Nuclear Winter Devil Storm by Bobby Akart (read 50 shades of grey .txt) 📕

fiberglass. Only a couple of screws prevented the entire railing structure from joining the twisted mess.

Lacey climbed to her feet and used the chair to steady herself. The wind gusts continued to push her toward the starboard side. The Bimini top suddenly flew upward, sucked up like it was being pulled into a vacuum. This gave Lacey the opportunity to cut through the nylon lines that kept it in place.

One by one, she sawed through the ropes, each time causing the canvas to pull farther away from the boat. She allowed herself a smile as she saw the progress she was making.

“Come on. One more.”

She cut through the last of the ropes, fully expecting the canvas to fly off into the deluge.

It didn’t.

The Garmin radar antenna remained tangled with the top. She had to cut the coated wire. Lacey stood and gripped the circular antenna with her left hand and pulled the cable taut. She vigorously sawed through the hard plastic exterior and then began to sever the steel cables that ran through it until she reached the heavy-duty copper wire.

She grunted as she gave it one more full effort. Her strength surprised her as she cut through the final obstacle that threatened to break every window in the wheelhouse.

It only took the blink of an eye. Less than a second. A freakish event caused by the mind failing to coordinate one hand with the other.

But the second the cable was cut, and the tangled Bimini top was released from bondage, Lacey had unconsciously kept her death grip on the Garmin radar antenna a little too long.

She was suddenly airborne and flying over the back of the Cymopoleia.

Chapter Forty-One

Friday, November 8

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

The transition from crisis to catastrophe came in an instant. Once Lacey was sucked into the air, her release of the Garmin antenna was of little consequence. The hurricane took control. As her body was heaved upward and then flung over the stern, she let out a primal, guttural scream. Her arms flailed like a windmill as if she were trying to swim in the wind-driven rain.

None of this mattered as she was body-slammed into the water just twenty feet behind the boat’s transom. Stunned, Lacey lost her breath momentarily as she was drawn underwater by the forward momentum of the Cymopoleia, which was riding another wave to the bottom of a trough.

Lacey struggled against the water that wanted to drag her away from the boat. She caught her breath when the boat topped the next wave, hull exposed, only to crash down the other side of the crest. The nylon rope whipsawed as the boat picked up speed on the descent, pulling her five feet out of the water.

The momentary respite allowed her to catch her breath. She wanted to scream in an attempt to get Tucker’s attention. However, the boat entered another swale, and she was sucked below the surface again. The normally warm waters of the Gulf were cold, but not paralyzingly so. The chills that came over her body during the ordeal were more from the wind when she was airborne than when she was being dragged below the surface.

As another wave crested, the Cymopoleia’s bow rose into the air until it came crashing down, followed by the fish on a line—Lacey. She thought of Owen. His face. His touch. His kiss. She fought to live for him. For their son.

She gripped the nylon rope with both hands until they bled. The stinging salt water sent pain throughout her upper body. It also helped her stay focused. She was beginning to time the waves. In her mind, she could count the seconds between the boat’s rising and falling. She’d caught her breath, and she willed her body to respond. She was going to survive.

“Help!” Lacey screamed as loud as she could when she was pulled out of the water. “Tucker!”

Then she was sucked below again and dragged along. Sometimes tumbling as she rolled over and over. Other times, simply pulled out of control, the life jacket squeezing her ribs and belly. Another ten to twelve seconds passed. She readied herself. Out she flew.

“Tucker, help meee!”

Tucker thought he’d imagined hearing his mother’s voice. As he fought the wheel and the never-ending waves trying to crush their hull, he pressed his face against the starboard windows and the windshield. He’d noticed that the Bimini top was no longer pounding the boat. He breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed that the barometric pressure had stabilized at 980 millibars. The storm was no longer strengthening, at least for now.

Then he became concerned. He knew his mom was most likely being deliberate and careful, but she should’ve been back inside the relative safety of the wheelhouse by now. He was becoming frantic as he searched for her through the windows.

At one point, he made the mistake of releasing the wheel just to take a quick look on the aft deck. In a matter of seconds, the boat was shoved to the right, and if not for his quick reflexes and upper-body strength, the Cymopoleia would’ve been slammed in the side.

The second time Tucker heard her cry for help, he had to do something. He couldn’t leave the helm. Releasing control for a moment could get them rolled. Early on, before the seas turned angrier, he’d tried deploying autopilot to guide them through the waves. That didn’t work.

He needed to find a way to lock the ship’s wheel in place. The only way was to tie it down using his safety line. Tucker ignored the admonitions of his mother to remain tethered to the boat while they rode out the storm. After reducing the boat’s speed but not too much so it couldn’t climb the oncoming wave, Tucker unclipped the safety line from his life jacket. He quickly proceeded to wrap it through the ship’s wheel and around the stainless grab bars until it was tight. Then he used the carabiner to