Moondogs - Alexander Yates [140]
“Yes.”
Ignacio puts a finger to his lips. “Hush,” he says. “Rice.” Then he nods at Littleboy and they roll Howard in the coarse fabric. They lower him off the truck and onto a broad dolly. Howard listens hard as they wheel him down a ramp, ready to shout if he hears the slightest wisp of human noise. Their feet make crunching gravel noises, and then hollow wooden noises. Waves crash like falling bricks. A few moments later Howard is upended and rolls into the bobbing bottom of a boat. The boat dips as Ignacio and Littleboy get in after. They’re at a pier—it’s got to be Manila Bay considering the length of the drive. There’s always someone awake at Manila Bay.
Then, in the distance, he hears it. Unmistakable. A voice speaking Tagalog.
“Help!” Howard screams. “Help! Help me!” He punches through the sack, but catches only air. “Help!”
Ignacio and Littleboy laugh. “It’s the radio, genius,” Ignacio says. Then he revs the outboard, and with a splash of cold, oily water, they’re off.
THE BOAT ROCKS TERRIBLY. Howard lies under burlap in the stern, getting sprayed whenever they hit a wave, which is often. The outboard alternates between a drowning gurgle and rip-roaring in the air whenever they crest a swell. It isn’t long before Howard has to hold his head up just to keep it above the collected water. He’s so angry he imagines he might have a heart attack or aneurism or something, and the thought of dying on the way is a morbid thrill. He curses. He bangs his feet against the benches and gunwales.
Ignacio pulls the burlap away from Howard’s face and glares down at him. “Be nice,” he says.
“Let me sit up, I’m going to drown down here.”
“Sit up then, what am I, your mother?”
The color drains from Ignacio’s face as the boat dips into a trough between waves. Then, as it rises up to the top of the next crest, he turns a shade of green. He sends a mouthful of spit over the side.
Howard sits up, untangling himself from the sack. The boat is small, bangka style, with bamboo outriggers that shudder as they slap the waves. The city still looks nearby behind them, but the horizon ahead is indistinct. Dawn light shines pink on the whitecaps. Ignacio squats by the engine block, white-knuckling the tiller. Littleboy looks ill up at the bow, his knees pressed together, his eyes glued to the bottom of the boat. Only Kelog is relaxed, perched on the stem of the bow like an obscene maidenhead.
Ignacio takes out his cigarettes again and tries to light one. With the boat rocking as it is, it takes a while for him to connect with the lick of flame from his lighter. His hand holding the tiller drifts and they begin to turn, parallel to the oncoming swells. The boat sways, and tips. Ignacio’s face goes puffy, and he overcorrects, sending them too far in the other direction. The boat does one complete circle.
“That won’t help your belly,” Howard says, gesturing at Ignacio’s cigarette. “That will make it worse.”
Ignacio ignores him.
“Can you swim?” Howard asks. “This boat … I don’t know.”
Ignacio says something in Tagalog and Littleboy reaches across the bench and strikes Howard on the back of his head. He pitches forward into the dirty water sloshing between Ignacio’s feet. He stays down there for a moment, trying to rid his expression of satisfaction. Then, as he’s about to struggle back into a seated position, he notices something beneath Ignacio’s seat. It’s a clear plastic container, about five gallons or so, filled to the brim with extra fuel. There’s not much space under the aft seat, so the container lies on its side. The nozzle that should be on top is just beneath the surface of the water