Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59739 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59739 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
It gives me hope that they won’t see us coming.
I squeeze past Ace, down toward the steps leading below deck. As we move, I can see into the dirty space. Damp, stinking of brine and diesel, with a stack of plastic bins attached to the wall in what looks like a makeshift kitchen—a battered gas burner and a shelf lined with canned stew and beans. There are bottles, too, most empty, but a few left with liquor sloshing inside.
We creep in further.
The floor is so unsteady that I expect it to give under us, but it holds. It’s quieter here, the water muffling everything. I almost forget that outside, on a different part of this same beach, Zeke is bleeding and tied up and hopefully still very much alive. My lungs feel ice-cold thinking of it. Down below, it’s colder, wetter, and so dark my eyes keep making up phantoms.
Ace is a shadow in front of me. The corridor, if you can call it that, is no more than a metre wide, with doors on either side—all salvaged, spray-painted, and splintered. Most are locked. The last one isn’t. Ace opens it with the steady, silent confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times before. Inside, there’s a cot slumped under the mesh of mosquito netting, a cracked TV zip-tied to a shelf, and just clothes everywhere.
It’s disgusting.
This entire ship is disgusting.
Not even a metre in front of us, a figure sits hunched against the wall, knees drawn up, a thick blue blanket around their shoulders. I jerk, not having noticed this person straight away. Whoever it is, they don’t reach for a weapon, don’t even move to stand, just blink up at us, dull and slow. It’s a man. He is in a bad way. There’s something in his hand, but it’s only a can—he’s eating straight from it, the beans streaked down his chin.
“Oh my gosh,” I whisper. “I don’t think he is one of them.”
“He ain’t,” Ace murmurs, but doesn’t flinch.
He moves, quick and sure, grabs the man and hauls him up to his feet. The guy doesn’t even fight, he just moans and drops the can, the beans spattering everywhere. “You got a name?” Ace asks, his voice tight.
The man mumbles something, but it’s clear he isn’t with it.
He is in bad shape.
“What do we do?” I ask, quietly.
“We leave him here until we have everything sorted. Then we’ll do what we can to help him.”
I nod.
Ace places the man back down.
His head flops forward.
We move on, through another battered door and into a small galley kitchen. It’s oddly homey, with a busted coffee maker, a mug that says #1 BOSS in chipped enamel, and a plate of half-rotten bread on the counter. There are faded pictures of naked women on the walls, and weirdly, photos of sunsets clipped up with binder clips. I step around a pile of laundry, careful not to make noise, and open a cabinet to see what’s inside.
It’s full of knives. Like, not pirate cutlasses or anything, but steak knives, box cutters, and even a pair of rusty scissors. Some have blood stains. All have seen better days. I take the biggest one and shove it in my boot, just in case, then shove the drawer closed and keep looking through the others. There is a small amount of food, not a great deal, and I am guessing they stop at the islands to stock up on fresh things.
Ace is already moving again so I quickly follow.
We get to a small room set up like someone’s idea of an office: a battered desk, a lamp with a red scarf over it, and a laptop missing half its keys. There are maps spread over every surface, a stack of old notebooks, and a pile of what looks like cash, but it’s drenched and covered in mildew, so it’s worthless. I spot a gun on the desk and hand it to Ace. He checks the mag, then tucks it away.
We move to the last door before the engine room. Ace pauses before he turns the knob, and his entire body stiffens. It takes me a moment to realise what he’s hesitating for. There are voices beyond it—two, maybe three, all laughing too loud for the late hour and the situation. Ace puts his finger to his lips, looks at me, then points to himself and to the door, letting me know he’s going in hot.
He takes the gun out.
I brace myself.
He doesn’t hesitate, swinging the door open and barging through. I follow him right in. The room is tiny, barely room for a table and two chairs. There are two men at the table, one pinning a deck of cards with his thumb, the other pouring something brown into plastic cups. Both are young, or look it, except for the missing teeth. The one pouring the drinks is mid-laugh when Ace grabs him by the shirt collar and slams his forehead to the table. There’s a sickening crunch, and I know for sure this man isn’t getting up anytime soon.