Chapter 9 - The Lighthouse Island Refuge
The gray water of the East River churned against our iron hull as the ancient tugboat labored northward, away from the glittering towers of Manhattan. The diesel engine beneath our feet coughed, spat a dark plume of exhaust into the damp night air, and then gave a sharp, metallic shudder before dying entirely. The sudden silence that fell over the wheelhouse was heavier than the roar of the engines had been.
"Fuel line's fouled," the old man shouted from the tiny engine compartment hatch, coughing as a cloud of blue smoke drifted up around his gray hair. "Water in the sediment bowl. We aren't making it to Long Island Sound on this battery, not with the current fighting us."
I looked across the cramped dashboard at the man in the black suit. His tie was loosened, the dark wool of his jacket damp with river mist, but his eyes were sharp and steady. Through the salt-streaked windshield of the wheelhouse, looming out of the black water a quarter-mile ahead, a skeletal stone tower pierced the low clouds. A faint, weathered sign on its iron door read Execution Rocks.
"The lighthouse," I said, pointing toward the desolate outcrop. "It's abandoned by the Coast Guard, but the stone is thick. We can ditch the tug and hold up inside until we clear the engine."
The man nodded, his fingers tightening around the handle of the leather briefcase resting by his boot. "Move."
We scrambled onto the rusted deck as the tug drifted sluggishly against the rocky shelf of the island. The old man tossed us a heavy canvas duffel bag filled with tinned rations and a spare coil of line before yelling for us to get off his boat. We leaped onto the slick, seaweed-covered stones just as the tug's anchor chain rattled out, the old man spinning his wheel hard to swing back downriver and draw any pursuers away from our hiding spot.
The interior of the lighthouse was cold, echoing with the sound of dripping water and the endless rush of the tide against the foundation. We climbed the spiral iron staircase in absolute darkness, our boots ringing hollowly on the steps until we reached the lantern room at the top. A single tall arched window offered a panoramic view of the dark, freezing waters stretching in every direction.
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"They'll look for heat signatures," the man said, setting the heavy briefcase down on a wooden crate near the center of the room. "Or a flare. We keep our breath to ourselves."
"They're already looking," I whispered, sliding down the cold stone wall until I sat beside him on the dusty floorboards. The adrenaline that had sustained us through the frantic escape from Manhattan was beginning to fade, leaving a deep, exhausting ache in my muscles. For the first time since I stepped up to his table in the high-rise restaurant, the terrifying reality of our isolation settled over us like a physical weight.
