Chapter 26: The Atlantic
The Caribbean gave way to the Atlantic over three days of sailing. We stayed close to the coast initially—Central America transitioning to the curve of Florida—then pushed east into open water.
The boat felt smaller with thirteen people. Patricia bunked with Madison and the women. Nick had taken to sitting with her during meals, asking about her medical training, about the Canal compound, about anything that wasn't the apocalypse.
"He likes her," Alicia observed on day two. "It's kind of cute."
"It's distraction," I said. "Which he needs."
We were on the forward deck, afternoon sun beating down. I'd agreed to teach Alicia basic knife work—she'd asked three times before I'd said yes.
"Why do I need to learn this?" she asked, holding the practice knife I'd made from a dowel rod. "We have guns."
"Guns jam. Guns run out of ammunition. Guns are loud." I circled her, checking her stance. "A knife is forever."
"That's morbid."
"That's practical. Feet wider. You're off balance."
She adjusted, wobbling slightly. "Like this?"
"Better. Now, basic cuts. Slash, don't stab. Stabbing gets the blade stuck. Slashing creates distance and damage."
"I thought you were supposed to go for vital organs."
"In a real fight, you go for whatever you can reach. Throat, eyes, inner arm, inner thigh. Major blood vessels and vulnerable points." I demonstrated the angles. "But we start with form. Muscle memory comes first."
She practiced the motions, clumsy at first, gradually finding rhythm. After an hour, her movements were smoother but still hesitant.
"I'm not very good at this."
"You've been practicing for an hour. Give it time."
"How long did it take you?"
Jax's memories say three years of medical school including cadaver work. Plus whatever the virus has enhanced. Plus desperation sharpening instincts.
"Years. But I didn't have a teacher."
She wiped sweat from her forehead. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because you asked. Because you should know how to defend yourself."
"That's not the real reason."
"No." I took the practice knife, demonstrated a thrust-and-cut combination. "The real reason is I don't want you helpless when things go bad again. And they will go bad again. They always do."
She watched my movements, tried to mirror them. The blade slipped in her grip, cutting her palm. She hissed, dropping the knife.
I grabbed her hand, examined the wound. Shallow, clean. "Pressure here. Keep it elevated."
I bandaged it quickly, efficiently. When I finished, she flexed her hand.
"Thanks."
"Be more careful. Control the blade, don't let it control you."
"Is that a metaphor?"
"It's practical advice."
She smiled slightly. "Everything with you is practical."
"Keeps me alive."
We trained every morning after that. By day five, she could execute basic cuts without dropping the blade. By day seven, she was starting to anticipate attacks, moving before I completed the motion.
"You're getting better," I said on day eight. "Faster reflexes than I expected."
"Good teacher."
"Motivated student."
The storm hit on day ten.
We'd been watching the weather—dark clouds building on the western horizon, radio reporting tropical disturbance. Strand assured us the Abigail could handle it. Then the wind picked up and assured meant nothing.
Waves crashed over the bow, each one higher than the last. Rain came horizontal, visibility dropping to nothing. The yacht pitched violently, throwing people off their feet.
"Everyone below deck!" Strand shouted over the wind. "Secure the hatches!"
Madison and Liza herded the younger ones down. Travis helped Strand at the helm, fighting the wheel. Daniel and I secured loose equipment, tying down anything that could become a projectile.
A massive wave hit broadside, rolling the yacht thirty degrees. Chris lost his grip on the railing, sliding toward the edge. I lunged, caught his arm, hauled him back against the bulkhead.
"Hang on!" I shouted.
"I'm trying!"
Another wave. The yacht rolled further. Water everywhere, cold and powerful. Chris's grip was slipping, fingers white with strain.
I wrapped my arm around a support pole, grabbed Chris's jacket with my free hand. Held on while the ocean tried to tear us apart. Ten seconds. Twenty. The wave passed, yacht righting itself.
"Go! Below deck! Now!"
Chris scrambled for the hatch. I followed, making sure he got inside before sealing it behind us.
Below deck was chaos. Water sloshing through the cabins, people clustered together, holding onto whatever was bolted down. Patricia was treating a gash on Ofelia's forehead—she'd hit the corner of a table during a roll.
The storm raged for six hours. We rode it out in the dark, counting seconds between waves, wondering if each roll would be the one that capsized us.
Dawn came gray and exhausted. The storm had passed, leaving us battered but afloat. We emerged topside to survey damage—torn sail, broken railing, half our deck equipment washed overboard. But the yacht was intact, engines still functional.
Strand assessed the damage with the detachment of someone inventorying insured property. "Could be worse."
"Could be better," Travis countered.
"Could be at the bottom of the ocean. I'll take this."
We spent the day cleaning up, making repairs with what we had. Chris worked beside his father without complaint, no longer avoiding eye contact. Something had shifted during the storm—proximity to death had a way of clarifying priorities.
That night, after everyone else had gone to sleep, I stood at the bow watching stars. The sky had cleared completely, revealing constellations I'd forgotten existed in a world without light pollution.
Footsteps behind me. Alicia, wrapped in a blanket, hair still damp from her attempt at a freshwater shower.
"Can't sleep?" she asked.
"Thinking."
"About?"
"Everything. Nothing. The usual."
She leaned on the railing beside me. "You saved Chris today. He told me. Said you grabbed him when he was about to go overboard."
"Reflex."
"Calculated reflex?"
"Does it matter?"
"I think it does." She was quiet for a moment. "You keep saying you're practical, that you only do things for strategic reasons. But you risked yourself for Chris. There was no strategic value in that."
"Keeping the group intact has strategic value."
"Bullshit. You could have let him go. Would have been one less mouth to feed."
"You want me to admit I did something selfless? Fine. I did. Happy?"
"I want you to admit you're human. Not some calculating machine wearing a person's face."
I looked at her. "Why does it matter?"
"Because I'm trying to figure you out. You're this weird combination of competent and broken. You teach me knife fighting, save my brother from pirates, mercy-killed my boyfriend. You're the most frustrating person I've ever met."
"Sorry."
"Don't be. It's..." She searched for the word. "Interesting. You're interesting."
"Is that good or bad?"
"I haven't decided yet."
We stood in silence, watching the ocean roll beneath us. After a while, she asked about my life before. I offered fragments—medical school, long hours, the exhaustion of trying to save people who couldn't be saved.
"Then the world ended and suddenly everything made sense," I said. "All that training, all those skills. They had a purpose."
"What about family? Did you have anyone?"
The question hit harder than expected. Jax's memories provided details—parents dead in a car accident, no siblings, no close relationships. And my own life before the transmigration felt distant now, dreamlike.
"Not anymore."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Makes it easier. No one to worry about, no one to lose."
"That's lonely."
"That's practical."
"There's that word again." She pulled the blanket tighter. "Do you ever wish you could be less practical? More... I don't know. Normal?"
Every day. Every time I have to infect someone to reset the timer. Every time I calculate who's valuable and who's expendable.
"No. Normal gets you killed."
"Maybe. But it also keeps you human."
She went below deck, leaving me alone with the stars and the constant awareness of the timer counting down.
[ TIMER: 58:47:33 ]
Two days, ten hours. Still comfortable, but the countdown never stopped.
Land appeared on the horizon two days later—the Georgia coast, green and brown against blue sky. Strand checked his charts, traced routes with his finger.
"Savannah. We can dock there, find vehicles. It's what, hundred fifty miles to Atlanta?"
"Give or take," I said. "Depending on roads."
"Think the CDC's still standing?"
"Only one way to find out."
The coast grew larger. Through binoculars, I could see the skyline—buildings standing but dark, no lights, no movement. Another dead city.
Somewhere inland, in a hospital in King County, Rick Grimes was still in a coma. Still dreaming of his wife and son, still unaware that the world had moved on without him.
I had maybe a week before he woke. Maybe less. Time to get to Atlanta, establish ourselves, prepare for what came next.
The Abigail cut through the water toward Georgia, toward the CDC, toward answers I already knew didn't exist.
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