Free Stranded by Don Prichard, Stephanie Prichard Page A

of the extra vests to keep her head up while he pulled her to shore. He worked the knots with both hands, herding Eve with his shoulder so she didn’t drift away.
    When the knots finally loosened, he tied a vest around each of Eve’s thighs. Her torso rose in the water, giving her buoyancy that made her easier to tow. Floating on her back, she was now, in effect, a human lighter.
    The last thing her injured face needed was his hand clutching her chin. Instead, he gripped the shoulder of her life vest and swam toward the beach. A glance back showed her head slipping lower in the vest. Another stroke forward and her chin sank into the ocean. Jake jerked her up. Reluctantly, he shifted to hold her head to keep it from going under.
    In spite of Eve’s buoyancy, his feet kept kicking her butt, and if not that, her dangling legs. Towing her was like lugging a tanker. His arm tired of plowing a path for them, and his legs seemed to kick against liquid lead. With each ocean swell that lifted him, the rock on which Betty and Crystal sat slipped farther behind him. He adjusted his angle to the beach, but the ocean persisted in mastering his direction.
    When the end of the beach came into view, a glimpse north showed Betty and Crystal inching their way down the face of the rock. Would they wait for him in its shadow or follow him to see if the toll of survivors became two instead of four?
    The sun crawled westward until it hung over the tip of the island. Jake’s heart spiraled downward. Nothing lay beyond the farthest point of land except water. He didn’t dare rest. Didn’t dare stop kicking.
    Eve’s hair floated into his face, and he pushed the strands away. His right arm tingled with exhaustion from pulling them forward, over and over, without the relief of switching arms. If he quit, even for a second, fatigue would drop his legs like bait to the current. This time it would swallow them. The lead in his legs wasn’t going to let him kick-start once he stopped moving.
    He shoved aside Eve’s hair as it swished again into his eyes. Was there a way he could tuck the dratted mass into her life vest? He released her chin and slid his left hand alongside her head to corral her hair. It was surprisingly long. Long enough to wind in a loop around his palm. Suddenly he had a cord handle he could grip. He didn’t need to haul Eve by her chin, he could pull her by her hair. Better yet, he could do it with either hand.
    The reprieve gave him an edge over the current. Switching back and forth between arms, he gained momentum. He was only, what, a football field away now from the island? He could make it. Locking his mind into the tick of a metronome, he chopped at the water. Left arm, ten strokes; right arm, ten strokes.
    His arms grew heavier. The number slipped to seven strokes, then five. He traversed the current, but the wind had dropped and the breakers were too mild to carry their bodies to shore.
    Three strokes each. He slugged mechanically toward shore. The white sand of another beach wavered before his eyes. Tiny beach. Better not miss it. He fixed his eyes on the white blur.
    His left arm—numb. Couldn’t risk switching arms, opening his hand, fumbling for the cord handle . . .
    Water gushed into his mouth and bit the inside of his nose. He jerked his face up, gagging at the brine. One foot struck bottom, then the other. He stumbled forward two steps before he could stand.
    The breakers slapped his back and swept around him as if congratulating a teammate for bringing home the victory. Jubilation erupted in his chest, warming his insides. He raised his arms over his head, fists clenched in triumph. Then horror pierced his gut.
    His hands were empty.
    Where was Eve?
     
     
    Jojo swatted the partially open door so that it whacked against the wall, emitting a sharp crack like a pistol shot. Every face in the BahalaNa Bar jerked toward him. A hot lava of glee rose in his chest as the expressions changed from surprise to fear.