Writing JB
I'm just here to... you know... write stuff.
The Hand of God
Omolemo hated Tuesdays.Not only were they on the wrong side of the weekend (not that she really got a weekend), but the buses never seemed to run properly on Tuesdays. Or, at least, never on schedule. That inevitably meant that instead of relaxing on her way home, letting the breeze from an open window wash away the stress of the week’s start, she was here, on the side of the highway, walking the six kilometers from the shared working space back to her small home.It wasn’t the walking in general that bothered her, or even the distance. She had walked most places since she was a little girl. It was this walk. The highway route was loud, dusty, and the air left anyone outside a vehicle coated in a marinade of exhaust, sweat, and refuse that made them wish they had been born without a nose.Mercifully, a mild breeze was trying its best to push away most of the stench. For now, at least.And if all she got was a moment’s reprieve… she’d take it.She wasn’t alone on her journey along the highway path. Thankfully, all the travelers at this time of day were heading in the same direction: away from the city. The path sat about three meters from the highway’s edge and was wide enough for two people to walk side by side, or pass each other without stepping off completely. While It wasn’t paved, the hard-packed dirt stayed solid even into the rainy season.The space between the road and the path was just enough for a car to pull over without blocking traffic. While generally convenient, this also meant that if a strange vehicle decided to stop, there was nowhere to disappear to.Ahead of her, two men that were probably her father’s age, walked side by side, deep in conversation about politics. She caught snippets of their discussion over the road noise (maybe something about the new mayor) but nothing coherent. She could overtake them if she wanted, but she held back on purpose.Her shoes weren’t ideal for speed. Besides, the men’s pace was steady enough that she wouldn’t lose much time in the long run, and their presence provided an unspoken layer of security. Older company nearby would help dissuade anyone who thought a young woman walking alone might be worth noticing.
Glancing back, she checked the path behind her. The next closest person was still at least half a kilometer away. A woman, from what Omolemo could tell, though she was too far to gauge her age.-----------------------------------------------Suddenly, the bright evening sunlight dimmed.A great shadow swept over the land, as if a vast storm cloud had drifted in front of the sun. But even before she instinctively turned her head westward, Omolemo knew what she would see. The sun hadn’t disappeared behind a cloud.It had passed behind The Hand.The colossal shape loomed in the sky, impossibly still. It had a technical name—long, sterile, and difficult to remember—but everyone just called it The Hand. The name fit. While not a true facsimile of a human hand, it had five massive extremities that stretched outward from a central body, each curved slightly downward, as if it were meant to be cradling an invisible sphere.Black as a moonless night, The Hand seemed to absorb the sun’s rays, swallowing light rather than casting reflection. As a child, when its study had dominated every conversation, Omolemo could remember being told by her mother that its surface was smooth, matte, and made from something that didn’t exist on the periodic table of elements. Scientists had tried to break through it with every destructive force they could muster. Not a single scratch.There had been talk, once, of even detonating a nuclear blast against its skin. Thankfully, saner minds had prevailed before that idea became a reality.When they measured it, scientists determined that The Hand covered roughly 800 square kilometers—larger than New York City.For most of her childhood, The Hand had been the subject of conversation, drawing people from every corner of the world. Some called it “the hand of an old god.” Others believed it was a spaceship, proof of travelers from the stars. Many claimed it had answered humanity’s oldest question: Are we alone?And yet, because it had done nothing but remain—silent, motionless, indifferent—there were still those who argued that it proved nothing at all.Omolemo’s family had once lived beneath its shadow. Their village had been one of the ones inside the exclusion zone, and they had been among the first to be relocated when the government declared the land uninhabitable. At first, there had actually been excitement. They were told that with so many tourists coming to see The Hand, they would be compensated for their displacement, paid to share their stories with the world.The tourists came.The payments never did.Not that it would have mattered. Without sunlight, nothing under The Hand survived. Crops withered. Animals vanished. By the time the government erected the exclusion zone’s wall, it was almost unnecessary. No one wanted to live in a place where the sun never touched the earth.-----------------------------------------------A car honked sharply as it swerved around another vehicle that had slowed beneath The Hand’s shadow.That actually surprised Omolemo. It was rare to find anyone distracted by the sight anymore. For years, The Hand had captivated the world. Now, twenty-eight years later, people barely noticed it. It had drifted to a stop over the plains and simply… stayed.She turned her eyes back to the path ahead. A fork was coming up—one trail leading west.The Indlela KaNkulunkulu. The Path of God.The long road stretched miles from the city, winding through the exclusion zone until it reached the very heart of The Hand’s shadow. There were still those who traveled it. Pilgrims, the locals called them. Men and women who left everything behind to walk beneath The Hand, seeking answers, or maybe absolution.But those who lived and worked in the city? They didn’t go out there. They knew there was nothing in the shadow but emptiness.Even the animals had fled once the plants withered and died. Without the sun, nothing survived. And where nothing lived, no one sane had reason to follow.Omolemo refocused, pushing forward up the incline. Had it been darker, she might have seen the lights of her village in the distance from the top of the hill. Instead, cresting the rise just as the sun emerged from behind The Hand’s highest “finger,” her stomach dropped.A sea of brake lights clogged the highway below. Flashing strobes cut through the fading daylight."Can this day get any worse?" she muttered under her breath.A checkpoint.A checkpoint meant police. And police meant questions, papers, and the likelihood of being searched under the pretense of looking for contraband that didn’t exist. She didn’t have the patience—or the stomach—for their leering hands and empty threats.She glanced back toward the fork in the path. Then, sparing one last look at The Hand on the horizon, she turned.And started walking toward the path less traveled.-----------------------------------------------At least the smell isn’t as bad this way, Omolemo thought as she picked her way along the narrowing path. What had started as a rough track was rapidly degrading into something closer to a game trail.The true Indlela KaNkulunkulu was still miles away, but this particular feeder path looked long abandoned. Still, landpaths never fully disappeared once they had been cut by a thousand footsteps.She knew this detour would add forty-five minutes to an hour to her journey, but the roadblock likely would have cost her the same. At least this way, she wasn’t weighing the risk of making it home against the possibility of spending the night in a barred room with twenty strangers, staying awake just to make sure nothing happened to her.The trail sloped down from the road, leading into the open plains. After five minutes of walking, the traffic noise faded into a distant hum, indistinct and forgettable. The breeze still carried a coolness with it, stirring the tall grasses that flanked the trail ahead.Then—movement.She froze. Her head snapped to the right, eyes tracking the sudden blur.
A fox.A small, brown Cape fox stood motionless halfway up the hillside, staring back at her. Its sharp ears twitched, its body tensed. Then it turned its head—And Omolemo’s breath caught in her throat.Its left ear was torn.It couldn’t be. Not after all these years. Foxes didn’t live that long.Before she could process the thought, it was gone, vanishing into a thicket at the base of the hill. Two birds burst from the brush in protest, their sharp cries spiraling into the sky.Her eyes followed them as they circled each other, wheeling upward into the fading light.Beyond them, in the hazy distance, The Hand loomed.A mountain suspended in the sky.
Black against the dimming horizon.
Unmoving. Unchanging.As if it had always been there.-----------------------------------------------Back in temporary shadow once more, as the sun dipped behind another of The Hand’s “fingers,” Omolemo’s thoughts drifted back to the first time she had seen a Cape fox.She had been a child. A small girl, playing inside their hut when the screaming started outside.At first, she thought it was a fight—someone arguing in the village square, maybe. But then the light from the windows dimmed, as if storm clouds had rolled in early, or a great curtain had been drawn across the sun.She remembered the confusion. The creeping unease. The way her mother hesitated, breath held, listening.Then she ran—pushing through the doorway, ahead of her mother, out into the open air.She expected to see rain, maybe fire, something explainable.Instead, she saw darkness.Not the soft darkness of twilight, nor the shifting shadows cast by passing clouds. This was different. Solid. Spreading. A void swallowing the land.She looked down the long road in front of their house with wide eyes, watching as the shadow stretched beyond the village, pouring into the bush like ink spilled across the earth.What had started as a faint shade, like the flickering silhouette of a tree in the afternoon sun, was deepening into something else. Something heavy. Something absolute.She ran.She didn’t know why—only that she needed to see where the darkness ended.She made it to the edge of the village before she thought to look up.Her breath caught in her small chest.She stumbled, her feet tangling beneath her, and fell into the dust of the road. But she didn’t take her eyes off the sky.Terror curled inside her like a living thing.She had seen a lion once, out in the bush with her father at camp."Don’t look away, Omolemo," he had warned. "If you look away or run, it will think you’re scared. It will think you’re something to eat."She hadn’t looked away then.She wanted to look away now.But she couldn’t.Blackness moved through the sky, vast and relentless. It was as if someone had placed a lid over the world, sealing them in—but the lid was still sliding into place.It was massive. Too massive.Things like this didn’t exist. Couldn’t exist.The mind rebelled against it, the way it did when staring into something it was never meant to comprehend.And yet… here it was.Blotting out the sun.The birds knew before they did. She heard their cries, saw them scatter toward the open plains, running from the sky itself. The few dogs in the village howled, their voices tangled with the distant screams of women.A rustling sound broke through the noise, drawing her gaze to the side of the road.A small cape fox stood just meters from her, staring at the sky the way she had been. It turned its head, locking eyes with her, its left ear torn from some long-forgotten fight.It looked up once more.Then it was gone, slipping into the brush.Leaving her alone with the dark.-----------------------------------------------Looking west, Omolemo watched as the sun dipped lower, now caught between two of The Hand’s lower “fingers.” She doubted she’d make it home before dark.There were still at least twenty minutes left before the trail rejoined one of the more traveled footpaths leading back to her village.Her foot caught on a loose stone, and she stumbled forward, barely catching herself before she fell. She exhaled sharply, about to scold herself for not watching where she was going—Then she stopped cold.Out ahead, toward the open plains, a thin cloud of dust was rising into the air.“Shit.” The word slipped out before she could stop it.There were only a few reasons a dust cloud would be kicked up out here.None of them were good.Especially not for a woman walking alone on an empty trail.She turned, glancing behind her. No cover. Just the long, open path sloping back the way she’d come.To the right, up toward the highway, she knew there was a gully that cut into the hillside. It would get her out of sight—but it was the wrong direction. Away from the footpath. Away from where she might find other travelers.The whine of an engine reached her ears, faint but growing louder.She didn’t wait.Muttering a curse under her breath, she cut off the trail and started jogging toward a small rise to the east, her breath quickening as she pushed toward the gully.She needed to disappear. Fast.-----------------------------------------------Omolemo reached the top of the rise, just as the crack of a rifle shattered the air.She froze.A shout followed, then the growl of a motorcycle engine coming to a stop.Slowly, she turned.Two men dismounted from the large dirt bike, their faces obscured. Sunglasses and wrapped clothes hiding their faces. The one from the back of the bike held an old hunting rifle, the barrel still pointed skyward, as if she wasn’t worth the effort of aiming.They don’t think I’m a threat.The first man, the one in front, stepped forward slightly. His voice was deep, laced with a Zimbabwean accent.“What is someone like you doing out here in the bush, so far from home?”Omolemo swallowed the dryness in her throat. Confidence. Confidence.“I’m just heading home,” she said, keeping her voice steady.“Back home, yeah?” The man echoed, the hint of a smirk in his tone. “Well, why don’t we give you a ride? It’s not safe to be out here alone. There are…” he glanced back at his companion, and though she couldn’t see his face, she knew he was smiling. “…dangerous creatures in these parts.”Omolemo forced a polite smile. “Oh, I’ll be fine. It’s just a short way to the main road.”“Still,” the man mused, looking her up and down. “I think you should come with us. We wouldn’t want anything… bad to happen to you out here.”He stepped forward.She glanced behind her—down into the gully. The dry riverbed lay just below. If she was fast…“I said you will come with us.” The man’s voice snapped like a whip, all pretense of charm gone.Omolemo turned back to face them.“Sure,” she said. “I’ll come with you. I’d appreciate the escort.”She started walking toward them, buying herself seconds to think. The first man’s eyes followed her movements. Behind him, the second man turned to restart the bike.Then—A flash of movement.A small, grey blur shot out from behind a bush, darting toward the gully. It crossed her path, streaking between her and the men.The first man’s head snapped down, startled.Omolemo didn’t hesitate.She launched forward, slamming her shoulder into his chest with everything she had.She hit hard, rebounding awkwardly, nearly losing her footing. But he wasn’t expecting it—he stumbled back, arms flailing—And tripped.The second man, hearing the commotion, pivoted, raising his rifle—Too late.The first man crashed into him.They toppled backward, slamming into the bike. The motorcycle lurched sideways, sand spraying as it tipped over, dragging both men down with it.The rifle went off.A sharp crack, followed by a spray of blood.Omolemo didn’t wait to see whose it was.She turned and ran.Bolted back up the rise, heart hammering, lungs burning, and threw herself over the edge into the gully below.-----------------------------------------------
Omolemo was falling.Loose rocks tumbled around her, sliding down the slope in a cascade of dust and gravel. She flailed, reaching out to grab anything that might slow her descent—nothing.Then—wham.She hit hard. The impact jarred through her body, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her left arm bent awkwardly beneath her, and a searing pain shot up from her wrist, sharp and unrelenting.For a moment, she could only lie there, her breath ragged, her vision blurred with tears she refused to shed. She had always thought of herself as strong. But this—this made her want to curl up in the dirt and sob.She needed to move.But gods, it hurt.Just for a moment, she let herself imagine lying here until someone found her. Until they picked her up, carried her home—Someone will find you.Her stomach turned.Not someone. Them.Her pulse roared in her ears. She had to move. Now.Biting back a cry, she forced herself onto her knees, cradling her left arm against her chest, gasping as the pain threatened to pull her back down. She planted her right foot, trying to stand—The sound of shifting rocks made her head snap up.One of the men was already coming down the slope. His face was bare now, his cloth mask gone, revealing a twisted snarl.Adrenaline hit her like a wave.Omolemo shoved herself up, turned, sprinted toward the dry riverbed five meters away—Pain lanced up her right leg. Her ankle buckled. She stumbled and went down again, barely breaking her fall with her good arm.Laughter echoed off the gully walls.
She twisted, glancing around. More figures emerged from behind the larger rocks on the far side of the gully.They had been waiting for her.The two men on the bike hadn’t been chasing her away. They had been herding her here.Her heart pounded, panic clawing at her throat.Behind her, the second man reached the base of the slope, his rifle no longer aimed at the sky.Omolemo pushed herself up again, staggering toward the riverbed. Maybe if she made it to the flat, she could—What? Run?"I always told Tembo not to take his eyes off the prize," the man behind her called out, his voice loud, mocking. "He always got… distracted."He barked out a laugh, then spat into the dirt.She was almost there. Just a few more steps."Maybe I should thank you," he mused, his voice closer now. Too close. "One less mouth to feed. One less…share to give out."Laughter erupted from the men on the far hill."But," the voice came again, right behind her now, thick with fury.A hand clamped onto her shoulder and spun her around."That stumble broke my fucking nose, you bitch."She barely had time to see the rifle butt swinging toward her face.A burst of white-hot pain exploded behind her eyes.Then everything tilted—And the world went dark.-----------------------------------------------Blood.She tasted it in her mouth, thick and metallic. It ran down her throat, choking her.Her vision swam, her head ringing, her body screaming in pain. She tried to crawl toward the riverbank, but as soon as she put weight on her left arm, agony lanced through her, forcing a sharp gasp from her lips.The laughter was gone.She thought she heard rocks tumbling down the hillside.Then—hands.Someone grabbed her foot. She kicked weakly, but there was no strength left in her.Through the haze of pain and fear, she saw them. Three more men closing in, their movements purposeful, predatory.No. No, no, no. Not this way. Not like this.Tears blurred her already unsteady vision.The man holding her legs dropped down onto his knees, straddling her. She tried to sit up, to fight — to do — anything…She forced herself up, swinging at him with her right hand—He caught it easily. Smiled with a bloody grin.“I like the ones with fight in them,” he sneered, his bloody mouth twisting into a grin.Then, with casual cruelty, he wrenched her own fist back, slamming it into her face.White-hot pain exploded behind her eyes.The men around her laughed.Then his hand was at her top, fingers curling in the fabric.Not like this!Omolemo screamed.A scream of terror. Of rage. Of desperation.A scream that she knew, with chilling certainty, would be her last.And then—
The sky screamed back.
A sound, vast and impossible, deeper than thunder, primal - like the sky itself was groaning under some impossible weight.It rolled through the air, through the ground. The very riverbed trembled with a force that felt as if the Earth itself was splitting at the seams.Then—wind.Not a gust. Not a storm.A single breath, vast and unfathomable, howling through the gully, stripping dust and sand from the ground, tearing at loose cloth and exposed skin. It roared through the canyon like the exhalation of a god, an unseen titan roused from its slumber.Then…silence.-----------------------------------------------High above, a small cape fox poked its head over the ridge, ears twitching. It peered down into the dry bed below, Its torn left ear twitched, listening.There was nothing.Nothing where the men had stood.
Nothing where the girl had laid in the dirt.Only rock, orange sand, and the whisper of the dying wind.It turned as a bird wheeled overhead, cutting across the twilight sky. The fox watched it for a moment, then turned back toward the plains and trotted away.Behind it, the sky stretched vast and empty, the light of the setting sun unmarred.Empty.Unbroken.
The Winter Run
4:37 AMHe hammered his fist against the door.December. It had to be December. Ice in the air, breath curling in the dim glow of the hallway light. The movement inside was faint and hesitant. Like whoever had made the noise from the other side of the door was still lost in the fog of sleep. He hit the door again. Harder.It cracked open. Sleep-heavy, unfocused eyes stared out.Pushing the door open he asked, “Do you have a way to move your cats?”The man on the other side flinched away.“What?”He looked groggy and thrown off by the abruptness. Like he was still trying to process what he was seeing.“A carrier,” said the first man scanning the apartment. “For the car.”A beat. The second man blinked. “I—yeah. Why?” Then, like a fog lifting: “Wait. Troy? What the hell are you doing here? I didn’t even know you were in town.”“I wasn’t supposed to be.” Troy looked down at his watch. “But here I am. Your place was the closest.”He glanced back up. “And we have to go.”The other man frowned, rubbing at his face, words still sluggish.“Go where? What are you—”Troy locked eyes with him. “I mean, we have forty-five minutes to make it to a fucking boat. Plan A’s gone, so we go with Plan B.” His tone left no room for argument. “Seth, do you have something to move them with or not?”Seth’s face paled. The color and sleep seemed to drain from his face at the same time, replaced by sudden comprehension. His lips parted slightly before he nodded.“Uh - Yeah. Yeah. Give me five minutes. I can get everything ready.”“Make it fast. I’m using your computer.”Seth nodded, already turning away. “You know where it is.”The apartment was dim and somewhat cluttered; as if Seth hadn’t gotten around to cleaning for a couple days. The shelves were lined with figurines, books, and small mementos that seemed untouched but carefully placed. He ignored it all, settling into the desk chair in the corner and bringing the screen to life.“Did you already send something out?” Seth’s voice, muffled, came from down the hall—accompanied by the hurried shuffle of packing.“Seventeen minutes ago. It’s on loop.” Troy said back, as he opened their shared communication app, Discord, and quickly launched a web browser to pull up the few news sites they trusted.“No one’s answered yet...” He trailing off into the empty room, rapidly scanning through news tabs.Nothing yet. That was good. Less panic meant the roads would still be manageable.It wouldn’t last.He closed the news sites and looked back to Discord. Still no responses. Damn. His fingers tightened on the mouse before he clicked the client shut. No time to sit and stare at a screen.“Where are your guns?” he called, standing and heading back out toward the apartment’s main room.“Second door on the left,” Seth called back. “Behind the shoes. Code’s 4827.”He found the safe exactly where it should be. He moved aside worn work boots, punched in the code, and the safe clicked open with a quiet rasp of metal.He worked fast, three trips between the safe and the kitchen table.Pistols. Rifles. Ammo. More than he remembered Seth owning. He worked quickly, reassembling pistols, racking slides. The sound of it filled the room like the ticking of a clock.By the time he was finished, Seth reappeared, layered in heavy clothes, a backpack slung over his shoulder. Two crates in hand, inside each, a pair of wary, wide-eyed cats.“Got batteries?”“Yeah. Three sets. NVGs are in the case.”“Socks?”“Four pairs.” Seth exhaled sharply. “How many times have we run this?”Troy looked up. “Seth. This isn’t a drill.”A pause. The weight of the moment pressed against them both.“Are we taking both cars or just mine?”Seth hesitated. “Yours. Sticking together is safer. You bring the truck?”“Yeah. Need anything from yours?”Seth shifted his grip on the crates, glancing around the apartment. “No…” He hesitated, looking towards the door to the garage. Jaw clenched. “Fuck. I really liked that car.”“You might see it again.”“Fuck you.”“Hey,” muttered Troy, pulling open the door and then picking up the bag he had been holding.“It’s not like I’m keeping mine either.”Seth huffed a bitter laugh. “Fair point.”Neither of them bothered to put things down and shut the door as they stepped out into the cold. The dark of the morning swallowing them whole.4:45 AMThe highway stretched ahead of them, dark and slick with the ghost of last night’s rain. Maybe he owed someone upstairs a thank you… it was Sunday morning after all.Troy considered again what was about to happen around them. He decided he would save this thanks for later.Few cars dotted the road ahead, their taillights swerving aside as Troy tore past, the needle on the dash kissing 98. He didn’t care. Speed limits wouldn’t matter in-He glanced at his watch. Twenty-three, no, twenty-two minutes.Seth restlessly twisted again in his seat, looking behind them. The two cat carriers in the backseat rocked slightly with the movement of the truck. The animals inside were wide-eyed, ears flattened against their heads. Troy’s dog Chief, nose twitching, kept sniffing the mesh, tail flicking in anxious little bursts. He didn’t like the tension in the air. He wasn’t alone.“Anyone respond?” Troy asked, eyes still fixed on the road.Seth turned back around, already pulling out his phone. “No. I’m going to try calling Sam again.” His fingers flicked through his contacts, then tapped a name.At the same time, Troy hit a button on the steering wheel.“Call Isaac,” he ordered.The voice assistant chimed. “Calling Isaac Karlson.” The tone hollow and steady.Come on. Pick up.“Hello?” A groggy voice, laced with sleep, crackled through the truck’s speakers.“It’s about to rain in hell,” Troy said, his tone cold as he veered around a semi truck that had been hogging the left lane.A pause. Then, sharp, alert: “Shit. How long do I have?”“About twenty minutes. I’ve got Seth. We’re heading for the harbor. Can you make it?”Another pause. The kind that measured risk. “I’ll do my best. Should be able to. I’ll call if something...”Silence.The line had cut out.Then, at the same time, both Troy’s and Seth’s phones buzzed, their screens flashing white as they started emitting the sharp, grating tone of an emergency alert.“Fuck,” Seth muttered, swiping at his screen.Troy kept his eyes on the road, jaw clenched. “What does it say? What are they telling people?”Seth’s voice was flat, but something dark threaded through it.“Attention: This is an emergency message for all residents of King County. Evacuate immediately. The National Space Agency has identified an inbound astronomical event that is projected to impact near the Seattle region. All residents are advised to evacuate or seek immediate shelter.”The words hung between them like smoke.Troy’s knuckles turned white on the wheel.“Now it’s going to get a little more complicated.”Seth didn’t bother voicing his agreement.4:54 AMThe response wasn’t immediate — it was early, and most people weren’t prepared for something like this. But some were. Some were already moving.Cars started spilling onto the streets as they maneuvered off the highway. The majority were rushing for one of the major thoroughfares, probably not considering that those would be gridlocked within minutes. Others, like them, were instead racing toward the waterfront. Thankfully, most seemed to be headed for the larger marinas or the tug corrals further north.Troy swung the truck down a side street and into the small private marina, gravel crunching beneath the tires. He scanned the lot. Only two other vehicles were here. For now.He killed the engine and stepped out. The air smelled of salt and damp metal. Seth moved to the back, hauled open the tailgate, and started unloading gear. He stacked it with practiced efficiency, staging the most important bags closest to the marina gate. If they had to cut weight, they needed to make sure they didn’t leave anything critical behind.The marina gate stood slightly ajar. Troy did have bolt cutters in the truck in case it had come to that, but someone had already propped it open. Smart. No one wanted to spend time punching in codes while running loads to and from the car.A man jogged up the gangway, breath ragged, arms full of boxes. Older, overweight, panicked. Troy stepped aside as he passed, and got no acknowledgement, no second glance. The guy just moved towards a white SUV jammed into a handicap spot.Troy didn’t wait to see if he made it. He jogged down the gangway, the metal vibrating beneath his steps, scanning the slips as he moved.Starlight. That was the plan.A 47-foot Bayliner, made for the open Pacific, sturdy enough to ride out whatever hell was coming. They’d done their research—watched her, mapped out where she docked, how often her owner took her out...His stomach sank.“Dammit,” he muttered.The slip was empty. Things just kept getting harder.He turned, scanning for a second option. His eyes landed on another vessel they had looked at. Salt Breaker. A 50 foot Targa that could definitely handle open waters. However, as expected, a faint glow flickered inside. Owners were likely aboard, and he wasn’t looking to throw people overboard. Not unless he had to.Movement caught his eye. Flashing lights carving through the dark. What looked like three police cruisers tore past on the main road above the marina. No sirens. Just the rhythmic pulse of strobes slashing through the night.Where the hell are they going?He didn’t linger on the thought. He started to turn back toward the docks, when he caught the sight of the old man from the parking lot, coming down the marina ramp, arms now fully loaded with stacked boxes. Once he made it to the bottom of the ramp Troy visually tracked his path down the dock to a tiny sailboat, barely 20 feet long.Troy shook his head. That’s going to end badly.He let the thought pass and turned back, moving down the pier, scanning the slips, until he found something that brought him up short.Not much to look at on the outside. She was scarred, unpolished, but appeared sturdy. About 40 feet long, with a broad beam that nearly filled the slip. The stern was open; the kind of deck once used for commercial hauls. Fishing maybe?A second cabin had been added, topped with a dinghy strapped down by sun-bleached ropes. The main cabin sat up front, flanked by two exhaust stacks that promised power, if not reliability.The hull bore the scars of a life at sea. Faded paint, raw metal showing through like old wounds.The name was still there. Chipped, but legible.Dory.Troy exhaled. “Well… I guess that’ll have to work.”He leapt onto the ship’s deck, boots landing firmly against the wood. No shouts from below.. That was a good sign. Moving quickly, he slipped through the smaller rear cabin, then started forward to the main hatch.Inside, the boat was dark. No lights to suggest anyone was aboard, but he had to be sure.Below deck, the sleeping cabin was small but clean. Two smaller rooms flanked the main hall, their doors left slightly ajar. He pressed forward, checking the galley. Stripped. The shelves sat empty save for some dust.That’s fine. That’s why we brought supplies.Troy ducked through a narrow door, eying the engine compartment. As expected, it was weathered. Showing its age with a patina of rust and oil stains. There was no time to check more thoroughly right now.Satisfied no one was living aboard, he turned and sprinted back up to the deck. Vaulting onto the pier, he turned and bolted back towards the parking lot.They had a boat.Now they just had to make it out alive.4:57 AMThe world was starting to unravel.Troy heard it before he saw anything. Yelling in the distance, the erratic blare of car horns, the occasional screech of tires as panic took the wheel. Sirens wove through the city like hunting dogs, howling somewhere far off, but for now, they weren’t closing in.At the top of the ramp, he turned at the sound of a small engine grumbling to life below. The old man’s sailboat was pulling away from the dock. Troy spotted him at the tiller, his wife bundled in layers by the cabin door. Their boat was laughably small for what lay ahead, but at least they weren’t waiting—they were moving.Movement across the pier. Salt Breaker.Her owners scrambled across the deck, working frantically to untie lines and shove off. The panic from the city was bleeding into the marina now, an unspoken understanding that staying put meant staying behind.Troy refocused. Time to move.Seth stood by the truck, gear stacked neatly — guns, ammo, water, the critical bags placed for rapid loading — just like they’d practiced.“How long do we have?” Seth asked, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted the straps of his pack.Troy didn’t break stride. “Doesn’t matter. We have a boat. Dory. Right side of the pier, third from the end. Let’s get everything loaded, we’ll sort it out once we’re underway.”Seth nodded, scooping up the cat carriers. “Chief, come.”The dog hesitated, ears flicking toward Troy, waiting for confirmation.Troy gave a curt nod, and Chief trotted after Seth, tail low, disappearing down the ramp into the dark.Troy turned back to the gear on the ground, but a new sound stopped him cold.Footsteps. Fast. Coming straight towards him.Instinct took over. His hand dropped to his holster, body shifting against the truck for cover. A silhouette emerged from the dark, moving fast.“Clover!” Troy shouted.The shadowed form came up short, gasping for breath as it skidded to a stop, doubling over, hands on his knees.“Grove.” The newcomer wheezed out.Troy exhaled, straightening as his friend continued to suck wind.Tall. Familiar. Isaac.“Wasn’t sure you were going to make it ” Troy said, scanning past Isaac, making sure no one had followed.“Neither... was I.” Isaac gasped.Troy looked back to his friend. Two miles in under twelve minutes. In normal circumstances? Impressive. Now? Necessary.Troy didn’t waste time. “I know you’re winded, but grab a bag if you can. We’re down the ramp, right side, third boat from the end. Name’s Dory. You’ll pass Seth on the way down.”Isaac straightened, inhaled deep. “Yeah. No—” a sharp breath “—problem.”One last deep inhale, then he grabbed a duffle and a gun case, and headed down the ramp.Troy turned back to the remaining gear, heaving two duffles into his arms.Crack!A gunshot. Close.He dropped the bags, pistol clearing its holster in one motion.Pressing himself flat against the truck, he held his breath; heart pounding, waiting for the second shot. But it didn’t come.Not aimed at us.A scream came from across the street, up the block. Tires squealed as a small sedan peeled away from the curb, vanishing down the road. A woman knelt on the pavement. Hunched over something. Someone.Troy tried to force his heartbeat to steady. You don’t have time for this.It was going to get worse. Much worse.The thought cut through his hesitation like a blade.Behind him, footsteps clanged against the marina ramp. Troy turned, watching as Seth climbed back up, rifle in hand, scanning the street. His eyes flicked to Troy.Troy shook his head. No time.He holstered his weapon. Seth nodded and slung the rifle back over his shoulder. Across the street, the woman’s cries carried on. Pleading. Frantic. Desperate.Seth grabbed another two duffles. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing they could have done for her anyways. They turned, moving back down the ramp, their footsteps steady, their breath even.The woman’s sobs faded behind them, swallowed by the dark.5:03 AMToo close. This is too close.Troy’s pulse hammered in his throat as Dory’s engine finally roared to life. The last bow line slipped free, snapping against the dock, and the boat drifted into the black water.Two more frantic trips. That’s what it had taken. Up and down the ramp, hauling the last of their gear. The weight of every second pressing against them. Now, Seth and Isaac shoved the bags into the stern cabin, cramming supplies into whatever space would keep them dry.Troy stood at the helm, steering them out of the slip
More boats filled the channel, engines roaring as they ignored no-wake zones, slicing through the water in frantic, desperate bids for open sea. Salt Breaker was the only other vessel from their marina that Troy could make out in the distance. Her hull knifed through the dark, engines churning froth into the void.Just before they’d pushed off, two more cars had screamed into the lot, doors flying open, occupants spilling out, yelling at each other to grab supplies. Troy hadn’t looked to see which boat they were trying to reach. There wasn’t time for curiosity. There wasn’t time for anything.“All right, everything’s stowed. At least enough to keep it dry.” Seth called, stepping into the cabin. Isaac followed, breath steady but tight.Troy nodded, glanced at his watch, and pushed the throttle lever all the way forward.Dory lurched, her old frame groaning, but she responded. The surge shoved Troy back into his seat. Seth and Isaac grabbed onto whatever they could, bracing against the force as she beat through the chop, pushing aside the crisscrossing wakes from the other fleeing boats.She might’ve been old. But she had power.Seth slid into the co-pilot’s chair, his eyes sweeping over the aging screens in front of him.Dory had clearly been a working boat in her prime. A vessel built for something harder than this. Hauling nets instead of hauling the desperate. The old equipment showed it.The radar flickered, grainy but still alive. A depth sounder hummed, its yellowed plastic casing a relic of another decade. Analog dials lined the dash, their needles vibrating with every movement of the hull.And there, wedged into the corner like an afterthought—a GPS unit from the early 2000s, its display dim and pixelated.The whole cabin smelled of salt, oil, and rust. A machine built for work, not survival.“How long do we have?” Isaac asked from behind them. His voice low, almost drowned out by the roar of engines.Troy didn’t even glance at the clock. He didn’t need it. He already knew.“We’re in the margin zone now.” He kept his voice steady. “No telling exactly when it’ll happen.”Then, as if on cue, the sky changed.A pale glow spread across the heavens, washing over the black waves like an open wound bleeding light. It grew brighter by the second, burning away the dark. Boats ahead of them were no longer just shadows. Troy could see them, their shapes crisp against the eerie wash of light.Here it was.Engines still strained. Waves still broke against hulls. But in the cabin, there was only silence.Then, softly, barely above a whisper—“Jesus,” Seth murmured.Troy’s hands tightened on the wheel, his knuckles bone-white.“Hold on,” he said, voice low and steady.This was it.Now there was no way back.
To Be Determined
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