LeRoy Clary - Humanaty's Blight

The other boat was faster but remained about a football-field length behind after Steve emptied my rifle into the area where the driver steers from. After Steve’s shooting, they were probably talking and making plans or being cautious. But he was out of rifle shells.

More random shots came our way.

Steve fired twelve shots from a nine-millimeter in half that many seconds. I saw glass and fiberglass erupt like little bombs all along the main deck of the hull. He ejected the magazine and slammed another home. He emptied it also in a few seconds, and there were only a few returning shots as the people took cover. I imagined everyone aboard ducking because he’d placed bullets all along the main deck, then the deck above.

Steve inserted the third clip and in a measured way, fired about a shot every two seconds, taking time to aim. I saw the splashes where they hit, right at the place where the hull met the water. He centered a dozen shots in an area a couple of feet wide, all right at the waterline. Pieces of fiberglass ripped and tore loose as the boat powered ahead. A ragged piece a foot wide came free on three sides and flapped against the water.

Sue handed him another full magazine. He continued shooting at the waterline, in the same place, on the right side of the boat, where the bow was widest. Sue handed him another mag as a flurry of bullets were suddenly fired at us. He fired the next rounds higher, at the main deck again, although I couldn’t see anybody for him to aim at.

He didn’t quit. She put the shotgun in his hands, and he fired at the upper decks, racked a new shell in place and fired again. At number five, he handed it back to Sue to reload, and he concentrated firing his pistol at the same place of the hull where a jagged hole grew.

I couldn’t take my eyes away. The cabin cruiser started leaning slightly to the right side, then more. It slowed and abruptly shut the engines off. We sailed away, and I reached for the binoculars. The boat already tilted farther to one side. It was almost ready to roll over and sink. People were in the water swimming for shore. The movement of our boat changed again. The engine stopped.

I ran up the four steps and found the mail sail had been extended. We were flying over the water. Steve had shut the motor down because we didn’t need it.

Steve was leaning over the side, almost his whole body lying on the side of the hull, on what should have been the steep sides of the boat but with it leaning, the sides were almost horizontal. He was looking at where we’d been hit. Sue had hold of his ankles. He called out, “Not too bad,” he decided. “A little patchwork and we’ll be fine, even if it looks ugly. The bilge pumps will handle it.”

“That’s all the damage we took?” I asked.

He rushed into the cabin with me at his heels. In the storeroom, he located a can of plastic patch repair and pried the top off. He squeezed a tube of clear liquid into it and stirred. Outside again, he ordered me to keep the boat on course and Sue held his ankles again. He scooped a palm-full of goop and slapped it on the hull, then repeated the process three more times.

He washed his hands while standing on the wooden step on the stern and it occurred to me how easily I could push him off and sail onward. I shouted, “Won’t the water wash that stuff off?”

“It’s made for patching fiberglass, even underwater.”

That made me feel better.

“We need to inspect the entire boat.” He said and started on his own. I didn’t know what to look for but pretended. I found a hole in the jib. He declared it was ripstop material so nothing to worry about for now. He didn’t mention when we should worry.

When we returned to the steering compartment again, Steve told me it was called the helm or cockpit. More of the damn sailor-talk. A steering wheel is a steering wheel. He had adjusted the sails and we were moving quickly. He said, “Sue, get on that radio and warn other boats.”

“I don’t know how. Nobody answered last time.”

“Take the wheel, Cap. Just keep her on this course.”

I took it and he showed Sue how to change channels and how to talk on the marine radio. “Warn them about the blockade at Fort Casey, the shooting and taking all boats.”

“What’s the right way to say it?” she asked.

“Just say it your way, Over and over. Every channel. People will ask questions. Try to answer but tell them people from the blockade chased us and tried to sink us. Do not under any circumstances tell them where we’re going.”

“Because they might try to go there too?” she asked.

“No. This is like talking on a community phone. Ten, twenty, or a hundred boats may hear you. Some of them will be those behind us. Good people. However, I expect the blockade to send at least one more boat after us when they find we sank that one, and the one they will send will be better armed and maybe have a steel hull.”

“Oh.” She started talking into the microphones, first one, then the other, one held in each fist.

I heard a person on a boat respond and ask her a few questions. She answered, but I was too busy to listen. They would heed our warnings or face the blockade. Their choice.

Steve returned to me, took the helm and said, “Listen, I’ve done a quick inventory and we’re in trouble.”

“Why?”

“We need ammunition and better guns that have range and power. Our propane is low and there’s not an extra tank on board. Our fuel is okay, and we’ll conserve it by using the sails. We also need bottled water and more food.”

“We have cases of water and there is dried food in containers.”

“I saw that. The problem is that you’re thinking about getting away and not thinking long term, Cap. Is that water and food we have on board going to last through spring?”

I turned the wheel slightly. His lecture and criticism were unwelcome when we should be celebrating a victory and our close call. More than one close call. We might have sailed directly into their trap, unaware if not for him.

My mood settled as his words sank in, and he had the wisdom to allow me to remain within myself as he went to check on Sue. When he returned, I apologized. “Tell me what we need to do.”

“About an hour from here, there’s a small settlement I spotted a couple of days ago. Five isolated houses in a cluster on the waterfront. I went ashore there, just long enough to make sure there were no people. It’s out of the way and in those houses will be things we need.”

“Going ashore is dangerous.”

“So is starving or swimming. We took a few rounds in the hull and the pumps are barely keeping up.”

I must have looked confused. He pointed to the rear of the boat. Water was shooting out like a garden hose with plenty of pressure. “Is that coming from inside our boat?”

“Yup.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Hope the batteries are fully charged. They’re going to need all the power they have with two pumps like that going full bore.”

“Two?” I asked dumbly.

He pointed to the other side, where another stream of water shot out in the opposite direction.

“We’re sinking?”

“The patches I made are holding, but there are other holes, probably on the other side of the hull where I couldn’t reach.” He nodded and pointed to a small jut of land off to our right. “Head for there.”

“Then what?”

He held up packets of thick, pink viscous liquid. “More emergency patches from your storeroom. We’ll break the seal between the chemicals, it’ll heat up, and glop the stuff on the hull. It’ll harden quickly, even in the water.”

I kept the boat on the course he’d indicated while he ran back inside and returned with two lifejackets. I said, “The holes are underwater? Right now?”