Last Resort by Richard Dubois

bungalows behind me, hoping my yells roused some of the other guests, but no one stirs. I must get the attention of whoever captains that sailboat. Maybe someone is at the restaurant. I dash along the beach, keeping one eye on the sailboat, which is closer now but not headed for us. No, it seems that it will sail right past the resort.
    As I sprint up the deck stairs to the restaurant I spot Conner and Robby, shirtless and sunburned, sitting at the bar getting a head start on the days inebriation.
    “Relax, Phil,” Robby holds forth a pitcher of booze. “There’s still plenty of liquor to go around.”
    Winded, I point to the sailboat.
    “Holy shit!” Conner hops off his stool. “It’s gonna crash.”
    He is right. The boat lists even more than it did when I first saw it, and it sails directly towards the jagged coast of Goat Island.
    “I know how to use the hobie cats,” Robby declares. “We could sail out to the boat.”
    The three of us run to where the hobie cats are stored.
    “Fuck,” Conner curses, jerking on the chain used to lock the hobie cat overnight.
    “I’ll find Jonas. He must have the key,” Robby says and runs to Jonas’s bungalow.
    Conner and I watch the sailboat. It rams into Goat Island at full speed, the crunching sound of the impact hitting our ears a moment later.
    “Where’s the crew?” Mouth agape, Conner asks.
    “I didn’t see anybody on deck.”
    I hear the rattle of chains behind us. It is Jonas, bleary eyed in rumpled pajamas, hurriedly unlocking the hobie cats.
    “The boat is still afloat,” Conner notes as we haul one of the hobie cats to the water. “If we hurry we can get there before it goes under.”
    Robby, Conner, and I push the craft into deeper water. Jonas remains behind. Robby unfurls the small sail and steers us towards the damaged boat. I sit out front, ocean spray coating my face. Each minute the sailboat sinks further beneath the waves. As we approach, I see why: the reef tore a gaping hole in the bow.
    Robby pulls alongside the sailboat. “We don’t have an anchor. I have to stay with the hobie cat.”
    Maintaining our position is nearly impossible. Looking down into the turquoise depths, I estimate the water is thirty feet deep. Conner scrambles onto the tilted deck of the sinking boat and reaches back to haul me after him.
    “Anybody here?” He calls out.
    We grip the sail rigging to steady ourselves. The starboard deck is partially submerged. Behind the captain’s wheel, a small flight of steps descend to the cabins. Over a foot of water covers the floor of the interior. Cups, clothing, papers, and other debris float in the water. I head down the stairs. Expensive teak wood panels the walls and floor. Brass lamps suspended from chains hang at crazy angles. A long table bolted to the floor lies submerged. Opposite the table, cabinets hang open, their contents dumped into the water.
    “Hello?” I call. No response. With each successive ocean wave, the boat sways and takes on more water. Suddenly, an electric crackle fills the air.
    “What’s that?” Conner whirls in surprise.
    Securely bolted to the wooden counter, a ham radio emits a static hiss.
    “It’s working!” I seize the mic. “Hello? Hello? Is anyone getting this signal?”
    Our only reply is a low buzz.
    “How is it that this radio still works?” Conner asks.
    I examine the radio. There’s no protective case Faraday cage to shield the radio from the E.M.P. blast. So how is it still working?
    “The ship must have been outside of the blast zone. It’s the only possible explanation,” I say.
    Conner snatches a photo of a man taped to the cabinet door. “Hey, I know this guy. It’s Dawson Hartford,” Because of my blank stare, Conner elaborates, “Dawson Hartford—the British hedge fund CEO. He’s huge—big time—one of the wealthiest men in England. In the financial biz, guys like me are pygmies next to him. I spent half my days trying to guess what his next move would be