Chapter Five
The Red Sea
Alex watched the sun's slow descent toward the horizon, casting the sea in molten hues of gold and copper. Fear threatened to choke her, but she shoved it down further.
The thought of nightfall—of utter blackness—unsettled her more than she expected. She'd grown up near the coast, was no stranger to boats or the ocean's whims, but she remembered well how invisible a vessel could be beneath a moonless sky.
"What if we're out here in the dark? No one will see us," she couldn't contain her morose thoughts any longer. "D-did you retrieve a flare gun?"
Spencer gave a grim shake of his head.
He reached instead for his rifle, retrieving it from beside the bags. Instinct and training guided his hands. He immediately began to dismantle it, shaking out any moisture inside, water flinging from its crevices,
The weapon had been floating in the air pocket—he'd been lucky to get it, even luckier for the well oiled leather case.
But luck wouldn't keep the powder dry. He knew the real risk wasn't the metal but wet ammunition- if the cartridge got soaked, the powder inside would fail to ignite. Thankfully, his military grade bullets should have stayed dry in their sealed brass casings.
After carefully wiping every piece dry, he hastily fit everything back together.
Once assembled, he hesitated, thinking of all that could go wrong.
Still, he needed to know.
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
He cursed low, then reached for his belt of bullets, selecting another.
Alex watched him, curious and quiet.
"Ever held a rifle?"
"Once; when my brother was home on leave, he had me hold his… but it wasn't loaded," she admitted.
He held the gun out for her to examine, the butt resting on his thigh, the barrel angled safely skyward. "You see anyone out there, you pull this trigger." He pulled the trigger.
The bullet exited the barrel weakly, a fizzling crack that barely echoed. Another dud. "If I can get the damn thing working," he mumbled to himself, loading a third.
Click.
This one jammed in the chamber.
Spencer began to clear it, showing her as he worked. "If a bullet gets stuck," he said, "you clear the chamber—like this." He slid the casing free. "Then load a fresh one."
He looked at her directly. "Otherwise, the gun could explode in your hands."
Her eyes widened. She shakily asks, "Why are you telling me this? Shouldn't the hunter be the one who fires the rifle?" Meaning him, the man who had professionally shot thousands of rounds over the years.
She suspected his answer and as expected, she didn't like it.
"Just in case I'm not here."
"You're not going anywhere without me," she demanded fiercely.
Her concern over him always touched his heart, but beneath he saw her drawn, worried features, and it tugged at something deep in him. He hated this. Hated that she was out here, in this situation, because of him.
Needing to see her smile, he glanced around theatrically, then landed on her with a faint smirk. "Guess I got nowhere else to be."
As he'd hoped, the corners of her mouth lifted.
When yet another round jammed up on him, frustration flashed in his expression, but he said nothing. Instead, he focused on the remaining ammunition, inspecting each round.
Sure he'd found a good round, he loaded the rifle and pulled the trigger, this time without looking, his fingers knowing the practiced motion with ease.
Nothing happened at first.
He waited, still, experience had taught him to wait around for the hangfire
A moment later, the shot rang out. A sharp, clean sound against the stillness. Smoke drifted lazily from the barrel.
Alex jumped, startled from the unexpected boom.
Spencer lowered the rifle. She watched the smoke trail out of the barrel.
"And never aim at anyone unless you plan to shoot them," he spoke calmly, "Even if you think it's not loaded.. You could be wrong."
The sun climbed higher, hanging like a relentless torch above their heads. Hours passed. They leaned against one another, the metal of the hull radiating heat beneath them. They were dry now—her hair frizzy and salt-stiff. Clothes clung to their bodies, crusted with brine. She watched a roll of sweat drip from Spencer's skin, hitting the heated hull like an egg on a frying pan.
Earlier, she'd watched his skin darken, turn pink, and then burn. Hers had followed the same pattern, though it took longer through her layers.
She noticed his lips looked dry and cracked, rubbed hers together and found them in similar condition. It reminded her of the petroleum jelly she'd been putting on Spencer's jaguar wounds to prevent the skin from cracking.
She nearly dove for the bag she knew it lay in, hastily snatching up the jar and unscrewing the lid. Dipping he pinky in, she leaned against Spencer's chest and dabbed the jelly on his, now slightly smiling, lips. Then hers own.
He tapped her forehead, "Always thinkin'." Spencer's voice was gravelly.
She winked back at him as she put the jar away.
Just as she put down the bag, a thudding sound echoed beneath the hull.
Alex jumped, "What was that?"
He tucked her under his arm. "Schools of little fish. Hiding in the shade under the boat."
Another, louder thump reverberated through the hull. The clamoring intensified.
Alex straightened, alarm sharpening her voice. "What's that?"
"Bigger fish. Tuna, maybe."
She narrowed her eyes at the water, trying to see through it. Then gasped when a shark's fin broke the surface.
"Uh, Spencer…" she didn't take her eyes off that fin. "Are we in danger? Like… more danger than we were five minutes ago?"
"I wouldn't go swimming," Spencer muttered.
Alex nervously watched the circling fin.
Sensing her rising fear, Spencer tried to redirect her thoughts, to offer something familiar. He spoke low, thoughtful.
"Think about it like this. In six hours, this ocean has adapted to us being here. Everything's already taking advantage. People think they're smart." He huffed out a breath through his nostrils.. "People ain't that smart."
"You might be," she said softly, pressing her face into his tanned bicep. "I know I am."
Spencer chuckled dryly. "I learn from my mistakes. But I still make plenty." His voice darkened slightly, "Like our current situation."
That guilt never left him. If she died out here…
He reached for the water canteen and uncapped it, holding it toward her.
She accepted it with a weary smile. "So, you're saying this is your last tugboat ride?"
He gave a weak chuckle. "No matter how this shakes out, this is my last tugboat ride."
She took a cautious sip. He gestured for her to drink more. Instead, she handed it to him, refusing to let him sacrifice his needs for hers.
Silence settled between them, broken only by the creaking hull and the endless splash of waves.
The unchanging blue horizon pressed in. It was starting to feel like a cage.
A single tear slipped down Alex's cheek. To find love—real, burning, soul-deep love—and then to die like this? It was a cruel trick of fate.
The thought of how lucky she was to have Spencer gave her newfound courage. She straightened, determination hardening her spine.
"I refuse to be scared," she whispered. "Refuse it. I will not feel sorry for myself. If death is our fate, I will draw my last breath and kiss you with it. I swear to God."
Her gaze never left the horizon.
Spencer gently nudged her chin to face him. "It ain't our fate," he promised. "You're gonna need another reason to kiss me."
She didn't hesitate. Leaning in, she pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, cracked and dry though they were.
Then came a slam against the hull—so violent it rocked the boat. Alex shrieked, gripping Spencer's arm.
More fins appeared, slicing through the water—larger now.
Spencer stood, rifle at the ready, the barrel following the movement below.
He narrowed his eyes, steady and silent, and waited.
Many terrifying hours later, night had fallen. A cloak of darkness blanketed the sea, smothering everything in its shadow. The tugboat, now a forsaken silhouette against the black canvas of the ocean, seemed as though it might vanish completely.
Spencer's head rested in Alex's lap, his breathing shallow and labored as he slept, or perhaps just slipped in and out of unconsciousness.
Alex was no better. Her eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open as the slow lull of the waves rocked her, her body swaying as if it too was surrendering to the sleep it desperately craved. The moon—pale and not quite full—cast only a faint reflection over the water.
The boat felt heavier now, a slight tilt in the water signaling its gradual sinking. That, and the fact that she'd had to move their possessions an hour ago to prevent them from getting wet.
What was once a mere fear had become undeniable truth—this was a slow demise. The boat's creaking metal moaned under the waves, each sound an ominous reminder of the peril they were in.
Alex's cracked lips parted in a dry, desperate attempt to swallow, but there was no relief. The sun had stripped them of moisture, and though the water was still in sight, it might as well have been miles away. Her body, already drained, was beginning to shut down.
She gazed at Spencer… he was her strength, and even he was struggling to live.
Something in her cracked. She'd been hoping against hope that somehow, they'd survive this, that rescue would come, but that wasn't so.
She had to do something. Anything.
But what could she do?
She'd thought about swimming beneath the boat—searching for any remnants of their lost water supply—but the thought terrified her. Could she even make it? What if she drowned? Then Spencer would be all alone up here, exposed and vulnerable.
Her thoughts spiraled until she caught herself. She couldn't give up. She wouldn't let Spencer down.
Her eyes wandered across the endless expanse of water, but it was the bleak darkness, the silence, that weighed on her the most. She tried to stay alert, but the exhaustion was overwhelming.
She fought tears- no need to waste any bodily fluids- as she let her head fall back against the hull. She needed to close her eyes, only for a moment, to fight back the exhaustion that tugged at her.
Clinging to hope was futile… no one was coming.
All she asked now was to go before Spencer so she never had to live without him.
She almost smiled, remembering he had once told her the same. He'd told her of his dream of them having kids and growing old together and dying together, never apart because he wouldn't let the universe take her anywhere without him.
She drifted off counting herself blessed to have known such true love.
And in that moment, she felt it—an almost imperceptible vibration in the air. A faint echo of sound. A horn. Faint but unmistakable.
Her eyes shot open.
"Spencer," she whispered, shaking him gently. "Did you hear that? Spencer?"
His response was a soft groan.
"Spencer! Wake up!" She shook him harder, panic almost devouring her when he didn't respond right away.
But then she heard it again—the foghorn. Closer this time.
Alex peered into blackness, desperately searching the area she thought the noise had emerged. Please, dear God, be a ship. "Please be a ship," she mumbles repeatedly.
A moment later, the fog horn blared louder, unmistakable.
She sucked in a sharp breath, overwhelmed, and struggled to her knees. "Over here!" she yelled, voice cracking, waving her arms. "Help!"
She needed him, shaking him more urgently, "Spencer! Look!" She tried patting his face and was relieved to see his eyes open.
His weak hand stretched out, struggling to grab something… her eyes followed…
The gun. But he didn't have the strength to grip it. She snatched it from him, her own hands nearly as shaky.
The rifle was cold, heavy and unfamiliar, but she remembered he'd left one bullet in the chamber. Alex pointed the gun into the dark sky, took a deep breath, bracing herself, and squeezed the trigger.
The recoil threw her off balance, and she crashed to the deck. Pain shot up her spine, but she gritted her teeth, ignoring it.
She saw Spencer reaching for her, bullet in hand. He was trying to reload the rifle.
Pushing herself back up, she took it from him, and then wondered if she should have let him try. Her fumbling hands were barely able to hold the gun, nevermind load it.
Before she could stop it, the weapon slipped from her grip, nearly falling into the ocean. "No, no, no!"
Her breath stalled as Spencer's foot shot out, stopping the rifle from falling overboard with only inches to spare.
This time, she grabbed it more firmly, knowing they were running out of time.
With renewed determination, she fired again. The sharp crack echoed through the air.
They watched the darkness, waiting, praying.
"Come on. Come on," Spencer mumbled beside her, their possible rescue renewing his strength.
She held the gun between them as he'd instructed, the butt end resting on the hull between them as Spencer shakily added another bullet and fired off a shot.
The silence that followed was deafening.
She didn't even notice the tears streaming down her face, mixing with the sweat and salt of the sea. "Please," she pleaded. "Please, see us."
The ocean swallowed her cries as the silence ensued.
Alex collapsed against the hull, shoulders heaving with a defeated sob. She noticed Spencer just as distraught, his head to the hull, and stretched a hand out to him.
But then—another foghorn. Louder this time, clearer.
Their heads shoot back up. Her heart pounded.
Eyes wide, she scanned the black abyss. And then—a silhouette. A shadow, slowly growing larger, coming into view.
"Spencer," she gasped, voice breaking. "It's a ship!" she yells, filled with renewed hope. She flung her arms in the air, desperately screaming, "Over here!"
"Do they see us?" she asked after a tense beat.
Spencer's hands gripped the side of the hull, pushing himself upright. He was still weak, but hope coursed through his veins, giving him enough strength to fire off another round.
And then, the beam of light swung straight toward them, illuminating their battered, sun-scorched faces.
Alex couldn't stop the sob that broke free, the relief flooding her body like an overwhelming tide. "They see us! They see us!"
When the fog horn blared again, hysterical laughter bubbled out.
Spencer and Alex collapsed into each other's arms, smiling, laughing through the tears.
"Told you we'd make it," Spencer said, though his voice trembled with disbelief.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Alex allowed herself to believe it too.
"We made it," She whispered, and clutched his face in both hands, kissed him once, twice. "We made it."
It took a few minutes, but a dinghy of two men appeared in the light the ship cast over them.
Alex continued to half laugh, half sob in relief as it drew nearer.
Spencer stood and began gathering their things.
"Here we go," one of the sailors called, tossing them a rope once close enough. Spencer caught it and began pulling before they even said, "Reel us in."
When the dinghy sidled up beside them and the sailor got a good look at their state, he let out a whistle. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I'd like to take you two to a casino."
Only Alex laughed—and it sounded more exhausted than amused.
"All right, here we are." The sailor reached a hand out to help her off the tugboat's hull and into the dinghy. "Just slide over here to me."
"Thank you," Alex murmured, still trembling.
The sailor's eyes briefly roamed over her as she straddled the bench, taking in her figure in her pants forming to her like a second skin. He turned to Spencer, still standing on the hull, and caught his glare.
"That's one shiny penny you've got there, mate. Lucky I don't whip this skiff around with you still up there."
Spencer loosely raised the rifle, angled low but deliberate.
"You forget how I flagged down the ship?" He spoke flatly.
The sailor laughed, a bit nervously. "Teasing ya, mate."
Still, Spencer's gaze stayed flinty and cold.
The sailor, undeterred, beckoned. "Come on, then. Before the sea eats the rest of this tug."