Jack Rogan: The Ocean Dark

The Mariposa rocked gently on the open sea, adrift and silent. Braulio flitted at the edge of consciousness, cradled and swayed by the boat as though in his mother’s arms. His eyes fluttered open and for the first few seconds he felt pleasantly numb. Then the pain blossomed anew — a wave of gut-deep agony that nearly drove him down into the blackness again.

He cried out — half in pain, and half to force himself to stay conscious. With the pain, and that cry, memory returned in full. Limbs slow and leaden, he turned slightly. Fresh pains stabbed at his abdomen and leg, seared his face and chest, and blood began to seep from wounds he feared had already killed him.

Angelique .

He squeezed his eyes closed and wept once more, hating the weakness of his tears. Images of his granddaughter’s face filled his mind. Six-year-old Angelique had been a gift, her birth bringing his son, Marvin, back into his life. The boy had been the result of a single night’s fumbling with a waitress past her prime — a woman who had taken an interest in Braulio when he had been young and handsome, or at least young. He’d had very little contact with Marvin over the years, but that had changed with Angelique’s birth. Abandoned by the baby’s mother, and his own having passed on years before, Marvin had needed help. Braulio had little enough money, but he did what he could. His time, though, he lavished upon the girl.

Angelique was worth living for. Worth fighting for.

Sunlight shone through the small vent in the outer wall of the head. How long had he been out? Was this morning or afternoon? A wave of nausea rippled through him as he wondered how many hours remained before night would come again. Would the devils return? Was it even safe to assume they came only at night?

He steadied his breathing, stopped his tears, gritted his teeth against the pain, and listened. The creak of the ship. The clank of cables and pulley against the winch. Nothing else. Not so much as a gull’s caw to indicate he might have drifted toward land.

He thought of the captain, of the guns they’d brought to the island.

Of the radio.

Did he hear the soft crackle of static, even down here? He thought he did.

Mustering what little strength remained to him, he forced himself to stand. Waves of pain tore through him and he grunted, too weak even to cry out, and he pressed his hands more tightly to the seeping wound in his gut. Fresh beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and back and began to trickle down his skin. Blackness swam around the edges of his vision and he fell against the door, began to slide to the floor, unconsciousness claiming him yet again.

But Braulio fought it. Breathing through his teeth, lips peeled back, he forced his eyes to open. He adjusted one hand to clamp tightly on his wound and with the other he scrabbled at the lock and the handle, fingers slick with his own blood.

The radio.

The door had buckled in the middle, dented by the pounding of the devils. It stuck in its frame, but Braulio kept the image of his granddaughter firmly in his mind — that smile with the missing tooth in front. He pulled, heard a pop, and as the door opened something tore deep inside him and a fresh gush of blood squirted through the fingers he held clamped over his abdomen.

He wouldn’t allow himself to think of it. If the devils were still on the boat, would they smell it? Surely they would hear him. It didn’t matter. If he couldn’t radio for help, he would die.

But his instincts had been correct. As he slid himself along the wall and into the main cabin, nothing moved. The sun shone through the windows and he caught glimpses of blue sky. Sorrow engulfed him as he thought about Angelique. He needed to see her, to touch her face, to smell her hair. Braulio knew he had sinned in his life, and knew there would be hell to pay someday. Then Angelique had come into his life and, for an instant, he had changed his mind. How bad could his crimes have been if heaven could bring such a light into his life?

But no; now his payment had come.

He staggered up the steps into the wheelhouse. His vision blurred and he held tightly to the handrail. If he fell unconscious here and did not wake before nightfall … He had to use the radio and then get back to the head, lock himself in again.

Then it would be up to God who found him first — men, or devils.

In the wheelhouse he paused, listening. Where was the hiss of static? The radio had gone silent. Steadying himself, blinking to focus, he stared at the radio, thinking it had died.

Then a voice, clear and crisp, came from the radio.

“Mickey, this is Donald. Come in, Mickey.”

Tori watched as Gabe’s face clouded over, and it seemed like he went somewhere inside himself for a second. And whatever he found there, it wasn’t pleasant.

“Captain?”

He forced a smile. “You got a lot of thoughts rolling around in that head.”

Tori shrugged. “What you see is what you get. I’m out on the edge of the world, surviving, just like you. I tried ‘normal.’ Tried the housewife thing. It almost killed me.”

For almost a minute they stood together at the railing, enjoying the breeze and the peaceful ocean. This conversation had been a long time coming and Tori had imagined it becoming much uglier, so she felt a measure of relief.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For talking it out with me. For trusting me.”

Gabe grunted again, then stood and started patting the pockets of his loose cotton pants and the patterned, cream-colored shirt he wore untucked. He located his cigarettes and a lighter, and fired up a fresh one.

After he’d taken the first real drag and made sure the butt had ignited, he glanced at her.

“You know my little brother’s still going to be a prick, right? He hates anyone second-guessing him. He’s pissed at the boss, and you’re getting the spill-off from that.”

Tori turned up her hands. “I can’t control what Miguel thinks. He’ll get over it, or he won’t.”

Gabe nodded, took a drag off his cigarette. As he exhaled, he seemed about to say something more, but they were interrupted by a shout and running feet.

They looked up to see red-haired Tom Dwyer rushing up to the railing on the stairwell landing above them. The Irish kid, maybe twenty-one or two, was one of the five new members of the crew, but he’d adapted fast, worked his way into Miguel’s good graces, and landed himself the gig as third mate, working the bridge with the Rio brothers.

“Captain!” the kid said, practically hanging over the railing above them.

“What’s up, Mr. Dwyer?”

“Mr. Rio needs you on the bridge. He said to tell you ‘Ortega’s house is coming down.’”

“Fuck!” the captain snarled, running to the stairs.

He didn’t even toss his cigarette, just let it fall from his hand to the deck, where the wind spun it around and danced it overboard.

Tori looked up at Dwyer. “What the hell is that about?”

The redhead studied her a second, then shook his head. “Sorry. You’ll have to ask them.”

As Gabe passed him, Dwyer fell into the captain’s wake, the two of them clanging up the metal stairs toward the bridge at the top, leaving Tori to wonder. She was curious, and even a bit alarmed, but not frightened. Whatever it was, the Rio brothers would take care of it. They were capable men. Rough men. Some might even say bad men, but Tori would have argued the difference.

You always knew where you stood with men like the Rios. If things got too rough, you could always walk away. With truly bad men, there was never any walking away. Not without pain. Not without blood. Bad men didn’t let go as long as you were alive.