Devour (28 page)

Latham walked over and toed Prower’s corpse. “I had to listen to him much longer,” he said, “I would have done it with my bare hands.”

Frankie could barely hear him. He was careful not to move. He was thinking very hard and very fast.

“You should have told me you wanted this earlier,” Kharkov said from behind Frankie. “Is a very easy thing to do.”

Latham’s face twitched. “I would have beat him if he’d dealt me a few decent cards.”

Kharkov took a step closer to Frankie and shoved him in the back of the neck with something small and round. His smell washed over Frankie, and he could feel his knees unhinging, his bowels wanting to unclench. “And this one?” Kharkov said. “This one
I
am sick of listening to.”

Latham turned to face them. “Don’t be rude, Kharkov. Mr. Rollins is our partner. Put that gun away—you’re scaring him.” The pressure in the back of Frankie’s neck went away.

“The girl?” Kharkov asked.

Latham frowned. “What the hell is she doing in here? Christ, Frankie, you’re getting sloppy.” He turned back to Kharkov and motioned towards the bodies. “Drop her over the side with these two. Let the goddamn lizard swallow them.”

Frankie adjusted the lapels on his sport jacket. “She’s with me.”

Latham turned back to Frankie. “Come again?”

“I’ll take care of her later,” Frankie said. “For now, I need her.”

Latham stared at him. “You on your game, Frankie?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You want the prize, you want it smooth? Let me run it my way.”

Latham watched him, started to say something to Kharkov, and the ship shuddered again, this time accompanied by a bass metallic groan, the sound of steel slowly crumpling from underneath their feet. “Smooth, huh?” He pulled a satellite phone from the inside pocket on his sports jacket and tossed it to Kharkov. “Give Remmie notice, and tell him he better bust his ass getting out here.”

C
aptain Donald Moore stood at the railing, a Padrón cigar smoldering in his hand.

Below him, a tugboat had emerged from the fog, crashing through the swells. The sea itself was empty, with no sign of the creature. The remnants of the lifeboats had washed away, as well as the bodies of the passengers who had died in front of him. Because of him.

He raised the cigar and inhaled. The ember had gone out as he gazed at the sea. He held the cigar over the side of the railing and let it drop, a thin trail of ashes following it down to the ocean.

Behind him, the loudspeakers announced it was time for the passengers to ready themselves for transfer, to make sure only their lightweight valuables were with them. Put on life jackets, make sure the children and any elderly were near the front of the line. How many passengers were left? Moore wondered. At least fifteen had died in the ill-fated attempt to launch the lifeboats. Another half dozen had gone over the edge, either drowned or devoured.

Twenty people dead. Almost three times the number that had died off the coast of Florida.

The creature broke the surface directly below him. It was looking at him, not the tugboat; it must have sensed the cigar entering the water, had cued in on the tiny splash. Moore stared back, curious. Perhaps this creature was some agglomeration of those people whom he had inadvertently killed, all those years ago. A medley of haunted souls, recombined into this creature.
Gervais. McConnelly. Peterson. Rukavina. Pendleton.

The creature finned itself just below the surface. Its good eye was canted upward, waiting to see if anything else might fall into its world.

The tug was getting closer. It would not be able to pull the
Nokomis
back to shore, he supposed; there was too much water in the hold. They could transfer thirty or forty people onto her, perhaps. The rest . . . well. Perhaps there would be a transport ship, perhaps the Coast Guard would send that cutter.

His own days on the sea were over. It was all over: The bright hard afternoons with the blue chop spraying along the sides, the calm evenings when the ship was running smooth and the crew was in good spirits, nights when he could stand in a spot like this and see the river of stars overhead, snaking across the black sky. Knowing it was as close to heaven as he would ever be.

He stared into the water. Even if everyone who remained on the ship lived, there would be so many questions. Families seeking answers, insurance companies looking for facts. There would also be a courtroom full of questions, with an old sailor just left of center stage slumped in a chair, wearing a cheap sport jacket or an orange jumpsuit, the sea to which all questions flowed. How did it happen? When did it happen?

How did he, the captain of the ship,
let
it happen?

He looked back at the wheelhouse, his neck creaking. Graves and Vanders were working diligently, arranging the details of the tug’s approach, probably trying to figure out what to do with the rest of the crew and passengers. They took no notice of him, and he wondered if they had gone through the formal mutiny motions, had voted him off the island, or were just rolling with it.

He looked down. The creature was still staring at him. Its green eye seemed to suggest an invitation, or perhaps a question. That was a crazy thought, except. . .

Except that it
was
looking at him, and it seemed to understand there was a decision to be made. That it might partake in that decision.

In the distance, the tug hit its air horn. It would be at their side in a minute, perhaps two.

Moore put his foot on the rail and pushed himself up, straddling the railing and then swinging his other foot over, until his heels were planted against the outside of the railing. Below him the creature’s tail moved back and forth, setting little whirlpools to spin off in all directions. The railing vibrated under him, the ship moving in tiny jerking movements, like a vehicle traveling down a corduroy gravel road.

What is it you’re supposed to say
, Moore thought.
Good-bye, cruel world?

He pushed himself off the edge, landing cleanly in the water just a few yards in front of the creature. He sank several feet, caught himself instinctively, and pushed back up to the surface. The cold water was a shock to his body and his heart was thudding in his throat, racing as it hadn’t in years.

The creature moved closer, just under the surface. Its eyes, one a ruined mess and the other a sharp, intensely alive green, were framed above the enormous snout. The stained teeth curving out of its black gums, the serrated backsides clotted with bits of flesh and fabric from life jackets. It rose in the water column without seeming to move, the water cascading off its barnacled hide.

“Go ahead,” Moore croaked.

The creature flared its nostrils, its good eye still holding that same question Moore had seen from above, breathing in his scent. Then it exhaled, and the intense scrutiny of its gaze relaxed. It sank back down in the water and turned away without touching him, sliding underneath the canted bulk of the
Nokomis
.

Moore treaded water for a few more moments. His arms grew heavy, his legs weak. Eventually, he went under, the old biology kicking in as he descended, the need for air, the need for light. He opened his mouth and breathed out his last air, watching the bubbles race for the surface. Then he gathered the last strands of his will and inhaled deeply, inhaled the seawater he had loved for so long, letting it fill his lungs.

He thrashed, jerking in the water for some time. Then he fell still and sank, lifeless, beneath the shadow of the
Nokomis
. From the darkened water under the ship a green eye watched him sink, then turned upward, to the shadow of the approaching tug. The long tail began to lash back and forth again, sending underwater dervishes through the water.

B
rian lay flat on the couch, his wrists and ankles bound once again by zip ties, a plastic sheet spread underneath him. He was dressed only in his boxers, his body lit in bright detail from a portable fluorescent light Christie had rigged up. They were keeping him doped, enough to render him motionless but fully conscious.

“Listen,” Frankie said across the room, speaking into a satellite phone. “You don’t need my name, I’m just a passenger, happened to find this phone. I’m on the cruise ship
Nokomis
. It’s sinking, our radio communications are down. No, no cell phone, either.” He paused, rolled his eyes at Thor. “I already gave you the coordinates, you don’t gotta talk to the captain to confirm them.”

Christie looked up from his row of instruments to Thor. “He’s getting soft.”

“Shhh,” Thor said.

“No, I understood you the first time,” Frankie said. “But you don’t get someone out here, people are gonna die. The ship was hit by something, you understand? Hit on purpose. Send whatever you can.”

He clicked off the phone and shook his head. “Government employees, Jesus Christ. I told her people gonna die, she gives me a lecture on protocol. That’s why I don’t pay taxes.” He looked over to Thor. “Go get the girl.”

He knelt next to Brian as Thor exited the room. “Listen, sailor, you got a bum rap out of this. I’m going to say that straight up. I realize it, but this is how it is. Understand? We have to wait until the very end before we operate, in case there are delays with the game. Need to keep everything fresh. This was supposed to be Cesar, but since Cesar is now . . . unavailable . . . you’re up. See how it works?” His voice dropped. “I’m gonna try to keep the girl safe, but I need some insurance policy. Can’t just let her walk away and hope she doesn’t talk.”

He stood. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

Christie was touching each one of his tools through his latex gloves, nodding to himself. It was a routine Brian had done himself prior to setting an outrigger in rough seas: First you lay out the plan, then you check to make sure your tools are in order. There was a small battery-operated circular saw, several scalpels and clamps, a bucket of rags. The tools were all stainless steel, and Christie had already wiped them down with alcohol. On the end of Christie’s table was another syringe, much larger than the one he’d had before. It was half full, a drop of atropine hanging from the tip.

A small blue Igloo cooler sat by itself in the corner of the room.

“The girl is a stupid idea,” Christie said, looking up from his inventory of his tools. “Let me do my job.”

“We give her the option,” Frankie said. “My call.”

Thor escorted Destiny into the room. She glanced at Christie, her eyes dropping down to the tools lying on the table in front of them. When she did not look at Brian he understood what was going to happen. In some ways it was okay, better than the bloodless Christie, or getting it from snake oil Frankie. But it still wasn’t good.

Christie pulled out his cell phone and held it up to her. “Say the words when I motion to you. Then insert the needle into the big thigh muscle and press the plunger. That’s all there is to it.”

Destiny picked up the syringe. Thor stood just behind her.

“Will it be quick?” she said.

“A couple seconds,” Christie said. “And painless. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she said.

Christie motioned to her, and she looked directly at the camera, a hint of something coming over her face. Resolve, Brian thought. Good for you, Destiny. And if you get out of this, don’t think about it anymore. He twisted on the couch, the plastic wrinkling underneath him. He closed his eyes as he heard her words, clear and strong.

“My name is Destiny Boudreaux, and I do this of my own free will.”

Yeah, she would be okay. He kept his eyes closed as she moved toward him, kept them closed as he felt the needle jam into his thigh muscle. A small blossom of pain. The world would close in now and it wasn’t so bad; it wasn’t good, either, but it wasn’t terrible. It was just the end.

“I think I hit a bone.”

“What?” Christie said.

Brian opened his eyes. Destiny was staring at him. He looked down and saw the needle was in his leg, the plunger still not depressed. Christie stepped forward, still filming with his phone. He leaned over, craning for a better view, and as he did Destiny jerked the needle free from Brian’s leg, swung it in a short backhand into the side of Christie’s neck, and squeezed the plunger.

Christie yelled, bringing his fingers up to his neck and wiping frantically at the small hole on the side of his Adam’s apple. Destiny held the needle up in front of his eyes, showing him the contents. Half of the atropine meant for Brian was in Christie’s throat.

“You can’t,” Christie said, his words slurred. He took a step back, one arm waving in the air for balance.

Thor lunged forward and Destiny ducked under him, grabbing on to one massive leg. Thor started to reach down, meaning to pluck her off his leg, and froze. The needle was already buried in his calf, Destiny’s thumb on top of the plunger.

“More than enough left, big boy,” Destiny said.

Good girl, Brian thought. Good girl. He tried to push himself off the couch and managed to move his head a quarter-turn, just enough to bring Frankie into his field of vision. Frankie had backed away to the far corner of the room, his pistol in his hand but not pointed at her, just hanging along his side.

“Come on, Destiny,” he said. “Put it down. This is silly.”

“You put it down,” Destiny said. “Or I inject him with the rest of it. I mean it, Frankie.”

“So you kill Thor?” he said. “A guy I met three days ago? And then what, you tie me up and I go to prison? And Thor’s family has to bury him?”

Destiny glanced at Brian, her eyes frantic, then back to Frankie. She twisted her wrist, positioning the needle. “I’ll do it.”

“Maybe,” Frankie said, taking a step forward. “Push the plunger in or pull it out, either way I ain’t gonna put my gun down.”

Frankie ignored Thor and took a step closer. “It’s all right,” Frankie said, his voice soft. “You aren’t cold-blooded, I get it.”

Brian hand pushed weakly against the sheet as he tried to sit up. He opened his mouth, garbled out something unintelligible even to himself. They both looked to him and he shook his head. “No,” he said thickly, looking at Destiny. “It’s no use.”

Destiny looked from him to Frankie. Her hand holding the needle was trembling, and as he watched the tremble turned into a full-fledged palsy, Thor grunting as the needle worked a hole in his calf muscle.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought . . . shit.” She pulled the needle free and threw it across the floor. “I’m sorry, Brian.”

“It’s okay,” Frankie said gently. “Pick her up, Thor.”

Thor leaned over and scooped Destiny up. For a moment Brian thought he was going to wring her neck. Then the big man shifted her in his arms, something about the new position almost protective.

“Does she go with us?”

“For now,” Frankie said. “Take her up to the top. We’ll figure out the rest of the arrangements when I’m done here.”

Thor moved toward the door, stopping even with Frankie, and nodded back at Brian. “You need help with him,
chef
?”

“No, I can handle—damn it, Thor, don’t put her down.”

Thor pushed Frankie back a couple feet, positioning him at arm’s length. Frankie understood and brought his pistol up, still quick, the gun almost to chest level when Thor’s fist smacked into his forehead. Frankie staggered back, dropping the pistol from nerveless fingers. His legs wobbled and he went to his knees, staring up for a second like a penitent, then tipped to the floor, banging his head against the surgical tool table. One of the scalpels slid of the side and landed point first in the carpeted floor, quivering three inches from his cheek.

Thor stood looking down at him, his chest heaving. Not to see if he would get up, Brian thought. No, just savoring the sight of Frankie sprawled out on the cheap carpet. Then he shook his fingers, wincing. “Is bad place to hit a man,” he said to Destiny. “Like hitting a concrete block. Someday I will learn.”

“Is he . . . ?”

Thor shook his head. “The ones with small hearts, they are hard to kill. But he will have a very bad headache.”

“What now?” Brian asked. His voice sounded drunk in his own ears.

“Drink water,” Thor said. “It might help. When you can, get to the top.” He looked down at Frankie, who was breathing regularly. “Perhaps he made them send a rescue ship.”

“I can’t move Brian myself,” Destiny said. “Could you help us?”

“No,” Thor said, looking down at Frankie. “You did not kill me. I did not kill you. We are even,
ja
?”

“Even,” Destiny said.

A massive tremor ran through the room, then stopped abruptly. From somewhere above them they could hear a man yelling, and the shrill sound of an alarm. Thor nudged Frankie one more time with his foot and walked out the door.

* * *

Destiny looked at Brian. “You need water.”

“This first,” he said, holding up his wrists. The simple gesture took an enormous amount of effort. He rolled his tongue in his mouth, trying to form the word he wanted to say. “Please.”
Pluuu-uzz.

Destiny pulled the scalpel out of the floor and severed the zip ties. She helped Brian to a sitting position, then went back over to Frankie. He had fallen on top of his pistol and she had to roll him on his side to reach it. She pulled it free and, holding it by two fingers, dropped it on the edge of the bed. Then she went through his pants pockets, removing his iPhone, a packet of gum, another of mints. The iPhone was half-charged but there was no signal.

Brian tried to swing his feet over the side of the couch and his vision darkened, little motes of green-black light zigzagging across the back of his eyelids. Destiny pressed her shoulder under his arm.

“When did you decide on that plan?” he asked.

“About three seconds before I did it,” she said, turning to look at Christie. The doctor’s eyes were open, his chest still. She dropped the Glock on the bed next to him. It was black, all rounded edges, sharklike in its efficient appearance. “You know how to work that?”

He breathed in deeply, concentrating, and then reached out and touched the safety. “Push down on this,” he said. “Then pull the trigger.” He paused, took another breath. “Don’t forget to aim.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “One notch on the belt is enough for this chick. We’re waiting right here until you can hold it. I’ll find you some water.”

She opened the sink in the little bathroom, was rewarded with a hiss of air, and searched the rest of the room. There was little to search. Christie’s medical bag held nothing but his stethoscope, two more needles, rubbing alcohol, and a dozen bottles of atropine. She paused, then went over to the blue cooler. There was ice in a clear bag inside the cooler, partially melted. She opened a corner of the bag and poured it into a cup.

He drank greedily, washing the sour taste out of his mouth. When the water was gone, she pulled an ice cube out of the bag and plopped it into the cup. He pushed it from one side of his mouth to the other, crunched down. More coldness, sharper. Good.

“Brian? They never found the girl.”

He pushed himself to the edge of the couch. “Give me a hand?”

“Already?”

“We don’t have much time,” he said.

Destiny got her shoulder under him again and he stood, weaving back and forth, his vision blacking out in waves. Destiny stayed with him, her shoulder propping him up and then, as his vision cleared and his legs stabilized, reached up to press her fingers against the side of his neck.

“Your heart is racing,” she said. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“It’s pumping,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

There was a noise at the door and he twisted around, feeling awkward and slow, caught in the nightmare slow-motion world of the atropine. There were two people blocking the doorway, a large person and a small person. Brian blinked. No, it was an adult and a child. Wells, and at his side was a young girl, rubbing her wrists and looking at Brian with a significant level of distrust.

“Hawkins?” Wells surveyed the room. “My God. What happened?”

Brian sat back down on the bed, suddenly overwhelmed with relief. It was not much help, but it wasn’t the enemy, either.

“Did anyone ever call you a blister before, Dr. Wells?”

Wells cocked his head. “Come again?”

“A blister,” he said. “Shows up after all the work is done.” He reached down and tucked the Glock into his waistband. “Come on, help me get upstairs. We’re abandoning ship.”

* * *

“I tried to convince them it was a bad idea,” Wells said. “Nobody would listen to me.”

“Talk them out of what?” Destiny asked, readjusting her grip on Brian. “Your legs getting any better?”

“They’re nice and sturdy,” Brian said. “I just like leaning on you.”

“I’m serious.”

Brian straightened, taking some of his weight off Destiny. Yes, he was getting stronger, but it was coming back slowly. He put out a hand on her shoulder instead and motioned for them to continue down the hallway. “Where did you find Taylor?”

“They had her tied up.” Wells said. “After I snuck out of the wheelhouse, I found her coming out of a room on C-deck.”

“Why the hell did they tie you up?” Brian said. Taylor recoiled and slid around the far side of Destiny. “I don’t know,” Wells said. “She wouldn’t tell me who did it, either.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s awfully scared.”

“You said something about trying to talk them out of it? Out of what?”

“Launching the lifeboats,” Wells said. “There were about five or six people who insisted we needed to get off the ship, and they convinced others to help them. Graves is acting captain now, and he tried to stop them, too. They wouldn’t listen to either one of us.”