Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

too expansive to locate a lone sailboat. Eric knew I was in trouble, and he had feelings for me, so maybe he would send help.

I stopped daydreaming. No one would find us. I was alone on a ship with a rabid animal and nobody was coming to my rescue. I dropped my face into my hands and wept.

Brad stomped up the companionway and climbed on deck.

Was he looking for me in his confused state? What if he fell overboard? I should lead him into his cabin, but I could not move. He scared me and though I did not wish to acknowledge my feelings, it was true. I had become a castaway on a yacht, adrift in an oceanic wilderness with a man suffering from a neurological deficit—a madman.

I shuddered and hugged myself.

Sunlight filtered into the cabin from small portholes high on the wall, and I peered into the cockpit.

Brad trudged past, dragging his feet like he had coordination problems. The virus had devoured his nerve endings. He mumbled to himself, alternately angry and defensive, but I could not understand his words.

He paced in circles around the deck, his rants punctuated with high-pitched yelps—almost a dog’s bark. He walked toward the starboard side and disappeared from my view. He stopped talking and I could not hear anything.

What’s he doing?

The engine stopped.

CHAPTER FORTY

The yacht drifted to a standstill on the flat, saltwater lake created by the doldrums. We rocked side to side in the current, which pushed us away from our destination. If a storm hit now, we would capsize. The problems mounted and my situation seemed impossible. I laid on the bed and closed my eyes.

I awoke confused. I remembered lying in bed and nothing else. I blinked my eyes and my dire situation flooded into my consciousness, like receiving a death notice. Through the porthole, the sun hung low in the sky. I must have slept for hours, and I felt stronger, rested, which was something.

Brad yelled from somewhere on deck. I looked through the porthole at his feet near the helm, facing the sea.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” he yelled.

Was he talking to me?

He turned and stumbled into the cockpit. There was something primal about him now. He cocked his head to the side like a wolf searching for a scent on the wind. He extended his fingers—rigid, like claws. Maybe his hands had cramped. He drooled onto his shirt and growled.

I gasped.

He looked up, as if he had heard, but that was not possible. He curled his lips away from his teeth. Another spasm? He bit at the air, three times in succession, hunched over, and leered at me.

I ducked away from the porthole. Had he seen me? My eyes darted around the small berth, desperate to escape. The bed almost filled the room. Opposite a bench at the foot of the bed lay the en suite head, a bathroom much smaller than the one in our stateroom. Above the bench was a long cabinet, and two portholes opened high on the walls on each side of the berth. One faced the cockpit and the other the sea—both too small to climb through. A long rectangular window paralleled the bed, about five feet over the waterline, but it did not open.

Behind the bed, a raised platform extended to the stern, and a hatch opened in the transom. The hatches did not function as exits. Across from the head, two large cupboards hung from the interior bulkhead. One looked like a wardrobe, and the other was oddly shaped and only extended a few feet off the deck. The room felt like a prison—a prison with an insane guard patrolling the perimeter.

Brad walked out of my view, and I strained to listen. I stood on the bed and looked through the interior porthole. I saw the cockpit and the steering wheel, but not Brad. I turned toward the starboard wall and shrieked.

Brad’s pressed his face against the porthole and glared at me.

He knelt and hunched his back. Saliva dripped off his mouth. Matted hair hung over wide eyes, and his stare bore into me. I had seen that look before.

The beast had returned.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Brad watched me through the window, like a lion preparing to savage an elk. Long strands of thick saliva hung off his lower lip.

I crawled across the bed and pressed my back against the interior bulkhead. I wanted to appear brave, pretend nothing was wrong, but my hands shook, and my lips quivered.

He seemed to recognize the fear on my face. He bared his teeth.

If he came for me, I could stay in the room and hope I had the strength to stop him from opening the door. Or I could run from the cabin and hide. But where?

Brad cocked his head and bit the air, sending saliva flying. He pounced at the porthole and his lip exploded from the impact. Blood flecked the glass. He seemed not to notice. He retreated, bumped into the safety lines, and moved toward the cockpit.

He’s coming.

I had thirty seconds to decide what to do. I swung the medical bag over my shoulder and jumped off the bed. I ran across the cabin and grabbed the door handle. I heard Brad’s feet slap against the deck as he landed in the cockpit. I studied the recessed latches on the cabinets beside the door, which differed from the wardrobe handles in our stateroom.

I dropped to my knees and pressed the buttons near the top of the cabinet. The latch popped, and the door fell open, revealing the engine compartment, a tight space between the stern berths and under the companionway. The engine lay before me, and heat radiated off it.

I stuck my head inside and looked aft. Beside the engine, hoses wound out of a white box, and other machinery hummed near it, probably the generator, water filter, heater, and air conditioner. The compartment extended ten feet to the stern, tapering near the