Surviving Immortality by Alan Chin

Author:Alan Chin [Chin, Alan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Science Fiction, Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic, Lgbtq+, General, Genetic Engineering
ISBN: 9781640805453
Google: 945QDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1640805451
Publisher: DSP Publications
Published: 2018-06-04T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-seven

DAYS CRAWLED by. Once every hour Matt Reece walked from stern to bow and back, scrutinizing the condition of the sails and rigging, checking the barometer and compass heading, feeling the strength and direction of the wind. Each day he shimmied up the mast for a look-see at the horizon. The constant rise-and-dip motion of the ship brought about an ache in his lower back and knees, and the damp salt air settled in his throat, which produced a relentless cough. He felt dirty, itchy, but Vice Admiral Mike would not allow him to shower, as fresh water was precious. He was welcome to a saltwater bucket bath but declined. During sleep shifts, while Kenji was up and about, Matt Reece lay in his bunk and dreamed of the claw-foot tub back at the Promesa Rota and clean towels dried in the sun and smelling like a spring meadow.

For days on end he stared out at the swells, hoping to see anything other than water. Nada. At night he saw the twinkly lights of freighters and tankers, but Vice Admiral Mike steered well away from them and ran with no lights.

Without something of interest to look at, it became impossible not to dwell on the events in San Francisco. As painful as it was, he couldn’t stop himself from contrasting the most wondrous night of his life with the heartbreak of the next morning. And with each comparison, his abhorrence for Kenji grew, as did his thirst for revenge.

Once just after sunrise, he experienced a distraction. A shark hit the fishing line he trailed behind the stern. Matt Reece grabbed the pole and set the hook. He fought for twenty minutes, watching the dorsal fin cutting the surface. He drew the fish to within fifteen feet of the stern, close enough for a good look. It was a five-footer, seventy pounds of muscle and teeth—no great white, but respectable nonetheless.

“We won’t need a bigger boat,” Vice Admiral Mike said and barked a hearty laugh.

The pole snapped back. He lost the fish and a ten-inch lure.

Another diversion came when Vice Admiral Mike taught him how to cook meals on the propane stove while the ship was heeled over at a thirty-degree incline and bucking wildly. Preparing meals became the greatest challenge of his day, and he felt pride when the vice admiral would nod his approval after finishing a plate.

He also learned a new vocabulary: port, starboard, bow, stern, companionway, galley, and the toilet, for some unfathomable reason, was called the head. He slept in a berth that was located in a stateroom, which sounded grand but turned out to be a three-foot-wide, six-foot-long closet with a two-inch foam mattress and not much overhead space. It seemed more like a coffin than a stateroom.

Matt Reece, accustomed to riding open country, considered this forty-three-foot vessel just another prison cell. He hated the confines of his berth, but whenever Kenji was out of his stateroom, Matt Reece crawled onto his mattress and stayed there until the coast was clear.

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