Ken Douglas - Scorpion

“ Coming,” he said, cradling the phone. He stepped into the bathroom and stepped out of his Levi’s, noticing her jeans neatly laid across the back of the toilet. She wore Levi’s too. He liked that. Then he pulled his tee shirt off and stepped into the shower and the time of his life.

Forty minutes later he was flat on his back, looking up at her firm breasts as she slid back and forth, attempting to make him come for a third time. He hadn’t had sex like this since he was in high school. She’d attacked him the second he slipped into the shower, draining him in less time than it took a jackrabbit to jack. Then she led him, still wet, to the bed, where they did it long and slow and she opened the heavens for him. And now she was rocking above him, looking like an angel, and then he spasmed and shot into her for that third time.

“ More?” she said, giggling.

“ I’m lucky I survived that.”

“ I wanted it to be good for you,” she said. “I wanted it to be the best.”

“ Baby, it was,” he said.

“ Good, let’s take another shower. And then we have to talk.”

Twenty minutes later she told him about the plans to take over a country, and how he could help.

Broxton struck out, swimming toward the deep water. Ramsingh must be heading for one of the anchored yachts. It was the only thing that made sense. He stopped, treading water. But which ship? The closest? He was shivering cold and at a complete loss. From the beach the yachts were barely visible, but out here, closer, he could see that they were as thick as trees in a forest. His chances of picking the right boat weren’t good, but he couldn’t stay where he was, so he started for the nearest yacht.

The black sea chilled him to the bone, his wet clothes became his enemy now, making it harder for him to move through the water, pulling at him, slowing him down. He stopped again, treading water. He was farther out, the wind had kicked up, and it was harder for him to stay afloat. He had to get rid of his pants or he wouldn’t make it.

Treading against the sea with only his left arm he loosened the top button of his Levi’s with his right. He popped open the four buttons, but the pants, wet and tight, fit him like a second skin. Try as he might, he couldn’t slide them down. Maybe if he was in a quiet bedroom with his rump on a soft mattress, but not out in the cold sea, while he was treading water with only one hand.

A chill, colder than the sea, gripped his spine and squeezed it. The Levi’s had to come off. If not he was going to die. He was out of breath, out of strength and his waterlogged jeans were pulling him down sure as cement shoes on a snitch’s feet. He wanted them off, had to get them off. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t force them down with only one hand.

He grabbed a deep breath, slipped his thumbs between flesh and denim and curled himself into a sinking ball. He was alone in the dark as he grabbed the jeans tighter at the hips and wiggled them off. Then he started toward the surface, fighting to hold his breath against the pressure pounding in his chest.

He broke through, taking in air, before he sank back down. He windmilled his arms in an effort to stay afloat. Then he felt something hit him, something grabbing at him. Shark was his first thought, and he lashed out at it, but it moved away. He tried to turn, to face it as it came at him again, and it did, grabbing at his back, tugging at his shirt. He threw a hand over his head, trying to get at it, but he couldn’t reach.

“ Slow down! Don’t panic!” Ramsingh shouted. “I’ve got you.” The prime minister’s steady arm wrapped around him. “It’s all right,” he soothed, and Broxton stopped flapping, stopped fighting, and allowed the prime minister to support him while he sucked in badly needed air, heaving it in and out, like a long distance runner at the end of a marathon.

“ Lay back, take it easy,” Ramsingh said, and Broxton obeyed, floating on his back, putting complete trust in him, allowing the older man to keep him afloat as he stared at the round moon and the slow moving clouds that threatened to take away its light. He’d always thought of himself as a good swimmer, but tonight proved him wrong. And he’d thought himself in fair shape. This night proved him wrong about that, too.

“ Better?” Ramsingh asked.

“ Yeah, thanks,” Broxton said.

“ We never give up, we never quit,” Ramsingh said, and Broxton felt himself nodding. “That was my campaign slogan,” Ramsingh said, his voice soft, slow and rhythmic. “The polls had me so far behind sometimes I wondered why I kept on, but I did, and when things looked the blackest I said that to myself, over and over, like a mantra, ‘We never give up. We never quit. We never give up. We never quit’.”

“ We never give up. We never quit,” Broxton said along with him.

“ That’s the spirit,” Ramsingh said, still holding him afloat. “The only thing you have to be afraid of out here is yourself.”

“ Thanks,” Broxton said, breathing easier now.

“ You’re in control?”

“ Yes, sir,” Broxton said, and Ramsingh eased his supporting hand away and he began treading water on his own.

“ There’s a ship out there. Not far, without any lights.”

“ Not the closest?” Broxton said.

“ No, not the closest, but we can stop and rest along the way.”

“ How do you know?” Broxton asked.

“ I’ve already been out there,” he said. Then he started swimming slowly out toward the anchored boats with the easy, graceful strokes of a professional swimmer and Broxton followed. While he swam he thought about what Ramsingh had done. He’d been safely away, yet he’d abandoned that safety and come back for him, saved him from a cold, silent and dark death.

Lightning flashed overhead and the heavens opened as those clouds finally covered the moon. The ocean was turned into a psychedelic supermarket as water pelted the sea, splashing all around him. Visibility was reduced to almost zero and he added a renewed vigor to his strokes, determined not to lose sight of the prime minister.

Then he saw Ramsingh grab onto a dinghy that was tied off the back of a small sailboat and relief swept through him when he saw the prime minister’s outstretched arm. He grasped it in a Viking grip and in seconds he was holding onto the dinghy. He started to speak, but Ramsingh held an index finger to his lips and pointed to the boat. Broxton got the message, someone was home.

Ramsingh put his lips to Broxton’s ear. “We have to wait for the rain to stop.” Then he pulled himself up into the dinghy and Broxton flopped in after him. Both men huddled forward against the pelting rain and just as it seemed like it was going to let up, a brisk wind blew out of the west bringing even more rain.

Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The squall had blown through, leaving a star studded sky in its wake. Ramsingh, able to see now, pointed to another boat, bigger, dark with no dinghy tied up to it. Broxton got the message and he stole a few quick breaths as Ramsingh slipped over the side, back into the water, and started swimming toward the dark boat. Broxton was tired, his arms felt like they were weighed down with lead, his legs were spaghetti and his chest was about to explode, the rest had helped, but it wasn’t enough. Still the prime minister was an old man recently out of heart surgery, and if Ramsingh could make it, then he bloody well could too.

He let go of the rubber boat and took long, slow, even strokes toward the black ship. At first he grabbed air every other time his right arm dug into the water, but before long he was operating on sheer will and forcing his heavy arms up and out of the water was harder with every stroke. His body demanded more oxygen, so every time the right arm came out of the cold he sucked in air until even that wasn’t enough and he had to stop and rest.