Dead Water Zone - Kenneth Oppel [30]
“We came out to the reach as fast as we could,” Decks continued. “We thought we saw you heading out into the shipping lanes. I’m amazed we found you in all this fog.”
“Yeah, well, the engine’s packed it in,” sighed Monica.
“First things first, then,” said Decks. “They’ll come looking in that helicopter of theirs before long. We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“We can rig a towline maybe,” Armitage suggested.
“Too slow,” said Monica. “Anyway, they’ll be looking for this boat.”
“Burn it,” said Paul, amazed at his audacity.
Armitage stared, taken aback. “A bit excessive, don’t you think? You have any idea how much it would cost to replace a boat like this?”
“Paul’s right,” said Monica firmly. “We set it on fire, and if we’re lucky, they think we had an accident in the shipping lanes. There’s some gasoline below deck.”
“We could replace the engine,” moaned Armitage. “It’s a perfectly good boat.”
“Make it fast,” Decks said to Paul.
Paul hurried down into the cabin, Monica close behind. He hesitated at the computer and pulled Sam’s diskette from the drive. Prying open the plastic casing with his fingernails, he tore at the flimsy vinyl surface beneath until it was shredded. There. No one else would get hold of it now.
A gasoline canister was being pressed into his hands. Hastily he unscrewed the cap and doused the floor, the bunks, the wooden walls of the hull. He paused to push open all the portholes on either side of the cabin.
“For a good draft,” he explained when he caught Monica’s look of astonishment.
“How d’you know about stuff like this?” she asked.
“TV.”
She almost laughed. “I’m going above to do the deck.”
Paul could scarcely believe that only a few days ago he’d been in Governor’s Hill, crossing at crosswalks (never against the red light), giving back change that had mistakenly been given to him, holding open supermarket doors for elderly people. Now, here he was spurting gasoline around like a seasoned arsonist. Dumping out the last of his canister he hurried up the stairs, gulping in the fresh air.
“I’m almost done,” Monica told him. “Get off.”
He swung himself over the railing and hopped into the motorboat. He peered into the fog, expecting a tanker to loom up at any moment or a helicopter’s spotlight to impale them.
“Hurry,” he called to her.
“I can’t believe I’m letting this happen,” Armitage mumbled.
Monica dropped lightly over the side, holding two rags and a box of matches. She lit the first rag, allowed it to burn for a few seconds and then tossed it up onto the deck. A carpet of low flames spread across the planking. The second burning rag she pushed through the nearest porthole.
“Let’s go!” she cried out, pushing off from the hull.
Deep orange light blossomed from the cabin, and a hungry sucking noise filled the air. The motorboat’s engine roared to life, and Armitage veered them away. A loud crackling and popping carried across the water. Paul watched as the mist closed in. Only a diffuse orange glow indicated where the boat lay, burning.
“I hereby pronounce you both officially dead,” said Armitage. “My boat, too.”
“We’re going to my place,” Decks told them. “You’ll all be safe there for a while.”
Armitage looked at Paul. “So, you planning on telling us what was on the diskette?”
“Everything about the water,” Monica replied simply.
Armitage nodded slowly. “I thought it might be that.” He turned around to look Paul intently in the eye. “You know we don’t drink it.”
It seemed