Free Noah's Ark: Encounters by Harry Dayle Page B

survivors?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t remember. In a few hours, or tomorrow. I can’t remember.”
    “We have to go now then, don’t we, Dan?” She put her hands around his neck, bent down, and kissed his forehead. “It’ll be okay. What can they do, really? We’ve put this off too long, and it’s silly. We’ve made ourselves afraid for no good reason. Come on. Let’s go, right now. Before I change my mind.”

Eight

    H E CAME TO with a start. Something had hit him. Something, or someone. A second later he remembered where he was, and why. Despair filled his head, a thousand inescapable voices screaming at him. Why couldn’t he just die? Why were they keeping him alive?
    Another kick, a foot connecting with his own.
    He opened his eyes. Before him, the silhouette of a man, a cut-out in the light that streamed through the open door. It dropped something.
    A bowl of rice landed between his legs, spilling half its contents across the disgusting floor.
    The silhouette-man knelt, scooped up some of the white fluffy grain in a spoon, and held it to his mouth.
    He wanted to refuse it. If he starved himself, he would die eventually. He had to. Yet the survival instinct was too strong, and he found his mouth opening of its own accord. The spoon was thrust inside and before he could stop himself he was chewing hungrily. The overcooked rice had no flavour, but it didn’t matter, he swallowed it down, and grunted for more.
    As the food slowly made its way into his system, he found he could think more clearly. When he thought, it was of his wife. She was still up there, among them. A prisoner, yes, but not like him. She was being compelled to do their bidding, whatever that might be. His imagination got carried away, filling his mind with images of just what they might be forcing her into. It was too much. His stomach twisted, and with a heave the rice came back up, spewing from his lips and hitting the silhouette full in the face.
    Silhouette-man roared with rage. He jumped back, clawing at his eyes. He shouted something incomprehensible, took a step forward, and lashed out with his foot.
    He saw it coming, but that was no consolation. The heel of his captor’s boot buried itself between his legs. His groin exploded with pain and he was sick again, but his belly was empty and this time he retched dryly. The figure before him grunted and kicked at the swamp of excrement and urine on the floor, sending gobs of the foul mess raining over him.
    The pain reminded him that he was alive. He had to stay alive. For her. As long as he was alive there was a chance, no matter how slim, that he could help her.
    He made a promise to himself there and then: no more thoughts of giving in; no more willing himself to die. He wouldn’t let them get away with it. He would eat their rations, be an obedient prisoner. He would stay awake rather than hide in the fog of unconsciousness. And when the time came, if… when, opportunity arose, he would be ready.

Nine

    J AKE TOOK HIS dinner rations on the bridge, as was his custom. He was in command, and also had the helm as Chuck’s shift was over for the day. Navigator Dave Whitehall was the only other person with him, maintaining the lookout as they sailed south-west.
    “Where do you think they’re going?” Dave asked. “That boat? If something survived at Ile Longue, why are they heading away from it?”
    “You’re the navigator, Dave. Haven’t you extrapolated a possible destination from their course?”
    “Yep, and it doesn’t make any sense. I’d have to say they were headed for the States, but I’m far from convinced.”
    “Why?”
    “If the size estimates are right, she just sounds a bit small to be going transatlantic.”
    “My dad went transatlantic in something much smaller. And don’t forget those mad people who circumnavigate the globe in bathtub-sized rowing boats. It could make perfect sense to go stateside. If whoever is on board didn’t see the final