Rotten

The storm, if that is what it was, had howled and crashed for at least three days, maybe more. He’d lost track of time as he’d cowered in his voluminous wine cellar waiting for the screams and sounds of destruction to end.

His ruined house is one of an elite five that comprises his neighborhood that stands disdainfully overlooking the village below. Not many could afford the luxury of living cliff-top, much less the expense of the in-depth Geo-tech surveys and drilling that enabled building here. Not that Braeden ever thinks about such things, he has people for that.

The drilling and excavating for the wine cellar alone, the one he insisted he couldn’t live without, had cost an obscene amount and was merely a vanity hobby. He knew nothing about wine and had paid an expert to stock and design the whole thing. He’d spared no expense on the wine, designer racks, nonpareil temperature control system that ensured specific climates for each vintage, the tasting room, with its imported rugs and, of course, the real reason Braedon had installed the wine cellar. The dungeon.

He'd paid the builders extra to keep quiet about that.

He has been relatively comfortable, if not at ease, secreted in the tasting room. When the noise finally abates, Braeden tentatively makes his way up the stairs. The door to the cellar is like one securing the entrance to a bank safe, an ostentatious steel leviathan of a thing, complete with iris recognition software ensuring that only Braedon has access to and from the cellar. Fortunately, he had been advised to install a back-up power system that is dedicated solely to the metal door and that ensures, even in some unforeseeable disaster, it still opens.

Leaving the cellar behind, Braedon makes his way through the shattered glass and twisted metal that had been his home. Climbing through the remains of his once beautiful neomodern glass-fronted house, Braeden surveys the neighbourhood. Nothing stands, at least, nothing man-made. A couple of eucalyptus trees, much the worse for wear, are swaying in the distance at the edge of the cliff face.

He calls out.

“Hey! Hello? Somebody out there?” Anybody?

It looks to be about midday, the sun positioned high above. The wind has blown any clouds away that might have lingered and if not for the scene of destruction before him, it would have been a beautiful day. He walks across the road to the edge of the cliff and looks down into the valley and the village below which appears to have fared better than his home and his neighbours’. The mountains surrounding the town appeared to have sheltered it from the worst of the storm.

Since Braedon, in his panic had neglected to bring a phone charger into the cellar with him when he got spooked and ran down there, his phone is useless. At least someone had had the forethought to install a toilet, so he wasn’t literally shitting his pants during the last couple of days. There was nothing for it but to hike down the road into the valley.

What he sees as he makes his way down the debris-littered road amounts to pretty much the same BS he has walked away from. And no sign of a living soul.

A few dead ones though.

He tries calling out again. Still no response.

Braedon knows if he walks far enough, he will eventually reach the ocean and marina that houses his father’s 40-foot yacht. If the boat isn’t wrecked like everything else, he should be able to travel up the coast for supplies.

Or signs of life.

He’s thirsty and has a nasty hangover from all the wine he drank while cowering in the cellar. He’s not used to this kind of discomfort. Or having to fend for himself. It hasn’t occurred to him that his ever-present PA never made it downstairs.

There’s a store on the outskirts of town. One of those trashy convenience stores he usually avoids, but here it is, miraculously intact. Mostly. Though the windows are gone and the post box that usually sits outside is now inside, most of the shelving is where it normally would be and there are cases of bottled water conveniently located near the front of the store. Even though the shelves are still standing, most of their contents lay randomly distributed over the floor. Braedon wades through the mess, looking for something to eat that is halfway decent.

He settles for an armful of cheese nips and a package containing something announcing itself as a fruit dumpty. For fibre.

It’s a long walk to the marina, but Braedon has no desire to stop and eat. He opens the cheese nips and mindlessly fills his mouth as he walks, occasionally washing down the salty, cheesy snacks with one of the bottles of water he’s stashed in his Yves Saint Laurent cargo pants.

Pretty much everything has been touched by the storm. Billboards advertising products catering to the rich and indulgent hang in tatters from their frames. Most of the storefront windows are broken, terracotta tiles are torn from the rooftops and garbage blows through the streets of the ordinarily charming little town.

Occasionally, Braedon calls out, hoping someone might respond.

Amazingly enough, the yacht, “Wet Pussy” is bobbing jauntily on the water and still attached to her moorings when Braedon reaches the marina. It is dark by this time. Really dark. The lights that usually illuminate the marina are out, as are all the other lights as far as he can see. There is, however, a generator on board, so if he can locate a flashlight, there’s a slight possibility he can get some lights on.

It's too dark to find anything. Angry and tired, Braedon decides to sleep on one of the padded benches that line the stern of the boat. It’s cold, but that’s too bad, because there’s nothing to cover up with. For the first time, okay, second time in his entitled life, Braedon is forced to tough it out.

When he wakes, peeling his face away from the dried saliva that adheres it to the cushion, the sun has just made its way over the mountains. He’s stiff, but at least he’s not hurting with a hangover.

The air is filled with a stink that is more than the usual eggy, briny smell of low tide.

Things are rotting.

Everything on the yacht is well secured, padlocked, fitted with alarms. Even if he could break through the Perspex windows, he wouldn’t know how to turn off the alarms, which he knows are deafening. He still has no phone. His parents are vacationing in Europe. His assistant is probably lying dead somewhere with her head smashed in.

Braedon has no idea what to do next. He has a vague idea that he will need to eat soon, maybe figure out how to make himself more comfortable on the boat. His clothes are disgusting and his ass stinks. And he needs something to drink that’s more stimulating than water.

Even though he doesn’t relish the idea of leaving the relative safety of the boat, Braedon knows he’s got to find some supplies to keep him going until the Coast Guard or someone comes to find him. As he walks down the dock to the village, he looks expectantly around hoping to see someone who might be able to help him with his search. He tries calling out again, but again, there is no reply.

In the village, Braedon pokes through the debris of the local super Mart, which sells everything from clothing to food and fishing supplies. The stink is even more intense here than at the boat. Broken coolers and freezers have fallen open, regurgitating the remains of fresh vegetables, meats and melted ice cream.

There’s a couple of dead people putrefying behind a service counter.

Braedon grabs a couple of bags and fills them as fast as he can, not wanting to linger in the wreck of a store.

First thing he does back on the boat is open the bottle of Grey Goose. Too bad he forgot vermouth, but he’s got no glasses to mix a martini anyway. Congratulating himself on grabbing a can opener, he opens a can of pasta, wrinkling his nose at the congealed unappealing meatballs and spaghetti. Beggars can’t be choosers. At least he’s got vodka to kill the taste, if not the texture.

A week goes by on the boat. Aside from the necessary forays into town, mostly to replenish his vodka supply, he’s been sitting tight. Waiting to be rescued. He fills his days with drinking and jerking off to memories of all the terrible, delightful things he’s done to the unsuspecting women he’s picked up in bars and brought out here to his dad’s boat.

Easier to dump a bitch if you do her on the water.

Through the stupor that is Braedon’s new normal, he thinks he hears voices. Not thinking, he jumps up from the floor of the boat and starts yelling, “Hey! Hey! I’m here! Over here!”

Braedon waves his arms and keeps yelling, looking towards the direction he thinks he hears the voices coming from. In the distance, he sees two figures, most likely a couple of chicks, because they appear slight and small.

He clambers over the side of the boat to the ramp and continues waving his arms and shouting. The women stop, raising hands to shield their eyes from the sun. He sees them turn to each other and figures they’re talking about him. About whether it’s safe to approach.

           Cautiously, the two women walk towards him. As they get closer, Brandon can see that they’re both fit and attractive, if a bit on the dirty side.

           Definitely doable.

           “Hey! Holy shit – I can’t believe it! Where have YOU been hiding? Come aboard! Come aboard!” Braeden is practically gushing.

           The taller one, the one with the dirty blonde pixie cut looks at her friend, who is also blonde, but with hair tied in a ponytail, speaks.

           “We’ve been walking for days. It’s the same everywhere. You’re the first person we’ve seen. Alive, anyway.”

           “Oh man, am I glad to see you,” Braedon says, looking both women up and down, his eyes lingering on their breasts.

           They don’t volunteer their names, so Braedon asks. The tall one calls herself Rhona and the ponytail is Pam.

“I’m Braedon. Please, step this way,” gallantly bowing and moving his arm in a parody of a maître d’.

Rhona and Pam look at each other, smirking, and adeptly step from the ramp over the side of the boat.

“Excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting company,” laughs Braedon. The deck of the boat is littered with dirty, empty cans and wrappers, bottles and other detritus. “I’ve been doing my “shopping” at the local supermarket. Everything you could want. Except fresh. And I can’t cook, so…”

“Oh, we don’t mind a little mess,” says Pam, looking at Rhona.

“No, not at all,” she agrees.

“I can offer you a libation. Only the finest, but you’ll have to drink it warm,” he shrugs, grabbing a bottle of Moet & Chandon that had been rolling around the floor of the deck.

“Hope you don’t mind it straight from the bottle – no glasses.”

“Sounds good,” say Rhona and Pam in unison. They look at each other and laugh.

Braedon, Pam and Rhona spend the evening watching the sun set over the water, sharing Braedon’s scrounged snacks, champagne and vodka. It’s the best night he’s had in a long time, maybe even since before the storm. The women are good company and even though there are two of them, Braedon figures he won’t have much trouble over-powering them.

It’s gonna be so much fun.

He wakes up on the back deck, head pounding, disoriented. It’s not where he usually passes out. Normally, he’d be waking up in the ratty little nest he’s made with the seat cushions ripped from the seats at the stern.

And it's still dark out.

He hears the two women, Pam and Rhona doing something at his feet and tries to get up. When he does, he finds his hands are tied behind his back and he can’t move his feet. Also tied.

He hears one of the women say, “Hurry. I’m so fucking hungry.”

“What the…!” and he can feel himself being dragged from his feet. A cranking noise.

He raises his head. The cranking noise he hears is the winch that is meant to hoist big fish out of the water. His father and his clients are usually too pissed to catch anything, but Braedon’s had some fun with it.

As he’s dragged across the deck, his feet are gradually rising above it. And then all too soon his body is vertical, his feet above him, head hanging beyond the deck over the ocean.

“What the fuck?! What the fuck?! What the fuck?! Put me down! Let me down! Fuck you! What the fuck?”

Somewhere in his sad and booze-addled brain, he knows no one can hear him, but he screams for help anyway.

As loud as he can.

And louder as he hears the snick snick of a knife being sharpened. In a rare moment of clarity, Braedon comprehends.

Fate is resourceful.