2nd runner up
2002 short story contest
sffworld.com
“I can’t believe it, Skeets,” Johnny shouted, struggling to be heard above the fury, “I dragged your butt all over Europe for two years dodging Nazi shrapnel, I puked myself green crossing the ocean, and for what? Just so’s we can drown on this lousy little tug a few miles from home?”
The ship bringing troops home from the war in Europe had dropped the boys off in Boston that morning, where they hopped on board the Molly G for the last leg of their trip. Skeets Tyler and the Callahan brothers, Billy and Frank, were all coming home to the small seaside town of Blanesport, just south of Gloucester. Johnny was an orphan with nowhere in particular to go. He figured that returning to the States with his friends would be a good place to start. These were men with whom he had shared the horrors of war; he trusted them with his life.
“You always said I was your guardian angel, Skeets …” Johnny was stopped in mid-sentence as a wall of seawater whipped across the ship, slapping him in the face. The salt stung his throat. He coughed harshly, but shook it off. Johnny was tough. “… but I don’t know if I can get you out of this one, buddy.”
The skies were pitch black; night had fallen prematurely as the storm took hold. The swinging lantern in the helm was the only thing that he could see as the lightning began to move off into the distance.
“Come on, Johnny.” A strong hand grasped him by the arm. “Let’s get inside before we’re thrown over.” It was Billy. They watched out for each other, these four. They had learned to do that. You didn’t survive the trenches unless someone watched your back.
Johnny reached for the door. “Frank,” he shouted back, “you got Skeets?”
Before Frank could answer, the Molly G was tossed sharply astern, and all Johnny could feel was the cold New England water numbing him to the core. Thrashing around desperately in the icy void, he somehow grabbed onto a floating life preserver, and bobbed up to the surface.
“Skeets!” He called out, groping frantically in all directions. “Skeets!”
“Right here, Johnny,” a voice shouted back. Miraculously, Skeets had found the same life preserver, and was firmly attached to the other side, facing Johnny. The Molly G vanished quickly into the abyss of the raging storm. The two men, merely inches from each other, could see only darkness. They searched for Frank and Billy, but to no avail. The salt water swelled their lips, and consciousness faded slowly in the chill of the night.
“Johnny.” He heard Skeets call, but he couldn’t move. Sharp grains of sand pressing into his face began to awaken his senses. He fought to open his eyes, which the rain had rinsed clean of ocean salt. It was still dark, but he could make out the outline of a gentle hill rolling up from the still turbulent shoreline.
“Johnny, come on.” It was Skeets, but Johnny was too weak to answer. “Get up. Yer gonna freeze to death out here.”
As consciousness slowly returned, Johnny could feel the biting cold of the air against his wet skin. The scent of the salty sea air, one that he used to love, hung all around him like a thick, oppressive fog.
“Come on, Johnny!”
He forced himself to move, pushing slowly up from the sandy beach. “I’m up, twerp, I’m up.”
“Ataboy, Johnny. I knew you were still alive. I just knew it. Maybe I’m your guardian angel now, huh, Johnny?”
“Johnny felt a smile forcing itself upon his frozen cheeks. “Maybe, Skeets. Maybe.”
Johnny stood and looked around. All he could make out was the form of a hill leading up from the shore to the woods. “Where the hell are we, Skeets? You know this place?”
“Yeah, Johnny, yeah. We’re almost home.” Skeets took him by the hand, and pulled him up the hill. “My folks, they live just through the woods. I used to play here when I was a kid. Come on, the trail’s right up there.” He pointed, but all Johnny could see were trees.
They plunged into the woods. “You sure this is a trail, Skeets?”
“Sure, I’m sure, Johnny. I told you, I grew up here. I’ve been on this trail a million times.”
Johnny pushed the bushes aside as he fought his way through, following Skeets. “Sure is overgrown.”
“I guess the kids don’t use it no more, but this is it, I’m sure of it.”
As they pushed on through the thick underbrush, the squishing of their boots in the mud was interrupted only by a rare crackle from the occasional branch that had somehow survived the deluge, only to be snapped in two by the returning heroes.
“Imagine the look on their faces when they see us, Johnny. Just imagine.”
Johnny smiled. It was good to see Skeets happy again.
“There it is, Johnny! There it is.”
They had come to a clearing at the other side of the woods. Off in the distance, a small home was silhouetted by the glow from a single lamppost; there wasn’t another light as far as the eye could see. This lonely little house in the rolling hills was a welcomed sight for sore eyes.
Skeets ran toward the house. Johnny, usually the one to pull Skeets to safety, struggled to keep up as he fought the cramps in his legs. Skeets paused at the front door to wait for his friend. Johnny arrived a moment later, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to catch his breath. His belly ached from the run, and the cold wind that swirled down his lungs with each desperate gasp of air burned him from inside. He stared up in disbelief. Skeets was standing on the porch, leaning effortlessly against the doorpost.
