James Axler – Watersleep

“Keep you on your feet,” Ryan told him.

The rain had finally let up a few days earlier. Ryan reckoned they had walked right through a near per­manent monsoon season over the upper stretch of Florida.

Now they had reached a destination of sorts. The marina might at one time have been attractive. All it offered the exhausted group of companions was a crowded maze of black rotting timbers, both under­foot and overhead. Most of the structure looked to be in poor condition, but down at the edge of the water two empty slips gave all of the indications of recent activity. The wood of the individual piers of both these slots had been replaced or repaired with fresh lumber.

More than half of the marina was protected from prying eyes by a high wooden wall.

A faded red-and-blue sign proclaimed the site as being Schwartz’s Marina. Ryan could tell from the shape of the sign that Schwartz was either long dead or completely lacking any pride in the place.

Most of the boathouses that could be seen from outside were open, while the rest contained partly or fully submerged wrecks in the brackish water.

The group had arrived at dusk. In the fading light of the sun, the ruin of a marina looked even more forlorn and spectral. Still, as far as Ryan could see from where he was standing behind the mesh-wire restraining fence, there were no guards or would-be protectors in place.

“What do you think?” Ryan asked, addressing the group.

“Place could use a coat of paint,” Mildred offered. “Something festive, in orange.”

“Gaia, don’t remind me of that place,” Krysty said.

“You volunteering to pick up a paintbrush?” J.B. asked, winking at Mildred from behind his spectacles.

“Not on your life, John,” Mildred replied, sticking her chin out and tilting her head back in a haughty pose. “I didn’t go to medical school to become a painter.”

“Know tired of walking,” Jak replied. “Boot heels wore off.”

“Mine, too,” Dean chimed in.

“As are my own. A sea voyage is sounding better and better to my weary bones,” Doc said.

“Then it’s settled,” Ryan said, glancing at his companions for confirmation. All quickly agreed that what little novelty walking across Florida on the old interstate had initially offered had long worn off. Even Ryan had suffered some deep pains in his ankles from the constant days spent treading on the paved highway.

“Joint looks deserted. Probably won’t find any­thing that floats,” J.B. said. “My guess is, if the boats were worth a damn they were scavenged long ago.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, J.B.,” Ryan re­torted.

“I thought that fellow back on the highway said we could purchase transport or, better yet, a vessel at this docking port?” Doc said, stretching his arms wide and yawning like some kind of tattered, spindly crow.

“He could have been lying. Or wrong. Or mebbe the sellers have gone home for the day or been put out of business. Either way, let’s recce and see what’s what before all the light is gone,” Ryan said. “Split up. Dean, you and me and Krysty will check the boathouses.”

Ryan gestured to J.B. “Take Mildred, Doc and Jak and go over the private ports. Look for any supplies we can use or a boat that’s still halfway afloat. We’ll meet back here at the gate of the sec fence in twenty minutes.”

J.B. glanced at his wrist chrono and mentally noted the time. “Twenty. Right. Got it,” the small man said. “But don’t start the clock until I’ve opened the door.”

The lump of a lock and the rusted links of the chain wrapped around the main gate of the marina entrance were easily navigated by J.B., who had taken a flat black case from a pocket and removed a tiny collec­tion of antique locksmith’s tools.

“You’d have made a heck of a thief, John,” Mil­dred commented, watching with an amused eye at her lover’s dexterity and expertise with the metal picks.

“Why, thank you, Millie,” the Armorer replied, and added a muttered curse at the uncooperative lock. “Son of a bitch!”

“Not as easy as a redoubt sec door, huh, J.B.?” Dean said.