Phil Williams - 2050 - Psycho Island

Derek and Summer brought the pontoons and the batteries to Fred as he worked on the craft. They collected water from the rainwater cisterns under the fort. Water to quench their thirst and a bottle for the journey. The pontoons bolted to the hinged connection points easily with help from Derek and Summer holding the pontoons steady. The batteries were a pain in the ass, as they were placed at the front of the craft. Fred had to crawl inside the cockpit, head first, to connect the batteries.

Once the sub was ready for its maiden voyage, Fred said, “Who’s drivin’ this thing?”

“I thought you were,” Summer said.

“So did I,” Derek said.

Fred shook his head. “I’m not leavin’ my family.”

“Can two people fit?” Summer asked.

“It’s tight for one person,” Fred said. “Weight’s an issue too. I don’t know if this thing can go the distance. The more weight we put in it, the less likely it is to make it to the Virgin Islands.”

Faint Spanish words carried with the wind. They all stopped and listened. They stood near the point but on the bayside. Derek crept toward the oceanside and peered down the beach. He ran back, his eyes wide open.

“The Netas. Maybe ten men coming down the beach with rifles,” Derek said. “We need to get her launched. Summer should go.”

They pushed the sub into the water. It floated, which was a good sign. Summer climbed into the cockpit. A full water bottle was on the floor. Fred and Derek were alongside the craft in water up to their chests. A small watertight box was on the floor, with a carabiner clip attached. Inside, was a compass, a folded piece of paper protected by plastic with compass headings and times, a windup stopwatch, and the USB flash drive with the video footage. A hammer, a manual drill, and a scuba snorkel with a mask were on the floor next to the small box. Fred gave her the sixty-second tour. He told her how to work the throttle, how to dive and surface and steer.

“Do you know how to use a compass?” Fred asked.

Summer nodded.

“Just use the stopwatch and steer those exact coordinates in that exact order for the times listed at full throttle. It should put you in the Virgin Islands. Take the video to Silver City. It’s in the Darién Province of Panama. Ask for Steven Parker Jr.” Fred pointed to the snorkel and said, “Gimme that snorkel and mask.” He took the snorkel and mask from Summer, then said, “Use the drill if you can’t—”

A loud pop sounded, and a bullet whizzed by, too close for comfort. Another shot. The Netas from the beach were near the point now, only seventy yards away.

“Go!” Fred said, shutting the hatch.

Early Monday morning, Naomi heard voices outside. She was in her bedroom, dressing for work. Alan straightened his tie in the mirror.

“Did you hear that?” Naomi asked, walking to the window.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Alan said, not turning from the mirror.

Naomi saw two men in masks running from her house.

“Two men are running away from our house,” Naomi said, watching them disappear from view.

“Maybe they’re jogging,” Alan said, approaching the window. He looked from the window, scanning the area. “I don’t see anybody.”

“They were just here, and they were wearing masks. Nobody jogs in a mask in the summer.”

“It’s the shadows from the buildings. Maybe it just looked like they were wearing masks.”

Naomi blew out a frustrated breath. “Aren’t you concerned?”

Alan turned from the window to his wife. “When was the last time we’ve even had a robbery around here? There’s no crime anymore.”

“There’s less crime, but there’s still crime.”

Alan rolled his eyes. “You want me to call the police?”

“No, I want you to go outside and check it out.”

“What am I supposed to do if I find someone?”

Naomi glared at Alan and said, “Be a man for once.” She regretted the statement as soon as the words left her lips.

Alan crossed his arms over his chest. “Like Vernon?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did. I’m not stupid. I see the way you look at him.”

“I said I was sorry. Can we just let it go?”

Alan dropped his arms and narrowed his eyes at Naomi. “I know you’re having an affair.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Naomi said, turning away from Alan and slipping into her flats.

“Blake told me.”

Naomi clenched her fists, thinking about her deadbeat son. She turned back to Alan. “And you believe him?”

“I do now.”

“Look. I know I’ve been a neglectful wife. I’m sorry. We’ll work it out.”

“I want a divorce.”

Naomi’s eyes bulged; her eyebrows arched high. “A divorce? Are you insane? Is this some kind of midlife crisis?”

“You want me to be a man for once? I’m being a man. I want a divorce.”

Naomi softened her tone, knowing that a messy divorce would ruin any chance of winning the presidency. “Alan, be reasonable. Let’s talk tonight. We’ll work it out.” She grabbed his hand.

He pulled back and said, “I’m taking the car to work by myself. You can call an AutoLyft.” Alan left the bedroom for the stairs.

Naomi hurried after him.

They pushed the submarine into the depths, gunshots snapping overhead. The water was up to their necks now. Fred handed the snorkel and mask to Derek.

“Keep your head under water and swim across the bay,” Fred said.

“We’ll go together,” Derek said.

But Fred swam for the shore and Summer motored toward the ocean, leaving Derek alone. Two more gunshots sounded. These were aimed at Fred. Derek put on the mask, the snorkel in his mouth, and slipped under the water. He swam across the bay toward a small islet about five hundred yards away. The water was still choppy but had calmed considerably.

Derek swam with a modified breast stroke, keeping his head and body submerged, trying not to splash, sucking in air through his snorkel. On occasion, he sucked in seawater and spat out what he could through the snorkel, like a whale. His boots and camo pants made the swimming especially tiresome.

He heard a flurry of gunfire, but he didn’t raise his head from the water or stop swimming. He knew the Netas had killed Fred on the rocky beach.

An urgent knock came at their door. Jacob answered the door, Rebecca right behind him.

It was Cesar, his expression grim. “We found him.”

“Is he okay?” Rebecca asked.

“Come with me,” Cesar replied.

Jacob and Rebecca followed Cesar to the command center of the bunker. The command center was a small room with desks and computers and three Project Freedom technicians. They’d launched both drones early that morning, as soon as the rain slowed.

“You two should sit,” Cesar said, motioning to two empty chairs in front of a metal desk. Cesar nodded to one of the technicians.

The man placed a laptop on the desk, facing Jacob and Rebecca. The screen was paused, showing jungle footage from one of the drones. He pressed Play and stepped away from the screen.

Jacob and Rebecca watched as the drone moved from the jungle to the ruins of a tropical city. Cracking asphalt. Crumbling buildings. Piles of concrete. Vines and trees sprouting and covering what once was. A few tan men walked together, holding rusty machetes. The drone zoomed in on their faces, determining that they were not a match to Derek.

The drone moved on, like a bee searching for nectar. It found a man laying awkwardly against a pile of rubble, his neck lolled to the side. His upper body was a shirtless mangled mess of red meat, his intestines resting in his lap. The drone zoomed in on his face. He had a dark beard and dark hair. His skin was tan. The drone checked the facial markers against Derek’s image. Match Confirmed appeared on the screen.