Phil Williams - 2050 - Psycho Island

Jacob approached Rebecca and said, “Mind if I sit down?”

Rebecca looked up at Jacob and shook her head.

Jacob sat on the sand next to his wife. She wore a T-shirt and capris, her brown hair catching the breeze.

“I’m sorry. I know this is hard,” Jacob said.

She reached out and put her hand on top of his. “Don’t be. I know you did your best. At least we know.”

Jacob squeezed his wife’s hand.

“What am I supposed to tell Lindsey?” Rebecca asked.

“The truth.”

The wind changed direction, and they heard faint voices.

“You hear that?” Rob said to Billy.

“I’ll check it out,” Billy replied.

Jacob turned his head to the mercenaries. “What’s happening?”

“We’re not sure. We heard voices coming from the north.” Rob pointed north, along the beach. “Probably locals.”

Billy crept along the beach, stopping every now and again to look through his long-range scope, until he was no longer visible to Jacob. Shortly after he disappeared around the bend, Billy returned, sprinting, his eyes like saucers. He said, “We need Cesar’s men.”

There was no periscope, so Summer had been navigating solely by compass and stopwatch. A puddle of urine was at her feet. She’d been stuck in the tiny cockpit for nearly ten hours. Six hours in, she couldn’t hold it anymore. She’d taken off her cutoff fatigues and peed on the floor. The submarine cockpit was so small that she couldn’t squat or stand, so she’d scooched to the edge of her seat, propped her legs and done her business.

Nine hours and fifteen minutes in, she’d turned the craft south per the written instructions. She’d tried to surface at that point, figuring she was well beyond the naval blockade, but the sub wouldn’t surface. So, she’d continued on her heading, hoping that she’d reach the beach. Maybe the waves would wash her ashore.

The sub slowed for about thirty minutes, then it stopped completely, the pontoons bobbing in the ocean current above her. She tried restarting the craft but nothing happened. It was out of juice. She tried resurfacing again, praying that it would work, hoping that maybe the surfacing mechanism didn’t need power. She wasn’t surprised when it didn’t work.

Summer’s heart pounded. She began to sweat. I have to get out of here. I can swim to the surface and float on a pontoon. Maybe land is close enough to swim . Summer grabbed the small watertight box from the floor. A carabiner clip was attached to the box. She clipped the carabiner to a belt loop on her cutoff fatigues. Summer undid the latch and pressed on the hatch, thinking it would open, but it wouldn’t budge. She used all her strength, but it was stuck.

She sat for a few seconds, catching her breath. This time she placed her hands on the hatch and pushed with her legs. Still nothing. Why? She glanced to the hammer and the manual drill at her feet. Fred had said something about the drill. What was it? Use the drill if you can’t … That was all he said. Can’t what? Open the hatch? Surface?

If I stay in the submarine, maybe the current will take me to land. But maybe it’ll take weeks or months. I’ll die of thirst. But, if I break a window, I might drown. What if I can only make a small hole, and the water comes in, and I drown? Or maybe a storm hits and breaks the pontoons from the sub. I’d sink to the bottom of the ocean and die from the pressure .

Her mind dinged with a light-bulb connection. “The pressure,” she said out loud. “That’s why it won’t open. If I break a window, and the water comes in, that should equalize the pressure, and the hatch should open. That’s a big should . But what other choice do I have?”

The hatch was fiberglass, like the hull, but with two plexiglass windows. Summer picked up the hammer and tapped a plexiglass window, practicing, not hard enough to break it. She found a good spot in front of her, where she felt she had the most leverage. She wiped her sweaty hands on her T-shirt, gripped the hammer with both hands, and slammed it into a window.

Nothing.

She tried several more times. Still nothing but a few scratches. The plexiglass was too strong. Summer put down the hammer and picked up the manual drill. She pressed the one-inch drill bit into the center of a window, then she turned the hand crank. A small divot developed. Summer pressed the drill bit harder against the window, and the bit caught.

She cranked until the bit was through the plexiglass. Rivulets of seawater ran down the manual drill, dripping into the cockpit. When Summer removed the bit from the hole, a skinny stream of seawater sprayed into the cockpit. Summer drilled another hole next to the original hole. Then another. And another. And another.

Two garden hoses’ worth of seawater sprayed into the cockpit, the water level creeping up her calves. Summer set aside the drill and pressed on the hatch, but it still wouldn’t budge. Summer felt panicky, her heart thumping, and her breath ragged. This is fine. You just have to wait for the water to fill the submarine. Then the pressure will be equal, and the hatch will open.

Hopefully .

As the waterline moved past her stomach, the submarine began to sink. Water poured from the snorkels, dousing her head and shoulders, causing the cabin to fill even faster. The seawater was darker as the craft sank into the depths.

Now up to her neck in seawater, she pressed on the hatch again, but it was still stuck. She stood on the seat and tilted her head to capture the last bits of air before the cockpit was completely filled with seawater. Just before, the seawater covered her mouth, she took a deep breath. Then she pressed on the hatch, using her legs as leverage. Still it wouldn’t budge.

Meanwhile, the submarine was sinking. She pushed on the hatch again, using every bit of strength she could muster. The hatch opened, and she swam upward in the dark water, the submarine falling to the depths, and her body screaming for air.

Summer surfaced with a big sucking breath. As soon as her breath regulated, she looked around, treading water in the choppy sea. She couldn’t see anything but water. She began to panic again. She was stranded at sea, and the pontoon she had planned to use as a floatation device was at the bottom of the ocean. The weight of the seawater in the cabin had overwhelmed the floating capacity of the pontoons.

Then she heard it. The laughing sound. She looked up to see the gulls, just like the ones in San Juan. She swam toward their laughs, wondering if the joke was on her.

As she swam, the choppy sea took her up, and she caught glimpses of land. She smiled at this, swimming faster, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She heard waves crashing as she swam toward a tropical island, not much different than the one she’d come from. Summer bodysurfed a small wave onto the beach. She took a few steps away from the ocean and dropped to her knees, kissing the sand.

Footsteps padded from the jungle onto the sand. Lots of footsteps. Summer looked up. A dozen dark-skinned men surrounded her, wearing rags, carrying rusty machetes. I’m still on Psycho Island . Summer thought she must’ve made a mistake with the compass. That she’d navigated a big circle somehow.

She stood, holding up her hands in surrender. The men eyed the threadbare T-shirt that stuck to her chest. They pointed and cackled, speaking French. She looked left and right, looking for a place to run, but they’d already flanked her. The men inched closer, smiling, exposing rotten teeth.

A gunshot made the men and Summer flinch. The men scattered, darting back into the jungle, leaving Summer by herself. For an instant, Summer thought she’d been saved. Men in fatigues approached, rifles drawn, speaking Spanish. Summer had a sinking feeling in her stomach. The Netas .