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(continued)

Pacific Ocean, 201 miles off the Oregon coast

May 12th, 2019

There are three decks above the water line on this craft, leaving only the engine room to be surrounded by water on all sides. I’ve been through this ship extensively since the last of my crew finally succumbed to his wounds. I might have cried had I known them any better, but I didn’t. Plus, I haven’t cried since I was a little girl, and I don’t plan on doing it now. I knew how my life was going to turn out by the time I was fifteen, and I don’t regret much of it up to this point.

I’ve had a good life to be honest. It’s been hard, but it’s been fair for the most part. Whatever I’ve earned I’ve been grateful for, and whatever life’s taken from I don’t regret losing all that much.

The monitor on my hip just went from calm green to red on the soundbar. The kid’s waking up already like I knew he would. I was hoping that I’d get at least a little more time, but it’s all or nothing at this point, and there’s no such thing as a reprieve. The Coast Guard’s already been alerted to leave this vessel alone until further notice, and I doubt my employer is going to give the green light until satellite images show me popping green smoke or the boat is no longer visible on the waves.

One way or another it’s got to end today if the Coast Guard is going to do anything. The owner of the vessel must be popping a few blood vessels by now, but he wasn’t given much of a choice. We had to appropriate his vehicle with his permission or steal it and tell him to bite the big one, so to speak. You can guess which option we took. Rich people don’t often want to share their toys, especially if it means they won’t get them back in one piece.

This tub is wired with enough C4 to put a hole in the Great Wall of China, meaning that the moment I dial up the number on the cellphone I’m carrying, speed dial thankfully, there’s going to be nothing left of this craft but a drifting cloud of black smoke and a charred frame waiting for the Pacific to claim it.

I can hear a lot of grunting and straining as the kid wakes up. He’s trying to break his bonds, which would be impossible when he’s calm and contained. But as I continue to listen I hear the guttural, demonic-sounding voice that has plagued my waking and sleeping hours since I met this kid. What kind of condition he’s got I don’t know. The kid is either a mutant like from the old comics I used to love, or he’s possessed. It’s hard to tell since he has the strength of a goddamned bull when he gets going and the temperament of a pissed-off badger.

You think I’m joking? I literally saw him rip two fingers from the hand of one of my guys and shove them…well, that part doesn’t matter. He’s a tough little bastard, that’s all that does matter. And as I keep listening I can hear the sound I was hoping against hope wouldn’t come. The sound of nylon straps ripping and snapping under intense pressure, the cracking of tile as the kid hits the floor, and the animal-like growl that tells me he’s coming.

Game on.

(to be continued)

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