Page 92 of The End of the World As We Know It: New Tales of Stephen King’s The Stand

In the blinding strobe of lightning, the bearded man grinned at her.

His eyes were hidden beneath an old-fashioned pirate’s hat with skull and crossbones, but she knew those brown teeth.

The Boat Man. He was holding her machete, she realized.

With impossible balance, he raised it high and floated toward her like a phantom, lightning gleaming across the steel blade.

Marie woke with a scream on her lips. She panted, grateful for the dawn light.

But her bed was damp. Her face and skin were wet.

Marie screamed again, thinking it was a dream inside a dream, like in A Nightmare on Elm Street , but although the moisture on her skin tasted salty like the sea, she had only sweated through her sheets as she slept.

And worse, she had wet her bed—the odor of urine beneath her was sharp.

Marie talked to herself for twenty minutes with reassurances before she could climb out of bed to wash.

Then she heard a knock. And went to meet Edmund and the Boat Man at her front door.

They had come to collect the rest of the water.

Unlike in her dream, the sea was placid and welcoming at the start of their leaving day.

Although they had spent two days bickering as they gathered supplies from other boats—cans of diesel, nonperishable food, blankets and a couple of water-desalination kits-–all of them were agreeable now, not wanting to jinx the trip.

Edmund, too, was on his best behavior, deferring to the Boat Man’s instructions as they prepped for their long sail by hauling their supplies on board, including the Boat Man’s chicken cages with three hens and a rooster.

The Boat Man walked with a jaunt, as if he had been reunited with the boat that burned.

He’d found a white captain’s cap somewhere, which made it all feel official.

Edmund didn’t even complain when the Boat Man said he wanted the larger cabin to himself, and that Edmund and Marie would have to share the berth in the smaller one despite the way the dank space was already crowded with junk.

They were all too excited for any more arguing, eager to go.

So Marie was fine with her job to clean up the filthy two-burner stove and sink in the galley while Edmund and the Boat Man worked loudly prepping the vessel on the deck above her, with the Boat Man calling out orders and Edmund saying, “Aye aye, Captain!” Edmund had taken her out for a short sail once and he knew his way around the boat surprisingly well, but the relief of having the Boat Man’s expertise was immeasurable.

If only she could forget her dream.

Her nightmare about the Boat Man had felt as real as her dreams about the old lady serving her lemonade like Manman’s while she talked about freedom with the passion of Harriet Tubman on the Underground Railroad.

Maybe more real, if she were honest. Now she just had to figure out what her dream about him had meant.

In her dream, had he planned to chop her up with that machete?

Or cut her loose from the rope? Why had the dead woman appeared?

Or was her dream just her fears about the journey bubbling to the surface as she slept?

The galley went dark. A prickling across Marie’s scalp made her look at the narrow steps up to the deck, where the Boat Man’s bulk was blocking the sunlight as he leaned in. Again, she could not see his face in his silhouette. ( That had to mean something, didn’t it?)

“Bring up those maps, girlie,” he said.

Marie thought she should say, Aye, aye .

But she couldn’t make herself speak to his shadowy face.

She hated it when he called her girlie , not only because it was a lazy nickname but because she tried so hard to dress in jeans and loose clothes that would help him forget that she was a girl.

She’d never been more grateful that her body had not developed early, but looking like a tomboy hadn’t helped him come up with a more creative name.

Maybe she and Edmund should have sailed alone. Even without the previous days’ constant arguing, when they had taken turns telling each other to fuck off and die, the Boat Man’s presence felt risky. But it might be too late now.

With the chicken cages nestled underneath the table, they barely had room to sit on the mildewed, rain-dampened cushions as Marie spread out Granpè Jean’s nautical map of the Gulf of Mexico, where Key West was a pinprick in waters that looked as vast as space.

Cuba was closer, only ninety miles south. Close enough to touch, just about.

“So, there’s our route,” the Boat Man said, tracing their journey far away from Cuba with a calloused fingertip.

“Gulf of Mexico meets the Mississippi about a hundred miles from New Orleans. We’ll hug the shoreline in case there’s a storm front or we run out of fuel.

Those Gulf waters can get pretty high, and we’re still in hurricane season.

My guess? At least eighty hours. Maybe more.

Once we get up there, we figure out the rest. Dump the boat. Resupply.”

“We’re not dumping Proud Mary !” Edmund said.

Marie was afraid of another eruption to shatter their alliance—or maybe hoped for it—but the Boat Man chose patience.

“I know you love this boat… I loved mine, too… but this is diesel, one thing. Harder to refuel. We’ll have enough wind till we get to the river, but after that we’ll mostly be motoring on the water.

Plus, that fifty-five-foot mast won’t make it under some of those bridges on the Ole Mississippi.

So, we’ll see what we see. Lots of boats up there. Got it?”

Edmund didn’t say, Aye, aye . He looked so crushed that Marie felt sorry for him.

“Why did that guy burn your boat?” Marie asked. The hidden story cried out to be told before they were alone with this man. “He wasn’t just some random pirate.”

The Boat Man looked at her, surprised by her insight. Up close, she saw how leathery his skin was from the sun, making his age impossible to guess. “What’s that, girlie?”

“My name’s Marie.”

Edmund snickered. “Better call her by her name.” (Which was funny, since neither of them called the Boat Man by his name, which he’d said was John. Or maybe Jake.)

The Boat Man licked his parched lips. “All righty then… Marie . That fuckstick was married to the love of my life. She ran away from him and lived on my boat with me for six months. Best six months of my whole life. Then he threatened her like the piece of shit he is and she went back to him. She didn’t make it—but he did.

Cuz there ain’t no justice or right in this shitty world, is there? ”

They agreed that there was no justice or right. And yes, the world obviously was shitty.

“My only regret is, I should’ve killed that asshole,” he went on. “That way I could have been with her at the end instead of him.”

They sat in silence that felt like a funeral, with seagulls as their sad choir. Marie remembered that she would miss the sound of seagulls on the open water. Granpè Jean had told her that he thought he was dead on his leaky boat until the morning he heard the seagulls’ cries.

“Can we go kill him?” Edmund said. “Before we go?”

Marie sucked her teeth, annoyed. Edmund couldn’t wait to kill someone, the sin of sins.

“No point now,” the Boat Man said.

“Who was that dead woman by the buoy?” Marie said. Now that they were teaming together, she was more troubled by the memory of him sitting placidly above a corpse. Had he killed her? Was that what her dream had been trying to tell her?

“Some jumper, I guess. I was thinking about doing it, too. Till…” His voice sounded strangled. The navigation meeting was over then, because he stood up and walked away to be by himself, swinging by the taut ropes.

Edmund leaned over to whisper to Marie. “Is he cryin g? What a pussy. If some guy burned my boat, I would’ve shot him a hundred times.

And no way we’re dumping Proud Mary . If he doesn’t watch out, I’m gonna dump him .

” He pulled open his jacket to show Marie that he was still carrying one of his guns, maybe a .

32. Of course he was. Maybe she should be, too.

She had her choice of guns and ammo from the heavy bag Edmund had moved to their shared cabin.

Marie looked toward the Boat Man, mostly to make sure he hadn’t overheard Edmund.

But he was out on the back of the vessel (the stern?) staring across the marina toward where his boat, and his best times, once had been moored.

Marie felt a strong urge to climb off Proud Mary and return to the pier, terrified to share such a confined home with two people who both might be as nutty as a Mr. Goodbar—and Edmund was for sure .

Could she protect any of them once they were trapped together?

The Boat Man felt her staring. He turned around and seemed pleased, grinning at her with those rotting teeth. He took off his captain’s cap and dipped it in a way that was supposed to look gentlemanly. But the gesture only made Marie shiver, worse than being called girlie .

“Wind’s picking up, crew!” he called out. The grief in his voice was replaced by excitement. “Yo ho ho! Time to set sail!”

Exactly what a pirate would say.

At first, Marie wondered why she hadn’t sailed away long before.

The Boat Man and Edmund were focused on what lay ahead, adjusting their course, but Marie stared behind her.

As the Proud Mary chugged from the harbor, the green-blue waters fully embracing them, she thought she’d never seen anything as exciting as the land fading away.