Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4), John Cunningham [polar express read aloud .txt] 📗

I pressed the twin throttles forward. “They don’t call ‘em flying boats for nothing.”

We closed the gap quickly, dodging the few rocks we could see as we surged forward on each wave. The beach ahead was dark gray, which meant gravel, which meant a wheels-down beaching—a method I hated because it presented so many opportunities for mishap—but it did help to protect the fuselage. I lowered the landing gear.

“See anything up ahead?” I said. The gravel beach could also mean rocks under water.

Truck unbuckled and had his good arm on top of the instrument panel so he could get the best angle of vision ahead. He pointed forward.

“Keep going!”

Blue water led to an emerald buffer just before the shore, and a moment later the Beast rose on a wave. Her wheels hit, starboard first—the port wing dipped and the float slapped the water—then the port wheel caught and leveled us off. I added power to the port engine and the Beast shuddered, then climbed the hump until the aft fuselage scraped something. I pulled back on the power.

“Get out through the nose and set the anchor!” I said.

For a big guy with a busted collarbone and rib, Truck moved quickly into the small access below the instrument panel into the bow. Suddenly he froze—then started yelling and digging his toes against the deck, trying to move forward. His bulk had him stuck in the entry.

I placed my right foot on his ass and gave him a hard shove.

Within seconds the front hatch popped open, his head appeared, and he tossed the anchor with his good arm. He then shimmied down the side of the plane, his left arm windmilling as he dropped. After a four-count I saw the anchor line straighten, and a few moments later there was Truck’s hand coming into view with his thumb raised.

I backed gently off the throttle, which slowed the props’ rotation to a speed that no longer propelled us forward. The Beast slid backwards a foot, the line pulled taut—I held my breath.

We were secure.

I killed the power, shut down the magnetos and batteries, climbed through the fuselage, and pushed open the hatch, which was right on the water line.

I jumped in the water and was soaked up to my shorts.

With my heart in my throat, I stood with Truck as we stared up the steep incline of the left peak. It rose 500 feet above where we were standing. All the anticipation I used to feel when on the straightaway to finding treasure was redlined here.

“Let’s go.”

The valley was steep and there was a lot of loose gravel and natural debris, so we zigged and zagged our way up through the grass and cactus underbrush, then back into the trough between the hills. Heat and exertion soon had us sweating and winded. Few trees were on the slopes themselves, but there were several visible at the top. Truck had to stop once to catch his breath and mop his brow, and neither of us spoke a word until he nodded that he was ready to continue. I studied every rock pile we passed, but there were too many. How could we distinguish one from another?

“That big tree … there.” Truck pointed. We veered to the left, away from the trough, and discovered a narrow trail leading in that direction.

“Hello?” I shouted.

We waited, but there was no reply.

We fought through the sharp underbrush where the trailhead narrowed until we reached a clearing of grass and large boulders. A man was lying under the tree. We stood still for a moment.

“What if he’s dead?” Truck said.

The man held his arm up. It was shaking.

Truck and I ran the remaining distance. When we reached him my jaw dropped. The man was gaunt, almost Dachau-thin, his T-shirt shredded and filthy, his shorts barely clinging to his frame. His eyes fluttered as he tried to look up at us.

My throat was so dry I had to swallow before I could speak.

“Jerry Atlas?”

He shuddered—I realized he was crying, but with no tears.

And then he nodded.

Jerry could only drink a third of the water bottle I’d brought with me from the Beast.

“What happened?” I said. “Did you swim here?”

“Why didn’t you just swim back to St. Barths, man?” Truck glanced at a pile of garbage under rocks and underbrush. “You got food stocked out here?”

Slowly, painfully, Jerry sat up in the bed of dried leaves and grass he’d fashioned for himself.

“I used to come here to … hang out. I spent a lot of time on this island … Away from everybody.”

Truck and I waited for him to continue. It took a while.

“I was coming out one day. It was rough, windy—I’d been drinking …” He rattled out a dry cough. “There’s a small cut at the end of a wet weather creek on the west side of the island. That’s where I beached the Jet Ski. After I’d been here a few hours—and nearly polished off the rum—I left, got hit by a rogue wave and knocked off …” More coughing.

“Don’t Jet Skis go in circles when you fall off?” I said.

“There was a cruise control on the throttle—” He closed his eyes a moment. “It just kept going.”

Truck and I exchanged a glance. Jerry looked frail and jaundiced. We needed to get him out of here before anyone else showed up.

“Don’t waste your energy, Jerry, let us carry you—”

“You’re the first people I’ve spoken to … in … how long have I been gone?”

“Nearly a month,” I said.

He stared at me. “I was stranded, just like that movie with Tom Hanks, but worse—I’m an alcoholic, chain smoker. I detoxed … violently.” He took a few more sips of the water. “It was days before I could concentrate enough to make a funnel to catch what little rain fell into that rum bottle.” He nodded toward the open meadow, where a bottle was propped up with sticks, a brown