Jason Frost - The cutthroat

"Like in their laps?"

Half a dozen arrows slammed into the canoe, another half a dozen sliced through the water.

"Damn," Tracy said, "I just felt one graze my sneaker."

"How long can you hold your breath?" Eric asked.

"As long as I have to, I guess."

"Good. We won't be able to see each other underwater, so grab hold of the waistband of my pants once we're underwater."

"My boyfriend in high school already tried that line."

Eric smiled, wishing for a moment he could see her more clearly. Just in case they didn't make it. He pulled her toward him, found her shivering lips with his own. Kissed. Salty tongues flicked against each other. It was over in a second, but it gave both strength. "Take some deep breaths, force the air down. Your lungs only operate at a third their capacity during normal breathing." She sucked the air deep into her lungs. "Okay, let's go," he said, diving under the water. He waited until Tracy had groped along his back and snagged his waistband before diving deeper, out of lethal range of any stray arrows.

The numbing cold of the water seemed to wring his muscles with each stroke. Occasionally his hand brushed something floating, and he wondered if it was seaweed or a shark or that boy's body he'd dragged up. But he pushed on, scooping water aside as he swam blindly toward the ship, hoping he was still going in the right direction. Hoping that this plan was better than the last one.

After a while he felt that insistent twitching in his chest, the burning spasms of the last of his oxygen being consumed. The muscles in his throat began to flutter, demanding air. Tracy was yanking on his waistband, urging him to go up to the surface. He couldn't be sure of exactly where they were right now, but he was sure that they weren't close enough yet. He kept swimming.

Tracy's tugging became more desperate, panicky. But he swam on, fighting the screaming in his own body. They had to keep going. Finally Tracy let go, pushing off his back and shooting up toward the surface. Eric reached up, grabbed her churning ankle, and yanked her back down, wrapping his arm tightly around her chest. She fought weakly as he pulled her through the water. Just a few more yards, he thought, kicking furiously.

He heard the sudden rush of bubbles escape from her mouth, felt her chest convulse as it gulped water. She was drowning.

He had no choice now. He broke for surface.

Vomit and saltwater bubbled from Tracy's mouth.

Eric flipped her over in the water so she wouldn't choke, letting the fluids drain from her mouth. Rivulets of black water and mucus gushed from her nostrils. Her eyes rolled up into her head, her eyelids fluttering.

"C'mon, damn it. Breathe." He gripped her tight with one arm, pressing his fist between her shoulder blades. A stream of soupy liquid pumped from her mouth. The growl of her retching echoed loudly across the dark water.

She sucked air, coughed. Breathed.

"Over there," someone shouted. The searchlight swiveled noisily on rusty hinges and Eric saw the saucer of light skimming over the surface of the water toward them.

"There. There!" the oriental woman's voice directed.

Eric looked up, saw the huge ship rocking only a dozen yards away. A few more seconds and he'd have made it to safety. But Tracy wouldn't have.

He squinted into the glaring searchlight, boosting Tracy afloat with one arm, treading water with the other. He stared at the ship and calculated his options for escape. He found none. The light cast a bright pool of warmth around them that reminded Eric how cold the water was. Tracy's body hung limply in his arms now, but she was still shivering. She half-opened her eyes, looked around sleepily. "Sorry."

"There, there," he said. It was something he used to say to his kids, but he didn't know what else to say. It seemed to calm Tracy. She closed her eyes, squeezed out a tear.

"We've decided to surrender," Eric hollered up to the ship.

An arrow whistled out of the dark, splashed water in front of them, kicking a spray in Eric's face before disappearing underwater. He felt a sudden sharp pressure in his chest where the arrow lodged. A warm tingling spidered out from the wound, crept along his flesh. Tracy floated free from his arms. The water began to rise around him.

"No, Angel!" he heard the captain's voice yell. "Not until we have the fucking map."

Angel. Eric remembered who she was now, the familiar harsh voice from a distant nightmare. Angel. It had been many years. He thought she was dead.

"Eric!" Tracy screamed, grabbing weakly at him.

Too late. The water folded over his head with downy gentleness. Liquid arms carried him through the crowded ocean. Everything was quiet tonight in the thick darkness of Hunting-ton Beach. He was sinking.

Tracy shrugged the rough blanket off her shoulders and stood shivering in her bra and panties. She squeezed the leg of her jeans, the shoulder of her sweat shirt. Damp, but better than standing around naked in a smelly blanket. This way she felt less vulnerable.

She pulled her clothes from the bunk where they'd been drying and climbed into them. The wet denim scraped against her unshaven legs. Not having to shave her legs and armpits was the only advantage of living in California now-the way making a right turn on a red light used to be.

C'mon, Tracy, she scolded herself, don't flip out now.

There was a rustling behind her, a low moan.

"Am I dead?" Eric asked quietly, his eyes opening.

"Too soon to tell."

He grinned, figuring the effect was worth the pain.

Tracy's cool fingers pressed against his forehead, holding him down. He could have told her he wasn't going anywhere. Not until someone removed the Plymouth from his chest. In a minute or two he'd worry about the situation. Right now he closed his eyes, let the ship's swaying lull him for a moment. He slipped into a dream and saw Annie smiling, waving, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Behind her stood Fallows, smirking, holding Timmy's hand. Timmy's mouth curved into an evil leer. Eric forced his eyes back open. His own grin was gone.

He looked down at his chest, recognized the blue cotton material used to bandage his wound. "I see your sweat shirt's missing a hood and some sleeves. You getting into the punk look?"

Tracy snorted. "On this ship who would notice?"

He looked around the cabin. It was a double stateroom with extra sleeping bags lying in twisted heaps on the floor. Enough bedding to sleep an expanded crew. A sloppy crew by the looks of things. Dirty clothes were thrown everywhere, tattered skin magazines spread-eagled on several bunks. Eric turned his head to the wall. Ragged pages torn carelessly from the magazines were tacked to the wall. Naked women. Naked men. Naked boys with girls no more than eleven or twelve.

"How you feeling?" Tracy asked.

"I wish you wouldn't try to sound so chipper. Makes me think I've got only minutes to live."

"Sorry," she said. She wasn't talking about now.

Eric reached out, traced her jawline with his finger. "Forget it. Really."

"Guess I couldn't hold my breath as long as I thought."

He gestured with his chin at the messy stateroom. "If you lived in this room long enough, you'd learn to hold it indefinitely."

It got a slight smile.

Eric struggled to prop himself onto his elbows. A flaming spear skewered his chest.

"Don't move, Eric. Without our clothes from the canoe, I can't afford to lose any more of this sweat jacket to make fresh bandages."

With the sleeves ripped off the jacket, her long smooth arms hung naked to her sides. The skin was tan from weeks of exposure to the sun, the muscles sharply defined from the exercise. A few scabs and scratches in various stages of healing decorated her arms. Broken blisters and callous pads clumped on her palms. Her face remained pale, though Eric thought he noticed a gradual building up of freckles across the bridge of the nose. The nose itself was still a little crooked from a fall from a horse a month ago. To him, she was more beautiful than ever.