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spiderwebs out of his mouth.
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    The engine started on the first pull. Bob Jr. crawled over Slade in the bow of the rigid inflatable boat, clearly something left over from Allagro’s military contract days. He ignored Slade’s protests and fished around in Slade’s pockets, finally pulling out the knife he’d seen at the conference table.
    It made a muted, dense click when he snapped the blade open. Bob Jr. liked that. He didn’t bother trying to untie the knots, and slashed the mooring ropes, then sat back next to the engine and steered the Zodiac straight into the eastern winds.
    The first wave blasted warm salt water around the bow, soaking Slade. The old man bounced and flopped as the boat smashed against the incoming waves. The ride settled out once they turned south into the deeper swells.
    The engine, a black outboard Bob Jr. figured must be military grade just like the boat itself, churned through the sea with a hushed whir. He could still hear the alarm back in the greenhouse. And something else, coming from way back beyond the buildings, something higher pitched, like some swarm of pissed-off Weed Eaters and lawnmowers.
    He cranked the throttle over as far as it would twist. The Zodiac dutifully soldiered up one swell after another. Bob Jr. coughed. His mouth was curiously dry, as if he’d taken five or six bong hits and was so stoned he wasn’t sure if he was sitting or standing. He scraped the top of his tongue against his top teeth and didn’t like the feel of the slime that now coated his teeth. He coughed again.
    An open knife didn’t belong in an inflatable boat, so he snicked it shut and handed it back to Slade. Slade was sitting up now, digging around in his nostril with his thumb. He closed one nostril and tried to blow out whatever was in his nose. A tiny spatter of blackened mucus landed on his knee.
    Bob Jr. coughed again and bent over between his knees, really hacking. He tried to swallow. Globs of wet clay seemed to be clogging his throat. “Hey. All that shit back there that Deemer told us, you don’t think he meant us or anything, right? I mean, we didn’t breathe in anything. We didn’t, right?”
    Slade didn’t answer. He closed his fist around the knife and pointed.
    Bob Jr. twisted and saw distant helicopters, looking like a dozen dark dragonflies rising over the island, incinerating everything below. Streaks of light leapt from the buzzing insects. When they struck the island, fire bloomed so bright it darkened the sky itself. He heard the immense crackling thunder a half-second faster than he felt the impact, a hot blast of wind that lifted his hair and dried his eyes.
    He thought he heard a dense, muted click behind him.
    If he hadn’t turned back to shield his face from the explosions, Slade would have been able to slit his throat. As it was, Bob Jr. had turned just enough to catch the old man’s movement and shot his hand out. The blade sliced through the outside of his palm, but then Bob Jr.’s hand had slipped past the knife and grabbed Slade’s bony wrist. He wrenched his fist over and Slade cried out, releasing the pocketknife.
    It bounced on the wooden floor of the boat.
    Bob Jr. let go of the throttle and snatched at the knife. The engine’s pitch dropped to a low murmur and the boat spun as he knocked the tiller sideways. Anger sparked and roared in his clogged head, and for a moment, rage obliterated everything. Still clutching Slade’s wrist, he wrenched the older man even farther off balance and drove the knife into his chest. The three-inch blade punctured the thin sternum with a sound like the snapping of a plastic fork.
    Slade tried to catch his breath. It hitched and snagged.
    Bob Jr. yanked the knife out, plunged it in again.
    Again.
    And again.
    When Bob Jr. finally stopped, the wooden floor was slick with blood. Slade’s chest was a shredded patchwork of blood, ripped fabric, and