Murphy fired quick rounds and then lifted his head to yell at Jacob, “Prioritize your targets! Shoot what’s shooting at us.”
Jacob saw three men running along the roadway carrying rifles, one leading by several feet. Jacob fired then watched the first one drop and trip up the one that was following close behind. Jacob shifted his point of aim, fired again, and saw another man drop. A round impacted the boat’s deck near his knees, causing Jacob to dive over the windscreen and take cover in the cabin. He held the rifle and continued to search and fire at targets while the boat crept along.
They were moving in on a bridge and would have to pass below it before entering the channel that would bring them into Lake Michigan. The surface of the crossing was covered with the Others, arms outstretched and reaching for them. Jacob fired up at their black eyes, taking a strange satisfaction in watching them tumble over the rail and into the water.
“We’re fucked!” Stephens called out. Lying back against the cabin with blood spilling from a rip in his vest, he struggled to swap magazines with one hand. He finished the task and brought his rifle back up. “Too many of ’em.”
“There!” Tyree screamed, spotting two attack helicopters.
”Stephens, smoke!” Murphy called while watching the Apaches circle around in a search pattern.
Stephens struggled with his left arm to free a smoke canister from his gear. He pulled it free of the pouch and tossed it under handed to Jacob.
“Get it on the bridge!” Murphy yelled.
Jacob held the canister in his right hand and pulled the pin. He threw it as hard as he could, but the grenade hit the bottom deck of the bridge and bounced into the water. Thinking he’d failed, Jacob cringed—then the channel surface erupted and red smoke boiled out of the water, quickly forming a cloud.
“Stephens, get your strobe on!” Murphy yelled. Reaching to his own collar, he connected a battery to a small device that he then inserted into a carrier on his chest.
The Apache helicopters dipped their noses then circled back around, at first flying away before cutting a high angle into the sky and turning ninety degrees to line up with the bridge. They hovered in the air, rapidly firing rounds that exploded all along the bridge just before rockets screamed from the helicopters and splashed into the banks. The bridge erupted in plumes of yellow flame and black smoke.
The Apaches split apart, strafing opposite sides of the shoreline and clearing the way for Murphy to get back on the throttle and ease the boat through the wreckage of the bridge and into the upper harbor. Jacob saw Murphy yank ignition wires from the battery and short them to the engine. The big outboard roared to life.
“Tyree, steer this hog,” Murphy said. Jacob ran to the back deck and helped Murphy lower the heavy outboard engine into the water.
The boat rocketed forward with Murphy manually opening the throttle. Tyree cut the wheel and guided them into the channel. Fire and smoke billowed on both sides of the approach to the lake as the helicopters continued to provide cover while they raced through the channel. The boat jetted a course straight into Lake Michigan and away from land.
Clear of the shore, Murphy dropped the throttle and the engine quickly lulled into an idle as the boat stopped hard in the water and bobbed ahead. Murphy went to Stephens’ side and found that he was unconscious. He pulled away the wounded soldier’s vest and pressed a dressing against his wound. Jacob looked away and back to the shore, now barely visible in the distance. The engine had died and all they could now hear was the water slapping against the sides of the boat.
Tyree turned around in the captain’s chair he’d been occupying and asked, “What do we do now?”
“Come get pressure on this wound,” Murphy answered.
Jacob climbed across the deck and held a hand to Stephens’ chest where Murphy’s had been. Murphy tossed back a seat cover from a bench to reveal a storage area below. Throwing out fishing gear and life jackets, he located a small first-aid kit. He pulled the kit open, dumped its contents onto the deck, then sorted through the items until he found a package of gauze dressing, and went back to Stephens’ side. Murphy replaced the soaked field dressing with the new pads and then put Jacob’s hands back in place.
“Don’t worry, guys, it won’t be long now,” Murphy said just over the low pitch of a red Coast Guard helicopter flying in their direction.
Chapter Twenty
The thousand-foot long lake freighter filled with passengers; every inch of the rusty, red, painted surface occupied by the city’s refugees. The passengers were divided and separated along the decks; families were kept together while single men and women scattered along the port rail. Men in dark-blue utility uniforms walked the passageways, handing out paper cups of water and small sandwiches. Other men carried clipboards while gathering names and family information. Tyree sat across from Jacob, waiting for his turn to speak with the ship’s officer. They’d already reported the location of his grandparents to the helicopter crew; the information was recorded, but no promise of rescue could be made.
The sailors had confiscated all of their ammunition as soon as they boarded the freighter, but the pair was allowed to keep their weapons. Jacob’s police tactical vest still provided him with benefits. When they attempted to separate him from Tyree, Jacob quickly interrupted and said they were traveling together. A crewmember at first protested but upon seeing the embroidered badge on his vest, he nodded, apologized, and allowed the men to stay together.
Jacob hadn’t seeing Murphy since they had landed and members of the crew quickly ushered him away to rally with other soldiers. Stephens remained on the helicopter and had been sent off to receive treatment for his
