you. If we were to all remain strangers it would be so much easier.”
“Easier? You mean when we die?” Which was inevitable in his mind apparently.
“I’m aware of how callous that sounds,” he said, glancing away. “However, that is how I feel.”
“Then don’t worry,” I said coldly. “I’ll vanish.”
He laughed. “I said it would be easier, not better.”
I couldn’t help but see this all playing out somewhere else, in a smoke-filled train car or a seedy bar. Once you descend into the hard-boiled mind-set it’s hard to climb your way back out. Everything is noir, or feels like it should be. With just a tiny squint I could place a cigarette between Moritz’s lips and a jaunty fedora on his head. He’d aim an ice-cold bullet of a look at me and I’d melt it with a smoldering gaze and a twitch of perfect red lips. He’d say something witty and ironic like, “Come here often?” and we’d both laugh and call for paint thinner on the rocks.
I had drifted. He was staring.
“Sorry,” I said. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“About those ugly-looking clouds.”
Speaking of noir …
He looked above my head at the mass of clouds so gray they were almost black. They were moving in fast, dragging a curtain of slate-gray rain with them. At that moment I felt Arturo’s loss like a smack to the face. There was a storm coming, chasing our tail with the kind of speed that made you want to curl up in bed under the covers. It would be a whopper—lightning, thunder, the works. That wouldn’t be so bad in a cabin or even a tent, but out in the open water?
“Andrea!” I called. She and Noah had already begun scrambling around in the cockpit. The wind snapped, sail straining at the rigging. Shane shuffled around in the midst of all this chaos until I swooped in and snatched up his hand, deciding that if I went overboard then he was coming with me.
“Great,” I muttered, backing away from the railing with Shane. “Maybe we’ll get extra lucky and it’ll rain zombies too.”
You know that feeling before a spelling bee or an important presentation? The one where you can’t decide whether to diarrhea or vomit or both? We joined the others, huddling under the little cover made by the cockpit. My stomach began to ache in anticipation. My first taste of seasickness would probably be nothing compared to this. Not only that, but there was our safety to consider, and the fact that none of us knew what to do in the event of a bad storm. We couldn’t exactly check someone’s iPhone for a quick forecast or Google search: “Oh, God, what the fuck do we do now?”
The rain pounded the deck without warning, rushing across the surface of the water like a cymbal roll. The clouds split open, unleashing a few blinding flashes of lightning to the south. I looked at the mast, trying to recall basic science and decide whether or not we were all shortly to become jalapeño poppers.
Noah was trying to shout over the downpour and deafening roars of thunder. Together, crammed into the cockpit, trying to hide from the lashing rain, I realized that no matter how much we wanted to go on and no matter how much we planned, Mother Nature would always have the final say. She was every bit as dangerous and threatening as the undead. Shane curled up, making himself as small as possible, a tiny humming noise coming from him as he whimpered in fear.
“It’ll pass,” I assured him, hoping like hell it was true. “Just a little longer.”
It was one of those indelible moments where you remember just how miniscule you are in comparison to the weather, how with one bad bout of PMS Ole Mama Nature can send the furies to terrorize you on the sea. Humans belong on land, I thought to myself, trying to become one with Shane and the rubber sheeting over the food supply. Someone was standing on my foot, it didn’t matter. The cockpit was one mass of human limbs and sloshing rain. No one had volunteered to take the lead and try to
“Easier? You mean when we die?” Which was inevitable in his mind apparently.
“I’m aware of how callous that sounds,” he said, glancing away. “However, that is how I feel.”
“Then don’t worry,” I said coldly. “I’ll vanish.”
He laughed. “I said it would be easier, not better.”
I couldn’t help but see this all playing out somewhere else, in a smoke-filled train car or a seedy bar. Once you descend into the hard-boiled mind-set it’s hard to climb your way back out. Everything is noir, or feels like it should be. With just a tiny squint I could place a cigarette between Moritz’s lips and a jaunty fedora on his head. He’d aim an ice-cold bullet of a look at me and I’d melt it with a smoldering gaze and a twitch of perfect red lips. He’d say something witty and ironic like, “Come here often?” and we’d both laugh and call for paint thinner on the rocks.
I had drifted. He was staring.
“Sorry,” I said. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“About those ugly-looking clouds.”
Speaking of noir …
He looked above my head at the mass of clouds so gray they were almost black. They were moving in fast, dragging a curtain of slate-gray rain with them. At that moment I felt Arturo’s loss like a smack to the face. There was a storm coming, chasing our tail with the kind of speed that made you want to curl up in bed under the covers. It would be a whopper—lightning, thunder, the works. That wouldn’t be so bad in a cabin or even a tent, but out in the open water?
“Andrea!” I called. She and Noah had already begun scrambling around in the cockpit. The wind snapped, sail straining at the rigging. Shane shuffled around in the midst of all this chaos until I swooped in and snatched up his hand, deciding that if I went overboard then he was coming with me.
“Great,” I muttered, backing away from the railing with Shane. “Maybe we’ll get extra lucky and it’ll rain zombies too.”
You know that feeling before a spelling bee or an important presentation? The one where you can’t decide whether to diarrhea or vomit or both? We joined the others, huddling under the little cover made by the cockpit. My stomach began to ache in anticipation. My first taste of seasickness would probably be nothing compared to this. Not only that, but there was our safety to consider, and the fact that none of us knew what to do in the event of a bad storm. We couldn’t exactly check someone’s iPhone for a quick forecast or Google search: “Oh, God, what the fuck do we do now?”
The rain pounded the deck without warning, rushing across the surface of the water like a cymbal roll. The clouds split open, unleashing a few blinding flashes of lightning to the south. I looked at the mast, trying to recall basic science and decide whether or not we were all shortly to become jalapeño poppers.
Noah was trying to shout over the downpour and deafening roars of thunder. Together, crammed into the cockpit, trying to hide from the lashing rain, I realized that no matter how much we wanted to go on and no matter how much we planned, Mother Nature would always have the final say. She was every bit as dangerous and threatening as the undead. Shane curled up, making himself as small as possible, a tiny humming noise coming from him as he whimpered in fear.
“It’ll pass,” I assured him, hoping like hell it was true. “Just a little longer.”
It was one of those indelible moments where you remember just how miniscule you are in comparison to the weather, how with one bad bout of PMS Ole Mama Nature can send the furies to terrorize you on the sea. Humans belong on land, I thought to myself, trying to become one with Shane and the rubber sheeting over the food supply. Someone was standing on my foot, it didn’t matter. The cockpit was one mass of human limbs and sloshing rain. No one had volunteered to take the lead and try to
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