“No. They’re obviously underneath. In the cockpit, the bridge, whatever you call it.”
Seems like she knows as much about boats as Mark.
They turn a corner and see Alec and Lana at a section where the windows have been knocked out, the water of the sea lapping against the wall just a foot or so below them outside. The Toad and Misty are sitting on the floor, staring out. Mark hears the boat before he sees it, a coughing, choked sound of engines that have seen better days. Then the battered vessel comes into view past a small building, its back end sunk low into the water as the yacht chugs along. It’s about thirty feet long, fifteen wide, with duct tape and plywood boards covering up scattered holes and split seams. A tinted window with spiderwebs of cracks is like an ominous eye, looking at them as it approaches.
“Do they know we’re here?” Mark asks. He only allows himself to think that these people are coming to rescue them. Bring food and water, at least. “Did you hail them down?”
“No,” Alec answers curtly. “By the looks of it, they’re checking out every building. Scavenging, no doubt. But they’ve seen us by now.”
“I just hope they’re friendly,” Trina whispers, as if she doesn’t want the strangers to hear.
“I’ll fly to the moon and back if these folks are nice,” Alec replies in a completely dead voice. “Stay on your toes, boys and girls. Follow my lead.”
The boat is very close now, its noises filling the air along with the smell of fuel. Mark can see the faint shadow of two people behind the darkened window now, and they both appear to be male. They both have short hair, anyway.
The engines of the yacht cut off and its tail end begins to swing around so that the boat can bump lengthwise against the building. Alec and Lana step back, and Mark notices that at some point the Toad and Misty have scooted all the way to the far wall. Trina, Baxter and Mark are standing in a tight group, the tension clear in their faces.
One of the people from the bridge appears on deck, stepping through a doorway from below. It’s a man, and he’s holding an enormous gun in both hands, the muzzle already pointed at the spectators inside the Lincoln Building. He’s one ugly dude, greasy hair matted to his head, a scruffy beard—the kind that looks like a wild fungus on the neck—and black sunglasses. His skin is filthy and sunburnt, his clothes tattered.
Another person appears, and Mark’s surprised to see it’s a woman with a shaved head. She deals with securing the boat against the wall as her partner steps closer to the broken window where Alec and Lana stand.
“I want to see every single hand,” the man says to them, sweeping his weapon back and forth, pausing for a brief moment on each person. “Two each, up in the air. Go on.”
Most of them do as they’re commanded, except Alec. Mark hopes the man doesn’t do something crazy and get them all shot.
“You really think I’m bluffing?” the stranger says in a raw, scratchy voice. “Do it now or die.”
Alec slowly raises his hands toward the ceiling.
The man with the gun doesn’t seem satisfied. He’s breathing heavier than he should, and staring at Alec through those dark sunglasses. Then he swings his weapon at Baxter and lets loose three quick bursts of fire. The explosions of sound rock the air, and Mark stumbles backward until he slams into the wall of a cubicle. The bullets have torn into Baxter’s chest, spraying red mist everywhere and knocking him onto his back with a hard thud. He doesn’t even scream, death having taken him already. His torso is a mess of blood and mangled skin.
The man takes in a deep pull of air. “Now I expect you’ll do what I say.”
Chapter 47
Mark twitched in his sleep and almost woke up. He’d always liked Baxter, liked the kid’s smart-aleck nature and who-cares attitude. To see such a thing done to him …
It was something Mark would probably never get over. Of all the memories that came back to haunt his dreams, that one was the most frequent. And Mark wanted to wake up, wanted to leave it behind again instead of reliving the aftermath of what he’d witnessed and the craziness that followed.
But his body needed the rest and wouldn’t allow it. Sleep pulled him back down into its embrace, with no intention of comforting his troubled mind.