In The End Box Set , Stevens, GJ [motivational novels .txt] 📗

“Eight o’clock,” came the call, and heads turned just enough to see the dark hair of Gibson. The engine came to life and we jerked to a stop, watching as the pale figure burst from the water, but not splashing about in panic.

Despite the memory of the freezing water rushing back, I expected the soldiers to jump to his rescue. Neither did; instead, they stood to the edge and leaned over. Did they think he’d been bitten whilst under the water and turned already? Why else would they leave this man to fend for himself?

Stepping to the edge, questioning whether I should jump in instead, I looked to the water and saw movement a short distance the way we’d come.

I looked back to Gibson, watching with alarm as he dived under the surface again. Whatever he was doing it seemed he still had control, but not for long if the creatures spotted him.

With movement behind him rippling the water, short waves battered the sides of the hull as we sought any glimpse of other heads just below the surface.

“Gibson,” I called, more voices adding to the volume. Someone had to do something or we’d lose him, but as if not afflicted by the icy temperature, he was still under the water, searching for something on the canal bed.

The rifle. He’d been carrying one of the two remaining rifles and must have dropped it as he fell.

“Gibson,” the voices called again.

He’d been under so long, giving us no chance to tell him his life wasn’t worth the length of metal.

Just then, Gibson broke through the surface to a chorus of voices calling his name, but he didn’t seem to hear; instead, without a glance to the boat of people waving or the turbulent water whipped up by the dead walking below the surface, he dived back under.

A shot rang out loud from my side and I turned to see Thompson pointing his pistol toward the water, a wisp of smoke curling up from the end of the muzzle. Then another, this time to my right, Sherlock firing above Gibson’s position at shapes moving in the water. Blinking as I turned back, I hoped they were certain they knew where he would rise again.

Just as another shot rang out, the soaked black metal of the rifle raised out of the water with fingers curled around its middle. Gibson’s head rose soon after with his mouth wide, not waiting for the water to drain down his face as he pulled a quick breath. Glancing left and right before getting his bearings, he beamed as if he’d won a prize, but the elation fell away when he heard our muddle of voices screaming his name.

Rather than looking around, he lunged forward, paddling with the rifle in one hand as the other cut through the water. The engine tone rose, and we lurched back before coming to a stop close enough to lean down with Thompson by my side and reaching for a wrist each.

As I did, Sherlock knocked my hand out of the way and placed his grip on the cuff of Gibson’s black jacket, heaving him back to the deck.

Glaring in my direction, Sherlock spoke, but not to me.

“You should have left the rifle, you stupid twat,” he said, turning to the shivering soldier.

With water coursing down his face, Gibson glanced behind him to the murky brown, bristling with movement.

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” I said, and slapped him on the shoulder, ignoring Sherlock’s returning glare. Thompson shook his head and took the rifle from Gibson’s grip.

The engine note went high again and we moved off at an unhurried pace, much slower than we had before the crash. I watched as the water rippled under the surface.

Leaving Gibson to undress and wring out his clothes, changing into whatever spares they had left, despite what they’d told me when I asked. I headed back up the steps, picking up the shotgun and resting it in the cradle of my arm.

Peering out across the water, Cassie kept her concentration fixed, scanning the width of the canal as we crept forward.

“Where d’you learn to drive a boat?” I asked once my nerves had settled. “Or do you pilot a boat? I’m never sure which it is.” My voice sounded timid as if we were on a first date, or chatting to a stranger and scrambling to make small talk.

I didn’t look around to catch Cassie’s reaction but when I couldn’t see her move in my peripheral vision, I felt a great weight over me.

The weight fell as she spoke, her words flat but at least she was engaging. “I don’t think it matters.”

When she spoke again, I had to push down the rising smile. “My dad taught me. We grew up with rivers and the sea all around us. He would take me out on a boat twice a year.”

“You had a boat?” I replied, still reeling that we were having a conversation.

She shrugged. “We’d just hire one for the day.” Glancing my way, I saw a hint of a smile before turning back to the water. In the brief moment, I caught a twinkle in her eye as if she was grateful for reliving a cherished childhood memory, but her smile soon dropped and she leaned forward again.

I turned ahead but couldn’t see anything that could have pulled her from the memory.

Then I remembered her parents were probably dead; lost in the melee of roadblocks in the early days.

“Ellie hated the water.” Cassie’s voice held back my thoughts. “But she would still come along. She didn’t have to, but she enjoyed the time with us. She’d take travel sickness tablets or be hanging over the edge for the entire day.” Cassie stopped as if about to add something else, but after a few moments she kept it to