Furious by Jeffrey Higgins (top 10 novels to read TXT) 📕

ached for release. My foot had stopped bleeding, but had swollen like a balloon, and my raw palms burned.

I untied my bikini bottom from the mast and draped it over my shoulder. I held the mast with my hands, arched my back to tilt the bosun’s seat, and released my bladder. The urine pooled in my seat and leaked over the side, running over my legs, but I did not care. I needed relief. The urine dissipated in the light wind and rained on the deck. Two days ago, peeing off the mast would have been humiliating, degrading. Now, it was a logical step for survival. Circumstances changed perceptions and prioritized needs. I had seen the same phenomenon in the surgical waiting room, but now I understood it.

I smelled the pungent urine, a sign of dehydration. How much longer could I last without water? I trained my eyes to the south. Where had the sailboat gone? Something drew my attention, and I blinked to focus.

A faint light flickered on the horizon. My old friend had returned. Maybe it was wishful thinking or my imagination, but the light appeared larger. The light had a greenish hue which could be a visual trick caused by reflections off the surface, but if it was green, it would mean it sat atop the starboard side of the mast. Mast lights on cruisers were green to starboard, red to port, and white from behind. Green would indicate the sailboat headed in a westerly direction, and I could still see the light, which suggested the sailboat charted a parallel course within twelve miles of us.

I did not know if I could survive without help. Even if the virus incapacitated or killed Brad, I would still have to get to port alone. My sailing skills were novice, and I had no equipment to navigate, not even a compass. I needed to contact the sailboat. But how?

I could see the distant mast light, because I was high above the surface, but the other crew could not spot us from their deck. If they noticed our radar signature, the normal response would be to give us a wide berth, not close the gap. I had to send an SOS, and with our radio fried, it would have to be a visual signal.

The flare gun.

When I toured the yacht in Bali, Brad had mentioned he stored a flare gun in the foresail locker. I cursed myself for not thinking of it when I had hidden in there, but I had been trying to escape and not contemplating rescue. The flare gun was my only tool to signal the boat. I had to retrieve it.

I swiveled in my chair and looked down. My head spun and nausea crept into my throat. I closed my eyes, held onto the mast, and breathed. I opened one eye and peeked again. The deck and cockpit appeared vacant.

Where was he?

Was Brad able to walk on his broken leg? Had the virus paralyzed him? Was he dead? Not seeing Brad—not knowing what he was doing—frightened me more than watching him sitting beneath the mast.

I stretched my arms and legs to get the blood moving again. My foot hurt. I leaned over to touch the bandage and my bikini bottom fell off my shoulder. I reached for it, lost my balance, and grabbed the mast to steady myself. My bikini flapped in the wind and fell over the side and into the ocean. Now, I could not tie myself to the mast. I needed to get the flare gun and signal the other boat, because I may not see another one for days or weeks. Or ever.

I had to try.

The process for descent was the reverse of ascending. I transferred my weight off the seat and lowered the device. I sat back, lifted my feet out of the stirrups and lowered them. It took four repetitions before I found my rhythm.

I stopped twenty feet above the deck and inspected the yacht from bow to stern. I tried to see through the stateroom hatches, but the sky and clouds reflected off the glass. I craned my neck toward the cockpit, but the Bimini top hid half of it from view. Brad could be there, lying in wait, or he could be below, but it did not matter. I had no viable alternative.

Butterflies fluttered in my belly, but I had faced fear before. I had made it through the loss of my father and the subsequent neglect by my alcoholic mother. Cutting into my first patient had taken incredible courage. I had survived Emma’s death. This voyage had forced me to face my worst fears, and I had survived. I could do this. If Brad was waiting for me, I would fight him. I would not die like a sheep, afraid to fail.

“I love you, Emma. If I don’t make it, I’ll find you.”

I grabbed the ascender and lowered myself. I stepped out of the harness and onto the deck. Pain shot from my foot, through my spine, and into my brain. My hamstrings had tightened in the harness, and I had trouble straightening my legs. I took one tentative step. And another.

I glanced at the cockpit. If Brad rounded the corner now, there was no way I could climb the mast or outrun him. I shuffled across the deck toward the bow without making a noise. I knelt beside the foresail locker and looked aft. Nothing. I lifted the hatch and climbed the ladder. I had to place the heel of my wounded foot on each wrung to avoid popping the stitches. I paused halfway and closed the hatch behind me.

I dropped to the floor and moved to a cabinet. I removed a bottle of Evian and drank it all. I downed a second bottle. And a third. My stomach bulged under the strain and the liquid flowed through me, rejuvenating my body and restoring my strength. I opened a storage compartment and dug through the supplies.