Hell Rig (22 page)

Chapter Twenty

“I can barely see their lights.” Edward Buras peered into the fog surrounding Global Thirteen. “That’s odd. The fog is twice as thick around them as it is here.”

Lefavre pushed the button on the ship’s horn. It blared out but the fog seemed to absorb the sound before it traveled beyond the deck. He tried again with the same results.

“I don’t see any lights in the main building,” he said. “They must be asleep. We’ll anchor here. At daylight, you and I will go over and wake them up.”

Buras nodded. “I’ll tell the others.”

Lefavre watched him go. The
Bon Temp Rollez
carried a crew of three besides him and his First Mate. They ranged from a sixteen-year old kid on his first voyage to a fifty-five year old salt. It was a good crew. He knew he could trust them to do their jobs and they knew he would treat them right. During busy season, he often got twice the going rate for rush jobs. He always shared with his crew. This kept them happy and loyal.

Lefebvre heard the rattling of the anchor chain and killed the engines. “Strange fog,” he muttered as he walked over to the cabin door. “Looks like some kind of sea serpent coiled around the rig that way.” As he waited for daylight, he checked the weather reports. Hurricane Rita was headed their way now, less than two days out. It looked as though New Orleans was due for another round of bad weather. “God help them,” he muttered.

Working out of Grand Isle, he knew would be in for it too. His best course of action after dropping off the supplies and picking up a load was to head directly for Sabine Pass on the border of Texas to the west. It offered better protection from the storm surge. Lefavre checked his clock. They did not have much time for niceties. He would have to wake up the rig crew and start off loading supplies as soon as possible.

He reached for the intercom. “Edward, we can’t wait for daylight. Get a move on.” He waited on Buras. A few minutes later Buras poked his head in.

“Ready, Cap’n.”

The skiff was already in the water, floating alongside the ship. He climbed in and sat at the tiller as Buras rowed them over to the platform’s landing dock. The sea was glass smooth and the oars hardly made a sound as they bit into the water. The fog opened up before them like drapes pushed aside.

“That’s strange,” Lefavre said. A sudden chill raised goose bumps on his arm.

They had no trouble climbing onto the landing dock. Lefavre tried the intercom located beside the stairs.

“It’s not working,” he said after a few failed attempts.

“What’s that?” Buras said, pointing upwards.

Lefavre looked up and saw Waters standing near the top of the stairs. Waters was slack-jawed and his eyes were void of life. He stared down as if looking through them. He reminded Lefavre of a zombie.

“Who are you?” he yelled up at the man.

Waters said nothing.

“I am Captain Lefavre of the
Bon Temp Rollez
. Permission to come aboard?”

Still, Waters remained silent.

“He looks confused,” Buras whispered. “Maybe he’s sick.”

“Or drunk,” Lefavre whispered as he began to climb the stairs.

Suddenly, Waters smiled and Lefavre’s heart skipped a beat. Waters’ face had gone from slack-jawed dumbness to a look of total malice. His eyes, so dead and expressionless moments earlier, now bore an animal lust. A knife appeared in Waters’ hand. Lefavre began to back down the stairs.

“Cap’n!” Buras shouted.

Lefavre looked back and saw the fog closing in on them. Ominous shadows moved in the midst of it. A tendril of fog shaped like a hand grasped Lefavre’s hand on the rail. He jerked his hand away in pain and saw a large red welt appear on the skin.

“The fog burns,” he told Buras in amazement. “Let’s get out of here!”

“No one leaves,” Waters said in a dead voice.

Lefavre and Buras pushed their way through the fog to their skiff, ignoring the pain. They covered their faces with their hands but the flesh exposed to the fog—hands and ears—burned as if dipped in acid.

“No one leaves,” Waters repeated.

Lefavre uncovered his face and saw Waters standing in front of them.

“How—” Lefavre began. His sentence died in infancy as Waters’ knife sliced deep into the Captain’s throat. Lefavre felt hot sticky blood gushing over his hand and running down his chest. He opened his mouth and blood spilled out, running down his chin. He tasted the salty tang of blood on his tongue. He looked at Buras just as the fog enveloped his First Mate like a shroud and snatched him away screaming. The scream ended abruptly in a sickening crunch.

Lefavre fell backwards onto the deck in slow motion. The living fog swirled around him supporting his body gently as he fell. Strangely, he felt no pain but he knew he was dying. He lay there staring at the night sky wishing he could see the stars one more time as his life’s blood poured from between his fingers and dripped into the sea through the deck grating. Waters stood over him, grinning inanely with blood staining the knife he held in his hand. Lefavre saw him glance over at the
Bon Temp Rollez
. He tried uselessly to yell a warning, realizing they were as doomed as he was.

He touched his crucifix, tried to raise it to his lips, but his strength failed. He died hearing the sound of insane laughter echoing in the living fog.

* * * *

“Why don’t they answer?” Lisa asked. She was agitated, jerking at the railing. They had hailed the supply ship several times with no results.

Jeff didn’t answer. He was looking closely at the supply ship in the early morning light. The fog had cleared and he could see it plainly. “I think it’s sinking,” he announced, stunned by what he saw.

“What?”

He pointed. “Look. It’s listing starboard a good ten degrees.”

“Oh God!” Lisa exclaimed. “What do we do?”

“The fog’s gone. I’ll swim out there. Maybe I can use the radio to call for help or bring back their skiff.”

“Please be careful,” she warned.

“Don’t worry, I will.”

He raced down the stairs and almost stumbled over a body.

“What the hell?” he muttered. He didn’t recognize the man but saw the captain’s hat. He also saw the ruby-red slash across the man’s throat. “Waters’ handiwork,” he said to himself.

He looked at Lisa. “Go back and get the others. I found a body.”

“I’ll stay and keep watch for you,” she said.

“No! Get the others, now!” he yelled.

She flinched at the ferocity of his voice and left.

Jeff removed his shoes and pants and dove into the water. The water was oddly frigid for September, more like sixty-five degrees rather than the normal eighty. As he swam across to the sinking ship, he had an equally sinking premonition it would be too late for anyone onboard. Waters or whatever controlled Waters had been at work already. He doubted he would find anyone alive. He just prayed the radio would work.

Jeff dragged himself up the side of the ship using the old tires hanging from the sides of the ship by chains—bumper tires. The stern deck was already awash and the ship was listing sharply starboard. He raced for the bridge.

It was empty, but someone had been there ahead of him. The radio was smashed, useless. A broken coffee mug, shredded charts, even a crushed bouquet of fresh flowers littered the floor. He looked at a weather report lying on the desk and gasped aloud when he saw that Tropical Storm Rita, churning the waters out near Cuba when they had set out for the rig, had now become a Class Five hurricane and was headed for landfall on the coast somewhere near New Orleans. It would be in their vicinity in less than thirty-six hours. He said a silent prayer for New Orleans. With the levees down and the city flooded, it could not withstand another hurricane.

“Damn! Just what we needed!” He slammed his open palm against the desk. He looked out the cabin door and saw the ship’s skiff upside down in the water. “Wonderful.” That eliminated that chance of escaping the platform. Jeff was losing hope of getting off the rig alive.

Though he doubted there were any survivors on the ship, he had to look. He found the first body on the deck, a young kid in his late teens lying in a pool of blood between two pallets of blasting sand. His eyes were open, staring unbelieving at the blood seeping around his hands clasped over his chest. He was alive but just barely. Jeff leaned over him and he looked up.

“He came out of nowhere, mister,” the teen said, his voice shaking. “He cut me up real bad. Am I gonna die?”

Jeff moved the kid’s hand and blood spouted from the wound. He quickly replaced it. “Keep pressure there and I’ll look for a medical kit.”

“Don’t leave me,” the kid pleaded. “I don’t want to die alone.”

Jeff nodded. It was the least he could do. “Anyone else injured?”

The kid shook his head. “I don’t know about the Captain and Ed Buras, the First Mate. They went over to the platform last night and didn’t come back. Mr. Collins and Mr. Hazlewood are both dead. I saw it. God, it was awful. That man…that madman materialized out of nowhere. He was just suddenly there. He hacked them to pieces below decks, laughing the whole time. I ran but he found me.”

He closed his eyes and groaned. “Jesus, it hurts!”

The ship heaved simultaneously with a loud rumble and began to slide into the water stern first. He knew it was time to abandon ship but he couldn’t leave the boy.

“She’s sinking isn’t she?” he asked.

“Yes.”

The kid shook his head. “She was a good ship.” He began to cough up blood. His eyes grew wide when he saw the crimson flecks on his shirt. “That doesn’t look good, does it?”

Jeff tried to get the boy’s mind off the inevitable. “What’s your name, kid? Is there anyone I should…you know…notify?”

“Name’s Doug Peters. I got nobody. My family has been dead two years. I just signed on a few weeks ago but it’s like I found a new family here. It’s kinda nice we’ll all stay together, you know, like a family.”

Jeff nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

A loud moan and the sound of wrenching metal erupted from one of the open cargo hatches. The ship bobbed a few times and rolled even farther to starboard. Jeff braced himself against the pallet of sand bags.

“You better go, mister. Thanks for staying.” He raised himself from the deck a few inches. “If you see that son of a bitch with that big eagle knife…” He fell back gasping for breath.

“I’ll wait with you,” Jeff promised.

Peters nodded and smiled. “I think it won’t be long now.”

The kid exhaled his last breath and his young body went slack. Jeff closed the boy’s eyes. The ship rolled once more and sand bags began to topple from the top of the pallets. Barrels of much needed diesel broke their lashings and rolled across the deck into the sea. Jeff glanced at Doug Peters’ body one last time and walked to the railing, a sick feeling in his stomach at such a useless loss. He spotted a First-Aid kit on the cabin wall. He raced to get it just as the second cargo hatch exploded upwards in a geyser of water, the ship shuddering in her final death throes. Jeff dove over the side just as she began to roll.

The ship rolled over until the barnacle-crusted hull was visible and slowly slipped beneath the waves, stern first, hissing like a giant cockroach as trapped air escaped. Jeff swam on his back, watching the ship go under. Back on the platform, he watched the ship’s bow disappear beneath the waves, leaving only an oil slick and scattered debris. He said a quick prayer for the crew and rushed back upstairs.

“What the hell happened?” McAndrews called out as he reached the main deck.

“Waters,” he said. “He beat me to the ship.”

“Are they all dead?” McAndrews voice was plaintive, as if he had already guessed the answer to his question.

Jeff looked at the slowly scattering debris on the water, the only evidence a ship had ever been there. “I hope to God they were.”

“Well, that tears it,” Ed yelled. “We’ll die here on this damn rig.”

“Tolson will,” McAndrews said. “His fever is out of control. He won’t last the day.”

Jeff handed him the medical kit. “I managed to grab this. Maybe there are some antibiotics in it.”

McAndrews took the kit and rummaged through it, withdrawing an ampoule of penicillin and two disposable syringes. He smiled. “Good job, Towns.”

“We’re not dead yet,” Lisa added. “Help will come.”

Jeff shook his head. He hated to tell them the bad news. “That’s not all. The radio was smashed but I saw a weather report. Hurricane Rita is bearing down on us, a Class Five storm now, like Katrina. It’s due to hit us in less than thirty-six hours.”

“Oh, God,” Lisa cried out in dismay.

“We’re screwed,” Sims said with a chuckle, summing up their situation succinctly. “This rig will never take another hit like the last one.” He looked at the others. “It also means something else. They will never send out the refit crew in the face of a hurricane. No one’s coming back here, not until the weather clears. We’re stuck here.”

Jeff wanted to smash Sims’ face. The man seemed to take delight in conveying bad news. Even if he had resigned himself to dying here, he didn’t have to wish it on everyone else.