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He had not realized he was hungry. He stuffed half the sandwich in his mouth. “This is why they call you Astrid the Genius,” he mumbled through the peanut butter.
“Man, don’t talk about food,” Edilio groaned.
Sam searched his little boat. No anchor anywhere, but there were some plastic bumpers, which he hung over the side in case he brushed against the barrier. And there was a coil of blue-and-white nylon rope. He tied one end securely to a cleat and tied the other end around his ankle. He stripped off his shirt and kicked off his shoes, leaving him in shorts. Rummaging in one of the holds, he found a long screwdriver.
“What are you doing?” Quinn asked.
Sam ignored him. “Edilio, man, you going to live?”
“I hope not,” Edilio said through gritted teeth.
“I’m going to dive down, see if I can get below the barrier.”
Astrid looked skeptical, worried, but Sam could see she was in her own head, preoccupied. Probably trying to come to grips with almost getting shot.
Quinn said, “I’ll haul you in if you get jammed up.”
Sam nodded, not ready to talk to Quinn. Not sure he would ever be ready to talk to Quinn. Then he dived off the side.
The water was a welcome friend. Cold, a shock, but welcome. He laughed at the taste of salt.
He took a couple of deep breaths, held the last one, and dived. He swam with powerful kicks and his free hand while the other hand held the screwdriver out to fend off the FAYZ wall. He had no desire to be pushed up against it. Touching with a finger had hurt. Laying a shoulder or thigh against it would not be pleasant.
Down and down he went. He wished he’d had the foresight to grab some scuba gear or at least a face mask and fins at the marina, but he’d been a bit preoccupied at the time. The water was pretty clear, but still, visibility was reduced in the shadow of the barrier.
When he reached the end of his air he stabbed toward the barrier. The screwdriver hit nothing, and he felt a momentary surge of excitement that disappeared when his next thrust stopped dead against solid resistance.
He shot to the surface and gasped for air.
The barrier extended at least twenty feet down below the surface. If there was a bottom to it, he’d have to find it using an air tank and flippers.
The boat was rocking against the barrier, fifty feet away. He heard the distinct snap and pff as Astrid popped open a Coke for Little Pete. Quinn sat on the bow tending the rope, and Edilio was still looking as if he might heave up a part of his liver.
Sam swam to the boat, taking his time, enjoying the water on his skin too much to feel disappointed that he hadn’t found a way out of the FAYZ.
He heard the sound of the engine and the smack-on-wave impact long before he saw the boat. He kicked hard to lift his head above the water far enough to see. “Hey,” he yelled.
Quinn had heard the engine at the same time. “Boat coming. Fast,” Quinn yelled.
“Where?”
“From town,” Quinn reported.
“Fast,” he repeated.
TWENTY-SIX
126 HOURS, 10 MINUTES
SAM SWAM AT full speed and soon had his hand on the gunwale of the Boston Whaler. Quinn hauled him aboard. Up and over, falling and rolling onto the deck.
He was on his feet in a flash and saw the big speedboat, the kind they called a cigarette boat, bearing down on them, not a quarter mile away. The boat threw out a huge bow wave. At the wheel was a kid Sam couldn’t recognize from this distance. Standing like they were holding on for dear life were Howard and Orc. No Drake.
“We can’t outrun them,” Quinn said.
Adrenaline seemed to have steadied Edilio’s stomach. “Maybe, man, but we don’t know till we try.”
“No, Quinn’s right,” Sam said. “Astrid, hold on to Little Pete.”
