Free Drawn Together by Z. A. Maxfield

the chance of being killed by someone after he’d survived the last ordeal was not an option. Rory heaved his body into the dinghy and just lay there, floating in and out of frightening dreams for a time.
    Something flapped and squawked next to Rory’s head. He opened his eyes to find an inquisitive seagull watching him intently. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but his shirt was a crisply dried, salty mess. He untied the dinghy and paddled it around the fishing boat to the dock. It took some doing, but he finally got himself up onto the wooden platform, no easy feat with broken ribs. As he slogged and staggered up the dock, he remembered again the first few days of the hurricane when he’d been certain he’d never be dry again. Rory was beginning to really hate water.
    There were no cars as far as he could see except ones that had been parked long-term by their owners. Hardly anything moved except sea birds. He walked away from the dock, assuming that sooner or later, he’d find a bigger road or a person or a phone. He checked his pockets to find out if he still had any change. What seemed like a long distance away, at the mouth of the inlet road he was walking on, he saw a small shack. Rory kept his feet going, stumbling forward. When he got close, he realized it was some sort of security station, and in 44 Z. A. Maxfield
    it, watching several closed-circuit televisions and an iPod video, was a uniformed security guard.
    “Hey,” said the guard, who fumbled out to stand in front of him. “Where the hell did you come from?”
    Rory didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so unfortunately, he did both at the same time. Eventually, he found himself sitting cross-legged on the ground with a cup of coffee in his hands laced with a generous amount of really cheap whiskey.
    “So, they just threw you in, just like that?” said his new best friend.
    “Just like that. Can you help me? I’ve got to get to Long Beach Memorial Hospital. I can’t walk much more.”
    “I could call the police for you.” The guard held out his hand. “I’m Allen.” Rory laughed. “A fake cop brought me here. Jeez. I’m from New Orleans and I got a beat-down in LA by a phony cop. Grandmère will never let me live it down.”
    “I get off at six o’clock. If you want to wait, I’ll drive you. Southern boy to Southern boy, you are a terrible mess.”

    * * * * *
    The sun warmed the colors in the sky over the water as Allen drove Rory back to Long Beach. Crossing over the Vincent Thomas Bridge, Rory thanked God for his good fortune. It could so easily have been a one-way trip. Soon, he dozed off, or lost consciousness. After a while, he felt Allen’s hand gently shaking his shoulder.
    As he turned to leave the car, he felt overcome. “Thank you, Allen. I can’t thank you enough,” he said, shaking the man’s hand, gripping it hard. “Give me your card if you have one.”
    “Fresh out.” The man laughed. “Take care, buddy.” Rory exited the car in front of the hospital’s wide, automatic double doors. He looked back as Allen drove away. As he walked through the hospital lobby, he was aware of the stares of the people around him. He had one goal in his head, Yamane, and he didn’t see, didn’t hear, and didn’t care about anything or anyone else.
    He walked up to the information desk. “Where will I find Ran Yamane? I’m Rory Delaplaines, his domestic partner,” he lied, not caring to be very quiet or polite.
    “He’s in three-ten but --” the woman behind the desk began.
    “Thank you,” he said curtly. As he walked away he heard things like “stabbed in the hand” and “police guard,” but he kept on walking to the elevators. Rory had no doubt he’d meet with resistance, but after what he’d been through he felt a little bulletproof.
    Drawn Together
    45
    Getting off the elevator on the third floor, he approached Yamane’s room, the only one currently being guarded by a uniformed officer. He