Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

untied my hand and shook it to get the blood flowing. I reached in my lap for the flare gun, but it had fallen during the night. I saw the case lying on the deck, but no sign of Brad.

The sun rose over the horizon, turning the sky orange. Day ten of acute symptoms. My nightmare would end soon—one way or the other. I searched the horizon for the other sailboat but did not see it. Had it turned in the night?

I heard something faint, something new, and I cocked my ear to the wind. The low, throaty rumble of an engine in neutral chugged nearby. I rotated the bosun’s chair and stared aft. The other sailboat floated ten yards off our starboard side. Its sails were furled, and it bobbed on the ocean swells. My chest filled.

When had it arrived? I had lost consciousness before dawn, so the boat could not have been there for long. If they had tried to hail me, I had not heard them. No one was visible onboard the forty-foot sailboat. “Sun Odyssey 419” adorned the white hull, under the beige gunwale. I did not see the crew. Or Brad.

“Hey,” I shouted, but only a squeak came out.

My throat parched. I smacked my lips and tried to salivate but could not.

“Help, help, help,” I yelled.

I stared at the boat’s empty deck. No one responded. They could not hear me. I unclipped my knife from my shirt and banged it against the mast. I sent the SOS code. Clang, clang, clang—clang . . . clang . . . clang—clang, clang, clang.

Nothing.

“I’m up here. Somebody, help me.”

No response.

My chest ached, and I cried a tearless sob. I had entered the recurrent dream I had as a child where I tried to call my mother but could not utter a sound. Salvation lay within sight, but I could not yell loud enough for anyone to hear. I banged the knife on the mast again and the clanging echoed through the air.

Why could no one hear me?

I scanned our yacht, but the sail obscured the cockpit. Had Brad gone below?

The sun glinted off something, fifty yards to port. I shaded my eyes and recognized the profile of a white dinghy—unoccupied. It must be the Sun Odyssey’s lifeboat. It bobbed on the surface, drifting away, and trailing a line in the water. Why was their dinghy floating away?

I turned back to the Odyssey.

“Help me.”

The wind carried my voice over the bow and across the ocean. The crew must have seen me hanging from the mast. Were they below deck? What the hell was going on?

My frustration gave way to anger. I had to get off the mast and find them, warn them about Brad. If he was still alive.

I lowered myself down the line toward the deck. The sail ruffled in the early morning breeze and I pushed off the mast with my feet to avoid it. Our yacht drifted away from the other boat as we rolled over long swells. I hesitated ten feet above the deck. I did not see anyone. Something was wrong.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

No answer.

“Brad?”

Nothing.

I scanned the deck a final time. This was it. All of my efforts had gone toward signaling the sailboat, my last hope for survival. Now it had arrived, and I needed to get help.

I lowered myself to the deck.

My swollen foot throbbed with undulating waves of pain. I eased my weight onto it, as if I stood on a partially deflated balloon. I slipped out of the harness and scanned the deck, expecting Brad to emerge from below and finish me.

“Hello?” I said, my voice soft, tentative.

I moved along the gunwale, sidestepping around the sail, which flapped over the deck like a wounded bird. I walked to the edge of the cockpit, leaned over, and peeked inside. Nothing. I looked back at the other sailboat. It appeared abandoned.

The great white’s fin cut through the water between the yacht and the other sailboat. I shivered. Where was Brad? Where was the other crew? Gooseflesh covered my arms. My lips trembled.

This feels wrong.

I knelt on the deck and pressed my face against the small cabin windows. The interior was dark, and I could not see though the tint. I walked to the stern and peeked around the helm. The companionway was open.

“Hello?”

No answer.

I rounded the steering wheel and stepped into the cockpit. I saw nothing in the darkness below. I glanced back at the sailboat. It bobbed silently, like a ghost ship.

“Ahoy on the Sun Odyssey,” I yelled.

No response.

I took a step. My hair rose on my neck. I took another. My hands shook. I moved to the stairs, bent at my waist, and looked into the salon.

Empty.

I held the handrails and stepped onto the stairs. What else could I do? I had to find the other crew. Maybe Brad was dead. I hesitated on the top step. My entire body trembled.

“Brad? Are you in there? Please answer me.”

The ocean lapped against the hull. The sail fluttered. I took another step. I looked right and left. Shadows veiled the stern berths. My bloody footprints had dried and turned a rusty brown. I climbed below. I held my breath and listened. A faint cracking sound came from somewhere below.

“Brad?”

Had he succumbed to the virus? After ten days of acute symptoms, he must be near the end. I moved to my left and peeked into the port berth. Empty. I checked the starboard berth, which was empty too. The broken door lay on the floor.

Another noise came from the stateroom.

What is that?

I glanced at the companionway, my every instinct urging me to flee, but where would I go? I turned and faced the bow. I limped forward, past the salon and galley. I stepped into the corridor outside the stateroom. The door hung open a few inches.

A wet slurping sound emanated from the room. Someone was in there. Was Brad snoring? I pushed the door halfway open, rested my palm on