CHAPTER 23
Frost and Steadman waded through cold muck and floodwater to reach the boat, each miserable step accompanied by the scolding cries of seagulls. The greedy birds squabbled over the remains of dead fish carried up by the flood tide, chasing one another in querulous spates. The odor was appalling and Frost was surprised to discover that despite the awful stench, he was hungry. The energy bar Steadman had passed him that morning seemed a long time ago.
His feet were like two blocks of ice at the end of his rubbery, gangling legs. It was just after noon on what should have been a sunny Sunday, but rays from the faint yellow orb in the sky had to poke their way through an ever-thickening gloom cast off by the volcano. As a result, the air had a bite to it, and Frost longed for a flu
