Chapter Four

The Red Sea

Somewhere in the Red Sea, a tugboat lay inverted, its slender red belly piercing skyward like a wounded beast. Rust clung to its hull in flaky layers, barnacles speckled the metal like disease, and old dents told stories of long-forgotten storms.

Spencer's head broke the surface with a gasp, water pouring from his mouth as he clawed desperately at the waves. Arms flailed at his sides as he treaded water, sucking in air with primal urgency.

"Alex!" he called, hoarse and wild.

He spun in the water, eyes scouring every crest and trough, praying for a glimpse of golden hair bobbing on the waves. But the sea gave him nothing. Only the broken shape of the tugboat loomed, half-submerged and ghastly.

"Alex!"

He kicked toward it, one hand clinging to the side of the upturned vessel while the other searched the horizon, the silence around him sharper than any blade. He called again, and again, and again.

The waves tried to hurl him back, but he fought them. He swam to the bow, fingers gripping barnacled steel, and pulled himself up using the propeller. Water cascaded from his clothes, soaked and clinging, his boots weighing him down.

He crawled across the slick metal surface, sliding, slipping, shouting.

"Alex!"

He pounded the hull. Crawled further. Pressed his ear to the cold steel, praying for a sound—any sound.

Stillness.

But she had to be under there. Below deck. The tug hadn't sunk. That meant air. There had to be air trapped in the lowest cabin—where the bunks were. Where she should be.

He pressed his ear again.

Nothing.

Still, he pounded once more with his fist and shouted, "I'm coming!"

His fingers fumbled at his boots, tearing them off. They sank immediately. He couldn't afford the drag. Then he dove.

Beneath the surface, he swam hard, following the outline of the hull and then under it and into the shadows.

The cockpit was upside down in front of him. He grabbed hold and used it to propel himself around as he tried to get his bearings, and figure out how to enter the crew cabin… somewhere above his head.

Just when his lungs burned and a prickle of fear that he wouldn't last entered his thoughts, he found the entrance.

He bypassed the bunks—upside down now—using the rails as a ladder to climb down, which was now up, toward the air pocket.

He shoots his body upwards, then—air. His head broke the surface inside the boat's overturned belly. The air pocket was shallow—barely two feet. Enough.

"Alex!?"he shouted into the dark, his voice echoing in the iron belly of the ship.

Not immediately hearing her respond or seeing her, his stomach plummeted with dread.

Floating debris bobbed around him—splinters, ropes, clothing—and then he saw it.

Blonde hair. Floating like sun rays in the water.

"Alex!"

He surged forward, heart hammering as he reached her. He lifted Alex's head out of the water and saw the blood tinged the water pink. He wrapped one arm around her waist, his other hand pushing aside tangled hair stuck to her face, and found the head wound she'd no doubt incurred during the crash and flip. A thin crimson line traced from her forehead, past her cheek, and to her chin.

But that was the least of his worries. Alex was too pale and still… It took him only half a second to realize she wasn't breathing.

Immediately, he tilted her head back, trying to clear her airway, and shook her gently.

"Come on, baby," he urged through clenched teeth, his fear increasing every second that went by without her taking a breath. "Come on!"

Desperate now, he turned her, pounded between her shoulder blades, willing the water out.

Finally, he heard her choking coughs.

Relief hit him like a tidal wave.

He pulled her tight against him, turning her into his embrace while cradling her head.

"Spencer!" she gasped, her voice ragged. Her arms flung around his neck,weakly clinging to him with every ounce of strength she had.

"You're okay," He buried his face in her hair, his breaths as frantic as hers. "You're okay. Hold on to this," he said gently, guiding her hand to the metal rail that ran across the floor—now the ceiling. "Catch your breath."

He stayed there soothing her until her breathing evened out.

The tug groaned around them, steel creaking, debris shifting. It sounded like death. One wrong shift and they'd go down with the boat.

"We can't stay," he whispered. "It's too dangerous."

He turned back to her, searching her eyes. "Can you swim?"

She nodded weakly, breath hitching. "Under normal circumstances."

He wished he could give her another minute or two to get under control, but they had to move. The sea would not wait.

But he needed his bag with the rope, so he could give her a few more seconds.

"Hang on," Spencer said, clamping his hands around hers, wordlessly telling her not to let go of the bar before he dipped back under the water.

Pushing himself down into the wreckage of their belongings, his hands moved quickly, sorting, searching. He slung his satchel over one shoulder and the roll of rope over the other.

He resurfaced with a hard gasp, startling her.

"We gotta go. Hang on to this, okay?" he said, handing one end of the rope to Alex. He coiled the rest around his shoulder and showed her how tightly he was holding the other end. "Don't let go."

Trembling, she nodded.

He kissed her. Hard. Then pulled back just enough to see her face. "Ready?"

Alex stared into his eyes, wrapped the rope twice around her wrist, unwilling to lose him again, and rasped out a, "Ready."

Together, they inhaled deeply and dove.

She kept close, kicking just behind him, mimicking his every move.

As they maneuvered around the upturned cockpit, gliding past the porthole, Alex suddenly caught sight of Lucca's lifeless corpse floating past the glass, his dead eyes wide. A tiny fish escaped from his gaping mouth.

Alex screamed—loud enough Spencer heard her even through the water.

The rope slipped from her hand.

Spencer spun instantly and caught it, thrusting it back into her grasp. His eyes told her all she needed: Move.

The seconds mattered and their window was closing.

Her aching lungs got her going again, her survival instincts kicking in.

Soon, they got out from under the tug and surged upward, rupturing through the surface with great heaving gasps, lungs starved and burning. Waves battered them, salt stinging their faces.

"Swim," Spencer commanded, urgent but steady. The current was strong.

"Grab the boat." He guided her toward the hull, pushing her up toward the bow. "Use the propeller," he said, hands beneath her as she struggled. He lifted, shoved, supported.

She groaned and climbed, finally dragged herself up onto the slippery red belly of the boat. On her hands and knees, she tried to control her coughing and trembling.

Spencer collapsed beside her, also panting. Alex's normally curly hair clung flat to her scalp, soaked and heavy. Her clothes were just as sodden, cotton shirt and trousers clinging to her frame.

"What happened?" she asked between coughs.

Spencer, still catching his breath, muttered, "Ghost ship hit us."

Alex blinked slowly, absorbing the words, as she continued to catch her breath, Turning her head, she squinted at the horizon in every direction.

There was nothing. Just sea and sky. She looked up- had to shade her eyes against the blinding sun.

It struck her hard that they may actually die out here.

"How long can this stay afloat?"

"Depends," on too many factors, Spencer thought grimly. "Could be hours. A day. Maybe two. Doesn't matter. We won't last a day out here without water or shade."

Alex shielded her eyes from the unforgiving sun, the stark realization of their situation sending fear to her deepest recesses.

"Hey," Spencer got her attention, grabbing the back of her neck, "I gotta go back down."

Her fingers gripped his shirt instinctively. "What for?"

"Because we need things." He pressed his forehead to hers. "Water. Supplies."

He squeezed her wrists, "Stay in the center of the hull." he ordered, then shook his head against hers at his poor choice of words.

"That was a dumb thing to say," he admitted, "Just don't go near the edge."

She squeezed his hands back, blue eyes locked on his. "I'll stay in the center."

When he let go, she had to refrain from reaching back out for him in desperation.

"I'll be right back."

"You'd better," she said fiercely, watching as he dove cleanly into the water. She stared at the ripples he left behind until they vanished.

Alex tugged off her damp socks, hoping Spencer grabbed her boots. She'd taken them off in the bunkroom to sleep more comfortably.

As she sat waiting, her eye caught something bobbing in the water—Spencer's fedora. Floating away. Her heart clenched at the lonesome sight.

He was probably down there looking for it now, knowing it would help protect him from the sun. She'd better get it for him.

Gritting her teeth, she scooted to the edge, muttering a nervous curse as she slipped into the water with a startled yelp, admiring Spencer all the more after watching his elegant dive off. She immediately swallowed seawater and spat it out, praying Spencer had managed to salvage a canteen.

She focused on the hat. Every time she reached out, it seemed to drift farther away, dancing just out of reach.

Finally, her fingers curled around the brim. She cried out in triumph—only to turn and realize the boat was now much farther than she thought. The current had pulled her. And she was tiring fast, larger waves knocking her breath away, the vast deep threatening just beneath her kicking feet.

Once again, Spencer swam under the tugboat, using the now familiar walls to maneuver.

He had retrieved the most vital satchel earlier when rescuing Alex—the one with the rope, first aid kit, his jackknife, and perishable rations.

But he was greedy, and wanted more.

Starting with his grandfather's rifle.

It's case, thick and well-oiled leather. Not waterproof, but water-resistant. He'd maintained his rifle meticulously, cleaning and oiling it regularly. It was bolt-action, military-grade—designed for war in the trenches or the jungle- strong enough for this. It gave him hope it wasn't waterlogged.

Next step, the cockpit. He drew in a few deep breaths of oxygen from the air pocket, and then dove back down.

First, he searched the cockpit for a flare gun, but it was too deep, too dark, and time was short. Priorities mattered.

Instead, he grabbed the metal water canteen holding almost a gallon of water. It was heavy in one hand, cumbersome with the rest of his load, but he managed.

Spencer swam out seconds later. He was burdened—both of their bags now slung over his shoulders, his rifle case secured across his back. He turned to swim up—but the bulk snagged in the narrow doorway of the cockpit.

He cursed under his breath, kicked hard, twisting, yanking the rifle case free.

Above, the sun glittered against the rippling surface.

Spencer burst through, sucking in deep breaths. He whipped his hair out of his eyes, flinging water in all directions, and then clambered onto the slick belly of the boat, exhausted, arms trembling. Everything he carried dropped with a wet thud onto the hull.

Too quiet.

He looked up.

Empty.

Panic sliced through him.

"Alex!?"

He scrambled upright, climbing to the highest point, clutching the rusted propeller frame. "Alex!?"

Then—a gasp behind him.

He turned. She was drifting away, struggling to keep her head above the surface.

"Spencer!" she cried, weak and breathless.

He didn't hesitate. He slid down the hull and dove back in.

She lifted her arm to wave, but a wave crashed over her, silencing her cry.

Spencer swam in powerful strokes, reaching her within seconds. Her arms stretched toward him as she coughed and gasped, panic in her eyes.

Her head disappeared just as he grabbed her and pulled her in, locking his arms around her.

He held her, allowing her to catch her breath for a second, but only a second. The current was strong and they couldn't risk losing sight of the hull.

"We're drifting away!" she shouted.

He grasped her forearms, forcing her to focus. "We swim right now or we die. Okay?"

Of course he would never consider leaving her. And she was aware that he was fully capable of swimming back on his own. She coughed, barely able to breathe, but still assented that she heard him.

"Come on. Stay with me," he commanded.

Alex struggles, crying out in desperation as her heavy limbs threaten to drag her back under. Still, she kicked.

"Swim as hard as you can!"

He swam beside her, unwavering. Every stroke matched hers.

"Keep going! There you go! Almost there!"

While he sounded like a drill sergeant, he was actually helping. Perhaps, just his presence made her stronger.

Finally, her hands slapped against the hull and clung tight, breath ragged, body trembling.

"This way," he urged, not allowing her to rest yet, guiding her to the stern. Being in the middle of the boat doesn't help them. It'd be like climbing up a wet slide. "Come on."

They climbed the rudder, using the propeller frame like a ladder. Spencer hovered protectively behind her.

She was weak—barely able to lift her arms. He must feel like he was dragging around a rag doll.

Upon the hull's curved spine, they collapsed, heavy panting taking precedence. The boat gently rocked with the rhythm of the waves, a fragile cradle in the middle of the endless blue.

"S-sorry." He was forever rescuing her from death.

She felt his fingers interweave with hers. "You did good."

Spencer recovered quicker than her. He was sitting up and snatching up the water canteen a moment later. As she struggled to breathe normally, his knife worked steadily at the stubborn lid of a tin until it popped open.

Alex struggled to move, pulling herself up using Spencer's belt loop, she wrapped an arm around his bent knee and rested her head against it.

They passed the canteen between them, the lukewarm water tasting like salvation.

Alex had nearly drowned for a hat. What an absurd, humiliating way to go, she thought.

She lifted her head, frustration tightening her expression. "God, that was stupid of me."

"Not your sharpest moment," Spencer agreed, honest as ever.

She shot him a sideways glare. Hadn't she just said that? "I'm aware, thank you."

Her eyes swept the sea for his hat, but she already knew—she'd lost it. She turned to Spencer to tell her how sorry she was, but when she saw what was in his hand, she froze.

He was holding his fedora, his fingers lightly stroking its warped brim. A smile, faint and crooked, tugged at his lips.

"But I like my hat," he murmured. "So thanks for saving it."

He must have grabbed it at some point while she was swimming with everything she had.

She let out a humorless chuckle. "I'd say you did most of the saving."

Dropping her head against his shoulder, she shook it slowly in disbelief. "Death by hat," she muttered, laughing shakily at herself.

She felt the vibration of his soft chuckle in his chest, his arm still wound protectively around her.

She stared out at the open sea stretched in every direction, infinite and indifferent. A groan escaped her—half sigh, half sob.

"This is not how I thought I'd die," she whispered.

Spencer turned his head sharply, eyes fierce. "Because it isn't," he said, unwavering. "Look at me."

She met his gaze, her own wavering at the sight of endless blue beyond him. Despair filled her chest like water.

"This is hopeless, isn't it?" she asked quietly.

"I'll admit," he said after a moment, "we're gonna need a little bit of luck."

She dropped her head back down to his knee, her voice muffled, "We're certainly due some."

Spencer began to unbutton his shirt. "May not feel like it right now," he said, peeling the soaked fabric from his body, "but sitting on this hull is about the luckiest thing that ever happened to you."

She turned her head slightly, brow furrowing.

"I made contact with a ship before we went down," he said. "They know we're here, okay?"

He gently draped his tattered, nearly translucent, shirt over her head, arranging it to shield her neck and shoulders.

"Try and get all of yourself underneath this."

She blinked, startled by the gesture. "W-what about you?"

She already knew what he would say. Spencer was the most selfless man she had ever known.

He smirked faintly. "I'm gonna work on my tan."

Her chuckle sounded more like sobbing as she took his still-dripping hat and placed it gently back on his soaked, unruly hair.

"Then I shall just have to cover you myself," she said, attempting to drape herself even more over him, shielding him with what little she had.

His arm tightened around her as he rubbed warmth back into her limbs, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead.

They stayed like that, adrift on the sea's back—clinging not just to one another, but to the stubborn belief that this was not where their story ended.