Devour (25 page)

B
rian sat on the wooden chair, feeling his pulse beating against the top of his skull where Thor had struck him. The big bastard had one coming back to him. Forget the fists; he was going to pick up a chair, maybe the one he was tied to, and smash the backrest right across that wide face, feel the wood and teeth splinter.

Good idea, but it probably wasn’t in the cards. The two zip ties around his wrists and ankles meant he wasn’t going anywhere, except over the side of the ship. A couple strips of plastic, a few bad decisions, and here he was. Four decades, give or take. The first couple of decades floating by in a blur of sunshine and wide-open, bursting life; the third and beginning of the fourth decades where it began to take on a sweetness, a ripeness, Sienna and then Mason. Fourth decade just started and now almost over.

He didn’t want to go out like this, and he guessed the Mexican sitting across the room didn’t, either. They had exchanged glances a couple of times, but so what? The Mexican was zip tied, same as Brian. There was only one guard in the room, a guy named Hornaday, but he was alert, staying back, good protocol.

The Mexican was rolling his wrists. He was doing it slowly, trying to hide his movements from the guard. Brian almost told the Mexican not to bother. He’d used these industrial-strength zip ties on his boat, and there was no way a man could escape them if they were tight, which they were. Sometimes if you left them out in the sun they would turn brittle, but their days of sunlight were over.

The ship lurched underneath him, and the infrastructure gave an almost human shriek. It lurched again, and he leaned against the momentum as the ship rocked to the side. The
Nokomis
started to come back to center, and then the creature hammered them again. They lurched hard to port, the alarm clock sliding off the little bedside table.

The Mexican was looking at him with raised eyebrows. Brian blinked three times. Why not?

They started to rock back to the center and the creature smashed into them again. The Mexican tumbled awkwardly to the floor, rolling down the carpet toward the guard, who was bracing himself against the door frame. The Mexican rolled in a tight ball toward the guard, a turn and half, traveling at a good clip toward Hornaday’s ankles. Brian watched with interest, impressed with the move.

Hornaday saw him at the last second and sidestepped, letting the Mexican slam into the wall.

“Nice try, Cesar.”

Brian hit the floor at angle, using his shoulders and elbows to start his own roll. He was taller than Cesar and his feet tangled in the other bunk before he could tuck into his own somersault. At the same time the ship began to level out, slowing his progress before it had barely begun He heard the Mexican grunt somewhere behind him, and a moment later felt a boot pin him to the floor.

“Stop this bullshit,” Hornaday said, and then his words broke off in a high-pitched scream, and the boot on Brian’s back was gone. Brian pushed himself over. Cesar’s teeth were buried in Hornaday’s other ankle, and he was shaking his head from side to side, ripping into the Achilles tendon. Hornaday swung his other boot back for a kick and Brian pushed himself forward. The boot meant for Cesar’s face hit Brian high on the shoulder and Hornaday, suddenly unbalanced, went sprawling.

Brian fought through the snarl of arms and legs and struggled to a kneeling position. He brought his hands up over his head just as Hornaday looked up, and Brian’s clenched fists caught him just above the hairline. The blow sent Hornaday back to the floor, where he screamed again; Cesar was pulling the stringy flesh away from his ankle, a scene straight from a zombie movie. Brian brought his clenched hands down again, getting his upper body into it this time, and hit Hornaday just above the corner of his left eyebrow.

Hornaday’s scream trailed off, his glazed eyes rolling back in his head.

After a moment Cesar released Hornaday’s ankle. For a moment the two men regarded each other warily, and then the Mexican’s face broke open in a bloody grin.

“Taste like T-bone,” he said in perfect English. “Rare.”

“Jesus,” Brian said. “Wipe your face off.”

He went through Hornaday’s pockets, forgetting about the pistol until he saw the Mexican pull it from under Hornaday’s shoulder holster. Hornaday’s pants pockets were empty, not even loose change. A pack of cigarettes inside his jacket pocket, a couple smokes rattling around inside. No knife, no clippers.

“We have to get out of these,” Brian said, holding up his wrists. “The whole damn ship probably heard him scream.”

Cesar held up the pistol. “I have this.”

“They’ve got them, too,” Brian said. “Come on, help me look.”

He hopped to the far side of the room. It was sparsely furnished; no medicine kit in the bathroom, no nail clippers or razors, just a bed stand with a Gideon Bible and a small plastic-wrapped container of facial tissues inside the drawer. There wasn’t even a sharp edge to rub the plastic against. No hard corners on cruise ships, Brian thought. That makes sense.

“Hey,” Cesar said.

Brian turned, for some reason expecting the gun to be pointed at him. But Cesar was holding up Hornaday’s cigarettes, a little book of matches tucked inside the cellophane.

“Damn right,” Brian said, hopping back over to him.

Cesar was a few inches shorter than Brian, well-muscled, and his eyes were very intense. He peeled a match free, then twisted the book around to expose the scratch pad. “You hold the book,” Cesar said. “I have the match.”

It took several tries until the match popped into flame. Brian held out his wrists, palms bent backwards. The heat was sudden and intense, the whiff of sulfur overwhelmed by the stench of burning wrist hair. He struggled to keep his wrists steady, fighting every natural instinct in his body. His skin burned along with the plastic, crackling under the heat from the tiny flame. He groaned.

The ship lurched under them and the flame moved away for the briefest moment, then back to his skin. Fresh pain, still a surprise after its second-long absence. He mumbled something about taking a break.

“Almost there,” Cesar said. “It doesn’t look as bad as it feels.”

Then his wrists were free. His first instinct was to punch Cesar and he took a breath instead, looking at his wrists, now covered in strands of scorched plastic caught in hair. Closer to the zip tie, his wrist hairs were burnt into brittle brown ghosts. The skin itself was smudged and charred, but Cesar was right, it wasn’t as bad as it felt.

“Now me,” Cesar said.

“In a minute.” Brian dropped to the floor and pulled another match. He popped it on the scratchpad and held it to the zip tie around his ankle. “It’s better this way,” Brian said. “They come in that door, one of us better be able to move.”

“I’m the one with the gun. Come on, it’s my turn.”

“Two seconds,” Brian said. The flame ate into the plastic around his ankles, softened it, and a moment later he was free. He stood, looked at the pistol in Cesar’s clenched hands. Not pointed at him, but close enough. “I’m not leaving you tied up on a sinking ship,” he said. “Long as you don’t point that gun in my direction.”

“The match.”

“Put the gun down.”

Cesar pursed his mouth, glanced at the door, and set the gun down on the bed.
“Darse prisa
,
”
he said. “Hurry up.”

Brian struck the match and leaned close, noticing Cesar’s fingertips were blackened from where he had held the match. He held the flame just under the plastic, watched as the white turned a light brown and began to bubble. The skin behind turned from light to a darker brown, then began to blacken. Cesar did not move, did not make a sound. In what seemed a fraction of the time it had taken for Brian’s ties to melt, Cesar was free, rolling his wrists and nodding. Brian handed him the matchbook and watched as Cesar quickly freed his ankles.

Cesar stood. “So. You’re Frankie’s man?”

“No,” Brian said. “I’m a castaway. Fishing boat captain.” Cesar frowned, and Brian shrugged. “I had bad luck, lost my fishing boat. Washed up on this ship.”

“Ahh.” Cesar racked the pistol, saw the gleam of brass, and pushed it forward. “I’m a bad luck man, too. You said the ship is sinking?”

“Yeah,” Brian said. “There’s something in the water trying to get us all the way sunk. You hear that thudding? That’s it.”

“Yes,” Cesar said. “I heard the thudding. Listen, how does a man get off of this ship?”

“I’ve been working on that. In the meantime, I’m guessing you don’t want to run into Frankie Rollins.”

“No me importaria
.
”

“Huh?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“We’re outgunned,” Brian said, shaking his head. “Way I see it, you find a place to lay low until the rescue ships show up. Then you sneak on board the other ship—”

Cesar smiled, his upper lip still smeared with blood. “Us
inmigrante
s, we’re real good at that.”

“Good. What do Frankie’s people want with you?”

“Nothing good,” Cesar said. “I bet they don’t want nothing good for you, either.”

“Yeah, we’re two peas in a pod,” Brian said. “Wipe the rest of that blood off your mouth, will you?”

Cesar drew his forearm across his mouth. “We stay together,” he said, inspecting the smear. “They shoot at you, less bullets for me. You ready?”

“I have to find a woman,” he said. “And an old man.” He paused, thinking
Steady, steady
. What else was he forgetting? Push the panic down, think. Where did his responsibilities end? “Maybe a little girl, too.”

“Yes,” Cesar said. “Yes. How about a boy, an old lady? Transvestites, too. Get them all,
hombre
. Get them all.”

“These are friends of mine,” Brian said.

“And after you save these people, we’re supposed to meet somewhere so you can help sneak me onto this rescue ship?” Before Brian could answer Cesar shook his head and wagged the muzzle of the pistol at him. “No, you come with me.”

“I’m going to get them,” Brian said. “Flap that gun around all you want. You shoot, Frankie’s men are damn sure going to hear it.”

“Ah, a stubborn bad luck man.” Cesar let the pistol fall to his side and inspected Brian again. “Okay, we stay together. Like a team,
sí
? Come on.”

He opened the door and went out, no hesitation, holding the pistol tight against his hip. Brian followed him, stepping over Hornaday. The bodyguard was not quite unconscious, his glazed eyes following the movement. He made to grab Brian’s ankle, his hand coming up in a slow, dreamlike motion. Brian sent a boot into his ribs and closed the door behind him, shutting out the sounds of Hornaday’s groans. The floor was slick with his blood.

“Where now?” Cesar said.

Brian looked down the hallway. To the right was the day care. Was Destiny in there? Maybe. Open the door and find out, get your ass shot off. To the left of them were passenger cabins, doors closed. They could hide out in one of those for a while, maybe, watch the door...

Brian thought of the ship in his mind, a cross section. The
Nokomis,
half-full of water, steadily slipping into the sea. Soon enough it would roll. The impacts from the creature had stopped for the moment, but if they started up again, the extra momentum would nudge the ship over the balancing point. If she was in there with a bunch of armed men, there was little to be gained by going in after her. Once the ship started to fill with water, though, they would all be forced to move.

“Ship is going down.” He touched Cesar on the shoulder and pointed to the exit sign above the next door. “We go up.”

* * *

Cesar went through the hallway door fast, something about the way he moved suggesting experience with these kinds of situations. The stairwell was deserted, so dark all they could see were the edges of the individual treads. They took the stairs two at a time, pausing briefly at the landing at B-deck, listening to the beehive buzz of the crowd.

“No,” Brian said, catching hold of Cesar’s arm before he could open the door. “One more level. Let’s go find
el capitan
.”

Cesar frowned. “I don’t trust him, neither.”

“We aren’t going to have tea with the man.”

The door to A was locked. Cesar pointed the pistol at the lock and Brian caught his arm once again, waved him back. He lowered his shoulder, tucking his arm in tight against his body, and hit the door. It rattled in its frame and he heard splintering near the lock. He backed off a few steps, rubbing his shoulder.

“Ready?” Brian said.

“They ready for us, too. You just warned them.”

“They might be expecting somebody,” Brian said. “It sure as hell ain’t the two of us.”

He hit the door hard, keeping his feet moving after the impact, feeling the frame of the hollow core door splinter around the handle. He kept going, following the arc of the door around, clearing a lane for Cesar to come through.

The deck way was abandoned, although he could hear people screaming again, somewhere below them. Ahead of him, in the wheelhouse, a lone officer was watching something out the far window. There was a knot of men at the bow of the boat, the same location where Brian had jumped overboard to retrieve Gilly’s body. Some were dressed in ship whites, others the quasi-professional jumpsuits of Latham’s and Prower’s bodyguards. They were all looking over the side of the ship.

Brian padded softly along the backside of the wheelhouse, crossing over to the port-side deck way. They could hear the people on B-level deck way more clearly now, shouting at each other, some of them sobbing. Brian leaned over the edge and sucked in his breath. The water fifty yards off the
Nokomis
was covered in wreckage. Several people were trying to swim back toward the ship, battling the large waves in their bulky orange life preservers. Another lifeboat was motoring away from the
Nokomis
, the Honda outboard whining.