what now? | outerbanks

• fifty •

Pope

    We're finally doing this. After everything—months of research, dead ends, fights, close calls, injuries—we're finally on the last stretch of the hunt.
    The boat cuts through the water, the biting winds whipping against my face. John B.'s at the helm, his grip steady but his knuckles almost concerningly white. JJ sits on the bow, legs stretched out, flipping his knife between his fingers, seemingly unbothered at the possibility of it falling and stabbing him in the leg. Kiara and Cleo are leaning over the side, scanning the horizon, and Sarah's wedged between John B. and the railing, one hand resting on her stomach and the other gripping the boat's edge like she's willing herself not to be sick.
    The energy is different this time. More focused. More intense. There's no more planning, no more second-guessing, and no more waiting. Either we walk away with the Siren's Tear, or we walk away with nothing at all.
The wreck is exactly where our sleepless research said it would be—half-buried in the sand on the remote southern end of the island, wedged between jagged cliffs like the raging sea tried to swallow it but failed. As we approach it all, the once-fictional bedtime story comes to tangible fruition, and I understand why everyone has always made such a big deal of the Tear's curse. This wreck is a mess.
It crashed here centuries ago, shattered against the rocks, its remains now a skeleton of rotting wood and rusted metals. The ship's bow still juts out at an angle, surprisingly partially intact, but the stern is a mess of broken timbers.
"This place is already giving me the creeps," Cleo mutters, her shoulders shivering slightly.
"Yeah, well, hopefully, it gives us a priceless gemstone too," JJ says, hopping off the boat fearlessly into the ankle-deep water. "Come on, let's move."
    We wade to shore and climb up toward the wreckage. Up close, the ship is even more eerie—its wooden beams splintered and warped, remnants of tattered sails still clinging to the impossibly tall masts.
    "This ship was a blockade runner," I say, running my hand along the worn wood. "Late 1700s, on some mission for vengeance before it wrecked. Captain Red Morgan risked his life proving the Siren wouldn't hold her promise, and this is how it ended up for him."
"Kinda makes you rethink taking it for ourselves, doesn't it?" John B. jokes, but there's something just barely genuine underneath his laugh.
Kiara squints up at the wreck, using her hand to shield her eyes from the fiery sun. "Where would they have hidden it?"
I pull out my notes and scan the diagrams. "The cargo hold, most likely. But if the ship was taking on water when it crashed, it's probably buried under—"
A loud crack cuts me off, and we all simultaneously freeze. JJ looks down at his feet, where, beneath him, the wooden deck has split in two in splintered halves.
"Uh..." Before anyone can react, the boards give way, and JJ plummets straight through the deck. I'm not really sure whether I should laugh or be concerned.
"Shit! JJ," Kiara yelps, rushing forward and dropping to her knees to look down the hole. "Are you okay?"
From below, a long, dramatized groan echoes through the planks. "Ugh. I think I just broke my ass."
"Your ass?" John B. yells. "What about your legs?"
"Or maybe your brain," Cleo mutters under her breath, but she's not very good at whispering, so even JJ can hear from below.
"I heard that!"
"Nah, that was broken before he fell down there," Sarah cracks, making sure she yells it a little.
Cleo exhales sharply. "Damn, boy. You got nine lives or something?"
I grab the flashlight from the waistband of my pants and peer down, shining it through the hole. It's dark, damp, and filled with rotted crates. The air smells like old salt and decay. I quickly realize, as much as I'd hate to admit, JJ just helped us a shit ton.
"That might be it," I say. The cargo hold. The last place the Siren's Tear could be.
We climb down carefully, JJ's way down not being the generally preferred method. The floor is slick, covered in damp sand and debris.
"Alright," I say, scanning the area. "If they stashed the gemstone before the wreck, it's probably in a secure container. Maybe a lockbox or something built into the ship itself."
We split up. John B. and Sarah pry open old crates, Kiara and Cleo search along the walls for hidden compartments, and JJ—still limping slightly—kicks at loose boards.
We look around for a few minutes, and the silent air only makes everything creepier. Everything is either empty or a home for some aquatic carcass; no treasure. Then—
"I think we got something," Kiara calls from across the ship, and the air is so still that her voice doesn't even echo.
We all rush over. With her flashlight, she points out a section of the wall where the wood is different. It looks fresh and new, like it was reinforced at some point. John B. takes his knife and starts wedging it between the cracks. The wood creaks, then snaps, revealing a hollowed-out compartment. Inside, there's a small, sealed, iron lockbox. A pulse of wired adrenaline runs through my veins, and a chuckle escapes my lips.
    "Okay," I breathe. "Now we just have to—" My words are cut short suddenly as a gunshot splits the air from above. Not again. We freeze in our places for a moment as footsteps echo above, and then we carefully climb out of the wreck, my body acting like a shield in front of Cleo's.
Four men stand in front of us, haggard and worn, but nevertheless intimidating. Honestly, they look like real pirates.
"You kids don't know when to quit, do you?"
The leader steps forward—a tall man with a jagged scar down his cheek—and his gaze flicks to Sarah. His lips curl into an eerie smile that's enough to make me feel sick.
"You should know better," he says, his voice thick with amusement. "This isn't gonna end well for you. Not with the curse."
Sarah stiffens, and John B. shields her from the men, a protective glint in his eye. My stomach drops as I remember some of the things I read while I was researching in the past few months. Not all of the accounts mention it—in fact, most don't—but some retellings of the story say that Morgan's daughter was on the boat too, and that she found out she was pregnant a few months before drowning.
"Bet that makes things interesting for you, huh?" he continues, tilting his head. His wingmen stay still and ready behind him, eyes watching like a hawk's. "I mean, if the Siren's Tear really kills mothers and their babies, this should be fun." I've never made the connection between Sarah and Morgan's daughter, but now that I'm thinking about it, it's oddly specific.
John B. lunges, fueled by fury. JJ and Kie grab him before he can do something that'll cost us.
The man just laughs, and, again, it's sickening. "Hand over the lockbox, and maybe we don't find out how real that curse is."
John B. only grips the box tighter, his fingers wrapping unapologetically around its shape. We're outgunned. There's a moment of fear between all of us, wondering how the hell we're getting out of this. It's active silence, though; we're thinking of ideas. And then, my head whips to the side at a strange sound.
Sarah lets out a sharp gasp, clutching her stomach with gripped fingers, and then screams. She drops to her knees, rocking on all fours—one hand grounding her and one still on her belly.
Her face twists in agony. "Oh God—something's wrong!" For a split second, the world stops. John B. whirls toward her, his whole body snapping into panic mode, but then he sees it. There's something in her eyes—something calculated and telling.
I realize now, looking intently, that she's faking it. She's giving us a way out.
"Do something!" She groans out, and the double meaning sets us into action. Sarah screams again, shaking this time, and her face is red and teary.
    The nameless man steps back. "Shit."
    His guys hesitate. One glances at the other, shifting uncomfortably. "Boss—maybe we should—"
    As I suspect, JJ moves first, lunging aggressively toward the nearest guy and twisting the gun out of his grip. Cleo swings a rusted pipe into the second man's gut, sending him flying back onto the deck. John B. whips the lockbox—his only possible weapon—into the leader's face, making an even more prominent scar along his cheek. I grab a broken board and swing, knocking the last guy back. Kiara stays back, pretending to attend to an agonized Sarah, whose screams haven't stopped.
    Once all of the men are down and distracted, John B. yells, "Go!"
    Sarah bolts—perfectly fine—straight for the boat. We follow like frantic ducklings. Screeching bullets slam into the sand, but we don't stop, our feet moving at record pace. I think I hear a grunt from someone in our group, but it's quiet and forgettable, so I pay it no attention.
    JJ spins mid-run and throws his knife, and it hits the main guy's gun hand, making him drop the weapon. Wading back through the water, we finally hit the boat, scrambling aboard.
    "Bless you, girl," Cleo pants out, patting Sarah on the back, who is now wiping away fake tears. A small chuckle escapes her lips.
    "Yeah, you totally saved our asses," JJ adds.
    "For once, this baby is actually coming in handy," she jokes, gasping when it kicks her a little too hard in the ribs. John B. guns the engine, and the wreck shrinks behind us. The lockbox is still in his arms. We did it, but, of course, nothing lasts forever.
    "Guys." The voice is frail and nervous, half voice, half breath. It's Kie. I turn my head slowly to her, as do the rest of us, and my heart freezes when I see her clutching at her thigh. It's shaking and red with smeared, dripping blood.
    "Oh, fuck," JJ mutters, instantly scrambling to Kie and kneeling in front of her. Suddenly, all of our attention is on her, but no one really knows what to do.
    "Um," I falter, my voice catching in my throat. "Rip your shirt and tie it tight around her thigh." He listens, tearing off a long strip of fabric, following my instructions and securing it above the wound to cut excessive blood flow.
    "It really hurts," Kie cries out, leaning her sobbing face toward the sun so she can't see the jagged puncture. Sarah's at her side in seconds, wrapping her arms around Kie's body as JJ keeps applying pressure to her leg.
    "I'm so sorry, baby," JJ chokes, letting his head fall into her lap. He's breaking at the sight of her pain.
    "You're strong, Kiara," Cleo says, with more strength than most of us have right now. "You're strong."