Virus by S. D. Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

be answered and still struggling to accept that it was highly fuckin’ unlikely.

    Foster stared down at the radar screen blankly, listening to Woods’s growing frustration with the VHF radio. The bridge was tense, the crew standing around silently, mulling over their predicament while the helmsman SOS’d into dead air. She wondered if anyone had told Everton about the situation, not that it would make a difference. At least she wasn’t alone in her dislike for the man anymore; everyone in the room knew what had happened . . .
    The radar still worked, for what it was worth. All the receiver had to say was that they were surrounded by a typhoon, at least in the range that the CW was set for. Foster tapped at the keys in front of her, widening the scope; she hadn’t thoroughly checked out the eye for a few hours; maybe there was something new to see.
    “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday—fucking VHF fifty-mile-range piece of shit—”
    Blip. Foster felt her heart stop, then speed up violently. It wasn’t her imagination, it was a solid return. “Wait a minute! I’m picking up a contact, could be a ship in the eye with us . . .”
    She could feel the change, feel everyone’s sudden attention turn to her as she double-clicked the cursor on the pulse-generated object and read the coordinates.
    “Distance twelve miles bearing zero four eight degrees. Speed—zero knots, appears to be dead in the water. And it’s big.”
    She looked up, studied the intent and hopeful faces of the men on the bridge, and felt like laughing. “Really big,” she said.
    “Hail ’em,” said Steve, and she grabbed the mike, flooded with a relief so great that she could hardly breathe. She saw Woods cast a guilty look around the bridge and then walk out quickly, probably to tell Everton. Fuck him, she was too excited to care.
    “Ahoy vessel at latitude twenty-nine degrees forty-eight minutes south, longitude one seven nine degrees twenty-four minutes east, this is Sea Star; we are twelve miles northwest of your position, come back!”
    They weren’t going to die. The tug might sink, but they now had somewhere to go.

    The whiskey was gone; it was time.
    Sarah smiled up at him from atop the pile of papers, just as perfect and beautiful as he remembered. He hoped that she’d be there, waiting for him in whatever came next. Or maybe he’d just be dead; either way, he’d be free from having to face a dismal future, any chance of peace he could have had lost to him now.
    Everton slowly picked up the loaded .45 caliber revolver and pointed it to the right of his forehead, afraid but ready. He could feel trickles of sweat slide through his hair, gray hair on his old, tired head. Old and tired and drunk, that was Captain Robert Everton. He didn’t think there would be time to feel pain; just a burst of sound and he could escape from this cruel and merciless life . . .
    He closed his eyes and there was a knock on his door.
    “Captain. Captain!”
    Woods. Christ, what timing!
    “I’m busy,” he said, and waited for the helmsman to leave, the cool barrel still pressed to his skin. Insult to injury. Even this last privacy was denied to him, a parting shot from Whomever ran this show.
    “There’s a ship with us in the eye! Twelve miles out, dead in the water!”
    Big fucking deal, some other poor bastard caught in the storm, like I’m gonna give a rat’s ass when my life is—
    Dead in the water. Everton blinked.
    A ship that wasn’t moving. Perhaps because the crew had bailed out or been taken by the typhoon, leaving their vessel behind . . .
    Everton lowered the weapon and tried to focus his bleary thoughts on what this meant, what it could mean.
    Salvage, reward money, navigational equipment. Expensive equipment. A ship . . .
    “Dead in the water? I—I’ll be there in a moment,” he said, and he heard his helmsman’s footsteps scurry away.
    He stood up too quickly, felt the cabin wobble and then reestablish itself. He holstered the side-arm