Tribe, page 11
“Just because I’m black doesn’t mean I can’t swim,” Sarah said.
“And being white doesn’t mean I can,” Henry said, taking a second life jacket and slipping it on. “I mean, I can give it a go if you wa—”
“No,” Sarah said, donning her lifejacket. “Let’s just get the hell out of—”
The sound of a helicopter roared around them. Water and wind whipped around the boat, a flash tropical storm.
They looked up through the hole in the ceiling. The helicopter was silhouetted against the bright blue sky. Someone hung out of an open side door. It could be the police. Could be another assassin. There was no way to be sure—until a ladder unfurled and dangled just above the Duck boat.
An assassin could just watch them sink.
“Foot,” Sarah said, linking her fingers and bending over.
Henry, lacking any sense of chivalry, placed his foot in her hands and accepted the boost. He rose through the ceiling, caught hold of the ladder, and climbed up two rungs.
Sarah was sure he was about to leave when Henry stopped, leaned back, and offered his hand. “Grab on!”
It was a nice gesture, but she doubted the scrawny kid was strong enough to lift her weight, let alone his own—and she could do that just fine. She bent her legs, intending to leap up, grab hold, and haul herself up. Before she could jump, the floor shifted. Slick water and a sharp angle conspired against her. She slipped and fell, landing on Rosco’s body. The Duck boat slipped beneath the surface, dropping at a ninety-degree angle, filling with water.
Sarah was lifted up, carried by her life jacket, past the hole in the ceiling, and pinned against the back of the plummeting vehicle. She tried to push off, to swim down to the exit, but the orange vest fought her. Defeated her. Pulled her back up, while the sinking vessel dragged her down into the dark, cold water of Boston Harbor.
18
Henry stared down at the water, roiling in frothy rings, whipped by the rotor wash. It was getting hard to hold on to the twisting ladder rungs. Climbing a rope ladder was hard on a good day, but Henry’s body was already exhausted. He wasn’t sure how long he could hold on, but he didn’t want to leave without Sarah.
Where is she?
He reached for the next rung. Grabbed hold. Pulled himself halfway up.
And stopped.
He couldn’t leave.
Why not?
His stomach lurched.
Am I going to puke?
But it wasn’t that. He knew it, but didn’t like it. Because it meant he was wrong.
About himself.
About everything.
Henry was worried.
Henry was afraid.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the words torn away by the helicopter’s wind. He unclipped his life jacket, slipped out of it, and tossed it to the side. The rotor wash whipped it down to the water.
Henry followed.
He hadn’t been lying when he said he didn’t know how to swim. But how hard could it be? And right now, all he had to do was sink.
If he’d been in a belly flop contest, his leap from the ladder and plunge into the water would have scored a perfect ten. He left the pain at the surface, leaning into the ocean with his eyes wide open. The salt burned his eyes, but he could see the Duck truck below, fading into darkness.
He kicked hard. Sinking was harder than he’d thought, but easier after he shouted in frustration, blowing the air from his lungs. Then he kicked off his sneakers and made even better time.
It’s like the wind. My clothes are making drag.
The shirt came off fast. He reached into his shorts pocket, pulled out his trusty tactical pen, and slipped them off. Buck naked, he found moving through the water much easier. But his lungs were already burning—urging him toward the surface.
Indifferent to the warning, he swam deeper, wondering if he’d ever be able to catch up with the sinking Duck truck.
Then he saw it—a rectangle of orange in the dim fifty-foot-deep water. Sarah’s lifejacket, still pressed against the window. Still moving. Still alive.
His eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. A billowing cloud of sand rolled away from the vehicle’s front end as it landed nose down. The upright Duck truck swayed, unsure of which way to fall. Before it could make up its mind, Henry kicked down to the hole in the roof and slipped inside.
The interior was dark, but Sarah was easy to spot. She floated above him, struggling to undo a tangled lifejacket strap. Her eyes went wide when she saw him. She was worried, but not for herself. She was shaking her head. Telling him to leave.
He pushed toward her, unscrewing the tactical knife’s cap to reveal the razor sharp blade hidden inside. She resisted for a moment, insistent that he leave her, but screw that. Then she gave up. Moved her arms away. He found the problem strap, slipped the blade beneath and tugged.
The lifejacket fell away, floating up as Sarah sank.
Limp.
Unmoving.
She was telling me to leave because she knew it was too late.
No, he thought, noticing the intensity with which his own lungs were burning. No!
He took hold of her wrist and clawed at the water, dragging her toward the ceiling’s hole. He had nearly reached it when the Duck truck finally decided to tip. The big vehicle moved in slow motion. Henry fought to reach the hole, but water swirled around him, pushing him back.
The sun’s feeble light grew darker.
With a grinding thump, the Duck truck hit the sandy ocean floor, lying on its roof. A rolling wave of kicked up sand spread out, away from the vehicle.
We’re trapped.
He released Sarah and pulled himself to the front doors. Tried both sides. But they were embedded in sand. Impossible to move. Maybe if he was stronger, but muscle bulk was hard to come by when meals came few and far between—and usually from a dumpster.
Henry pushed back to the middle of the bus, where Sarah floated, eyes closed, arms wide. She looked peaceful, but also wrong.
Henry felt his heartbeat, thump-thump, in his chest. It hurt. He ignored it.
The back end of the tactical knife was a hardened steel tip designed for shattering car windows. So he put it to work, banging against a window.
He was either not strong enough, the window too strong, or his movement too slow in the water. The tactical pen didn’t even scratch the glass.
Henry remembered the bullet holes in the windshield. Maybe it would be weak enough to break?
He was about to try it when his mouth opened up and his lungs filled with water. The action was against his will, his body defying mind. For a moment, he raged against it, twitching and flailing.
Then he gave in.
Time to see what death is like, he thought, before noticing that drowning wasn’t like he pictured it. He was still conscious. Lungs full, but still alive.
He reached out for Sarah. Grasped her hand. Pulled her close.
I’m sorry, he thought, and then his vision began to fade.
A shadow moved. It seemed distant, but he knew it was close. Just outside the window.
A pair of legs. Standing. And then arms, reaching down.
Water shifted around Henry. He felt himself slide to the side. Felt his head strike the wall, but it was like watching a movie.
And then, he felt nothing at all.
19
Someone tugged on her hair. Pulled her up by it.
But I don’t have hair. I cut it.
She jolted back and forth. Someone cutting her hair away. Then she was freed and dropped. She landed on hard stone, the pain of impact dull, and then gone.
Memories of pain returned slowly, neurons traveling through viscous sludge. Her lungs burning. Pressure all around. Someone with her. What happened?
“Síko páno,” a man said. For a moment the words were lost on her, and then she understood them. “Stand up.”
The world around her was a haze. But she felt stone beneath her feet, and warmth rising from the depths of what she thought must be a cave. A shadowy figure reached out a hand.
“Why can’t I see?” she asked.
“Follow me, child,” the man said.
“Child?” Sarah hadn’t been called a child since she’d been one, and she didn’t appreciate it coming from someone who didn’t sound much older than her.
“You can let go of your anger now,” the man said, sounding almost kind. “Your fight is over.”
“The hell it—”
The man took her hand. Her mouth snapped shut, the fight fleeing her with his touch. His skin was smooth, but his grip firm. She followed him, the grade beneath her leading downward. The well-worn path beneath her feet was solid stone, but almost soft to the touch.
“Where are we?” she asked.
The man didn’t reply.
She tried to see him—really see him—but the moment she focused on him, he became a blur, like he was moving too fast to clearly see.
As they moved deeper, the walls began to glow. Dull orange words flickered to life on it. She couldn’t read the language.
“What does it say?” she asked, and this time the man replied.
“The names of those who went before you, Imítheos.”
“My name is Sarah.”
The man said nothing.
Deeper still, the carved names glowed lava hot, and the air warmed around them. There was a sense of time passing—they’d been walking for a long time—and not passing at all. There was no sense of exertion. No pain from the walk…or from what had happened earlier.
What had happened? She couldn’t remember.
The cave before her opened up, lit all around in luminous orange names.
Geez. How many people went before me?
The path led through craggy jutting stones. The place felt old. Primal. She wasn’t the first person here, by a longshot, but aside from the names, there was no trace of the people who’d come before. Even on the most remote mountain path, people leave something behind. But here, there was nothing.
Sarah looked down. Maybe there were footprints.
All she saw were her own bare feet.
Where are my shoes? she wondered, and then she noticed that the rest of her clothing was missing. She couldn’t remember what she’d been wearing… Something yellow.
A memory flashed. A boy. Smiling. In yellow.
“Don’t resist the transition,” the man said. “It will not be comfortable.”
“Why am I naked?” she asked.
The man stayed silent.
Two stone pillars marked the path’s end. They emerged from the field of stones and were greeted by the sound of rushing water, a warm breeze, and another figure. He sat on the pylon of a wooden pier, beside which bobbed a small boat. She couldn’t see his face, or rather, couldn’t make it out, like there was a smudge in her vision.
But he seemed bored. Indifferent to their arrival.
A chorus of howls echoed through the cave. Across the river. A wolf… Three wolves? She squinted, trying to focus. But everything felt like a dream, just out of reach.
The disinterested man on the pier stood at their approach. He was dressed in a black robe, had pale skin, a bald head and sunken eyes—Voldemort with a nose. When he spoke, it was a raspy whisper, like crinkling paper. “It’s been a long time. To what do I owe the—”
She felt the man’s gaze land on her, but she couldn’t look him in the eyes. Couldn’t see his eyes. It was like an ocular migraine. Part of her vision was just missing.
“Ahh,” he said. “Imítheos.”
“My name is Sarah.”
The man leading her said, “There is another.”
“Two in one day…”
“We must be quick about it.”
“Who are they?” the boatman asked.
Both men tensed. They’d heard something she hadn’t.
The wolves howled again, but then yelped.
“Too late,” the raspy voice said, and then the figure leaned in close.
Sarah saw him. His face of peeling, pale skin framed a pair of glowing orange eyes. “We’ll meet again,” he said through black teeth.
The boatman turned away. Whispers filled the air. Then he said, “A deal has been struck.”
Then the world flaked apart and floated away.
The river’s roar faded.
The warm air disappeared.
The names dulled and fell apart.
She was alone again. Even her companion was gone.
A familiar darkness swallowed her up, comforting.
Then it belched her out into a world of agony.
Sarah awoke, coughing and heaving. Her memories slammed back into place, vivid in her fully alert mind.
I drowned, she thought. I’m dead.
She touched her body. It was solid. And clothed. But the Daisy Duck Tours T-shirt and shorts were missing. Instead, she was wearing a loose-fitting, sheer gown of some kind. It was so light she barely felt it, and where she did, it was the softest thing she had ever touched.
She was lying on her back, staring up at an arched ceiling twenty feet up, painted ruby red and intercut by an X of warm wood. The floor beneath her was solid and cool.
To her left, a wall of windows stretching ten feet high and thirty feet from end to end. Outside, the sky, bubbling with white cumulus clouds. A long, black leather bench sat beneath the window, the same length. It was just a bench, but something about it seemed different. Original. Like someone had put a lot of time into designing it, and making sure it fit that window perfectly. Not the kind of thing you could pick up at Walmart.
She hadn’t seen much, but what she had seen screamed: MONEY. And a lot of it.
“Where the hell am I?” Her voice echoed. The floor was marble, swirling gray and white. Polished to a shine that reflected the sky. It was beautiful, and otherworldly. “Where the hell am I?”
The helicopter… It’s the cult. They caught us. Brought us to this—
She turned her head to the right, afraid that if she moved more than that, she’d be noticed. But then she gasped.
Laid out beside her on the floor, dressed in a loose robe that showed off way too much, was Helen. Her eyes were closed. Her face placid. If not for the glow of her skin and the very slow rise and fall of her chest, Sarah would have guessed the woman was dead.
“Helen?” Sarah said. The woman didn’t flinch.
Okay…so, Helen took me.
Helen saved me.
But I drowned!
She remembered it clearly, the way the water tasted, and burned her throat, and stabbed her lungs. We were fifty feet down. And trapped.
Henry…
Sarah sat up, panic rising. Henry risked his life to save her. Last she saw him, they were both screwed, locked inside the upended vehicle. No way he made it out, she thought, but then how did I get here?
She sighed with relief when she spotted him lying beside Helen, dressed in a white robe. Maybe Helen was the one in a cult?
Noticing how see-through Henry’s clothing was, Sarah looked down again. She pulled her garment tight. “Great. Nips and everything. Like he’s not going to point that out.”
She smiled, looking at Henry again. He was more pale than usual. And his chest…
She climbed over Helen’s prone body and crouched beside Henry, placing a hand on his chest. It wasn’t moving.
Henry was dead.
Sarah didn’t know CPR, but she’d seen it a lot on TV, and she had once heard that if you’re doing it right, ribs will break.
She linked her fingers. Placed both hands over his sternum.
How long had he been dead? How long since they’d been in the water? Was she trying to resuscitate a corpse that had been dead for hours, because if yes—gross.
If not…
She leaned over him, arms locked. She steeled herself, ready to snap ribs. She’d broken a lot of bones over the years—other people’s—but never on someone she cared about.
And she did care about him, which was why she had to—
“Stop.” Helen’s hand snapped out. Locked onto Sarah’s wrists. “He’s right behind me.”
Sarah was about to argue when Henry took a breath. It was shallow and slow, but enough to send an electric shock of surprise through Sarah. She flinched away, falling onto her butt.
His eyes fluttered open. Then he stretched and yawned like he’d just woken from a nap. “Well, that was weird.” He noticed Sarah. “Hey.” He looked her up and down, confused by the robe. Then he smiled. “I can see your nips.”
Sarah could only laugh. She was glad he was alive, whether or not he was a rude perv.
“Yeah, well,” Sarah said. “You have morning wood.”
Henry leaned his head up for a look. “Pssh. Nice one.” Then he noticed Helen next to him. She was older, but her body was like an Olympian’s, and she was pretty enough to be famous for it. Henry’s eyes traveled south. Lingered. “I gotta be honest, I’m going to have morning wood for real, soon, if we don’t get some clothes on.”
Helen grinned. She pushed herself off the floor. “That is… Nevermind.” She shook her head, smiling. “There are clothes for you both.” She pointed to an arched doorway framed by two modern chairs. Each held a small stack of clothing. “Bathroom is down the hall. One of you can change in there.”
She strode past them, and down a long hall toward an open concept space with black marble floors, a kitchen, a dining area, and a lavish living room with deep red furniture. The place looked more like a modern art museum than a home. “Meet me in the kitchen, when you’re ready. I owe you both an explanation.”
Henry tilted his head as he watched Helen leave. Her butt was visible through the fabric, and she had to know. She just didn’t care, like Henry. Shameless. Who wouldn’t be, with that body? Sarah thought. Then she turned around and saw the window’s full view for the first time. “Uhh. Holy shit.”
20
Henry leaned forward until his forehead hit the glass. His skin squeaked as he pushed himself up, trying to see straight down. His lips moved as his finger tapped on the window, counting.
Sarah stood next to him, mumbling expletives. After everything they’d already experienced, she was still capable of being surprised.
