The End Has Come

He hasn’t met the girl of his dreams, so these girls are like the sun, the beach, the sea, and the yacht itself — abstractions of what could be. Don looks at the yellow bikini bottom of one of the girls. It is tugged up and reveals her butt in a way that is so much better than a thong, revealing what is supposed to be hidden.

Donnie knows his dream will come true some day. He just knows it.

* * *

Don has never seen the marina so full of people. He walks past old dusty boats that had been in long-term storage being cleaned and prepped for use. Larger boats are being loaded with supplies. There is activity at every slip, and the water is crowded with boats heading out to sea.

He stops and holds his hand out in front of Zack. There is a stranger loading up Don’s sailboat.

“Zack, go back to the truck and bring my rifle.”

Zack nods, drops the big military-style duffelbag, and rushes back up the cement path.

He returns a minute later and hands his father the thirty-ought-six. “I loaded it,” he adds.

“Stay here and watch the supplies,” Don says.

“What’s he doing?”

“He thinks he’s stealing our yacht.”

Don checks the chamber as he strides toward the slip. No one notices him, their attention all on the same thing — loading up and getting out. There is a man tossing a few plastic bags onto the back of the boat. There is a small pile on the boat and a larger pile on the dock.

“Okay, buddy,” Don says. The man glances up mid-throw to see Don pointing the rifle at his chest. “Just drop that and get the rest of the bags and toss them back to the dock.” The man looks scared, but doesn’t seem desperate enough to do anything stupid.

“Just loadin’ up my boat!” The man smiles and tosses the bag onto the back of the Southern Cross. “I know you’re probably worried and all, but no need to be stealin’ a man’s boat.” The man reaches for another bag, but stops as Don walks forward.

Don knows at that moment that the world has irrevocably changed. There is no room for debate or weakness. He has a way out for him and his son, and there is no room for discussion, explanation, or negotiation. The stranger holds up his hands. Before he can say anything else, Don swings the stock of the rifle around and slams it into the side of the man’s face.

He stumbles backward, his hands against his head, a stream of red flowing through the fingers of his left hand. He screams, hysterical and shrill, “You fucker! This is my boat! I found it!” He steadies and lowers his hands. He has a gash across the left side of his forehead, but his eyes are clear.

“Take one step, and you’re dead.” Don points the rifle at the man’s chest again. The man moans but doesn’t move. “Is anyone on the boat?”

“No. I’m waiting on my family.” The response is slow and grim.

“Grab your stuff and get out.”

“C’mon, man. I have kids. Maybe we can both take the boat. The owner ain’t even here.”

“I’m the owner,” Don replies, not that it matters. The world has changed. Motioning with the barrel of the rifle toward the boat, he repeats, “Get your stuff.”

The man gathers up his bags from the boat and tosses them with the others on the dock. They appear to contain clothing. Don tries not to think about how big the man’s family is. Not my problem.

After the man clears out, Don and Zack finish loading up the boat. He had hoped to take another trip out to stock up on supplies, but in light of what had just happened, he decides to just head for the open seas after they stow what they have.

The sailboat isn’t huge, but it is comfortable, with a single cabin big enough for two. There are two large padded benches that could act as beds, and a storage area in the hull below.

Don starts to organize things — boxes of food, bottles of water, suitcases, and bags of recently bought supplies. He opens the wooden hatch that leads to the storage area below decks and grabs a plastic container full of painkillers, antacids, bandages, and a desalination kit — all still inside their grocery bags. He takes a step when he hears a shout from behind the boat.

Putting the crate down, Don grabs the rifle leaning against the door frame and walks out. Zack has his hands up. There are two men, their attention focused on Zack. One has a pistol pointed at him.

“Just get going, kid. There’s no reason for you to get hurt.” The man nods over his shoulder up the cement walkway to the parking lot. “Just walk away.” Both look like normal middle-aged men — jeans, tennis shoes, a polo shirt, one has glasses, the other is balding. The only thing out of place is the pistol.