old cemetery carried even less appeal. I had no idea where the center of the old town might be, but given the size of the island, it couldn't be far.

I made short work of the tent, placing it at the edge of the sandy soil between grass and trees and set about gathering firewood. The task proved easy enough. A past storm or series of them had washed tons of debris and deadwood up into the twisted tangle of trees and vines just up from the shore. I dragged in large branches, even parts of trees snapped in half by wind or water.

By the time I'd finished, the sun had drifted low on the western horizon. Cool air settled in as the shadows grew. The bite in the wind carried the promise of a chilly, if not cold night to come. Elsie and Daniel passed by at one point, on their way across the opening to the graveyard. I let them go and worked on clearing debris away from a sandy spot I intended to use for the fire. Half an hour later when they came strolling back, I had a small but warm blaze crackling and popping. Both looked cold. I waved an invitation toward the fire, but the old woman declined with a shake of her head.

When the flames died down, I scooped sand over the coals to keep them from blowing sparks into the nearby brush. After the meeting, I figured I could rake the sand away, toss on a new batch of firewood and have a roaring fire going in a fraction of the time it would take to build a new one from scratch. Satisfied that the camp was as secure and comfortable as I could make it, I headed back to the dock to both hunt out a jacket and gather up Elsie and Daniel.

To my surprise, the old woman had put together a veritable feast, with the left-over ham from lunch serving as the main course. She'd stirred up a huge bowl of potato salad to go with it. A pot full of green beans sat next to it. Behind the ham lay a plastic grocery bag half full of freshly baked bread.

I looked at the pile of food sitting in the cockpit and grinned.

"I had more down there than you thought, didn't I?"

She snorted.

"You got a mess down there. That's what you have. I've never seen stuff thrown around with such carelessness. One thing you are not, Hill William, is organized."

I ignored the comment and pointed to the bread.

"Never mind where you found the stuff to make that. _How_ did you make it? The whole cooking arrangement on this boat is a two-burner stove."

She rolled her eyes.

"See? That's what I'm talking about. Do you even know what a Dutch oven is?"

"A big pot with three legs," I countered.

"Do you know how to use one?"

I scratched my head. She had me there, even though I didn't want to admit it.

The grin of triumph on her face didn't last long. A scowl slid in to replace it. She wagged a bony finger at me.

"You need to do something about your bathroom facilities."

The last word came out in exaggerated syllables like fa-cil-i-ties, all of them delivered with Elsie's gray eyes glaring at me over the edge of her spectacles.

"I quit squattin' a long time ago, Mr. Hill."

"I wasn't expecting anyone on this trip to be squatting anywhere," I shot back.

"That's 'cause you're a man," she said smugly. "Men never think of anyone but themselves—like this ham. You might be fine sitting around a fire gorging on a piece of meat, but most people want a bit of fixins. And most of them don't want to crawl in a little corner to do their business either."

I opened my mouth and then promptly closed it. I'd seen how Elsie stood up to Dwight Little, using nothing more than that little finger and sharp tongue to turn a monster of a man shaking with anger into one chastised and sulking. I had no desire to end up feeling like a schoolboy again.

Daniel stood behind her. He actually looked like he might grin. I wrinkled my nose at him and gathered up as much of the food as I could carry. Ham in one hand, potato salad and bread in the other, I glanced at the boy and motioned toward the seat locker next to me.

"Grab a flashlight out of there. We'll need it coming back."

I led them up the path, through the thicket, and past my camp. Elsie noted the huge pile of wood I'd dragged in next to the tent. A thin wisp of smoke drifted up from the sand.

"It sure looks like _someone_ is planning on staying warm tonight," she said and shot me another glaring look.

I took a deep breath, glanced up at a star forming in the darkening sky, and wondered what I'd done to get on her bad side.

Finding the others proved easy. A huge fire blazed in the middle of what turned out to be little more than a loose collection of buildings. Calling the place a town implied streets, sidewalks, signs—at least in my mind it did. Calling it a ghost town drew those same thoughts into images straight out of TV westerns. I half-expected to see hitching rails, a saloon with a weather-beaten sign creaking in the wind, even sage brush rolling down a dusty road.

In that manner, Portsmouth came off a bit disappointing. The buildings were spaced a good distance from each other. Hard-packed, sandy lanes ran between them. Too narrow to call streets, too wide to call paths, they stood out like white veins against a wide open expanse of carefully clipped grass and perfectly pruned trees. The entire village carried the same landscaped feel to it with white picket fences sectioning off yards and massive oaks dripping Spanish moss. Even with architecture a century old, the structures stood straighter and probably cleaner than the days when Portsmouth actually had residents.

The place looked like a museum, which it was. The Park Service and local historic groups not only kept up with the maintenance, but also watched over the old village during the summer months. The town carried what had to be the only ban on the entire island. Campers could set up a tent virtually anywhere on Portsmouth except here, among houses built in an era when people lived simply and the ocean both gave and took life.

I winced when I saw the fire. Any other time, any other night, the meeting might conjure up a park ranger with a scowl on his face and a ticket book in hand. Hell, he might have even brought handcuffs.

Nine figures moved behind the dancing flames. In the dwindling light, it took a bit to find the familiar faces of the two who'd greeted me at the beach. Joshua and the girl stood on the opposite side of the fire. Both had donned heavier, warmer clothing.

Although the meeting had evidently been planned as a social gathering, the people attending still segregated themselves into two distinct groups. Two other couples lingered near Joshua and the girl. Several feet away, two men and a woman sat in camp chairs pulled up close together. Looking at them, I felt old. While forty-two wasn't exactly over the hill, the rest looked closer to mid-twenties at best. I glanced at Elsie, wondering if she felt like a school teacher greeting her new kindergarten class.

Joshua waved. He seemed big on waving. I decided to humor him and waved back. He detached himself from his group and came around the fire. I introduced him to Elsie and Daniel.

She took one look at him and put her hands on her hips. "Joshua, now that's a fine Bible name. But I have to say, you look more like Moses to me."

He laughed and began his own introductions.

The girl who accompanied him at the beach still wore her ponytail. She was pretty in a hard kind of way. I don't mean that as jaded. The woman carried virtually no extra weight on her, leaving her face angular instead of rounded. She reminded me of a workout and diet guru, the kind of person who always fussed over extra calories and wanted to lose another ten pounds. Her name turned out to be Denise Marten.

The two men with them came across as different as two people could be. One was short, thin enough to be counted among the anorexic, and sported the kind of features a graphic artist would love—high cheekbones and a nose carved so sharp that half his face glowed in the firelight while the other half dwelt in the land of shadows. Joshua called him Devon.

The other man stood half a foot taller and weighed at least a hundred pounds more. Joshua introduced him as Keith. He looked soft and out of shape. Where Devon came across as brooding and jittery, Keith could have doubled as Santa at Christmas. All he needed was a big white beard. He already had the belly and the kind smile.

He introduced the other two women as Kate and Jessie. Kate stood taller, had shoulder-length blonde hair and calculating eyes. She offered a trite smile when I nodded. Jessie's hair draped down across her shoulders, longer and darker, and kept straying across her face in a wild, windblown tangle. She didn't smile. She grinned at me, and then hugged both Elsie and Daniel. The gesture looked genuine, not plastic or faked. Somewhere in the middle of mentally sorting her between the touchy-feely category and its flipside, people who spread hugs and smiles from an internal need to be accepted, Elsie settled the dilemma for me.

She turned and breathed a soft whisper.

"That's a good girl right there."

The final three sat in folding camp chairs eight or ten feet away. They neither rose nor stopped working at the edges of pouches I assumed contained dinner. A woman sat in the middle. She wore her dark hair short, squared off above her eyes in a style that reminded me of pageboys. She looked up, big eyes brightening. A wide smile slid across her face as she waved a plastic knife.

"I'm Kelly," she said and pointed left then right. "That's Zack, this is Tyler."

Tyler looked up through a mop of dark hair. Describing his position as sitting stretched the term considerably. He looked more like he was trying to lie in the chair, with his ass perched so far forward it nearly hung off the front. Six inches of underwear lay bare above the top of his jeans.

"S'up?" he asked.

"Go ahead," I replied.

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

I sighed, not wanting to start off on the wrong foot with anyone. Tyler, though, invited the worst in me.

"To sup is to eat," I told him. "Like I said, go ahead."

I turned to Elsie before he could say anything else.

"Want to spread out here? I didn't think to bring a tarp so I guess we'll be sitting on the grass."

Given her earlier mood, I expected a sharp retort, something reminding me again that I was male and rarely thought of others. Instead, she smiled sweetly, her eyes full of humor.

"Yes, this will do," she said and glanced toward Tyler. "I wouldn't mind getting about the business of supping myself."

Elsie's dinner drew appraising looks from around the fire. I could understand why. The kayakers looked to be dining on military-surplus MREs—Meal's Ready to Eat. The spread in front of Joshua's crowd appeared equally skimpy and ill-tasting with the bulk of it consisting of packets of dried noodles and soup.

"She cooked enough for everyone," I said. "Save your packages. This stuff will go to waste if it's not eaten tonight.

I didn't have to offer twice. Faced with sterile, freeze-dried food that would take rehydrating to be edible and a cast-iron stomach to be palatable, it didn't take long for the line to form. I handed out thick slices of ham. Elsie scooped out large portions of beans and potato salad. Daniel even chipped in, handing out chunks of fresh bread.

I could have just as easily passed out magic beans, with Friendly Potion Number 9 stamped on the side. Elsie accomplished something that evening much stronger and longer lasting than filling empty bellies with good food. She single-handedly tore down the walls that exist between strangers and erased the strain of meeting people for the first time. She did it, not with her wit, nor her sharp tongue, but with an afternoon of cooking and baking that provided the first common ground between us. Even the sudden tension I'd managed to build between myself, Tyler, and his drooping pants vanished quickly.

What began as three well-defined groups occupying their own space, rapidly devolved into something more akin to a welcoming dinner. Conversation ebbed and flowed, becoming as infectious as the disease we feared. Laughter punctuated the deepening night like exclamation points scattered across a written page. Personalities emerged as tensions faded. Devon who'd seemed gloomy and withdrawn earlier, turned out to be the comic of the group, rising at one point to dance a jig around the remains of the ham before falling to his knees to worship the gods of Pork and Salt.

Joshua, who surprised me on the beach earlier, increasingly came across as quiet and introspective. Kelly, the lone girl in the group of kayakers, proved adept at extracting details out of people without coming across as prying. Once they discovered that Elsie had grown up on the island, she swiftly became the focal point of dozens of questions, and kept the group enthralled with tales that stirred life into a museum constructed of houses too clean, too pretty, and too empty.

Colder air settled in as the evening progressed. Light winds dominated most of the trip across the sound, but by the time plates were empty and bellies were full, the breeze had freshened, coming stronger out of the north. The fire danced and billowed, casting wavering shadows across a nearby cottage. As the wind grew, people shifted closer to the blaze, seeking warmth and reassurance from the flickering flames.

At a lull in the conversation, Joshua stood up and stretched. He looked like a caveman in the firelight with his long, tangled hair and dark beard.. He and the ponytail girl didn't fit as a couple. He seemed like he could be happy with a club and a couple of furs for clothes. She looked as if tolerating the situation was the best she could manage.

The two who appeared most at odds were Devon and Kate. She stood two inches taller than him and sat slightly apart from the rest as if creating space between herself and the commoners. She rarely spoke. When she did, her sentences came across as aloof and detached. Devon on the other hand, bounced back and forth between party animal and brooding loner. Try as I might, I couldn't piece together the spark that brought them together, much less held them together.

"We're staying here tomorrow. None of us live close enough to get home before the ban hits," Joshua said. Firelight played across his features carving out impressions in light and shadow. "We talked it over earlier and think we'll be evacuated at some point. They can't leave us here."

I poked at the fire with a stick.

"Elsie and Daniel live just across the sound. I'm taking them home in the morning. I should be back by tomorrow afternoon."

I looked up and waved the glowing end of the stick. "I doubt I will come back here though. I'll probably poke around the back side of the island and find a place to hunker down for a while."

No one said anything. Denise shot a questioning look at Joshua.

I sighed and tossed the bit of wood into the fire.

"I'd planned on coming here, and staying here. I'm not stuck. In fact, I'm pretty much where I want to be," I said in a flat voice. "I'm not a doctor, but I lived with a nurse for a long time. This disease is spreading fast and killing as it goes. I didn't come here to escape. I came here to spend what might be my last days doing something I enjoy."

I leaned back.

"I had asthma as a kid. I'm a sucker for any type of respiratory infection."

The sudden silence that followed grew uncomfortably long.

"We're leaving in the morning too," Kelly said finally. "All three of us are from Virginia. We left our truck parked on Hatteras. We're hoping we can make it to the Cape by eight o'clock. Even if the cops shut down travel exactly at noon, we'll be close to home."

She glanced from face to face.

"Has anyone heard the latest news?"

Elsie cleared her throat.

"I had the radio on while I was cooking."

She hesitated and looked at the boy beside her.

The sudden thought struck me that she didn't want him to hear what she was about to say. I rose and motioned toward him.

"Come on Daniel. Let's go check out some of these old houses."

The old woman reached out and pulled him close.

"It's okay, Hill William. He was there. He's heard it already. It's just sad."

She put her arms around his thin shoulders.

"I turned it on for the music. I couldn't find any. Every station had nothing but news. They're saying that The Fever is spreading too fast to contain. It's in every state now, even Alaska and Hawaii. The announcer said that new estimates put the death toll by morning between five and ten thousand."

Her voice trailed off into stunned silence. I sat down as abruptly as I'd risen. Everyone, including me, had thought it would take weeks for the disease to migrate that far.

"The hospitals are in trouble. The infection control procedures aren't working. Doctors and nurses are coming down with it faster than the general public," she continued. "Not everyone is dying from it. About 40 percent survive if they get good care. That's the problem though. There are too many sick people."

"This morning we heard a thousand dead by nightfall, not five to ten thousand," Denise blurted out. "Where are they coming up with these numbers?"

Elsie lifted weary shoulders.

"I don't know. The announcer said we were playing catch-up."

"What the hell does that mean?" Devon said in a sharp voice. I glanced over at him and stifled the sudden urge to step between them. He could question the reports all he wanted, but he was not going to curse her in the process.

"It means two things," I said and ticked them off on my fingers. "One, the reports are an estimate. No one knows how many are actually dying."

I let that sink in before I stuck up finger number two. "Second, people have been ill and didn't know it. You don't catch a bug in the morning and end up sick by afternoon with most diseases. There's an incubation period where it multiplies. By the time you start feeling bad, your body is swarming with the infection."

Elsie looked old in the firelight. The flames highlighted the deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and cast her face in shadows that left her looking gaunt and tired.

"They revised that today," she said quietly.

I shot her a surprised look.

"They said it could manifest symptoms in three to four days. That's down from a week to ten days. They said the Fever is evolving."

She looked at Joshua. "I don't think you'll be evacuated, at least not for a while. Police, fire and rescue, they're expected to be swamped trying to enforce the ban. They're not talking detention. They're saying that anyone violating the travel ban could be treated as a mass murderer."

I gave the old woman a sideways glance. She caught my eye and looked puzzled. I shook my head and turned back to the fire, mentally chalking up another note about Elsie Morgan. Most of the day she'd talked like a grandma who'd never made it out of the flatlands. The words she had just spoken could have come from an English professor.

"What does that mean?" Kelly broke in.

Elsie turned her attention to the younger woman. "It means if you can't get home by tomorrow noon, you might get shot for trying."

Tyler wiped hair from his eyes.

"You can't be serious."

Elsie nodded. "I am. It's not official policy and groups are already threatening lawsuits, but the announcer said noon tomorrow, people better stop wherever they are until they see how the ban is going to be enforced."

She glanced around the fire. "At minimum, you're looking at jail time."

Jessie, the girl who'd brimmed with hugs and smiles earlier, shuddered and burrowed deeper in her jacket. Her voice sounded small and scared when she spoke.

"Well, they can't just leave us here, can they?"

Elsie shrugged. "I don't think they know you're out here. If they do, I think they have bigger things to worry about than a few people stuck on an island."

Wind tugged at the tight bun behind the old woman's head as if trying to force the gray locks to come out and play. Firelight danced across her face.

"It's not just here either. Countries across the world are reporting cases. Riots broke out in France and Greece today with people fighting over food at grocery stores. The world is going to be a different place tomorrow. We'll just have to see how different."

Voices rose around the campfire, some in fear, and others in protest. I listened, but said nothing. I had little to add. The social structures that Dad hated appeared to be on the edge of collapse. The disease seemed poised on the verge of dismantling the protections and comforts most treated as a fact of life rather than a privilege of the society we had created. Like most facades, what lay behind them looked significantly less inviting.

The speed of the collapse bordered on stunning and squatted firmly in the realm of terrifying. Fear stained the faces around the campfire. Voices, when they rose, came filled with alarm and disbelief. A good many of them sat like me, though, quiet, mind engrossed in the enormity of the news, and trying to figure out what the days ahead might hold.

When the protests finally subsided, Elsie looked at me.

"Will you see us back to the boat, Hill William? We have an early start in the morning."

I nodded, and went about gathering up the leftovers from dinner. There wasn't much. A dozen hungry mouths had reduced the ham to little more than bone. I stuck it in the plastic bag Elsie had used for the bread, thinking I would use it as seasoning for soup or beans. The rest amounted to a few spoonfuls of green beans and a sliver of the bread she had baked earlier.

Tyler nodded when I held up the bowl so I scraped the last few bits into his plate.

"You get that flashlight out of the boat?" I asked Daniel when we were loaded up.

He fished it out of a pocket and held it out.

"Good," I said, "why don't you take point and lead us back."

We left them huddled around the dying fire, wind buffeting faces still slack with shock. If not for the houses looming in the background and the colorful jackets so common among campers, the scene could've come straight out of a movie that targeted early man, circa about 10,000 B.C. The thought added another depressing note on an already dismal day when I realized that man's future might hold a lot more campfires and dark nights.

Daniel raced ahead. Elsie let him go, keeping track of him by the flashlight bobbing in the distance. Her gait, though still spry, had lost its earlier enthusiasm.

"I'm not liking this wind, Hill William. A north wind in these parts can turn ugly."

I kept walking. Northeasters possessed a long and well-documented reputation along the Outer Banks, but it seemed too early in the season to me. Then again, my knowledge of weather stemmed mostly from mountains, not coastlines. She grew up here. Arguing with her sat along the same lines as discussing monetary policy with an economist. I had no ground to stand on in either debate.

"They had a man on the radio. He almost sounded loony," she said suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

"He said the Fever is intelligent, that it's fighting back and picking some of its victims."

I rolled my eyes, the motion completely lost on her in the darkness.

"And they gave this guy airtime?"

"I said he almost sounded loony. If what he's saying is true, we don't stand a chance. No one does."

"Come on, Elsie. A disease is nothing more than a collection of organisms that your body doesn't like. I'm sure that twenty years from now, doctors will talk about evolutionary pressures and all, but intelligent thought?"

I stopped and turned toward her. "Be serious. It would have to be a collective intelligence, a thought process shared by trillions of tiny little bugs. That's not possible."

She kept walking. I sighed and picked up my pace to try and catch her. Ahead, the bobbing light marking Daniel's progress had come to a standstill. The meeting with the others took place no more than a quarter of a mile from my camp. I'd expected the boy to stop at my tent on the way back, but the light looked wrong. It stood off to the right and closer.

"It _is_ evolving. You heard that today when they talked about having to strap people in their beds," she said stubbornly when she heard me closing in beside her. "It's gotten worse. The news this evening was full of doctors and nurses being attacked and in some cases, killed by their patients. It's like the Fever is trying to wipe out the people who can fight it."

She looked sideways at me. "And the incubation period dropped. I'm telling you, this isn't like any sickness we have ever seen."

"What it sounds like, is armchair science. I wouldn't put too much faith in it," I told her. "More than likely people see it that way because doctors and nurses are on the front line. It's like a war. Casualty counts come from the front, not the rear."

She acted like she wanted to say more, but she'd seen the light grow still as well. She quickened her pace. I stretched out mine to keep up. We found Daniel standing near the old graveyard. The beam of the flashlight shot through the tombstones, highlighting some, leaving others standing in eerie silhouettes.

The boy stood as still as the slabs of rock reaching up from the ground. I pulled up short and settled deeper in my jacket to ward off the cold. Elsie hurried over to him.

"What are you doing, Daniel?"

His head came up suddenly as if the sound of her voice startled him.

"I'm looking at the new graves."

I followed the beam of light to a bare stretch of ground. Chills climbed up my back.

The old woman pulled him to her and led him away from the cemetery, angling off toward my campsite. I followed along behind them, past the tent, through the twisted maze of wood and weeds, and out onto the little beach. We walked up to the dock silently.

I made sure both were settled in and took the flashlight before I headed back to the tent. The sight of the massive pile of firewood I'd pulled in earlier played under the tight beam as I approached. Despite the growing cold, I had no desire to build another fire. More than anything, I simply wanted sleep. Whether I would get any, I didn't know. Every episode with Daniel seemed creepier than the last. The tent beckoned with thoughts of a warm sleeping bag. At the same time, the graveyard loomed across the way, hidden by the darkness, but too close for comfort. I finally gave into the weariness and ducked inside.

Warmth came quickly inside the sleeping bag. I fell asleep with wind tugging at the tent, pondering over gloomy images of scrounging for water and food in a diseased and dying landscape. Fortunately, no dreams came.

Unfortunately, the wind did. I woke at some point with the tent flapping in earnest. Nearby, trees swayed and shivered, the leaves rustling against each other in a long, hissing sigh. Two hours later, the rustling had turned to a roar. The tent, battered by the rising wind, shuddered and lurched. The corners where the stakes were driven had pulled drum tight. I slid over to put my body against the side straining to stay in the ground. The new position exposed me to air streaming in around the zippered window. Icy drafts slipped in around my neck and sent cold fingers creeping down my back. I burrowed deeper into the material and pulled the top around my head to ward off the sudden chill.

I woke again near dawn to a different world. The booming crash of surf pounding the beach rode high atop the moan of wind snarling through the treetops. I rose and headed down the little path, emerging on the strip of shoreline that seemed so placid the day before. Night still clung to the sky, but not for long. Off to the east, gray crept up from the horizon. I couldn't make out the point or any details past lines of white surging across black as whitecaps crested and broke across the strip of sand sheltering the bay. High clouds scudded across the sky, obliterating stars only to release them seconds later. Off to the left, _Angel_ bobbed at the dock, her shape an indistinct white blob.

The wind had switched directions, veering off to the northeast. I cursed under my breath. How air moved could offer as much insight into the coming weather as looking at a satellite image. We had a low pressure bearing down on us. The abrupt change in speed overnight indicated a strong difference in the pressure gradients. In simple terms, that meant rain and lots of wind.

Depending on what lay farther out at sea, the storm could last days or could pass within a few hours. One certainty stood out amid all the unknowns. _Angel_ would not leave the dock under cover of darkness. I needed to see what we were facing. That meant waiting for sunrise another hour away.

The deteriorating weather also meant that even if we could leave, I'd miss the deadline for travel. I couldn't take the same route back on the open ocean and that meant adding hours to the transit time. The thought of going to Atlantic didn't bother me as much as the idea that I might not be able to leave it again. I couldn't dock with Little anywhere in sight. If I did, he'd have all the reason and authority he needed to cart my rear off to jail. Given his mood the last time I'd seen him, detention might turn out to be the best of my options.

I looked again toward _Angel_. No lights glowed in the cabin windows that stretched down her side. The sight twisted my lips into a grimace. I needed a toothbrush and wanted coffee. Dark portals and sleeping bodies prevented access to both.

A gust of wind, maybe fifty knots strong, buffeted the cove. I had no reason to wake them until I could see the ocean and the inlet. I also saw no reason to sit outside until the sun came up. Had I been alone, coffee would already be perking on the stove. With nothing to do but wait, I headed back to the tent.

Nearly two hours later, I crawled outside for the last time to a gray and ugly sky. Back down on the shoreline, the water carried its own nasty scene. Plumes of white froth shot up across the thin finger of island at the point. Across the inlet, swells running four to five feet raced across the sound. The wind tore white caps from the tops of the waves and pushed them into curlers when they closed in on shallower water. I wasted no time cutting across the point to look at the ocean. I'd heard an old sailor refer to the sound as a washing machine once years before. I didn't understand the comparison until that morning. Swells six to eight feet high marched in from a steel-colored ocean on my right. To my left, confused currents combined with the waves racing in from the opposite direction turned the inlet into a mess of choppy, frothing water.

My heart sank when I thought about the trip back to the mainland. The only route for a boat like _Angel_ in that scene lay in running down the length of the island and crossing at the shortest point. Even then, we'd end up navigating sandbars in wild water until we found the channel.

We could do it. I stood a better chance of being struck by lightning than I did finding a spot on the odds meter that didn't point directly between shitty and stupid, though.

Metal clanging against metal came from the direction of the boat. I'd heard that particular sound dozens of times on the trip with my father. Elsie or Daniel had just set a pot or pan atop the stove inside the boat. Craving coffee, warmth, and needing to talk to them both, I took off for the dock.

I called out as I approached. With the tarp stretched out over the cockpit, neither could see me coming. I had no desire to either startle them or walk in on Elsie still in her nightgown.

Her voice sounded muffled and distant when she answered.

"Come on in, Hill William."

I climbed aboard at the point where the cabin joined cockpit, easing aside the tarp and stepping down into the cockpit floor. Elsie sat on the starboard bunk, wearing sweat pants, sweatshirt, and sneakers. She sipped from a steaming cup. The smell of fresh brewed coffee filled the cabin. Daniel still lay burrowed inside his sleeping bag on the port bunk.

She pointed to the stove. A frying pan sat on one burner. Dad's old coffee pot occupied the other with a tiny yellow flame licking around the base. The heat felt good after a cold, windy night under the stars. Even turned down to the lowest setting, the ancient kerosene stove had raised the temperature inside the cabin at least twenty degrees over the air outside.

"I hadn't got around to starting breakfast yet. The coffee's ready though. Pour yourself a cup. See how you like it. This is from my store."

To the left of the stove, my father had installed two sections of galley rail. One ran down the sink top, forming a shelf on the side. Above it he'd fashioned another shelf, again using galley rail around the edge as a lip to keep the items stored there from sliding off when the boat heeled. I'd filled the upper shelf with coffee cups. The bottom one held salt, pepper, and creamer, along with a dozen other small containers.

Most of the cups sported company logos from my corporate days as a traveling consultant. I'd learned early on to generate goodwill by buying up small items from clients. Another nod to that concept sat in my closet back in Tennessee. Boxes of company T-shirts and hooded sweatshirts sat just inside the door. I rarely wore any of them and most of the items still carried price tags.

I poured a cup of coffee from the pot and made as if to sit back in the entrance way using the cockpit floor as a seat. Elsie, however, motioned for me to move farther back. She followed me outside, carrying the blanket from the bunk. She shivered and pulled it around her shoulders as she sat. I started to ask why she wanted to sit out under the tarp, but that question vanished the instant she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She held it up in her wrinkled old hands and pulled one free.

"I think you lied to me," she said.

I frowned. "About what?"

She waved toward the cabin.

"I asked if you smoked and drank. You said you did. There's liquor down there, cigarettes down there, but nary a one has been opened and I ain't seen you partake in either since we left."

I sipped at my coffee, enjoying the rich taste and noting her slip back to the country-girl language.

"This stuff is good."

She nodded.

"That it is. I have that coffee imported from Hawaii. It's one of my few indulgences. A pound of that runs about sixty dollars. Enjoy it."

She scrunched up her face at me. "What gets me is why a man would carry tobacco and alcohol and not use either."

I lifted my shoulders in a slight shrug.

"It wasn't a lie. I used to smoke a long time ago. A lot of ex-smokers will tell you that the urge never really goes away. Even now, after fifteen years, I still have times when I find myself reaching for one."

I offered her a wry smile. "It's just not often. I figured if I wanted one while I was out here, I'd go for it. Right now, the Surgeon General is probably more worried about the Fever than whether or not someone smokes a couple before he dies."

I watched as she lit the cigarette she'd pulled from the pack.

"As for the alcohol, I like a shot now and then."

She blew smoke into the cockpit. Although the tarp shielded the back of the boat from most of the wind, enough slipped through the edges to whip the plume away.

"The trick to enjoying things like this, Hill William, is to control them and use them when you want. Addiction is all about letting stuff pick for you. Pleasure is about choosing when to indulge—like first thing in the morning with a cup of coffee. You want a smoke now."

I raised my eyebrows.

"I do?"

She nodded and shook another from the pack. I stared it at for a long moment. Quitting the first time sucked. I can't remember a more difficult or long-lasting battle. The thought of lighting up again crapped all over the years of fighting against the urge. As nice and neat as that logic sounded, it came across rather pedantic and silly given the fact that I expected this trip to be my last.

I sighed and took the cigarette. You'd think that a decade and a half of staying away from them would've left me hacking and coughing on the first pull. You'd think that if you'd never smoked. Two puffs in, the stuff went down as smooth as the last one had fifteen years earlier. That fact highlighted one of the more insidious aspects of tobacco. It's sort of like riding a bike. You don't have to learn how the second time. Two more puffs and the nicotine high hit. I sat still, waiting for it to pass, afraid to move for fear of falling flat on my face.

Elsie laughed.

"God you are a bad influence." I said hoarsely. "How the hell am I supposed to drive the boat out of here when I can't even stand up?"

The laughter died away.

"We ain't going anywhere. That water ain't going to get better for a while. We'd probably make it okay, but not by the deadline and honestly, I don't like the word probably. I'd just as soon not take the chance. Besides, I'll call the Judge once the weather dies down."

It took a minute to get my wits back.

"Who's the Judge?"

She sipped at her coffee.

"The Judge is Dwight's daddy. He's been sweet on me since my husband died twenty years ago. The feelin' is not mutual, but as long as a man ain't weird, it don't hurt to be nice to him."

She looked up over the edge of her cup and grinned. "He's the real law in this part of the state. That's why Dwight backed up so quick at the store. Five minutes after he drove away with you, the phone woulda been ringing and his poppa on the other end."

I sipped at the coffee and took another experimental hit off the cigarette. I'd forgotten how deliciously well those two went together.

She pointed inside the cabin.

"I turned on the radio a few minutes ago. There's a warm front heading up coast that's going to smack right into this cold air. We're sitting at ground zero for that collision. That means big storms, maybe even a tornado," she said and paused long enough to puff at her cigarette. "That's another reason not to go traipsing off across the water. That mast up there reminds me of a big lightning rod. I've seen what that does to a boat. If you make it past the strike, you got to deal with floating around in the water on your own. I'm too old for that."

"Me too," I agreed. "That means I need to find a place we can hole up."

She waved dismissively.

"There's nothing to find. We'll go up to the old life-saving station. It's big enough to hold us and the rest of them people. If I remember right, there's a woodstove inside so we can warm it up some. It's up near the point. Remember that thing that looked like a big house?"

I nodded. After miles of uninhabited coast line, seeing what looked like a large Cape Cod with a covered front porch had left me staring.

Something she said tingled at the back of my mind. It took a minute to put my finger on it.

"I wonder how many people are still here. The kayakers were planning on leaving this morning too."

She snorted. "They're fools if they did. That's bad water out there. You get wind blowing from different directions in a short period of time, water currents start switching back and forth and the whole mess gets to boiling like soup in a pot. There's as many ships and boats sunk around here as anywhere in the world and most of them because of the weather."

She canted her head toward the bow.

"That dune buggy thing of your dad's really work?"

"It really does," I said. "It won't go much more than seven or eight miles an hour, but even that beats walking."

She took a last puff off her cigarette and snuffed it out in an empty soda can.

"Then I say get the thing down. Run around, let the others know what's coming, and then come pick up me and Daniel. We can use it to ferry enough supplies up to the station to eat for a couple of days. How heavy is that thing anyway?"

"I don't know for sure, maybe 150 pounds or so."

Elsie blinked. "How you going to get it off then?"

"The same way I put it there," I answered. "I'll pick it up and set it off."

She brightened. "And it's got a real bathroom!"

I looked at her, confused.

"I'm talking about the station. It has a toilet and one of those big old iron bathtubs."

I laughed at her. "So where do we get the water to fill it?"

"The same place we always did," she retorted. "There's no drinkable water on this island. Everyone had a rainwater cistern. I don't know about the other ones here, but I do know the one at the station is still working. The Park Service oversees this place and shares maintenance with a historical society up on the Cape. They come down once or twice a year and do a week of restoration."

She sipped at her coffee. "One of the workers told me they fixed up the cistern to use for cleanup. I think he said it was three hundred gallons. I wouldn't go around drinking the stuff, but take a bath and flush the toilet? You're dang right I would."

A gust of wind shook the boat. The edges of the tarp flapped wildly.

"Go on now. See about them kayakers."

I drained the last of the coffee and headed back out into the wind. _Angel_ bobbed at the dock like a cork on the water. Getting the buggy off her cabin roof encompassed a lot of grunting and groaning when the boat sat still. I could feel the grimace slide across my face at the idea of wrestling with the bulky contraption on a heaving deck. Elsie had a point, though. The life-saving station stood a good half-mile from where we'd tied up. The buggy would make transporting her, Daniel, and food a lot easier.

Moving the extra gas and kerosene came first. I unlashed them from the top of the box and set them across on the dock. The wind howled while I worked, roaring through the nearby trees like a lion. Every step from boat to dock generated a fine image in my mind of me and my load ending up in the bay.

The batteries went next since half the buggy's weight came from the interconnected bank of cells that powered the thing. Dad had used a steel frame, but everything else he had crafted out of aluminum tubing or aluminum supports made of thick L-shaped pieces. I reached down to give it an experimental tug and ended up jerking the entire vehicle out of the box. Rather than stop and try to balance on the wobbly deck, I kept the motion going, moving sideways and plopping it down on the nearby dock. From crate to dock took less than two seconds.

I scrambled over and started putting it back together. The upright pieces folded up straight and locked into place. The seat was little more than a bench made of plywood, bolted down to the frame, and covered with foam rubber. Six batteries powered the electric motor, turning out somewhere around eight miles an hour at top speed. The overhead—I couldn't call it a roof—had been constructed to hold the solar cells mounted on _Angel's_ cabin top. The rear support on the driver's side held a socket the same size as one mounted on Angel's stern. Both were designed to hold a windmill tucked away in one of her many lockers.

Dad had told me that he ran the buggy for five days on his last trip with nothing but sun and wind power. Given that 90 percent of his time revolved around fishing, not driving, I didn't doubt those numbers. At the same time, I didn't expect them on a continuous run either.

The entire vehicle stretched almost five feet long, ran nearly three feet wide, and sported over-sized balloon tires. I couldn't imagine it getting stuck in sand, mud, or anywhere else for that matter.

Once I had the pieces together, I hooked up the air pump stored behind the seat to a 12-volt outlet on _Angel_. Twenty minutes later, the ugly little vehicle looked like it was ready for a Baja run.

Elsie stuck her head out when she heard the air pump shut off.

"That is the strangest contraption I've ever run across. I'd be embarrassed to be seen on it."

I raised my eyebrows. "Really? You planning on walking up to the station?"

She wrinkled her nose.

"I guess not."

I climbed in and flipped the switch that sent power to the engine. The controls embraced simplicity. The transmission came from a riding lawn mower, leaving only two options, forward and reverse. The switch fed power to the engine at one notch and turned on the lights at another. A brake pedal existed in the floorboard, but in my tests, simply letting off the accelerator achieved much the same result. Dad left the seats bereft of belts. Then again I'm not sure how much purpose they'd serve at eight miles an hour.

I pressed down on the accelerator. The buggy lurched forward silently with the faint hiss of tires rolling across the wooden dock and slight whine from the transmission nearly lost in the rising wind. I hit the sand at the landing and climbed through it easily. Just beyond the slight rise, the ATV path led off to the right in a long loop around the town. I ignored the cut-off that led up through the old village and headed for the swamps at the far end.

The wind had grown stronger while I worked. By the time _Angel_ slid out of sight, the gale blowing in from the northeast raged hard enough to whip a fine stream of sand across the path. Out on the sound, the water looked choppy as hell, with short, steep waves and boiling whitecaps.

I found their camp about fifteen minutes later. Kelly and Tyler stood near the shoreline, looking out over the sound. Neither of them heard me coming. I pulled to within ten feet of them before the boy turned around.

The look on his face went from anxious to startled amazement.

"What's that?"

The girl turned when he spoke, worry strong on her face.

"This weather is going to turn ugly soon. There's a warm front pushing in. The weatherman said big storms this afternoon, a lot of lightning, and maybe even some super cell formations," I said, ignoring his question. "I'm taking Elsie and Daniel to the old life-saving station. She says there's plenty of room. You're welcome to join us."

Kelly bit at her lip.

"Zach left. We're not sure when. He was adamant this morning about heading for home. I thought I'd talked him out of it and went back to sleep. When I got up, he was gone."

I looked out over the water. The sound stretched off to the horizon, all of it painted on a storm-tossed canvas of gray, choppy water and gloomy skies.

"How long does it take to get to your car?"

The wind whipped her hair away from her face.

"I don't know, maybe three or four hours."

"How far are we talking?" I asked.

She nodded toward the inlet.

"We logged six miles across to Ocracoke. We put in about a mile and a half above the village. All together, we paddled a little over three hours. But we spent another two hours waiting near Silver Lake for the tide to change."

"When did he leave?"

She threw her hands up. "I don't know."

I felt the irritation rising and fought it back down.

"Give me an estimate. What time did you go back to bed?"

"About five o'clock. Somewhere around there, I'm not sure."

I ran my fingers through my hair. The kid had been in the water for three hours. The timeframe complicated the decision in front of me. For all I knew, he could be sitting in Ocracoke, hunkered down in one of the half-dozen waterside bars, sipping on something warm, and waiting for the rest of us.

I didn't think so, though, not in a kayak and not in weather that whipped the inlet into a frenzy.

The rest of the alternatives put him in the water somewhere between the two islands. To make matters worse, I didn't know if he'd left on an incoming or outgoing tide. He could've been swept out to sea or pushed deeper and deeper into the sound. Both options had a sense of finality written all over them.

I sighed and turned back to the problem at hand. The buggy could hold two people, barely.

"Get in," I told her and then looked at Tyler.

"Pack up your stuff. I'm going to run her to my boat. We'll try raising Ocracoke on the radio. Either way, one of us will be back soon to pick you up."

I wheeled the buggy into a tight turn and left him standing there. We rode in silence most of the way. The windshield on the buggy amounted to little more than a thin sheet of Plexiglas fitted into grooves on the uprights. I had no idea if the slots would hold it in place or if the thing would tear loose in the wind and come flying back on us.

"When we get back, I want you to start ferrying Elsie and Daniel to the station. It's that big building up on the point. You know the one I'm talking about?"

She nodded, her face white.

"I'll start hitting the radio and throwing supplies together. I'm thinking two or three runs to get the gear and people moved. After that, go get Tyler. When you have everyone at the station, send him out to get Joshua's crowd."

She opened her mouth as if to speak. I cut her off.

"If there's time, you can come back for me then. If not, get the buggy out of the rain. I'll walk up."

I rounded the turn just before the dock and slid the little dune buggy to a stop at the edge of the wooden planks. Kelly followed me out. A strong gust swept across the bay just as we made it to _Angel_. The boat shuddered and slammed against the two-by-eight stretched along the side of the pier as a rub rail. The wind hit me hard and sent me stumbling toward the edge of the dock and the dark water beyond. I caught myself and looked back to see Kelly on her knees. For the first time in my life, I heard wind whistling through the shrouds. The shrill whine jerked my head up even as another gust blasted across the water.

"Elsie!"

She pulled back the edge of the tarp.

"Come on. She's going to ride you up to the station. Show her where it is. She'll come back for Daniel. I'll watch over him until she gets back and we'll pack up some food for tonight."

"Don't bother. I been busy. It's all packed, out here in the cockpit."

I looked past her. She'd piled two large duffel bags and a Hefty Cinch Sack in the cockpit floor.

"Then come on," I said raising my voice and waving her on. "The sooner you get out of here, the sooner we get everyone safe."

Daniel stared up at me from the cabin. He looked terrified.

"I'm not leaving him here," Elsie said stubbornly. "If he don't go, I don't go."

I cursed under my breath. "Then both of you get up here. He can sit on your lap."

Relief washed across his face.

I reached down and pulled Elsie out, literally lifting her clear of the boat by a foot. Daniel scampered up behind her. The instant his feet hit the dock, he wrapped his arms around her in a vise.

Another gale-force blast of air hit the boat.

"Let's go," I shouted and began herding them toward the shore. The old woman couldn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds. I wanted her and the boy off the dock before both ended up in the bay.

The wind had to be blowing forty knots or better. At that speed, air starts to become a physical force, an invisible wall that either tries to shove you out of the way or drag you along with it. The most terrifying aspects revolved around sensory input no longer available. My eyes burned from the spray whipped off the booming surf and torn from the tops of the waves. The wind roared in my ears, making anything but shouted voices impossible to hear. I herded the old woman and the boy through the maelstrom, feeling as if I was groping along a topsy-turvy world, deafened and partially blind.

Kelly had retreated to the buggy. She waited anxiously while we made our way across the wooden causeway. Elsie slid into the passenger's seat first. I lifted Daniel into her lap seconds later.

He looked up at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. Suddenly, he reached up and tugged at my sleeve. I leaned in, wondering what the boy wanted.

"That man, he makes me think of bats."

I stared at him.

"What man?"

He squinted into the wind and looked toward the water.

"The man they can't find."

Elsie hugged him tight.

"Let Hill William go, Daniel. We don't have time for nonsense."

His odd choice of words left me confused. I had no idea what he meant.

Another gust slammed into the buggy, carrying fine particles of sand and debris that felt like tiny needles punching into my face.

"Go!" I yelled at the girl in the driver's seat. She needed no urging. The buggy leapt forward, spun for a moment in the loose sand, and lurched toward the little road that led up through the village.

I waited until the buggy slipped out of sight before I raced back to _Angel_. Elsie's bags still lay in the cockpit floor. All three looked stuffed full and heavy. I stifled a groan and snatched the first off the cockpit seat. A second later, I hefted another. Two trips down the dock transferred the pile. I didn't bother stacking or arranging, but simply dumped them on the sand at the edge of the island.

Back in the cabin, the physical assault lessened enough to catch my breath. Out of the wind, the noise dropped measurably. The boat, however, pitched and rocked, alternately pulling away from the dock until her mooring lines grew tight, then throwing herself back. Fenders took up most of the impact, but the sound of her sides scraping along the wooden rail made me wince.

The radio hung from the cabin roof on the port side. I flicked the on-switch, waited until the numbers settled on the display, and switched to Channel 16. Taking a deep breath, I thumbed the send button on the microphone.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is the sailing vessel _Angel_ , _Angel_ , _Angel_. My position is the old village of Portsmouth on the North Core Banks. My vessel is sound and in no immediate danger. We have a man lost in transit to Ocracoke."

I released the send button. Static poured from the radio's speakers. Thirty seconds later, I repeated the call, following procedure my father had grilled into me on a trip twenty years earlier. I had no idea how correct or official I sounded.

A woman answered on the fourth call. The words that erupted from the speakers boomed loud and crackled with electricity.

" _Angel_ , this is Silver Lake Harbor. You have a man overboard, is that correct? Over."

I sighed and hit the send button again.

"Silver Lake, we do not have a man overboard. A camper disappeared from the island this morning with the stated intention of crossing to Ocracoke in a kayak, over."

For a long moment, the only sound in the cabin came from static pouring from the radio and wind whistling through _Angel's_ rigging.

" _Angel_ , would you repeat your last, over."

Even through the background hiss, I could hear the incredulous tones in her voice.

"Silver Lake, we're missing a camper. He left early this morning in a kayak with the intention of crossing to Ocracoke."

Her voice came back moments later.

" _Angel_ , Standby while I make a couple of calls to see if he's arrived."

At least five minutes passed before the radio blared to life again. I used it to gather up a few more items. I had no doubt that Elsie had taken care of the food. What I wanted were things that would help me survive once the food disappeared. Somewhere in the middle of stuffing a bag full, the absurdity of that urge struck me hard. I'd come here to die, and yet was fighting to survive.

" _Angel_ , this is Silver Lake."

The squawk from the radio startled me when it came. I dropped the bag I had been packing on the port bunk and grabbed the microphone.

"Go ahead Silver Lake."

" _Angel_ , be advised that the Coast Guard has been notified. A search vessel will be dispatched as soon as possible. However, you should be aware that several calls have come in this morning."

I didn't need an interpreter. That officially worded response basically meant, get in line, buddy. Every boat on the water is trying to make port ahead of the travel ban and they're all running into the same weather.

" _Angel_ , did you copy my last?"

I hit the send button. "I did, Silver Lake."

A fresh blast of wind hit the boat hard. Off in the distance, thunder growled.

I looked up.

"What? It isn't enough that we'll probably die in a week or two anyway? You have to send this crap too?"

When I finally dropped my gaze, I looked around the cabin. Clothes, foam plates, packages of food, all manner of items lay scattered across the bunks. Even more littered the deck, most of the mess complements of the quick scramble for supplies. The lesson staring me in the face, however, centered on the one element completely missing from the interior – water. The boat was bone dry.

The rain might come. The seas might thunder. As long as I took care of _Angel,_ though, she would take care of me.

I shot another look toward the overhead.

"Alright, this is about the point in the movies where the hero does something brave and strong and stands against all the odds. That ain't me," I said in a wry tone. "Just so you know, I had no intention of pissing you off. I was just blowing off a little steam. So when I get out there, don't hold it against me. Okay?"

If God answered, I didn't hear him.

A few minutes later, I eased the boat away from the dock with the throttle at one-third and her nose bearing into both wind and waves. She took the chop on the bay easy enough. The real test lay ahead. Just how much of a test, I wouldn't know until she hit the current and the rollers racing in from the ocean. Nor could I tell which way the tide was running. The confused waters outside the bay swelled into geysers when cross seas rammed into each other, and settled into a throbbing, heaving gray beast the rest of the time. Rain had started to fall as well, splattering across the cockpit in cold wet drops.

The waves grew higher and stronger the farther out we went. Where she once bobbed, _Angel_ now hit with a solid thud, sending spray scattering across the bow. The instant her nose plowed into the current, I knew the tide was coming in, and fast. The boat lurched sideways, nearly exposing her beam to an incoming swell that carried short, steep sides and looked as if it were about to break. I pushed hard on the tiller to bring her back around enough to quarter the wave. A white sheen of spray exploded across her bow.

She clawed her way into deeper water, smacking against steep waves that pounded rather than lifted. _Angel_ rode over nothing. Everything we hit slammed as if we had struck rock. Twice her bow disappeared, digging in the face of the next wave while still riding down the back of the last one.

Every trough reminded me of sitting at the bottom of a canyon and looking up at the peaks. Every crest flipped the experience end-over-end to a point that felt like clinging to the edge of a cliff, trying to scramble back up and knowing you wouldn't make it. Worse, every time I looked behind me, another huge swell loomed like a giant gray hand rising up to smack me into oblivion.

I beat into the waves for half a mile or better before I realized that the battle had become surviving the sea rather than finding Zachary. I'd spent so much time just trying to keep Angel from turning broadside to the raging waters that I could've passed within five feet of his kayak and never seen him.

What I couldn't understand was: Why hadn't he turned around? Halfway down the back of a huge swell, the answer hit me.

He had.

The next wave struck a massive blow, jerking the tiller out of my hands and shooting a fountain of water high across the bow. Salt water rained down in the cockpit.

I lurched feverishly for the wooden bar swinging wildly out in front of me and pulled hard to push her nose into the mountain of water already forming ahead. The jarring collision shook the boat from stem to stern. I held on and guided her through the next. Again and again the stern felt out from under me while massive seas rose beside me.

Hope blossomed in the midst of the terrifying ride. Every fifth wave brought a swell gentler than the others. In the confusing cauldron where wind and water clashed, salvation had a home and it lay in that fifth swell. I waited, counting to make sure, letting half a dozen cycles pass under her before making my move. The instant _Angel_ smacked through the crest of the fourth wave, I gunned the engine and cut her deep to port.

She came around quickly, but not quick enough. The next wave hit dead on her beam. She heeled as if struck a mortal blow. For what seemed an eternity, _Angel_ hung precariously between that precious moment of righting herself and giving up the battle. Every second hinged on the terrifying fear that she'd roll over and the desperate hope that she would find her footing again. The engine screamed, clawing at the water, forcing her to turn. I saw the swell rising off to the right and hung on with every ounce of strength I had. The right blow could not only send her to the bottom, but just as easily catapult me across the gunwale and into the sea.

It struck on her rear quarter, sending a wall of water cascading into the cockpit, but shoving her forward more than sideways. Inch by inch, she pulled herself up straight. As soon as the stern came about, she leapt forward, propelled by the engine, by gravity pulling her down the face of the wave that had nearly swamped her.

I kept the throttle shoved forward as far as it would go out of fear of a brutal smack-down from behind. With the current under her keel, _Angel_ raced along shoreline half a mile distant, catching up and sliding over waves rather than trying to bull her way through them. The sudden lull in violence would've felt almost pleasurable if not for the storm gathering to the south. Rain already lashed the boat. Lightning wouldn't be far behind.

_Angel_ slid around the back of the island in what seemed only minutes, passing behind a sandy spit and into the edge of a channel that, according to the charts, stretched almost a mile wide. The line of dunes facing the ocean marked the highest ground on the island, topping out at maybe 15 feet – not enough to cut much of the wind. The forested interior proved my saving grace. The water smoothed out immediately and the wind dropped noticeably once the boat passed the old village and slid into the lee of tall pines and oaks. After the monstrous ride through the inlet, the chop on the sound proved little more than an annoyance. Water splashed across the gunwales now and then. Spray swept through the cockpit on occasion, but the real dangers lay behind, not ahead.

Zachary had been in the water for nearly three hours before they realized he was missing. The combination of wind and water could've easily dragged him well past his base camp. The current in the channel looked to be running four to five miles an hour, strong enough to carry a kayak miles down the coast. I kept the engine at half throttle and used binoculars pulled from the rear locker to scan the shoreline, expecting to see him trudging along at any moment.

Miles slid by under the keel as the minutes ticked away. With the adrenaline and fear gone, the cold took over. Every inch of my body dripped water. My tennis shoes felt sodden. Every time I stood, water squished out around my ankles and bled down on the cockpit floor.

The farther south I went, the darker the clouds grew. Electricity seared through the skies, adding another dangerous situation to my list of worries. Each time I glanced up at the top of the mast rising twenty-five feet above me, the end seemed buried in the clouds. No matter how I looked at the situation, _Angel_ essentially held a giant metal rod up to the sky as if daring the gods to strike her.

Four miles below Portsmouth, a long, low strip of orange sliced across a stand of reeds. I angled the boat toward the shoreline, knowing without raising the binoculars that I was looking at the bottom of a fiberglass boat. I cut the engine to an idle twenty yards out and let the boat coast toward the kayak. About fifteen feet out, I switched to reverse and backed her down until she floated at rest.

I didn't bother with the anchor, but grabbed the rear dock line instead and jumped over the side into waist deep water. Soaked from the ride across the inlet, I saw no reason not to. Even then, I discovered I still had a few dry spots and stood with gritted teeth while cold water worked its way into every nook and cranny.

The hope in your mind is that you'll get to the boat, find it empty, and see a trail leading off through the reeds. I found the boy, underwater, his arms splayed wide and his mouth open. Where he died, when he died, I don't know. He was too young to end up face down in a marsh, though. That I knew for certain.

I pulled him out and struggled to get him into the cockpit. It took forever, with rain washing down from an angry sky and lightning tossing bright blue-white shards of light across the heavens. I finally gave up trying to be graceful about it. The dull thud when gravity eventually came to my aid nearly turned my stomach. I joined him a few seconds later, and stood in the cockpit, letting the rain pour down my face while I caught my breath.

I couldn't bring myself to leave him lying in the floor, but shoving him up onto the port seat proved no easy feat. Every time I tried to move him, the dead weight of arms, legs and body felt like I was trying to lift a monstrous balloon filled with Jello. With the task finally accomplished, I fired up the engine and pointed _Angel's_ bow north toward the inlet again. Once I had her back out at the edge of the channel, I took a line and lashed the tiller as dead in the middle as I could. I let her run that way for a few moments, adjusting the knots until she kept a fairly straight course. She'd eventually veer off to one side or the other, limiting the amount of time I could leave her that way. But I didn't need much. A few minutes would suffice.

I stepped into the cockpit and turned on the radio. Three calls later, the woman from Silver Lake answered.

"You can call off the search," I told her. "I've located our missing camper."

Static followed that announcement. When she finally came back, her voice carried the same official tones it had earlier.

"I read you, _Angel_. I'll notify the Coast Guard. I also have some news to pass on."

I took a deep breath and flicked the send switch.

"Go ahead, Silver Lake."

"As of one hour ago, the President of the United States, citing an imminent danger to public health, and invoking authority granted by The National Defense Authorization Act, declared a state of martial law to exist in all US territories, effective noon today. National Guard units, along with specialized components of the United States military, have been mobilized and will assist local authorities in enforcing the travel ban issued yesterday. Do you copy _Angel_?"

I stared at the microphone.

"You're telling me no one can leave?"

"That is affirmative, _Angel_. This order carries the full authority of the Office of the President. Violators will be detained, and if they resist, shot. You might want to impress that last fact on your camper. When the weather clears, he is not to attempt a crossing until it has been authorized by the appropriate authorities."

So many emotions boiled up inside me that defining them all took more words than I could muster at that point. Anger rode high on the list, however. I wanted to tell her that the wretched old windbags in Washington could go fuck themselves. I wanted to tell her we would cross the damned water any time we wanted.

Instead, I did what every good hive citizen would do.

I told her I understood. I turned the radio off at that point and stepped back into the gathering storm. Rain pelted the fiberglass. Already, I could feel the temperatures rising as the warm front approaching from the south ran headlong into the cold air that had settled in the day before.

Massive black clouds boiled in the sky behind me. Lightning spat in thin electric fingers from the belly of the beast and arced toward the island in bright, jagged streaks. A few seconds later, thunder rolled across the heavens, deep and booming.

Zachary lay face up on the port side, his eyes open and mouth stretched unnaturally wide. I fished the tarp I'd used earlier to make a tent over the cockpit from one of the lockers and covered him with it, tucking the edges in around his body to keep the wind from blowing it away.

I worked quickly, feeling the weather pushing _Angel_ into a westerly tack that drove her farther out into the channel. Once I had the boy covered, I took the tiller and pulled her back toward Portsmouth. With no desire to run the gauntlet of waves and current again in the inlet, I steered her close to shore, looking for the little opening where the three of them had set up camp and where he'd launched his ill-fated voyage only hours before.

I figured I could take the boat back up to the dock when the weather cleared. At that moment, with lightning scoring bright lines across the clouds behind me, I needed to find shelter and find it quick.

As fast as the trip down had gone by, making my way back to the campsite seemed to take forever. When the tiny point that marked the entrance finally swam into view, I let out a long sigh of relief. That emotion quickly evaporated when I rounded the break in the trees.

The buggy sat in the clearing, with a figure huddled inside. Surprised, I turned the boat toward an opening in the reeds that led to the tiny stretch of sand beyond.

_Angel_ grounded only a few feet from shore. I flung the duffel bag I'd packed earlier high up on the island where it tumbled through the grass before rolling to a stop. Snatching up the bow line, I jumped off the front and secured the boat to a gnarled pine near the water's edge. When I turned, Kelly stood on the bank, shivering in the driving rain, eyes wide.

"Did you find him?"

Lightning flashed behind me.

"I did," I said and left it there. "Let's get out of here. That storm is going to break at any minute and life will not be good if we're caught out in it."

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"He's dead," I told her. "And we stand a good chance of joining him if we don't get under cover. Let's go. I'll tell you what happened when we get to the station."

She stared at the boat for a long time. When she turned, she pulled a strand of sodden hair away from her face. Rain dripped from the ends. I couldn't tell if the water running down her cheeks came from tears or from drops leaked from the dismal sky.

"You two close?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Not really. He's Tyler's friend."

I nodded, still unsure of the relationships. The woman studied my face for a moment and explained.

"Tyler is my brother. The two of them planned this trip for a year, waiting for Zachary to turn eighteen. I guess you could call me the chaperone, though I was just as excited about it as either one of them."

She looked back at the boat. "I don't know what I'm going to tell his mother."

I motioned toward the buggy. "Why don't we work that out somewhere drier and safer? There's nothing you can do for him now. "

Electricity crackled in the forest to my right, close. I heard the sizzle before the thunder boomed. A great rush of wind sliced through the trees, pushing the tops into a tight arc.

She jumped, startled by the sound.

I looked up. Clouds boiled in the sky.

"Like now! Let's go."

The uncertainty in her face vanished. She raced toward the buggy and climbed in the driver's seat. I snatched up the duffel bag I'd tossed out of the boat and followed her. The trip back took all of ten minutes, ten minutes with wind and rain lashing the Plexiglas windshield, blowing in through the open sides, and generally adding more misery to bodies already drenched and cold.

Describing the station in terms of a Cape Cod style house misses the mark somewhat, but not by much. Add covered porches front and back, a tiny cupola at the top where spotters could scour the seas for ships in trouble, and big windows facing the ocean, then you pretty much know what it looked like rising up from a flat patch of ground just off the point.

A ramp led down off to one side of the steps. A blue sign with a white legend depicting a figure in a wheelchair sat beside it. I motioned for her to take the buggy up under the covered porch. I didn't know if Dad had waterproofed the electric motor. Aside from the potential of killing the blasted thing outright, I had no desire to plop down in a wet seat later.

She parked near a big window. We both climbed out and raced for the door.

Inside, a fire crackled in a cast-iron wood heater situated on the right side of the room. Warmth flooded over me. Sleeping bags and people sprawled out across the floor. Elsie sat in a rocking chair near the stove, a blanket across her lap. A teapot steamed on top of the heater. Behind it sat a coffee pot made for camping. I recognized both from _Angel_.

Everyone looked up expectantly when we burst in. I stood framed in the doorway, glancing from face to face, seeing anxiety in some, questions in others. I had a lot to tell them.

None of it would ease the worry. Nothing I had to say would generate happy thoughts either.

Chapter VII \- The Station

The storm raged all through the afternoon. The century old station trembled and shuddered, but held strong against the howling wind and the driving rain. Time after time, I stood near rain-streaked windows, sipped at coffee, and watched the storm-tossed waves crash into the island. Visibility ran no more than a mile or so. Beyond that, the clouds and ocean merged into one solid gray-black wall.

The news of Zachary's death cast a depressing pall over an already gloomy morning. Shock filtered through the room when I told them. Tyler slumped over at the long, low table where he'd been sitting and buried his head in his hands. Kelly sat with him, speaking in low tones until he finally straightened up.

The tall blonde with Joshua's group gasped and put her hand to her mouth. The rest sat in silence while I relayed what I'd found.

Elsie rocked in her chair, her gray eyes peering at me over her wire-rimmed glasses, and glancing at Daniel from time to time. I stared at him too, thinking about the odd remark from the dock when he noted that Zachary made him think of bats. Something about those words hung just at the edge of comprehension, like I had a puzzle piece in my hand that didn't fit, but should.

When I looked up, Elsie's gaze had turned into a frown. She reached down and pulled him closer, the move so obviously protective that it left me with more questions than answers. Barely twenty-four hours earlier, I'd protested her plan to hitch a ride across the sound, noting that she hardly knew me. The sudden chill in her demeanor left me wondering what I knew about her, or better, what I didn't know.

The entrance to the life-saving station opened into a huge room that ran over half the length of the building. From walls paneled with rough-sawn pine to oak floors, the structure imparted a solid sense of strength as if the builders understood that it didn't need to withstand a storm, but centuries of them. The main room contained little in the way of furniture. The few items that did exist looked strategically placed in an attempt to recreate an atmosphere of square-rigged ships and swaggering sailors. A pair of rocking chairs sat near the soot-blackened iron stove, matching those out on the porch in shape and design. A handful of stools occupied the far wall where a long, low bar divided the living space from the kitchen. A rough wooden table surrounded by another half-dozen ladder-backed chairs graced the center of the room.

The walls bore equally sparse furnishings. A picture of an old woman sewing by candlelight hung near the stove. A wide, oil-on-canvas painting hung over the bar, the scene depicting Christ with his hands outstretched to calm rough seas. A glass lamp sat in the center of the table. More dangled from iron hangers attached to the wall, their globes still dark from whale oil burned in a time when the world not only accepted, but glamorized the commercial killing of earth's largest mammals.

Big picture windows ran across the front. With the storm raging outside, the weak light filtering through them faded before it reached the bar, leaving the kitchen area dark and gloomy.

The rain fell hard for two hours or better. Bright streaks of lightning blazed through the clouds and arced toward the earth with such frequency and intensity it felt like God had turned on a strobe light and cranked it to the crazy setting. The wind also went insane for a while. Twice, gusts hit the station so hard that dust puffed from the walls.

The gloomy start to the day kept most somber and quiet. I let that sit until the worst of the storm had passed and then told them about the president declaring martial law. I don't think I could've elicited a stronger response if I'd poured gasoline on them and struck a match.

Joshua stood up. The movement sent his bushy hair sprawling across his face. The beard forming below stood out dark and thick. I couldn't decide if he looked more like a terrorist, or one of those kooky, doomsday fanatics who wandered around with wooden signs draped down both sides of their body.

"Are you kidding me? They announce a ban on travel then basically say, if you try, we'll shoot you?"

"What do they expect us to do?" Jessie cried out. "Stay here?"

I shrugged at them both. "I'd say that's exactly what they expect. In fact, it sounds like they're going to see that we do."

Even jittery Devon joined the chorus of voices rising in protest.

"They can't just leave us here. We'll starve."

I raised my hands. "Whoa, slow down. We're not going to starve. I have food."

"For how long?" he demanded, "Enough to feed us all until spring?"

"Nooo," I said slowly, drawing the word out deliberately.

He rolled his eyes.

"That's what I thought. Then unless you've got some kind of plan, we'll all be hurting in a few days. You know, like starving."

"Not unless you're an idiot." I told him. "For the next few weeks, that ocean out there will be brimming with about any type of seafood you can imagine. People wait months for the fish to start migrating. Starving should be the least of your worries."

His face turned red.

"I suppose you're going to tell me what I need to worry about?"

I ran my hand across my face. I was tired, irritable, and had no desire to babysit the lot of them.

"You have two specific worries. The first is the Fever. Odds are you won't survive it. Just like the rest of us, you're living on borrowed time. Before you die of that, you could die of thirst."

He looked incredulous. "Dude, this place has a cistern. We got plenty of water. I drunk some of it when we first got here. It's good."

Even I heard the flat tones in my voice when I responded.

"So tell me, how does the water get in the cistern?"

"Oh wow," he said mockingly, looking around the room for support. "It's like, from the sky, man. Every time it rains we get water, and lots of it. Maybe you should look up the word 'cistern' some time. You know, in one of those big books called a Dict-shun-ary."

"Yes, cisterns fill with rainwater that flows down from a roof into some type of collection system, and then into a big holding tank," I said quietly. "This same roof, by the way, is one that seagulls shit all over day after day after day. Mosquitoes and a whole host of microorganisms love standing water."

I took a deep breath.

"Want to be a badass? Go right ahead. After all, slurping up a little fecal matter never hurt anyone, right?"

I let the question hang before I continued. "If that water isn't treated, in a week you could be spouting fluid from both ends of your body compliments of another entry in the Dict-shun-ary. You'll find that one in the G section. Look for the word Giardia."

The red on his face deepened.

"And that's just the bugs. Is the roof made of asphalt? If so, then that water will have trace amounts of petroleum, mold, and a wide range of bacteria. Is it tin? If that's the case, you're looking at metals and chemicals used in the paint. Maybe even lead if the paint is old enough."

I shot a look at Elsie. "Ask her. She grew up here."

Heads swiveled in her direction.

"People used to drink the water," she said, and then paused. "They used to get sick too. He's right. I wouldn't drink it without boiling it or treating it some way."

"You made coffee and tea out of it," he protested.

She grinned. "Yes I did. The tea boiled. Coffee pots heat water close to 205 degrees, even that old percolator type. While that isn't boiling, the stove top keeps it hot enough for it to pasteurize."

He seemed lost for a moment. When he looked back at me, his eyes carried a calculating look.

"You said you came here to stay. What are _you_ going to do for water? Does that boat of yours have some kind of filtration system on it?"

Truth was, I didn't have much of an answer for him. Equally true, however, I knew I could survive on the water the island had to offer if I had nothing else available.

"No," I said. " _Angel_ does not have a filtration system. My brain, however, does."

He looked confused. That seemed like a good place to leave him. I let my gaze drift across the faces. Some looked stunned, others expectant. Most stared at me as if waiting for answers. I sighed and glanced down the long hallway. A doorway pointed to the stairwell leading up. I turned and headed for it, figuring that checking out the second level would be more productive than arguing with him.

Someone, the caretakers most likely, had secured the door from prying eyes. A rusty hasp stretched from just above the handle to the door jamb. A heavy lock looped through the retaining ring in a no-nonsense manner. I studied the setup for a moment, then pulled out a pocket knife and pried the brass pins out of the hinges on the opposite side. The door came loose as soon as I worked the last one free. After a few seconds of tugging and prying, the whole contraption fell to one side, padlock still in place. I left it that way and walked up dusty steps that creaked and groaned in protest.

H.G. Wells imagined his time machine. Captain Kirk had the _Enterprise_ and its warp drive. I simply needed to walk a flight of stairs to visit the past.

The upper level once served as sleeping quarters with more than half of the floor devoted to rows of bunks arranged in a dormitory-style configuration. I counted six beds on each side, none larger than twin size, all arranged in such a way that the head faced the center of the room while the foot of the bunk sat under the sloped roof line. The setup seemed odd until I imagined jumping out of one in the middle of the night to race off to a watery rescue. Then I understood. Placing the beds that way probably kept a lot of heads from banging into the ceiling.

The bedding, I supposed, had disappeared long ago, but the bunk frames, thin mattresses yellowed with age, and much of the furniture still stood in the open space. All of the items looked bulky and heavy, simple in design and perhaps some of them even handmade. Stacked between the beds were pieces that had most likely graced the bottom floor during the station's active years. A pair of long, low tables, half a dozen pictures, more chairs, and piles of life-saving equipment at least a century old sat stuffed among the bunks.

An antiques dealer would've drooled over the sight.

Three dormer windows provided an uninterrupted view of the ocean. I walked across floorboards made from unfinished planks and gazed out the one in the center. The wind had dropped a good bit by then. The sea still heaved, and the rain still fell, but the violence had dissipated.

Wood creaked behind me. I turned as Elsie materialized out of the dim staircase. She gave the room an appraising glance.

"I've never been up here. When I was little, the men who ran this place would let kids play on the first floor, but shooed us away from the stairs."

I looked back out the window.

"You can't do this, Hill William," she said.

"Can't do what?" I asked without turning my head.

"You can't be part of that group. Every one of them is looking to you for guidance."

I turned and shot her an irritated glance.

"I have no desire to guide anyone."

She shrugged. "It doesn't matter what you want. Perception is half the battle. You're older. You know what you're doing. More than anything, you're a doer, not a talker."

Her face split into a humorless grin. "You drove that point home the instant you took your boat out to look for the boy. Someone has to make decisions. Like it or not, that's you."

Elsie walked over beside me and looked out the window.

"The storm is passing. Tomorrow, we'll wake up to a bright and sunny day. If you want to know the difference between them and you, they'll get up and start planning."

She looked at me with her gray eyes.

"You already know what you'll do."

"You're right, I do," I agreed. "I'll take you and Daniel home. I haven't seen any patrol boats out here enforcing the ban. I just need to avoid Sheriff Little."

She pursed her lips. "Maybe," she said quietly.

I opened my mouth to tell her there was no maybe about it when she abruptly turned and headed for the stairwell.

"I brought a radio out of your boat. It's about news time."

She shot me a sour look from the landing. "It must have been your father's. It don't look like something a person your age would buy. It's got character."

I needed to ask her about that, why one moment she spoke perfect English and the next sounded like a lowland girl who'd never left the farm. Maybe I would, someday when I had the energy and cared about the answer.

I stood in the deepening twilight for a long time, watching the restless ocean toss and turn through rain-streaked windows. Thunder still rumbled occasionally, and lightning flared in the distance, but the worst of the storm had slipped up the coast. Elsie was right. We would wake to a new dawn, one filled with light and warmth.

"You need to come down now," a voice said behind me.

I jerked around, startled.

A figure stood near the top of the stairs in a pool of darkness. Weak yellow light outlined the body like a faint and flickering halo. I craned my neck to one side.

"Daniel? How did you get up here?"

The question sounded stupid the instant it left my mouth. But, I'd heard nothing, not one creak out of the whining stairs.

He moved slightly to his right, into the dim light slipping through the window. His eyes looked black and endlessly deep, like holes cut in his skin.

"It's about to start."

"What is?" I asked, confused.

He stood motionless for a long moment, then turned and started down the steps, ghosting along without even the tiniest sound. His voice floated up the staircase, so soft I barely heard it.

"The bad things."

I stared at the spot where he'd stood seconds before. The stairwell loomed in the faint light like an empty pit, a tall and rectangular slab of darkness two shades blacker than the shadows surrounding it. My first thought when I turned had been that someone below had lit a lamp, a candle, some type of flame-driven light source too feeble to wash away the coming night, but instead illuminate it. That proved not to be the case. The pale light disappeared with him. The thought left the hair on my arms standing on end.

I took off after him. The kid was turning out to be scary with his talk of bats and bad things. By the time I reached the bottom, Daniel had crossed the room and sidled up close to Elsie. She saw me looking at him and frowned. The woman possessed a mind as sharp as a well-honed knife and a tongue that could cut just as easily. I'd watched her stand toe to toe with an armed man twice her size. Even so, I'd just about reached my limit. If she wanted to go a couple of rounds, I didn't mind. I wanted some answers. The boy sitting next to her with his empty eyes had them.

Elsie had put the radio in the center of the old wooden table. A pair of Coleman lanterns lit the room, no doubt brought in by the campers. Both of them hung over the bar, situated about ten feet apart and illuminated both the kitchen and the living area. Soft strains of big band music came from the radio, lending a depression-era atmosphere to the place.

Everyone had gathered around the table. Some sat in the wooden chairs, other in stools pulled over from the bar. I made my way through them, focused on Daniel, ignoring the babble of voices rising around me. The old woman saw me coming and stiffened.

Tyler stepped in front of me so suddenly that I almost ran him over.

"When you go down to get Zack, I want to come with you."

I tore my gaze away from Elsie and the boy. Tyler looked despondent. Guilt and sorrow played across his face.

"I feel, you know, like responsible for what happened. When I saw how much the wind had picked up, I went back to bed and left Kelly to talk him out of going."

I blinked, trying to switch gears mentally.

"We'll go first thing in the morning. I'd go tonight, but we don't have anywhere to put the-" I said, then hesitated, "you know, put him."

The music died away, ending with trumpets and rolling drums that reminded me of movies rife with flappers in wide-brimmed hats and smoky speakeasies. A soft-spoken man's voice filled the sudden silence.

"And that was the great Satchmo, otherwise known as Louis Armstrong, with 'Basin Street Blues.' We have the news up next and a lot of it. I'll be right here with more hits of yesteryear when we return."

I put a hand on Tyler's shoulder. "Come on, let's get a seat and listen to the news." He nodded and climbed atop one of the stools. I made for a chair near Elsie.

The same woman who'd relayed the news earlier came on the air. She wasted no time.

The CDC today released figures that officials are calling alarming and of epidemic proportions. A spokesperson indicated that reports are pouring into the agency and that at least 100,000 new cases of the Fever have been reported in the last 24 hours, with an estimated 10,000 deaths from advanced cases. Hospitals in the worst-hit areas have closed their doors to new Fever cases, citing limited resources and the danger to staff. At least thirty people were killed today while seeking medical attention by authorities enforcing the national travel ban that took effect at noon. Troubling reports of aggressive behavior also increased dramatically, this time with a twist. The disease appears to be attacking not only the areas of the brain that govern emotions, but also our perceptions. We have a report from Charles Ritchfield at our ABC affiliate in Raleigh with more on that story.

A faint hiss poured out of the radio, replaced seconds later by a man whose voice carried that same Midwestern lack of accent common to news casters.

Reports have flooded in today from at least a dozen states describing shocking and violent episodes with patients in late stages of the Fever. In Texas, a man broke free from his restraints and used the cord from the blinds in his room to strangle a passing security officer. He then seized the guard's sidearm and went on a rampage, killing two nurses on his floor before being shot by security.

Washington police found several bodies that had been dismembered, and left lying in pieces near the junction of I-90 and I-5. Authorities said the flesh on most of the separate parts appeared to have bite marks and large portions had apparently been consumed. During the investigation, officers shot and killed a man running down the middle of I-90, who they say approached them, coughing and feverish, telling wild tales of monsters chasing people down and eating them. Officers said he became combative when they tried to detain him, and refused orders to surrender. A police spokesman said that shots were fired when officers felt their own lives in danger.

_Similar reports erupted from Charlotte, one of the epicenters of the disease in the United States. Police say that gun battles flared up in dozens of neighborhoods overnight as residents fought home invasions from diseased intruders. A radio station in the city disputed at least some of those claims, airing statements from witnesses who insisted the attempted break-ins came from, and this is a direct quote, 'creatures right out of your nightmares.' Officials are playing down such reports, indicating they feel the high fever associated with the infection to be generating not only aggressive_ _feelings, but also hallucinations in those most acutely affected._

This is Charles Ritchfield, reporting.

The radio faded back to the local correspondent with barely a hitch.

_This morning, FEMA released_ _a statement telling residents to stay home. Spokesperson Diane Freeman told ABC news that hospitals were already overwhelmed and many were unable to accept new Fever patients. She suggested instead that residents call 911 and let local emergency services respond as they were able. She warned that for many, there would be no medical service available and said residents should take all necessary precautions to secure their home and property during this time of trouble for the nation._

The White House released a statement this afternoon calling on citizens to heed the travel ban and avoid putting additional pressure on authorities. The statement carried the president's hopes that the disease would pass swiftly and his prayers for those afflicted. Also noted in the press release were plans to set up a nationwide system to deliver food and other supplies to cities and states. The directive indicated that procedures will be promulgated to state and local officials in the coming days.

In local news, the first regional case of the Fever may have come from Nags Head today. EMT's responded to a call from one Glenda Hawkins, a sixty-four-year-old woman located just north of the National Seashore boundary. Authorities say that Mrs. Hawkins had called in reporting shortness of breath, a persistent cough, and a rising fever. Emergency Services Director, Alan Woods, said that the most troubling aspect of Mrs. Hawkins case came from the question of how she was infected, saying that the woman insisted she had not been out of the county in months. Although she has not been officially diagnosed, her symptoms correspond to those noted with other fever victims. Woods said that other reports of the Fever springing up in isolated areas where none of the victims had previously traveled or been exposed to anyone who had, raised the specter of the disease having one or more animal hosts.

And now on to other news.

Elsie reached over and turned the radio off, leaving the room locked in a stunned silence. I looked around. Every face bore signs of shock.

The tall blonde, whose name still escaped me, put her hand to her mouth.

"Oh my God! They're eating each other."

Denise, Joshua's perennial ponytail girlfriend, shot her an irritated look.

"They? This isn't a question of us and them. Everyone here could be in the same shape soon. Did you hear what the radio said? 'One or more animal hosts'—that means we can't avoid it, even out here. It's not like we have to be around sick people to get sick. No one knows which animal either."

She glanced at Devon.

"Feel like drinking a little untreated water now?"

His bony features turned pale.

"If we're not getting off this island, then we have a lot of work to do," she continued. "We need a place where we can isolate the sick, not only to keep the disease away from the rest of us, but to keep _them_ away from the rest of us. We need a clean water supply. We need a sustainable food source. We need some kind of organization, and we need it soon."

Joshua scratched at his growing beard.

"I still don't think they'll leave us out here," he said slowly.

She glared at him.

"Then who is going to come get us, the government? The police? Santa Claus? They have a lot more to worry about than a handful of people stuck out on a deserted island."

The girl turned on me. "What do you think, Mr. Hill?"

I looked at Elsie.

She smiled smugly.

"Yes, Hill William, what do you think?"

Frustration swelled inside. Not half an hour before, she'd pushed me to take a leading role. Now, she seemed determined to box me into it. I looked around at the individual faces. As young as they were, none lacked intelligence. I started to point out that fact and tell them they didn't need my input to figure out what they should do. Somewhere in the mind walk of formulating the thought, the memory of the first time I'd gone sailing with my father surfaced. I hadn't been stupid either. What I'd lacked was knowledge.

Dad had left me to steer while he went below to straighten out the gear and food. The task seemed simple enough. Raise the sail, catch the wind, and drive. After ten minutes of making virtually no headway, I'd grown frustrated and called for him to come tell me what I was doing wrong.

He'd stepped into the cockpit, looked up at the sails, looked back at the tiller and grinned. "You got her in irons."

My father loved such moments. While the boat inched along as much sideways as forward and barely moving in either direction, he'd launched into a long-winded explanation of sail dynamics and the physics of wind.

His grin widened when he saw the confused look on my face.

"It's simple, William. The wind is pushing her one way. The tiller is driving her back the other way. It's like hitting the gas in a car with the parking brake engaged. Let off the tiller some and let her gain some headway."

"But if I do that, we'll go north, or at least north-east," I'd protested. "We need to go east."

"Well, in figuring out how to get her going east, you'll learn to sail," he had said simply.

The memory faded. I looked up. Every eye in the building stared at me.

I gritted my teeth and nodded at Denise.

"I think you're right," I said, and then turned to Elsie. "And I think that was a dirty, underhanded move."

She grinned. The rest looked confused.

I didn't feel like explaining. Instead, I rose and stretched. The day had been long, and in many ways, taxing.

"I'm going to bed. Tomorrow morning, I'll go down to get Zach. I'll try and raise the Coast Guard, but I'm betting they'll tell me to bury him here. Tyler will come with me," I let the sentence trail off and waited for him to nod agreement.

When he did, I looked across the table at the others. "Keith, Devon, you guys look around and see if you can find something we can use to dig a grave. There's a cemetery over near the house closest to the dock. Pick out a spot and get started."

Joshua leaned back in his chair, his face thoughtful. Denise sat near him. Anger still played across her features, along with what might have been a sense of justification.

"You two come with me. I have a jug of bleach on _Angel_. You can use it to purify the water in the cistern. If I remember right, the ratio for clear water is about a teaspoon per gallon. Elsie can help. She can probably tell you by looking at the tank how many gallons are in it. Just work out the math. "

Kelly sat at the end of the table.

"I'd like to come with you and Tyler in the morning."

I had no idea how Tyler would react when he saw Zachary's body. Bringing his sister along might prove to the best decision of the evening.

"That'll be fine. I'll come get you both when it's time."

I pointed to the two remaining girls, the blonde and Jessie, the one who had taken up with Elsie and Daniel so easily at the campfire meeting.

"You two, check out the rest of the houses. The Park Service probably has some equipment stored around here for maintenance. See if you can find anything like that. Take note of anything that might be useful. This place is a museum. We might be desecrating it to put things back into use, but the items on display are the same ones that helped people live here for 200 years."

I fought back a yawn and scratched at my head.

"Tomorrow afternoon, I'll take a couple of you to help ferry supplies from the boat to the station. We need to know what we have and how much."

I ran a hand across my face. It felt stubbly and dirty. I wanted to go to bed. Instead, I ticked items off on the fingers of one hand.

"The rest of you can go through the stuff you brought. Let's lay it all out and take stock. Call your families too. Keep them in the loop. With the disease, the travel ban, and all the weird shit going down, they're bound to be worried sick."

Joshua looked up. "We haven't had a working cell phone in two days."

"Ours are dead too," Kelly agreed.

"Elsie has one." I said.

She grimaced. "It's on the boat."

I sighed. "I can charge your phones off _Angel's_ batteries if you have a charger. If not, I have one in the boat. Use it if you can. Either way, Elsie has a working phone. I have one. There's no reason everyone here can't call home. As for me, I'm going to find a place to bed down for the night. We have a big day tomorrow."

Voices broke out behind me. I left them to hash out the day's events, and headed out onto the porch. The truth was, I had no place to bed down or bedding for that matter. Nor did I want to sprawl out with them in the big room. The duffel bag I'd packed so hastily that morning lay near the door. I sorted through the odds and ends and pulled out a jacket.

After a miserable day, the night felt warmer and somehow comforting. Rain fell soft and steady with the runoff trickling down the gutters in a quiet little sigh. Across the dunes, the surf still pounded the beach, the waves roaring in, and then hissing when they retreated. The wind had died away to a gentle whisper. What little light existed, spilled out of the windows, and sliced through darkness so deep and profound it felt as if someone had walked through the heavens and bent down to pinch out the stars one by one. Beyond the edge of the porch, I could see nothing, not even the dunes I knew lay less than fifty yards away.

I could hear them through the door, talking, arguing, their voices rising and falling. I didn't want to go back inside. Whatever else the night held, it possessed two things the station lacked, silence and solitude. The urge to sleep on the porch hit me so strongly that I reached down and put my hand against the deck. Although the porch was covered, most of it had been soaked by strong winds driving the rain in at a slant. It took a while, but I finally found a dry spot near the very back where the porch ran up under the windows.

Instantly, I knew that would be my bed for the night. I also knew I'd be going back to Angel. Both bunks had sleeping bags spread out across them. Dad had also stored a couple of emergency blankets in one of the forward lockers. I remembered seeing the sleeping bags while talking to the woman from Silver Lake.

In her rush to get out, Elsie evidently hadn't planned on spending the night. She and Daniel would need bedding as much as I did. The buggy still had enough charge to run the half mile, pick up the gear, and carry me back to the station **.** The thought triggered another idea. I'd need to grab the windmill while I was there. I had no idea how long it would take to recharge the batteries on the dune buggy. Even so, the buggy served as our only form of transportation. Any power generated overnight would be welcome come daylight.

The thought of climbing aboard with Zachary lying in the cockpit had me hesitant even with the decision made. I'd never been skittish or one who believed in ghosts. But, the image of his eyes, vacant and staring, and his mouth stretched wide in a silent scream wouldn't leave my mind. I didn't know if the expressions carved in his features were natural for that type of death or not. I just knew, deep down, that the picture ingrained in my memory gave me the willies.

Years before, I'd watched a diabetic friend give himself a shot in the stomach. He'd grinned when I winced, and then dared me to do it myself.

"It's easy," he said, "just pinch up a roll of fat and stick it in."

I'd reached the age in life when the thought of eating my own excrement felt easier and less humiliating than backing down from a dare. I did it, but not before sitting there for a couple of minutes, sweating, moving the needle close to my skin before pulling it back, knowing it would sting like a bee when I shoved it in, knowing I'd eventually do it, but trying to work up the nerve to take the plunge.

I felt the same way looking at the buggy.

"What the hell is wrong with you, William?" I asked out loud. "You're forty-two years old, too old to be scared of the dark."

Bright golden light spilled across the deck. Daniel stepped out of the station and pulled the door closed behind him. Darkness sliced back across the porch.

He stood silently, facing me even though I couldn't make out his features.

"Jesus," I whispered, too low for him to hear. "This is all I need."

"Hello, Daniel." I said louder after gathering my breath.

"Hello, Mr. William. You shouldn't go to the boat."

Chills ran up my spine.

"What makes you think I'm going to _Angel_?"

I could barely make him out in the dim light from the window behind me. He stood unnaturally straight, and still.

He shrugged and thought for a moment.

"If you go back, you will shoot him."

I rose from the floor of the porch.

"Who?"

"The man who died today," he said quietly.

"You say some of the strangest things, Daniel." I told him. "Why would I shoot him? He's dead. I'm not going back for him. I'm going because our sleeping bags are in the boat, because we need them tonight."

Daniel sighed.

"He is waiting, Mr. William."

I stood there, staring at his outline. The door opened again. This time Elsie emerged. She reached out and pulled the boy toward her.

"Go back inside, Daniel. It's chilly out here. I don't want you catching cold."

She waited until he turned and walked back through the door. Then she moved toward me.

"You leave him alone. You hear me? There's nothing wrong with him. He's as good a boy as you'll find."

"I didn't say anything was wrong with him," I protested. "But damn, that grandson of yours is creepy."

She stepped closer. Light from the window flared across her face. Her eyes glinted with anger. "You just remember what I told you. Leave him alone."

Something snapped inside.

"And you remember this," I said leaning closer. "I didn't invite either of you to come out here with me. You came on your own. You don't want him around me, then do your job as his grandmother and keep tabs on him."

I moved past her and headed for the dune buggy. "Call that blasted judge first thing tomorrow. I don't give a damn about travel bans. I want you both off my back."

"Where are you going?" she called after me.

I climbed into the buggy and backed it down the ramp. Shoving the gear shifter into forward, I looked back toward the porch. Her figure stood framed in the light from the window.

"To get you a sleeping bag."

Chapter VIII - Bad Things

The lights didn't work. I flicked the switch back and forth a couple of times with no success. A string of curses rose in my mind. I gritted my teeth and pointed the vehicle in the general direction of the village, driving partly from memory, partly by feeling my way along through darkness so dense and black that even the white sand marking the path appeared as a thin, barely discernible line. Kelly and I had made the trip earlier in just a few minutes. I bumbled along for almost half an hour on the return. Even then, the quiet lap of water against the shore told me I'd reached the bay before I ever saw _Angel's_ outline.

She'd drifted sideways during the storm and lay with her starboard side grounded against the sandy little beach that marked the last spot Zachary had stood on dry land. Dark water surged restlessly near her stern, not much, but enough that with a little sweat and a lot of muscle, I could probably float her free. An outgoing tide would leave her sitting high and dry - which happened to be fine with me. Any other time, I might have backed her out and dropped an anchor off the bow to keep her pointed toward the water. A stern line secured to something on the island would not only keep her straightened out and let her take any waves on her bow, but essentially lock the boat in place.

Any other night wouldn't have a body sitting eighteen inches away from the pilot's seat, though. I knew nothing about the man I'd fished out of the water. I didn't need to. The thought of climbing in next to a cold, wet cadaver made my skin crawl. If _Angel_ sat beached the next morning, the chore of removing the body would be easier. Her abbreviated keel might leave the boat canted to one side, but not precariously so. Within hours, the incoming tide would flood the landing once again and lift her off the bottom.

That scenario amounted to a death knell for sailboats with deep, fixed keels, leaving them laid out on their sides. _Angel's_ design, however, turned the situation into a boon rather than a boat-killing event. She might heel to one side a bit, but would be as happy sitting on dry ground as floating on water.

With the storms gone, the night lay calm and still, with nothing but the tick of rain drops filtering through the trees and the muted splash of water against fiberglass to break the silence. I sat in the dune buggy for a long time, listening to every sound sliding through the darkness. Twice, the lonely cry of a shore bird echoed across the sound. Here and there, a fish jumped out on the water. The swamp hissed and sighed. Mosquitoes fluttered along my arms and face, and whined noisily in my ears. Nothing sounded strange or even the least bit unnerving.

Not that I needed anything else weird to happen. Daniel's spooky predictions and the flat tones that delivered them had already proved disturbing enough to keep a 42 year-old man looking over his shoulder.

The longer I sat, the sillier the whole episode seemed. Zachary was dead. Zombies weren't real and weariness ate at me. Neither the bedrolls nor the pillows would crawl out of the boat and walk up to the station on their own. The sigh that slid from my lips sounded tired and grumpy.

I climbed out and walked over to _Angel's_ gunwale. Across, on the other side of the cockpit, Zachary lay where I'd left him, still wrapped securely in the plastic tarp. I pushed down hard on the edge of the boat to make sure she wouldn't suddenly find water and scoot out from under me when I tried to swing myself up and in. The fiberglass remained steady and strong no matter how hard I shoved.

At a dock, I could have stepped down and into the cockpit. With her hull grounded on the sand, boarding meant either leaping inside with the gunwale under my hand, or climbing aboard. Given her slick sides and few handholds, the word climb translated into scrambling up and flopping over into the seat. Dad had tucked a ladder underneath the cockpit that, when mounted in place, slung over the side and offered a more graceful entry. The fact that it remained stored under the seats inside didn't expand my options any.

I jumped.

My feet cleared the gunwale by several inches. Even I was impressed.

_Angel_ shook, but didn't rock, confirming the fact that she'd thoroughly grounded. I stood in the cockpit for a moment, staring down at the crumpled tarp, knowing what lay beneath, and honestly, not wanting to turn my back on it. Just the thought stirred the unsettling image of Daniel framed in the doorway.

I swallowed to calm my nerves. I gotta tell you. When you're looking down at the very thing some creepy kid said would come after you, turning your back on it goes against every survival instinct and pretty much every rational thought. The brain doesn't just warn, it screams NO! with a back-clenching jerk of jittery nerves clamoring for you to get the hell away. Just the idea of turning around triggers an intuitive projection of how it would feel to be run down by something fierce, and hungry, something with huge teeth and long sharp claws.

The movie makers know it, too. They know exactly how the thought of being ambushed and eaten alive strikes an internal chord. Find a horror movie, and inside it will be some idiot who wants to visit the haunted house even after two or three other people met a grisly death inside. Everyone knows he's an idiot, but no one can stop watching.

When he finds the monster and turns to run, viewers know he has seconds to live and the end won't be pretty.

Similar thoughts struck me as I stood in the cockpit looking down at the body. I could've come in the light of day. I could have brought others with me. But no, I'd set off on the darkest night I'd ever seen and headed down to the place the weird demon-child had just warned me about. I decided right then and there if life suddenly turned good and the disease burned itself out, I needed to move to Hollywood. Apparently, I possessed a promising future in the horror industry as the next gonna-die-dumbass.

I finally turned, even though every nerve in my body screamed for me to jump back out and make for the station as fast as the little buggy could carry me. Instead, I stepped down into the confined space of the cabin and felt along the inside bulkhead for the switchbox I knew hung from the wall. When my finger ran into the hard wooden box, I felt for the top switch, counted down and flicked the third knob.

Light flooded the cabin. Relief instantly washed through my body. The second most common way people die in scary flicks usually involves a scenario that includes three core elements: monsters, dark places, and dolts who can't figure out that when people start dying it's time to leave. Sooner or later, one backs into a cubbyhole to hide and realizes that the hungry beast is only inches behind them with claws bared and mouth drooling in anticipation. The light killed that notion. The cabin lay as empty and disheveled as it had all afternoon, but no killers waited in the corners.

Sweat trickled down my face even though the night air had grown cooler. Emboldened by the light, I snatched up the sleeping bags and rolled them into a giant wad. Next, I dug under the starboard bunk and pulled out blankets my father had stored there two decades earlier. A drawer under the sink held a spare flashlight. I grabbed that too, thinking I could use it to light the way on the trip back. Gold flashed from the shelf above the sink. I leaned in for a closer look and saw the pack of cigarettes Elsie had opened earlier. Beside it lay the lighter she had used. The urge to light one up hit me stronger than it had in years. I stuffed both into my jacket pocket.

My hands full, I shot one last look around the cabin, not wanting to drive all the way back only to realize I'd forgotten something. A poncho lay in the passageway beside the starboard bunk. I stared at it, wondering how it had gotten there.

The mind wants order, wants what it perceives to fit in the natural progression of things it knows and understands. Mine told me the wind had gotten stronger. It told me the rustling behind me was nothing more than the breeze rippling along the edges of the tarp. Somewhere along the line, it put two and two together and prodded the conscious part of my brain to say, hey, the trees aren't whispering, and there's no wind sighing through the rigging. The only movement is behind you.

Even with my mind buzzing the warning, it took a minute for the rational side to catch on. I spun around, still holding the gear I'd come to retrieve, feeling every hair on my body stand straight up. Sweat broke out across my forehead and chills raced up my arms.

The cabin light poured out into the cockpit, bathing the floor in a bright, white rectangle, but only partially illuminating the seat where Zachary lay. I could see half of his form easily. The night claimed the rest, the edge between light and dark drawn in a clean, straight line across the tarp.

For a long moment, the scene looked exactly the same as when I'd clambered aboard. The rumpled heap covering the corpse blocked out half the view from the cabin. The rest of the cockpit sat empty. I couldn't make out anything beyond the bulky shape of the motor hanging off the end. I didn't waste time looking either. The sound that had crawled through my mind carried specific connections and none of them related to water. It sounded exactly like the dry rattle of plastic crinkling, of something moving underneath it.

Every nerve in my body both screamed at me to run and yet seemed locked in place at the same time. Every inch of skin felt like it was trying to crawl away from whatever waited outside. I could hear myself breathing, the sound unnaturally loud in the close confines of the cabin.

Zachary's hand slid out from under the tarp and dropped toward the floor. The sudden motion sent me flying backward into the sink. The hard wooden edge dug into my back, gouging an inch-wide burst of fire across my skin. Fear isn't the right word. Terror doesn't come close. The sight of his hand dangling from the edge of the tarp, fingers motionless and pale, the nails long and dirty, scared the absolute beejeesus out of me. I knew that moment how he had died. He hadn't gone easily or gracefully. The boy had fought with every last ounce of air in his lungs to right the kayak, to force his head back above the surface of the water, to breathe once more clean, sweet air. The evidence hung not five feet away in mud-clogged fingernails.

" _We-lee-um?"_

The rasping sigh slid across the dead air, dry and hoarse like it had been forced out of a throat wracked with laryngitis. I stood, blankets and sleeping bags clutched in front of me like a shield, desperately searching for an explanation. My mind wanted to believe the sound came from an oddity in the rigging and the wind, to believe that somehow the boat had turned just the right way for the breeze to truly murmur through the taut lines. It wanted to believe that, come morning, some rational and fully scientific explanation would leap out at me. I would point it out to the others, and laugh at the surprised and shocked expressions on their faces.

" _We-lee-um come out. I want play."_

A stunned bleat of fear burst from my chest the second time it spoke, the sound stuck solidly between a grunt and a curse. Wind, even if it existed, might moan through the wires in a close approximation of a single word. No wind that had ever existed could produce an entire sentence.

I stared as what lay beneath the tarp shifted. Something jerked sideways, and then bolted upright in the middle of what should have been the boy's stomach. The tarp jutted straight up, crackling as it went, the sound like someone walking through dead and dry leaves. Whatever lay beneath it turned quickly, first one way then the other, as if scanning the horizon through the dense plastic, and just as suddenly flopped back down.

Silence. Still and calm.

Then a soft, hoarse whisper slid through the empty air.

" _We-lee-um come out. I want play forever."_

"Holy shit!" I gasped, my own voice just as hoarse.

The far edge of the tarp jerked. Zachary's head shot up, the angle so fierce that bones crackled and crunched. Dead, glazed eyes looked back at me.

" _We-lee-um?"_

The voice came out of his mouth, the same horrible gaping hole in the bottom of his face that looked big enough to fit a softball. His head bobbled like a puppet, like God was having some fun and jerking on his strings.

" _Come play here."_

I stood frozen in the cabin, with no options and nowhere to turn. I could run to the forward bunk, but on a twenty-three-foot boat, that meant putting another ten feet between myself and the apparition sitting in the back of the cockpit. The only other direction available was toward it.

The boy's face rose as if leaning back to yawn. His throat bulged and pulsed, growing thicker by the second until it looked like a fat white sausage stuffed so full it would split at any second. Bones cracked. Air hissed and farted out of the deep pit framed by his open mouth. Then, as if I needed one more thing to make me crap my pants, an ear emerged, long, skinny, and hairless.

Another followed. Right behind them both came the bulge of something round and gray. Teeth flickered out of Zachary's cavernous mouth, clattering across the cockpit floor like dice with roots tossed by the devil.

I couldn't breathe. I'm sure a hero would've taken up his sword and slain the beast dragging itself out of the boy's cold flesh. All I could do was watch.

Wide grinning eyes, with yellow where the whites should have been and dark slits for pupils, poked up next. Zachary's lips stretched taut, pulling away from his gums until they looked paper thin. Just when it seemed the throat had to burst, a long crooked nose flopped loose. The rest of the face slithered out, slimy and wet, like a baby that had just passed its crown.

" _Just you, just me, we play,_ " the thing breathed in a long hiss, revealing row upon row of sharp, triangular teeth. It leaned forward, jerking the kayaker's head back down amid the snap and crackle of bones ground fine, and puked pounds of torn flesh and organs onto the floor. Clotted blood and chunks of ragged meat spewed across the fiberglass sole.

" _Bats go upside down, We-lee-um. Like dead boys float upside down."_ it rasped in its toneless voice.

Zachary's throat flexed and writhed as if packed full of wriggling worms. The skin stretched so impossibly tight that it seemed any second it would split wide open. A fat lump swelled at the base of his neck and worked its way upward. The thing struggled to free itself, and finally with a sigh, leaned forward and vomited another large mass, this one full of meat chewed into dark brown slivers. The tension in the boy's throat relaxed enough for the thing to work one long, bony arm free. The look on its face came as close to sorrow as I believe possible on such inhuman features.

" _Supper gone. I hungry,"_ the creature moaned.

I stared, dumbstruck as it slid another arm free. Both limbs dangled for a moment, long, thin and spindly. Gnarled hands, each with three long finger-like claws, clutched at the air. I stared at them thinking in an odd, stupefied way that the appendages looked like the pincers on a scorpion. It hooked its fingers at the corners of Zachary's mouth as I watched and forced its body upward.

Daniel's warning echoed through my mind as I watched. _"You'll have to kill him again."_

I glanced right and saw the butt of Dad's rifle still mounted on the inside bulkhead that stretched back underneath the cockpit. Dropping the wad of bedding, I lunged for it and worked feverishly to free the gun from mounts designed to keep it secure in the worst of weather. My fingers shook and my heart pounded, but the hasps holding the rifle to the wall proved strong and stubborn.

Outside, the beast gave a satisfied grunt. I looked around the edge of the hatch. Wings unfolded behind the thin shoulders and oversized head, rising high and wide. The thing flapped them experimentally, shrugging off grisly bits of flesh in the process. Imp, gremlin, goblin, demon – the labels bolted through my mind, each seeking a home on the ugly features, but none landed with any sense of satisfaction.

The thing looked up and saw me standing in the cabin, horrified, but too stunned to move. It grinned again. Blood, thick and congealed, clung to the thin gray lips like little black gummy worms.

I turned back to the gun, stifling a grunt of my own. Mine held no satisfaction though, just fear and frustration. Every time the thing moved the sound of bones cracking and skin stretching filled the air. I knew it was close to setting itself free and tried to steel my nerves for the task at hand. The back latch came free, suddenly and simply. I jerked on the rifle, literally prying the front latch out of the fiberglass.

The weapon felt solid and capable in my hands. Dad had fitted a black, nylon bullet sock around the stock. Brass gleamed like gold from each of the six slots. I pulled a round free and fed it into the chamber, fingers suddenly calm, following a process he had ingrained in me year after year. Three or four times every summer, he'd packed up his truck, loaded me in the passenger's seat, and driven up into the mountains for target practice. We never hunted, but we blew the hell out of bottles and cans.

A heavy thump shook the cockpit. I stepped back to the middle of the hatch. The thing had finally freed itself. It rose out of the shadows, standing on top of what remained of Zachary's chest. The feet stretched long and skinny, stuck at the end of bowed, knobby legs, and terminating in curved claws that clicked against each other when it moved. Its stomach hung fat and distended, bulging downward like an obscene beer belly. At most, the little gremlin-like creature stood maybe two feet tall, though the wings stretching out behind it looked twice as wide. The few hairs that stood out from the slick, gray skin jutted up wiry and thick.

As improbable as the sight of anything that large and ugly crawling out of the boy's mouth had been, the thought of it worming its way in seemed equally impossible. I fed the last round into the magazine and jacked one into the chamber.

It looked up with yellow eyes and studied the rifle. Something like a grin split the imp-like face wide open.

" _I hungry,"_ it whispered.

I brought the rifle up to my shoulder.

"No, you dead," I said and pulled the trigger.

The thing flung itself sideways so incredibly fast the motion streaked a gray blur across the back of the cockpit. It landed on the opposite side, claws scratching at the fiberglass as it scrambled for purchase. Yellow eyes glared back at me, eyes full of anger, but no pain.

I levered another round into the chamber and fired again, this time jerking sideways with it as it shot back across to the other side. The bullet passed through one leathery wing, leaving a perfectly round black hole.

It howled in pain and rage.

" _Master kill you!"_

The distinctive ratcheting sound of the lever sliding back and slamming home another bullet echoed through the cabin.

"I got one of these for him, too."

I squeezed the trigger again. Flame flared across the opening. The little imp-beast screamed in pain and flopped across Zachary's body like a wounded bird. I worked the lever again.

The creature jerked at the sound and threw itself into the air. I ducked as it swooped close overhead. The instant the gray, leathery body passed, I stepped out into the open cockpit, brought the rifle to my shoulder, and gritted my teeth in frustration. The thing fit no spot on the evolutionary tree I'd ever seen or even imagined. A zoologist might fawn and get all excited. I just wanted it dead. That opportunity evaporated the instant the beast passed over the cockpit roof. Dense, dark night swallowed its outline completely. The heavy whoosh of wings struggling for altitude grew fainter and more distant as the seconds ticked away. I squinted, rifle against my shoulder, but could make out nothing in the curtain of black ahead.

I needed light. Inspiration dawned bright in my mind. I leaned over and flicked the switch that turned on a glaring floodlight at the bow. The bright beam shot out over the sound, highlighting murky water ahead, but not the sky. Still, far ahead light flickered off something moving high in the air. I raised the rifle, took a deep breath, and squeezed off another round.

A scream split the darkness. Far ahead and away, water splashed. I leaned against the bulkhead, stifled my own panting breath, and listened. The seconds passed, dragging out for a minute or two. The only sounds that drifted in belonged to the night, the gentle hiss of a soft breeze stirring leaves in the nearby trees, frogs from the swamp, but nothing I could attribute to the thing that crawled out of Zachary's body. The unknowns didn't help my jittery nerves. I had no idea if the last round hit it or if any of the shots would prove fatal. That single splash could have come from a fish jumping or a bird diving into the water.

Something squished under my sneakers. I looked down and saw the tripe the beast had regurgitated in order to squeeze out of the boy's mouth. When I turned, what remained of Zachary's body nearly made me add my own dinner to the mess in the floor.

It lay deflated, not munched into bits, but flattened out in the midsection. The legs still retained their shape, as did the arms. Loose folds of skin lay between them. Even the bones were gone. The head lay canted to one side, supported by Angel's gunwale as if using it as a pillow. A neat, round hole sat high on his forehead an inch or so above his right eye. I didn't have to investigate to know that one of the bullets had pierced his skull.

Another hole gaped near his navel. I remembered the head poking up under the tarp and wondered why the beast hadn't just crawled out there. Grisly thoughts slid through my mind. Maybe the opening served as a blow hole. Maybe it simply chewed a spot through the flesh so it could talk to me.

With the threat gone, the adrenaline surging through my veins left me weak and trembling. I needed to sit and give my body time to recuperate. I desperately wanted out of the boat, though. Worse, the thought of going back into the confined space inside the cabin left my skin crawling. At the same time, I had no choice. I needed the bullets tucked away in the galley drawer.

By the time I made it to the buggy again, I struggled under a bulky and unwieldy load. I'd come for the blasted sleeping bags and was, by God, taking them back with me. Zachary, or what was left of him, lay under the tarp again. Aside from the bedding, I carried a flashlight, Dad's partially used box of bullets, a long diving knife I discovered while digging out the ammunition, and the rifle.

I'd intended to use the flashlight like a headlamp for the buggy, but left it switched off. The little vehicle's electric engine made virtually no noise. Night clung just as heavily to the path on the way back as it had on the trip down, but I had no intention of advertising my position by burning a bright hole through the darkness. I let the buggy ghost along, silently, with the only sound coming from the faint whir of the motor and sand hissing under the tires.

Admitting you're scared is hard for anyone who has left childhood behind. It's okay when you're young. You've not yet reached the age when science has explained that the night holds no monsters and the terrors that stride across our imaginations are nothing but fairy tales. I was scared—not of the night, not of my imagination, nor of fairytales, but of a waist-high demon imp that liked to dine on body parts. I didn't know where it went, if it kept flying or had circled back around, hoping to ambush me at an opportune moment. I drove with one hand and clutched the gun with the other. If the thing swooped down on me from behind or at some odd angle, I couldn't be sure the barrel would be pointed in the right direction. But, I could sure as hell make certain the gun remained within reach.

Fifteen minutes later, the station swam into sight as I cleared a stand of trees. Lights blazed from the windows. On the porch, I could see figures moving. Only then did I feel comfortable enough to set the rifle down in the seat beside me. My hand struck something rectangular and hard in my jacket pocket when I did. I reached inside and pulled out the pack of cigarettes I'd picked up in the cabin. The need for the harsh rasp of smoke and the calming effect of the nicotine struck like vicious hunger pangs in my gut. I let go of the wheel, wanting the cigarette more than I needed to drive.

In my defense, I couldn't run into much, maybe the swamp twenty yards to my left or the forested interior another 50 yards to my right.

I took control again with time to spare, rolling the buggy up in front of the station about the time the swooning, tobacco-induced high swept over me. I made a show of gathering up the items I'd fetched from _Angel_ while I waited for the dizzying sensation to pass. Elsie, Joshua, Tyler, and Kelly stood on the porch when I turned toward the station.

"Where have you been, Hill William?" Elsie demanded, clutching her jacket close about her body.

Joshua glanced at her and then looked back at me.

"We heard shots, three or four of them," he said. "Where did they come from?"

I grabbed the rifle and climbed out of the buggy. All four of them froze. I couldn't see their faces. The yellow light spilling from the open doorway silhouetted their figures and framed each in a golden halo. I figured all of them were eyeing the rifle, though, and maybe rethinking a decision that placed them inside a building with an armed man they barely knew.

"From me," I said, even though the announcement seemed a bit anti-climatic.

I walked up into the light.

Tyler frowned. Kelly looked scared. She crossed her arms in front of her, big eyes shifting nervously as she tried to both look at me and track the weapon in my hand.

Elsie reached out and took my arm.

"What happened to you?"

I looked at her, trying to decide how to tell people I'd just met that something like a gremlin just crawled out of a body not half a mile distant. They'd listen, mostly because I held a rifle. They'd also probably be figuring out escape routes and how to get away from the crazy man.

I would.

"Where's Daniel?" I asked after a long moment of silence.

She drew her hand back hastily and stiffened.

"Why? What do you want him for?"

"Get him," I told her. "He and I have a talk coming, and right now is as good a time as any."

Elsie glared at me and drew herself up straight. The rest might feel like they needed to tiptoe around me and the Marlin, but not the old woman. I could have held a toothpick in my hand for all the attention she paid to it.

"Now you listen here, Hill William-"

"No," I interrupted, "you listen. Either you're going to get him or I am. He and I are going to talk whether you like it or not. You can sit in if you don't interfere, but that conversation is going to happen."

Joshua stepped to her defense, moving between the two of us.

"Hang on now, William. She's his guardian. She has the right to say whether or not you can question him, which is exactly what it sounds like you have in mind."

I sighed. I had no anger in me. What lurked inside was cold and determined.

"Joshua, move aside. If you don't, I'll do the moving for you."

"There's no call for that kind of talk," he protested.

I felt sorry for him in a way. People like Joshua had spent their lives talking themselves from one point to another, through one problem after another. Most of them carried a sense of disdain for violent action. I didn't care much for violence myself. Here and there, though, Virgil and a couple of unwanted altercations had demonstrated that nothing drove a point home quite so clearly.

I reached out and took him by the front of his shirt. He made as if to draw back and pull away. I should have told him what working with wood and lumber does to a person. You don't grow bulging muscles like the body builders. You grow the kind that makes things move when you take hold of them. Joshua did, move that is, all the way out into the yard where he landed in a wild sprawl of tangled limbs.

For the first time since I'd met her, Elsie's eyes showed fear. The determination inside turned to embarrassment. I started to tell her I had no intention of hurting her. Then I realized she wasn't afraid of me. The fear in her face came from the boy inside—maybe not him, but what I would discover.

"Go get him, Elsie," I said as gently as I could. "The choices are gone. I'm going to talk to him. I'd like you to be there, but push comes to shove, I'll talk to him myself. He knows things."

Tears formed in her eyes.

"He's so young, Hill William."

I nodded, trying to keep my face impassive despite the guilt piling up on my shoulders. I'd met loads of people in life who cried at virtually any provocation. Elsie didn't strike me as the type. I didn't want to hurt anyone. At the same time, I needed to know what else the boy saw.

"I know," I said finally. "But, I need answers."

Tyler spoke up behind me.

"What's going on, Mr. Hill? What were you shooting at?"

I looked at him and sighed. It didn't look like I'd be able to avoid describing the confrontation on _Angel._ I licked my lips and picked ground that didn't make the concept of a demon-imp seem completely insane.

"I think I know who, or at least what, is eating the people."

Kelly frowned, a confused look on her face. "What are you talking about?"

I waved toward the station.

"On the radio today, remember? When they were talking about finding torn-up bodies? I think I know what's doing it. In fact, I think I just shot one of them."

The woman drew back, an incredulous look on her face.

"What?" Tyler exclaimed. "Dude, you're not serious. Where?"

I hesitated, but had gone too far to backpedal.

"I found it in the back of my boat, eating your friend," I said wearily. Ignoring the stunned looks of disbelief on their faces, I laid the story out piece by piece. By the time I fell silent, Elsie's gray eyes were wider than I believed possible. Kelly held her hand to her mouth as if trying to stem either terror or disbelief. I couldn't tell which.

Tyler looked sick.

Joshua had pulled himself up with a groan, but even he stood motionless.

"Why do you want Daniel?" Elsie finally asked in a small voice.

"Because," I said, "ten minutes before I left, he came out on the porch and told me not to go. He said, I'd have to kill him again if I did."

I saw the confusion on their faces.

"Yeah, I didn't understand it either until the thing was gone. One of the shots hit Zachary's body."

I looked at Elsie. "That boy knows things he shouldn't. I don't understand how. I really don't care how. What I do care about is what else he knows. That's what I'm going to find out tonight."

I stared down at her.

"Now are you going to get him or am I?"

She stepped back, a trapped and defeated look on her face.

"I will. Give me a minute with him, okay?"

I nodded. Guilt swept through me again. Scaring little old women had never ranked high on my list of important tasks. I sighed and waited until the door swung shut behind her before turning to Joshua.

"You know how to use this thing?" I asked, holding the rifle up. He looked uncertain.

"It's loaded," I told him. "Just work the lever, point it at whatever you want to kill, and pull the trigger."

I paused and gave him a strained smile. "As long as that target isn't me."

"This is unreal," Kelly said as I handed him the gun. She stood with her arms crossed, eyes big and shining.

"No, it's quite real," I told her. "I'll take you down tomorrow morning. You can have all the reality you want."

I let my gaze wander from face to face. "Until then, we are on an all-night watch. I want two people at a time out here on the porch. Neither is to leave the other's sight for any reason."

Tyler wiped hair from his eyes and hitched up his trousers. I wanted to ask if he'd ever heard of belts. Instead, I nodded at him.

"Why don't you go back inside and figure out the rotation. Get someone out here with Joshua. Two hours, two people, got it?"

He gave me a thumbs-up sign. "Got it."

The door to the station swung open. Light spilled into the yard. Daniel stood framed in another golden halo, this one compliments of Coleman for sure.

"Hello, Daniel," I said.

"Hello, Mr. William," he answered, his voice as solemn and somber as a graveyard.

The rest exchanged quick looks. Tyler motioned for Kelly to follow him and both disappeared inside.

Joshua took up a station at the other end of the porch. I found a seat on the steps where I could see him. Daniel walked over, his feet bare and silent on the wooden planks.

He sat down next to me and stared off into the night.

"Grandma says you want to know what I know," he said softly, and then turned toward me.

"Where do you want me to start?"

In my simple way of processing events, questions are like on-off switches. When they're in the off position, you wander around in the dark. Flip them over, and like the coyote in the _Looney Tunes_ cartoons, a bulb clicks on and sheds light on the answer.

When Daniel asked me where I wanted him to start, the light that clicked on didn't illuminate the issues. It just opened the door to another room filled with more switches and presented an equally thorny problem. Just how does one go about telling a six-year-old what the word prescient means or that the whole concept is absolutely weird?

The door opened and Elsie stepped out. Daniel looked as if he wanted to go to her. For that matter, the old woman appeared just as ready to whack me across the head and let him. She kept her distance though. The smell of Johnny Walker swirled in her wake. I shot a curious glance at her and saw a mug in her hand.

She wrinkled her nose at me and headed for one of the rocking chairs. I let her go and tried to focus on the boy in front of me. The effort proved only partially successful. Every time I opened my mouth, I could feel the old woman's sharp gaze like a hand pressed against my back.

"What I want to know is this," I said slowly, trying to piece together my interaction with Daniel over the past couple of days and do it in a way that didn't make me sound like I'd lost my mind. I ran down the events, one by one, feeling more like a police interrogator setting up a suspect instead of a man trying to coax answers out of a child. I can't say I felt comfortable in the role, especially with Elsie sitting behind me.

"This morning, you told me that Zachary reminded you of bats. When I was upstairs, you dropped in to tell me the bad things were getting ready to start. Tonight, you said that if I went back to the boat, I'd have to kill him again. Where is that stuff coming from, Daniel?"

A furrow ran across his forehead as he frowned.

"I don't know. I just see things."

"Like what?" I asked, and then decided that specifics might be better than a broad brush. "Like this morning, why did Zachary remind you of bats?"

He looked scared. He sat with his hands in his lap, nervously picking at his clothes. When he spoke he wouldn't look at me directly, but talked off to the side as if he was afraid of what he would see in my face.

"I saw a show on TV. It showed pictures of bats hanging in caves and said they sleep upside-down. I thought about that man when you were trying to find him. It seemed like he was sleeping that way too."

I licked my lips.

"He was, sort of. He was hanging upside-down, but he wasn't sleeping." Even as I said the words, the thought struck me that Daniel had interpreted the image the best way he could.

"What about tonight when you said I'd have to kill him again?"

He pulled his arms tight across his chest and started rocking back and forth.

"That one was bad. I didn't like seeing it."

"Seeing what?" I prompted him.

"That man looked scary. His mouth was big and open. It had ears in it and you were afraid. Then you killed him and he was dead again."

Chills ran up my arms. I licked my lips again. My mouth seemed as dry as a desert.

"How did I kill him?"

He pointed toward Joshua at the end of the steps.

"With that gun."

I looked back at Elsie. She sipped from the cup. Her face bore no expression, but her eyes shone with disapproval.

"This evening, when you mentioned the bad things, did they have big ears too?"

He nodded. "Some of them."

"Some? What about the rest?"

Elsie spoke up behind me. "Hill William, don't you think that's enough for the night?"

I held up a hand to silence her.

"What about the rest, Daniel?"

He ducked his head and pulled his arms tight across his midsection again. He looked so tiny in the dim light. Even through his jacket, I could see the bony outline of his shoulder blades.

He moaned.

"Hill William!" Elsie cried. "He's six years old for God's sake."

I spun around to face her.

"Yes, he is, and he's keeping it all bottled up inside him. Do you think it's best that he doesn't talk about it?"

"He does talk about it," she shot back.

"When?" I demanded.

She hesitated.

I looked back at Daniel.

"Do you talk about the things you see?"

He nodded.

"When?"

The boy glanced at Elsie. Fear stood out plain and strong on his face.

"He tells me," she said softly, "when no one else is around."

I stared at her dumbfounded.

"Then you tell me. What else is out there? What has he seen?"

She gripped the cup hard. Even in the dark, I could see her fingers turn white. She took a deep breath.

"He says there are all kinds of things. He doesn't know what they are. Some are big. Their bodies are green. They don't wear shoes or many clothes at all for that matter. They carry very big knives. There are ugly things that slip through the woods at night. They're hungry and when they look at people, their mouths water and their eyes glow red. "

She waved a hand at the sky. "Some fly, some like swamps, some are little. He says there are so many that they look like the ocean with waves on it."

Elsie paused. "Can you and I finish this conversation? Daniel's tired. He was almost asleep when you demanded that I drag him out here. I can tell you what he's told me."

I leaned over and ran a hand through my hair. The day before, I'd have walked away from them both, making faces and humming the theme to _The Twilight Zone_ under my breath. I'd come to Portsmouth to find peace, not the kind where world leaders get together, shake hands, and walk away promising not to kill each other anymore, but the inner kind. Most of my life I'd wandered with no real bearings, responding to the pressure of the moment rather than carving out my own road. It had taken the death of my father and a broken marriage before I'd been able to look back and see the wasteland of shattered promises, unrealized dreams, and wounded relationships scattered out behind me. Of all the tattered heaps lying along the path that led me here, to this island, the one I regretted most was the last two years of my father's life.

It wasn't that I missed him, even though I did. It wasn't that he'd always been right, because he was just as wrong at times as anyone else. I came here for peace, because he would have, because these last days on the island were as close as I could ever come to being near him again, and the best way I could say, I'm sorry.

Instead, I'd landed neck-deep in more responsibility than I had before I left, with an eighty-two-year-old woman and a six-year-old-boy depending on me. The rest of them would get by. I didn't doubt that Elsie would too if the disease spared her. The woman seemed as tough as leather, old enough to know the answer to most problems, and sharp enough to figure out the rest. Not only that, she'd grown up here. She knew the island better than I did, better than anyone else on it. She knew how to get food, how to make water, what to eat, and what to avoid. She knew when the fish would run, what types, and how to catch them. In some ways, our little band of castaways had struck gold with the old woman. She essentially functioned as a walking encyclopedia of everything Portsmouth. She would survive even if everyone else died.

From what I'd gleaned off the radio and news reports, no one had a built-in immunity for the disease. The malevolent little virus struck every segment, every age group, and every racial composition with the same deadly efficiency. If Elsie went down and Daniel survived, he would be my responsibility, at least until the crisis passed. Even though sitting in the same room with him gave me the willies, I couldn't just walk away no matter how much I might want to.

The boy sat rocking, eyes fixed ahead and staring. I didn't know if that was his way of dealing with the stress, or if he'd ventured off into some alternate realm where he could peer into the future. A sudden and great weariness swept over me.

I looked up at Elsie and nodded. "Tomorrow, after we bury Zachary, after you call the Judge, we'll talk. Go ahead, get him in the bed. I'll stay out with Joshua until his watch is up."

I ran a hand across my face, scrubbing at the stubble forming on my cheeks. "Then I'm going to crash and burn. I can feel it coming."

She rose, pulled the boy to his feet, and gathered him up against her. "I think you've done enough for tonight. I'll get one of the others to come out and stand watch."

The woman started for the door with Daniel in tow. She paused at the threshold and looked back. "There's a bathroom to the left when you come in. It ain't much, but it's got running water that's gravity-fed from the cistern. You need to wash up."

Elsie's lips twisted in an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Hill William, but you're a bit ripe."

The thought of feeling clean came across as heavenly an idea as angels suddenly appearing overhead.

A couple of minutes later, Denise walked out carrying a jacket. She'd let her hair down finally. It hung straight, reaching halfway down her shoulders. She waved and looked around.

I pointed toward Joshua at the end of the porch.

"He's down there."

She turned and started for him.

"You two come up closer to the door. I'll be sleeping out here on the deck," I called after her. "Don't worry about me though. I'll be out in two minutes once I lay down. I just don't want you and him way down there away from everyone else. I want everyone close tonight."

I went inside then and found the bathroom. A cast-iron bathtub that looked old enough to have crossed the Atlantic on the _Mayflower_ sat in one corner. A sink with a washbasin occupied the other side of the room. Right next to it, an honest-to-God toilet gleamed in the flickering light. The toilet and the sink made sense. The bathtub didn't, at least not on a frequent basis. The cistern out back looked to hold 300 gallons at the most. I couldn't imagine the luxury of using what amounted to a tenth of the water supply just to wash off the dirt and sweat.

I learned quickly that a bath in the station contained no luxurious moments. The tub had one faucet and one knob. I stripped down, climbed in, turned it on, and nearly jumped out of my skin. Water came pouring out alright. Elsie had forgotten to mention how cold it was. By the time I stepped out, no more than a couple of gallons lay pooled in the tub and real shivers coursed down my back – not the kind from corpses sitting up behind me, but the kind where my teeth chattered and goose bumps scored every inch of exposed skin.

Sleep came quickly, so fast I don't remember my head hitting the rolled-up jacket I used as a pillow. I do remember the dreams. Sleep brought monsters, wild, menacing things that looked as if they'd been spawned in hell, vile creatures eager for the taste of flesh and slobbering drool from long gleaming teeth. They flew. They crawled. They marched and they swam.

Cities burned and people died. Great battles raged across a scorched earth filled with the crumbling remains of life as it would never be again. Blood flowed in rivers, deep and red, and still they came, rising up from great, black holes ripped out of the ground. They came by the millions, twisted, ugly beasts that nature had never intended, so many of them that the earth disappeared beneath the surging bodies.

And they all knew my name.

" _We-lee-um."_

Chapter IX - The Others

Morning dawned as bright and sunny as Elsie had predicted. Warmth poured from the golden sun rising over the ocean and burned through the chill from the night before. I rose, stiff and cold, feeling as if I'd gone on a wild drinking spree. My back ached from lying on the hard wooden planks all night. My teeth felt as if they'd grown a layer of skin. I ran a parched tongue against them and grimaced at the thick, almost furry sensation. The taste in my mouth didn't help either. Imagine sucking on old copper pennies and fermented milk for a couple of hours. That's close, but still not quite as bad.

Kelly and Tyler stood watch. Both looked tired and unkempt, as if they'd just rolled out of bed themselves. They sat huddled against the station wall with the rifle propped up against the siding between them. Kelly cradled a steaming cup.

The thought of coffee sent me struggling upright with the blankets I'd brought from _Angel_ the night before still wrapped around me. The coverings had somehow twisted themselves around my legs and body like long fuzzy tentacles while I slept and threatened to send me sprawling.

She glanced over and watched me do battle with my bedding. I finally shrugged them off and celebrated my victory with a curse.

"Damn things."

The girl grinned.

"You look rough."

"I feel rough," I agreed. My voice came out harsh and gravely.

She waved her cup toward the door.

"Everyone else is up. Elsie had breakfast and coffee ready half an hour ago. Last time I looked inside she was brewing a pot of tea and digging through one of our coolers looking for ice."

A faint smile twisted her lips. "I don't know how much she found. Most of ours had already melted. She said you'd be unbearably grouchy and mean if you didn't get your coffee and tea this morning."

"She's right," I grunted, "my body's weird. I can go without food for days. But, take away the liquids and I'm useless."

I scratched at my face and squinted against the sun. "What's for breakfast?"

She made a face. "Not much. Between Joshua's people and us, we had lots of oatmeal and Tang. They had the bottom end of a loaf of bread."

I winced. "So it's mush and dry toast?"

Kelly nodded. "That's about the gist of it."

She lifted the cup.

"There's a bright side. At least the coffee is good."

The promise of caffeine, of managing a coherent string of thoughts that didn't begin with a curse, sent me staggering into the station. The girl hadn't exaggerated. The coffee was good. As for the food, it possessed one enduring quality. It knocked the edge off the hunger gnawing at my stomach. Beyond that, the best description I could offer skirted terms like boring, bland, and tasteless.

Even so, that modest fare would be gone before long. I'd supplied _Angel_ for a month, giving up luxuries for basics, figuring I could supplement my diet with seafood. I'd also planned for one person, not eleven. At best we might be able to stretch the food for a week with ten days as the absolute limit. The others brought little with them, mostly packets of dried food, oatmeal, some instant coffee, and drink mixes. Kelly's group fared better. She'd laid out a dozen packaged meals, either MRE types or the freeze-dried camper fare that looked like it belonged on a shelf in a sporting goods store. Joshua toted in several empty coolers, highlighting the fact that most of their supplies had been depleted before the ban.

I washed up in the bathroom afterward, shivering like I had the night before. Around the point that my privates started trying to crawl back inside my body, I made a mental note to look at the plumbing and water setup. Dousing your body with cold water is rarely a pleasant experience. Doing so when you're already chilled is flat-out painful. I had no desire to repeat that process every morning, especially since the mornings would grow colder as fall headed toward winter. The only enjoyable part of the whole routine occurred when brushing my teeth. Cool and minty there worked wonders.

Thirty minutes later, the entire group of castaways headed down to the boat. Everyone came. Elsie and Daniel rode in the dune buggy with the rifle stuck between them. The rest of us walked. Keith and Devon bore off halfway down to look for tools and to dig the grave. I almost stopped them, but the events of the night before seemed distant and removed from the bright light of day.

The storm had strewn tree limbs and debris across the open field where most of the houses sat. Just up from the shoreline, lightning had split a tall live oak into jagged sections. Half of it still stood reaching toward the heavens. The other half lay broken on the ground, still smelling of ozone. None of that could wash away the sparkling clean feel of the air and sun. The town might need a bit of cleanup, but the morning had turned out absolutely glorious.

_Angel_ sat grounded high on the edge of the island with no water within ten feet of her. The little channel that led up to the beach had dried up completely, exposing a wide swath of thick, black mud. The only sand in sight clung to the edge of the shoreline in a thin strip. Everything beyond looked like goo poured from a witch's cauldron and smelled about as bad.

I climbed aboard first and wrestled the body into the cockpit floor with the tarp underneath. Moving Zachary proved difficult. It felt like trying to push two different sacks of flour with a rope tied between them, all while slipping and sliding in congealed vomit. He retained weight at the extremities, but had nothing in the middle except loose skin to hold the upper half and lower half together. When I'd finally maneuvered him into the cockpit floor, I pulled up the ends of the tarp like a sling.

Tyler helped me lift him out, holding his end at arms length in an attempt to avoid the grisly bits of flesh and drool dripping from the bottom. Once we'd moved the body up into the grass, I took Daniel for a walk while the rest looked at what lay inside the tarp. We returned to white faces, some of which also looked nauseated.

Elsie took Daniel and rode up toward the little cemetery on the opposite end of town to check on the gravesite. Nearly forty-five minutes passed before she returned.

"They were still wandering around looking for a shovel. Then I remembered one of my customers talking about doing cleanup out here and saying they'd stored tools in the old general store," she said as she pulled a stray bit of hair out of her eyes. "I took them down to it. We found shovels, axes, a pick axe, and hammers, quite a bit of stuff. We'll have more hand tools than we'll need."

"Well, at least we'll have an abundance of something," I said dryly and motioned for Tyler to grab the other end of the tarp. Joshua and Kelly stepped in as well. Between the four of us, we carried the body across the field and up into the little nook where gravestones a century old waited beside the new hole Devon and Keith had dug in the sandy soil. We laid him to rest in the shade of a tall white pine, amid a carpet of soft, brown needles. Devon and Keith, though red-faced and sweating, went right back to work filling in the hole.

I watched them for a moment, then stepped back and eyed the layout of the cemetery. The new grave sat squarely in the expanse of open ground that Daniel highlighted on the trip back from the camp meeting. I shot him a look, feeling chills scamper up my back despite the heat.

"Someone should say something," Elsie remarked as they tamped the last bit of dirt atop the new mound.

I glanced at Tyler. Kelly caught the look and shook her head.

"Maybe later," I told Elsie.

She frowned as if she wanted to argue, but said nothing.

I turned back to the group behind me. They were a young, but ragtag lot. All of them looked like a warm bath and some decent rest would serve them better than anything. Unfortunately, a warm bath might be a long time coming, and rest certainly would.

"Keith, Devon, take stock of the tools at the General Store. Make a list of everything. When you're done there, check out the rest of the houses. While you're at it, look at the other cisterns. As of right now, clean water is sitting at the top of the priority list."

I pointed at Kelly next.

"You and Tyler go back to my boat and start unloading it, food, clothes all of it. Joshua and Denise can help with the transfer. Grab everything that isn't nailed down. Elsie, you take Daniel and the other two girls back to the station. Tally up items as they come in."

"We have more stuff in our camp too," Joshua offered.

I nodded. "Once you have the boat unloaded, move everything to the station. Keep the rifle with you. You see anything weird or run into any type of trouble, fire a shot. That will be our alarm bell."

He shot a glance toward the dune buggy. The Marlin leaned against the passenger's side. "I can do that."

I started to turn when another thought clicked. "Oh, and don't forget the bleach. It's under the sink. We'll need it to disinfect the water."

Elsie brushed her gray hair back.

"Where are you going, Hill William?"

"Down the beach," I told her. "We passed three camps on the way up. The closest is only a couple of miles down. Those folks are going to need shelter too."

"You're going to be alone. Why don't you take the rifle with you?" Joshua asked.

I shook my head. "No, it needs to stay here. We need some way of alerting everyone, and if need be, protecting everyone. I took a couple of knives off _Angel_ last night. One of them is a diving knife."

He looked confused.

"Think big—like a miniature sword," I said.

Elsie looked doubtful, but I kept going.

"I'm going back to the boat. There are a few things I'll set out for you that you'd probably not take on your own, but we're going to need them. The same goes for stuff you find in the village. Bring everything back to the station."

I studied their faces. "We're on our own now. We can't leave. We can't even try without running the risk of getting arrested or worse. So be thorough. The longer we have to stay here, the more we're going to need."

Fear and uncertainty flitted across the faces in front of me. The fresh grave in the background highlighted a reality that ventured beyond simple survival. Grinding out an existence on a windswept barrier island would be difficult enough without any of the support mechanisms we usually took for granted. We couldn't run down to the convenience store, or stop by the doctor's office, or call the police. Every action we took could mean the difference between life and death. I could see that realization dawning on the people standing in the little grove of trees and graves.

I left them and headed back to the boat. I took Keith's shovel with me and used it to clean the mess out of the cockpit floor, tossing the slimy bits of flesh over the side. When the tide came back in, most of it would disappear, some eaten by fish and crabs, some simply washed away by the current. _Angel_ needed a good scrubbing, or at least a good dousing. I didn't have the time, though, and had no desire to slog through stinking black mud to fetch water.

With that done, I set about gathering items I wanted back at the station. I pulled one of the batteries from under the forward bunk and set it on the cockpit seat facing the shore. Next, I took a screwdriver from the sink drawer and unscrewed the overhead light in the forward part of the cabin. I dug through the lockers until I found the little windmill Dad used to recharge the buggy. Beside it lay an electrical repair kit complete with extra wire, connectors, fuses, tape, and more.

The station needed light. Joshua's lanterns wouldn't last forever. While _Angel's_ cabin light wouldn't produce as much illumination, I could recharge the battery. I couldn't refill the propane tanks.

Back inside, I looked around, wondering what I'd missed. Honestly, I could've stripped her down to nothing and still needed a thousand different things. From one of the rear hatches, I extracted another of Dad's inventions, this one little more than a box built to hold a spare battery. Twelve volt plugs mounted on the outside offered power stations like those inside a car. A pair of cables inside hooked to the battery posts and powered the plugs. He called it his Camper's box, and used it for everything from recharging small electronics to running a DC television he'd had when I was a kid.

Next to it, lying tucked up in the corner, I found a small first aid kit. That sent me flying back into the cabin where I dug out the bigger kit from a locker underneath the port side bunk. Although I'd stocked it well, the two of them combined still made for a pitiful collection of medical supplies. Eleven people depended on what lay inside those two plastic boxes. The thought made me sigh.

Both cases contained only over-the-counter supplies and medicines. Still, we could treat fevers, general aches and pains, sterilize and bandage wounds, plus handle a host of minor medical conditions. I laid them out alongside the battery figuring that anything would be better than nothing.

I also hunted down the rest of the ammunition for the rifle. I'd felt overpowered when I bought the extra box of shells. The feeling went the opposite way when I pulled out the unopened box. I wanted a dozen more, not just one.

The last few items I pulled from the boat leaned more toward my hike down the beach. I grabbed a daypack and stuffed it with a water bottle I topped off from the boat's supply. I added another bottle full of cold tea, some ham, cheese, and bread from the cooler, and after a moment's consideration, the last flashlight aboard. The thought of needing the light prompted the addition of a cigarette lighter from the sink drawer and about fifty feet of 3/8-inch line I'd seen when hunting for the first aid kit. I didn't plan on spending the night on the beach. At the same time, if I ended up stuck, I wanted a way to build a fire and construct some type of shelter. The tent I'd used the night we arrived lay inside one of the lockers, but the first image that rose in my mind when I looked at it related more to flimsy walls than shelter. After seeing the claws on the little devil, I'd rather scrape a hole out in the sand and tie thick branches together overhead as a cover than end up trapped inside a tent.

That thought led to another round of even more feverish digging through lockers and bags until I found the cans of mosquito repellant. I didn't know what else might slither or crawl through the night, but Portsmouth had garnered fame among its visitors for the healthy mosquito population it fostered. Twisted little demons from hell might want my blood. The mosquitoes would damned well have it if I ended up sleeping on the beach with no protection.

Tyler, Kelly, and Denise had arrived by the time I'd finished. I pointed out the things I wanted them to transfer in addition to the food and clothing.

"Take anything loose that you think might be helpful," I told them. "Don't cannibalize her or anything. Sooner or later, we'll leave this island and may need a working boat to make the crossing, but feel free to raid the lockers."

I motioned back toward the inlet. "I left some containers on the dock yesterday evening. The big blue jugs have water in them, fourteen gallons of it. The small blue jug is kerosene. I used it for cooking and for a kerosene lantern that's hanging inside. It doesn't give off a lot of light, but it's better than nothing."

Kelly waved a hand. "Don't worry about us. We'll get everything off, but we won't strip it down."

I grinned. "Thanks. I had images in my mind of coming back to an empty hull."

Warmth poured down from the bright yellow sun blazing overhead. I glanced down at the stained cockpit and then shot a look toward the water still several feet away. The incoming tide would raise the level of the sound high enough to float _Angel_ free in a couple more hours.

"How about pouring a few buckets of water into the cockpit when you're done," I said with a grimace. "Just leave it and let it slosh around. It'll wash back out through the drains in the floor."

I hated leaving them with that task, but needed it done before the stench of rot set in.

"There are two coolers inside," I said before they could dwell on the thought too long. "The one near the hatch will make breakfast better the next few days. The other one is under the starboard bunk. It's full of meat. Set them both out of the sun when you get to the station."

"We'll be okay," Denise insisted, despite features that paled when she looked over the gunwale. "You'd better get going. It's noon already."

She was right. I had a four to six-mile hike in front of me. October nights came early on the island. The incident the night before had killed all interest in traveling after sundown.

I grabbed up the daypack and slung it over my shoulder. After a last round of goodbyes, I headed up the hill toward the station. I still needed the diving knife and wanted to talk to Elsie before I left.

Just past the tree split open during the storm, I passed Joshua heading the other way and grinned at the sight of his lanky frame stuffed inside the little vehicle. He rolled the buggy to a stop about twenty feet away, but I waved him on. Every distraction, every little task I took on ate away more daylight. He and I could chit-chat later.

When I walked into the station, Elsie had the girls cleaning cabinets while she worked over several sheets of paper laid out on the table.

"I'm separating supplies," she said when I opened the door. "Food stocks go on one list, tools on another. I'm putting clothing, blankets, sleeping bags, and camping equipment on yet another."

She held up a final sheet. "This one will be all the miscellaneous stuff. If I need to break it down further, I will, but by the time you get back, I'll have a good idea of what we have, and what we're going to need."

I looked around. "Where's Daniel?"

She motioned toward the ceiling with her pen. "He's upstairs rummaging around. We can't just sprawl out in here every night. This place, as big as it is, will get cramped soon. Once we get everything here and stored, I'm going to put these kids to cleaning out the rooms on the second level."

Elsie peered at me over her glasses. "There are a couple of big rooms up there off from the dormitory that will make fine bedrooms. You boys can have the dorm room."

She paused and waited. I wasn't sure why unless she expected me to argue over the sleeping space.

"Girls need privacy, you know," she said finally, "but I don't know how we're going to get by with one bathroom for all these people."

I frowned at her. "There's not another upstairs?"

She sighed. "Hill William, this place was built over a hundred years ago. It ain't like houses these days where everyone has their own bathroom. Besides, water don't run uphill. The toilet only works down here because the bowl is gravity-fed from the cistern."

I started, paused, and then scratched my head, confused by the jumble of needs and wants racing through my mind. "Did I mention the cisterns at the other houses?"

Elsie nodded. "You did. I'm the old one here, remember? You're too young to forget stuff that fast."

I ignored her, thoughts already racing ahead. "I've been wondering too, with this place like a museum, where's the curator? Every museum has someone to watch over it. Where's the ranger station?"

She brightened. "I forgot about that. There is one, over near the marsh, not far from the old Pigot house. It'll be empty. It's only manned in the spring and summer."

The excitement that shot through me must have been evident.

"Why?" she asked. "What do you think is over there?"

"I don't know," I told her, "but, I'm hoping electricity and water—or at least some way of making both. I can't imagine stationing rangers out here with a cooler and a propane lantern."

The old woman looked thoughtful.

"Don't worry about it right now," I said. "We can check it out once we're settled in here. You call the Judge?"

Her head wagged from side to side. "Not yet. My phone is on the boat. I'll have them bring it up on one of their trips and give him a call then."

I hesitated and shot a look at the girls in the kitchen.

"Daniel said anything?"

Elsie frowned. "About what?"

I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. "Well, you know about weird stuff that might happen later?"

Her face turned hard.

"No, he hasn't."

Truth be known, Daniel was the biggest reason I'd stopped at the station aside from the need to collect the diving knife. The fact that he hadn't wandered around uttering words of doom proved to be little consolation given the fact that he could do so the instant I started down the beach. I stifled a sudden irritation at the arbitrary nature of it all.

"Alright," I told her. "I'd better hit the road. Whatever else you do today, get everyone in here by dark."

I turned before she could reply and strode over to the door. The duffle bag I'd brought up the night before still lay propped against the doorframe. I strapped the diving knife to my belt and threw a folding lock-back knife into the daypack. I picked up the jacket I'd worn as well. Even though the day had dawned sunny and warm, night would bring colder temperatures. If I ended up sleeping on the beach, the jacket would prove invaluable.

The word beach can paint the wrong picture of the strip of sand where island meets ocean on Portsmouth. At times, the edge of what amounts to jungle lies only a few yards from the high-tide mark, making passage by vehicle both tricky and dangerous at the wrong time of day. Walking it doesn't present much of a problem, other than sometimes passing too close to the tree line and tempting hordes of voracious bloodsuckers out of the shadows.

Still, beach implied the carefully maintained playgrounds that travel agencies liked to promote. I'd seen a dozen signs on my way to the coast, most of them filled with pictures of sleek women in tiny bikinis and miles of open sand. Little of that existed on Portsmouth. Here and there, the ocean front opened to wider expanses, but a good bit of it offered a tiny beach and a lot of swamp. Tidal flats left larger sections open, but that disappeared when the water returned.

The station lay near the point of the island, at the juncture where protective dunes gave way to sea water and the inlet. I slogged across the low mounds of loose sand in a process that felt like trudging through molasses. The going eased considerably when I emerged on the hard pack fronting the ocean.

As soon as I'd left the station behind, I stopped and changed out of the dungarees I'd been wearing, opting for a pair of shorts instead. The pants and socks went into the daypack. The tennis shoes stayed on my feet. The sand had a cool and inviting feel to it. I'd have been happy sitting and wiggling my toes in it for a while, but bare feet made little sense on a long walk. Unlike areas swamped with tourists, the beaches along the island sported tons of sharp shells and even broken glass on occasion. Either could slice open a foot and turn a good day into a bad one.

The wind blew at a constant fifteen to twenty miles an hour, keeping me cool despite the heat cascading down from the blazing sun. Sea gulls rode the breeze, dipping, diving, and soaring while they searched for bits of food. Pelicans swept low over the waves, plunging in now and then to scoop up the small fish skittering along behind the breakers. Bluefish looked to be working the schools of bait fish as well, occasionally breaking the surface as they raced after mullet and shrimp.

Early fall brought millions of fish by the island as they fled south to avoid the coming winter. Within a few weeks, the window would close and both the varieties and numbers would plummet. By early winter, sharks, sea trout, and redfish would be left as the main offerings. Once the biannual migration passed, surviving off the sea would become more difficult. We could, but not without working harder in weather that grew worse as the seasons progressed.

I pushed most of the thoughts aside and concentrated on finding the camps we'd seen from _Angel_ as we passed. If not for the two fishing poles mounted in rod-holders made of PVC pipe, I might have walked right past the first. The sight of them rising high above the sand, tips bending in rhythm with the surf led my gaze back up the beach. A low-slung tent huddled just under the trees. A tarp stretched between the branches overhead provided shade and acted as a watershed. A man and woman lay on a blanket spread underneath. The woman looked to be asleep. The man rose as I approached.

He came out bare-chested, wearing a pair of ragged blue jean shorts and picking his way gingerly across the sand in bare feet. Like Joshua, the man hadn't shaved in a while. Elsie would never deem him Moses, though. The thin stubble forming on his face left him looking dirty and disheveled, not like a wild-haired prophet. The hairdo didn't help much either. It hung long and limp, and carried that slick, greasy look of someone in desperate need of a bath.

The distinct odor of smoke came with him, not wood smoke, but the burned tea smell of reefer.

"Hey, Bud."

I nodded. "Howdy. Name's William Hill. I came by here yesterday in a boat and saw your camp. I wanted to let you know that there's close to a dozen people in the old town a few miles north."

He squinted against the sun and lifted a hand to shade his eyes.

"We're going to set up there until the travel ban is lifted," I told him. "You're welcome to come up. There's plenty of room."

He looked back at his tent. The woman had risen to her feet. She was heavier than the man, shorter by a head and looked tired. She wore baggy blue shorts and a low-cut, sleeveless pink top that exposed deep cleavage between sagging breasts. She walked out in the sunlight, barefoot like the man.

He waved in her direction.

"I'm Jim. That's Brittney," he said in a dry voice. "I reckon we'll stay here a while. We're set up decent and the fishing is pretty good. What's this about a travel ban?"

I told him what I'd heard on the radio, everything from the ban to the threat of killing those who violated it. I told him about how the disease had been evolving over the past few days.

I didn't tell him a beast that looked like a creature spawned in hell had eaten the inside out of a body stored aboard my sailboat the night before. I wanted to. At the same time, I also knew my credibility would drop right off the edge of a cliff. As insane as the government's actions might be, most could and would believe them. We might question, might grow angry and rebellious, but the system that demanded obedience had been set in place and finessed over the last two centuries. Every rebellion put down, every law that stole another freedom or channeled society into following a prescribed course, every social manipulation worked through school systems to change the hearts and minds of the next generation had not only created a society increasingly dependent upon government, but also taught it to obey and believe.

That framework possessed dependable models, distinct lines drawn in the sand that defined what was acceptable, and what wasn't. Generations of scientists and politicians who both taught us to follow and allowed us to scorn those who didn't, strengthened those lines. He'd believe his government would kill him in order to keep him locked in place. In the next breath, he'd scoff at the idea of flying monsters feeding on the dead. The first could be a complete lie. The second could be the utter truth. The veracity of neither statement mattered. What mattered was a structure that allowed no room for heaven, hell, or creatures that might venture forth from either.

I used every argument I could think of, tossed out the ideas ranging from empty houses waiting to be occupied, to water systems that would provide a dependable source of the precious liquid, to food stocks. None of it mattered. Jim stood firm on the decision to stay. I gave up at the point I saw him growing irritated and asked about the next camp I'd seen down the beach.

He nodded and waved off toward the south.

"Yeah, them people might be willing to join up with you. Got to tell you, though, the man is a real asshole."

Jim motioned toward the dunes. "There's a road back there. It ain't much of a road, no more than a wide path cleared out of the brush and full of ruts and holes, but he comes barreling up through there every day or two in a big Chevy, throwin' sand every which way, and makin' enough noise to wake the dead."

He looked at me as if searching for confirmation that the man did, indeed, sound like an asshole.

"I don't know where he goes," he said eventually, "but a little while later, he's bangin' back down the other way. I went out to talk to him one day. He damn near run me over and then had the gall to cuss me when he went by."

"How many people are down there?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Don't know. All I seen was him and a woman. They might've had kids in the back seat, but I didn't see any."

"How far down are they?"

"Two, three miles I reckon."

I glanced up at the sun. Maybe four or five hours of daylight remained. Three miles meant another hour's walk at best. The incoming tide worried me. The high-water mark along that stretch of beach looked to run right to the edge of the dunes. If the water pushed me up into the loose sand, the walk back would take forever. Heading for the next camp would put me back at the station somewhere around sunset. The thought didn't make me happy. At the same time, I had no idea when or if I'd make it back that way again.

I couldn't stop the disease. Bringing them to the town, however, might give them a fighting chance. The news constantly reinforced the idea that adequate care increased one's odds of survival dramatically. I had no illusions about my ability to doctor the sick, but a comfortable bed and someone caring for you had to offer a better chance than lying on an open beach with thirst and a virus competing to see which killed you first.

The woman cast uncertain looks my way, but not Jim. He seemed determined to ride out whatever life threw at him with a tarp, a pair of fishing poles, and what smelled like a bale of weed. I waved goodbye to the pair and left them standing on the beach. Each time I looked back, they stood in the same spot, watching me.

Even though my path led almost due south, the coastline meandered in and out a good bit. I'd fished enough of the ocean to know that the little pockets along the beach formed points along the shore with deeper holes situated off to either side. The exposed shoreline indicated that a current ran offshore. Barely fifty yards out, a wide slab of darker water skirted the coast, pointing to a deeper channel that most likely served as a virtual highway for passing fish. I could imagine game fish like Spanish mackerel and blues racing through the deeper portions while flounder stalked the flatter sections.

The thought vaulted my mind back to the reasons I chose the island as a potential last stop on life's journey. The most memorable times with my father could be summed up in two concepts, water and fishing. Portsmouth incorporated some of the best of both.

I looked out over glistening waves, curling blue at the bottom and frothing white at the top, and wished for simplicity, for a couple of days in the sand with a rod and nothing to do but feel the sun beating down, the wind blowing away the heat, and the hard tug of a fish on the line.

A mile or so below the first camp, long, dark timbers poked out of the sand. The more I studied them, the more they looked like a skeleton, with one long wooden beam forming the backbone, and others running perpendicular like a fragmented ribcage. All of them ran back under sand still washed by the ocean. I stood, watching as a wave crashed ashore. It died in a massive jumble of bubbling froth twenty feet away and raced through the exposed timbers, tossing bits of salty foam in the air as it passed **.**

Finding a shipwreck along the Outer Banks wasn't difficult. Hundreds, if not thousands, of sunken ships littered the surrounding waters, including Blackbeard's ill-fated _Queen Anne's Revenge_. Some ran aground in storms. Others lost their way in the dense fogs that sometimes enveloped the coastline. More than a few had fallen prey to ruthless bankers who farmed the sea rather than fished it. Farther up the coast lay the town of Nags Head, a place that derived its name from unscrupulous types hired to tie lanterns around the necks of horses and lead them along the beach at night. Passing ships mistook the bobbing light for the blinking signal of a lighthouse. Once aground they were looted and, if the stories were true, the crews sometimes killed.

Running across a wreck on this lonely stretch of windswept beach seemed odd, though. I made a mental note to come back at some point and spend a while investigating the remains.

The sun had wandered over into the western sky before I spied the next camp. The people had staked their tent near a break in the dunes and set it back under the overhang of the trees. A store-bought canopy, framed in aluminum, surrounded by mosquito netting, and topped with a blue Dacron cover squatted even deeper in the forest. A pair of reclining beach chairs separated by a white marine cooler sat inside. They'd built a fire pit between the two structures. Behind it, deep in the shadows, a white Chevy Suburban loomed like a beached whale. Long, whip-like antennas sprouted on either side of the vehicle. Beside the tent, a tiny American flag flew from a crooked tree branch that someone had broken off and shoved into the sand.

A man strode out as I approached. He was big, standing at least two or three inches over six feet. He wore tan shorts, flip-flops, and a button-up white shirt, open at the collar with the sleeves rolled half-way up his forearms. He looked resolute and carried himself as if accustomed to making entrances. Where the earlier meeting carried the flavor of a greeting, this one screamed confrontation. He wasn't coming to meet me as much as he wanted to determine my intent and establish his presence.

I stopped and waited, adjusting the pack to shift the irritating shoulder strap to a new location.

He pulled up five feet away, spread his feet out wide, and perched his hands on his hips. The man looked as if he'd just stepped out of the door of a beauty parlor. Every strand of hair had been snipped and razor-cut into obedience. His skin carried that unearthly brown glow of people who spent too much time in a tanning bed, so even and smooth it looked more like it came from a can than the sun. Even his fingernails looked as if he'd just finished a manicure session. Gray showed at his temples, putting his age in my mind a few years older than myself.

"What can I do for you?" he asked in a loud, deep voice that carried a tone of authority.

I knew I needed to choose my words carefully, but ended up grinning. The absurdity of a salon queen prancing on the sand like a rooster strutting his stuff came across as hilarious. I looked down the beach, trying to gather my thoughts and scrub away the image of barnyard confrontations.

"My name is William Hill. I'm with a group of people situated up north at the old town of Portsmouth," I told him when I had finally composed myself enough to look back. "You're welcome to bring your family and join us. The old village is still in good shape. There are several abandoned houses. You can have your pick."

He crossed his arms and stared at me. I pressed on, despite the rejection in his face.

"I don't know how long we'll be stuck on this island, but the weather will turn cold and nasty soon. The houses up there are strong and well-suited to the climate here."

I paused and then played what should have been the trump card.

"There's a dock up there too. I expect it will be the drop-off point for aid supplies."

He looked incredulous.

"You want us to come join you?"

I shrugged. "I don't want anything. I'm simply offering. You can stay down here if you want. It's nice now. Soon it won't be."

He waved dismissively. "We'll be fine. This is some of the best gear money can buy. That tent over there was made for Everest."

I nodded, glancing back behind him as if taking stock of his assessment. A part of me wanted to ask why he hadn't dragged a fifty-foot motor home out on the beach. In fact, the words had formed on my lips when I realized he probably would have if the ferry allowed it. The tent must have been a huge step down for him.

A woman emerged from somewhere behind the Chevy and started across the intervening strip of sand. She apparently liked salons as well. Her hair gleamed flawlessly in the bright sunlight, drifting down past her shoulders in luxurious brown waves. Not one strand of gray showed.

The man shot a look over his shoulder and saw her coming. If anything, he drew himself up larger.

"Now if I may offer you a suggestion. You can keep moving. This is our camp."

She sidled up beside him and stared at me as if she had just discovered a new form of life.

"Is he lost?"

The man put his arm around her.

"Don't worry, baby. Mr. Hill was just leaving."

I let the sigh slide out. Six miles of beach housed a pair of hippies and two castaways from Wall Street. The situation didn't look good for the home team.

The better part of valor and common sense is usually to just walk away. A decade and a half in a suit and tie had drilled that lesson home. A friendly smile, a real attempt at understanding their problems usually went a long way toward smoothing out rough spots with clients and strangers alike. I knew that. I looked them over as I thought about the effort involved.

I smiled at Baby.

"Actually, no, I wasn't just leaving."

I looked back at the man. "You asked me what you could do for me, yes?"

Anger shot across his features.

"It was a figure of speech. If you're looking for a handout, you've come to the wrong place."

"What you can do for me," I said, ignoring him, "is take Baby and scamper your stupid ass back to your tent."

I pointed to the sand. "This, Ace, is not your camp. This is National Seashore. At some point in the next few weeks, it will become extremely inhospitable."

A seagull cried overhead, pulling my gaze up for a moment. When I looked back, both still stared at me.

"But, you hunker down over there with Eddie Bauer and enjoy yourselves. About the time you start freezing your pampered asses off, remember there's a town with food and water a few miles north."

The anger turned to fury on his face. I didn't think the woman would have looked more shocked if I'd pulled out my member and urinated on her feet.

I turned before he could say anything and started back north. I'd wasted enough time and involved myself in a pissing contest with a man I'd known for less than two minutes. I had nothing else to say to him. I couldn't change his mind. If I accomplished anything, I'd do little more than heighten the dislike between us and eat up more of the precious daylight.

My response rankled more than his, though. I'd never tolerated jerks well, but I did know when to walk away from them. Somewhere between Tennessee and the coast, I'd lost my patience and didn't seem capable of finding it again.

The sun squatted low in the west when I walked across the dunes in front of the life-saving station. A warm glow already beamed from the windows. Tyler and Kelly sat out on the porch, the rifle balanced across the man's knees.

"How did it go?" Kelly asked as I approached.

I shot her a weary look. "I found two of the camps. Both are staying where they are for now. All in all, it was pretty much a wasted trip. You guys eat?"

Tyler shook his head. "Not yet. Elsie wanted to wait for you. She's got it set up nice in there."

I slumped down on the porch beside them and took the rifle from him. "Go ahead then. Tell her to come out and sit with me while you eat. I want to talk to her."

"You sure?" Kelly asked. "We don't mind waiting. It's our watch. We'd have to wait anyway."

After Mr. Executive and Mrs. Trophy, the concern felt nice. The truth was, I was tired. I wanted a shot of whiskey, a smoke, and conversation with someone that didn't start out as a confrontation. That thought almost made me reconsider. Elsie could be flat-out ornery sometimes. Still, she would appreciate the drink. I had questions for her as well.

I waved them on.

"No, it's okay. I need to sit a while and rest up a bit before I go in. And I need to talk to her. Tell her to bring some Johnny Walker with her."

Elsie came through the door a few minutes later carrying the whiskey and a dinner plate she used as a serving tray. Atop it sat iced tea and two shot glasses brimming with that sweet, amber liquid I knew would go down smooth and carry a delicious burn when it did. She set the plate on the little table between the two rocking chairs. I climbed to my feet and joined her.

My thoughts may have focused on the whiskey, but I ended up draining most of the iced tea first. The first sip went down in a cool wave that spread through my chest. I followed it with another and another, until the glass was nearly empty. Elsie pulled an open pack of cigarettes from a pocket while she watched. She shook one free, lit it, and passed the pack and lighter to me. I followed suit and leaned back in the rocker, letting the smoke and whiskey burn their way through both exhaustion and aching muscles.

The fading light brought cooler temperatures with it. Already, stars had formed against the evening sky. Off to the east, the rising moon carved a thin arc of light on the horizon. The voice of a single cricket ground a warbling chirp near the edge of the porch, the sound lonely and mournful. I couldn't feel sorry for him. The cool nights might've killed his chances for love, but they'd also chased away the mosquitoes.

Behind us, muted voices and the clink of silverware against plates painted the image of a family at dinner.

"Kelly said you had no luck," Elsie finally offered.

"The beach held hippies and fleeing executives." I told her. "I got the impression that the first set didn't want to make the effort to move and the second set felt it beneath them. You call the Judge?"

The ember of her cigarette flared briefly.

"Yes. It took twenty minutes to get a line through. Every time I tried, a computer told me that all circuits were busy. There's nothing he can do. Martial law pretty much strips him of his authority," she said, the words coming out with little puffs of smoke. "He said a column of military vehicles from Fort Bragg pulled in not long after the ban took effect and set up operations in Morehead. Their orders are clear. People are to stay put."

She paused for a second.

"A man come in today."

I glanced up, surprised.

"Who?"

She puffed on her cigarette.

"He said his name was Gabriel. He's older, maybe ten years older than you. He came up in an ugly boat with a little motor on the back of it."

She motioned toward the inside of the station.

"Joshua and Denise ran into him while they were moving your sailboat back to the dock."

I puffed on my cigarette before I responded, weighing competing emotions. On one side, I no longer needed to worry about _Angel_ spending another night aground. On the other, a new unknown waited at the dock. Given my trip down the island, I wondered where the new man would fit, hopefully somewhere between stoned and arrogant.

I looked toward the door. "Is he here, inside?"

She sipped at her whiskey before she replied. "No. He said he'd come up tomorrow and say hello. I don't know how much fun that will be. He seemed cantankerous and mean."

I let that bit of information sink in.

"How about the radio? Any news there?"

"It gets worse by the hour," she said in a quiet voice. "One of the commentators said that there were over 2 million active infections across the country right now and that the expected mortality rate ranges from 30 percent at the low end to as high as 60 percent."

"Jesus," I whispered.

She pulled on her cigarette again. "Finish up. Let's go inside and eat. I'll turn on the radio. It's almost news time. Besides, I think you should rethink this standing guard business."

I looked over at her. "How so?"

She wiped a strand of gray hair out of her eyes. "Well, we have two people and our only form of protection outside where they could easily be overwhelmed. I'd rather make the station harder to get into and keep them and the rifle inside."

I mulled her words over in my mind. She had a point. "We'd have to board up the windows."

"I was thinking more along the lines of shutters," she said. "Like people used to use when the storms came—you know, so we could open them during the day and close them off at night. Think about it. Let's go if you're done."

I flicked the remainder of my cigarette out into the yard, watching the burning ember etch an orange arc through the darkness.

Elsie huffed in disapproval. "I'll fix us up a bucket with sand it in tomorrow."

I couldn't help but grin as I followed her inside. The old woman had a way of making people feel like naughty little children.

A single Coleman lantern lit the inside, pouring yellow light down across the table. One of the two remaining hams sat in the middle, framed by bowls of mashed potatoes, green beans, and corn. I wondered where she had gotten the plates and forks, and said as much.

She waved her hand. "I had Keith and Devon break into a display down at the old General Store. We actually came away with several things we can use. I noted it all on one of the lists."

Her face brightened. "You need to look over those by the way. It's not as bad as I originally thought. You had a lot of canned food and dry goods on that boat. That extra cooler has quite a bit of meat in it. We should be able to get by for a while if we catch some fish."

She made for an empty chair, her voice still rattling off details.

"One thing I know for certain is that Hill William likes his coffee. You'd put eight pounds of the stuff on board. Between what I brought and the others had, we're set for a couple of months if we limit ourselves to a pot or two a day. We might starve but we'll be able to get our caffeine fix."

I let her comment slide, filled a plate from the bowls on the table, and took a chair across from her. The taste of the food ventured past good and into the realm of heavenly. Aside from burning it, there's not much you can do to a spiral-cut ham to make it taste bad. Beyond that, the mashed potatoes had a creamy, buttery flavor that left me thinking about seconds while still working on my first helping. Somehow, the canned corn and beans ended up tasting like she'd just picked them from a garden. Elsie was worth her weight in gold, if not for the insight she had into living on the island, then for her ability to make magic at the cook stove.

The conversation around the table carried an animated feel. People laughed, told stories, even a few jokes.

Life seemed, if not good, then a sight better than just tolerable - at least until Elsie reached over and turned on the radio.

