Monstrum (29 page)

W
e careen the rest of the way down the corridor and stumble up the metal staircase. I'm half-blinded by my hot tears for Maggie, so I focus all my attention on not plowing into the people ahead of me. I've learned my excruciating lesson about slowing down to look, and there's no point in looking behind, anyway. The approaching clatter of the chimera's spidery legs is painfully audible as it gains on us. There's also no point in wondering if it can get up the stairs when I know it can and surely will—either by climbing or jumping.

If the chimera has a weakness, I haven't seen it yet.

I do a quick head count to make sure we haven't lost anyone else and discover that my friends are all wearing identical expressions of wild-eyed, open-mouthed, silently-screaming fear. It occurs to me that this, above anything else, is what fuels the chimera. Not the blood, the chaos or even the shiny trinkets.

It wants our terror.

At that moment, it lets loose with a piercing shriek that's harrowing enough to turn my hair whiter than Murphy's. This triggers a panicked yell from all of us.

We run faster. At last we arrive at the heavy glass door leading to the deck.

Murphy bangs it wide with a vicious shove.

“Through here!” he roars, holding it open and yanking us through. “Hurry!”

My turn comes, with Cortés and Dr. Baer bringing up the rear. I have no idea where Captain Romero has gotten to, nor do I care. If I could, I'd serve him up to the chimera on a silver platter, which is exactly what he deserves.

Everything that's happened, especially Maggie's senseless death, is his fault.

Shaking and still crying, I swipe at my eyes and try to get my bearings as we emerge onto the deck. The hurricane immediately swallows us whole and absorbs us into the black night.

A driving rain, as frigid as it is relentless, stings my face and overcomes the tears in my eyes, blinding me anew. The howling wind slams into my face, making Silly Putty of my skin and threatening to rip off my features.

The hurricane is going to kill us before the chimera can, I think.

The ship churns against the ocean's crests and troughs, as battered as a kid's newspaper sailboat in a carwash. Waves the size of mountains rise up and lash us through the metal railing. We cling to it in a desperate attempt to avoid being swept overboard. Within seconds, I'm soaked to the marrow of my bones and slowed by my wet clothes and shivering limbs. Another wave hits, and Dr. Baer goes down. The water sweeps him, yelling and thrashing, away from the rail. He disappears into the shadows at the base of some of the heavy equipment. I falter, wondering if we should go after him.

Someone shouts. Points over the rail, out to sea.

Squinting, I see the winking lights of the escort ship. Further down the deck, a clump of crewmen huddle around the dinghy tied to the railing.

My brain is numb with fear and cold, but I understand the plan, and this is what I focus on:

We need to get into the dinghy before the chimera kills us or the ocean drowns us, zoom the hundred yards or so to the escort ship, climb aboard and head for dry land and safety.

Simple.

But walking across the wet deck while the ship rolls from wave to wave, even while holding on to the rail, is like trying to cross an ice-covered tightrope stretched across an abyss.

We do our best, inching along in single file with Murphy in the lead.

Up ahead, the crewman in charge of the evacuation directs the last of his coworkers into the dinghy, looks up and spies our group.

“Vamos!”
he shouts over the wind, waving us on.
“Mais rápido!”

Without warning, he pauses. His eyes widen and his jaw drops into a frozen gape as he tips his head up . . . and up . . . and up to stare at something behind us.

Something that causes the door's glass to shatter and spray shards in a wide radius, catching me across the back.

I holler with pain, as do several of the others.

“Meu Deus!”
Crossing himself, the crewman in charge abandons all pretext of an orderly evacuation and shouts at us as he vaults the rail and jumps into the dinghy.
“Mais rápido! Mais rápido!”

Murphy reaches the dinghy first, turns to us and gestures wildly. “Come on, you little shits! Let go of the bloody rail and get your asses over here now! NOW!”

I let go and try to run, but the ship rolls to one side. I slam back into the rail with enough force to rupture my kidney. I ignore the searing pain and keep going, my sneakered feet scrambling for traction. Cortés, who seems much more sure-footed than I am, yanks on my hand to keep me going.

“Mais rápido!”
the crewman shouts.

Through the wet strands of hair trailing across my face, I see that Gray and Carter have jumped over the rail and are now safely in the dinghy helping the others in. Sammy and An are next.

“You can run faster than that!” Murphy shouts at me and Cortés.

We run.

Mike's in the crowded dinghy now, thank God, and that leaves just me and Cortés.

“What're you doing, you feckin' yellow cowards?” Murphy screeches at a crewman fumbling with the cables. The crewman answers angrily in Portuguese. The voices of my friends rise up in protest. “Don't you lower this dinghy until all of my kids are on board! Don't you dare!”

The dinghy is already several feet lower than it was just a second ago and dropping fast toward the water. My gaze is locked on Murphy, so I see the exact second when his attention is diverted from the dinghy to whatever the chimera's doing behind us.

My lungs heave for air, my straining thighs want to collapse and I'm desperate to look back, but we're less than five feet away from the dinghy now, and if I can just. . .

I hit a particularly slick spot and drop fast and hard, landing on my butt and then hitting the back of my head on the deck with a sickening thud.

“Bria!”

Stunned, I try to sit up because I know it's important and there's something long, thin and hard digging into my back . . . God, my head hurts, and that hard thing—I remember now it's the panga's wooden hilt—is really painful. Yes, I need to get up . . . why do I need to get up? It's the chimera, isn't it—

“Bria!”
Cortés thunders.

I give my head a shake and try to focus.

The chimera . . . ? Yes! The chimera is coming! We have to hurry . . .

“Cortés, get her on the boat, man, d'you hear me?” The urgency in Murphy's voice pierces my foggy brain, and, with great effort and Cortés's help, I heave onto all fours and get one foot back under me. “Don't stop for nothing!”

I'm up now, and the three of us—me, Cortés and Murphy—just need to climb into the dinghy and we'll be on our way to safety. But I see, as I look past the vibrating cable and over the rail, that the dinghy, with all my friends in it, is now much closer to the water than it is to me.

“Bria!” Gray stands and reaches his arms up to me, struggling to keep his footing as the dinghy drops lower and lower. “You have to jump! Jump, Bria!” He turns to the crewmen. “Goddammit, will you wait for them? You have to wait!”

He, Carter and Mike get into a scuffle with a couple of the crewmen, tussling over the cables. An gets in on the act, too, jumping onto the back of a guy who's got his fist cocked to nail Carter in the face and wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Don't you touch him!” she shrieks while the guy stumbles blindly in his effort to fend her off. “And you keep this dinghy right here until my friends get in! Do you hear me?”

Ignoring the hot pain knifing its way through the back of my skull, I swing my leg over the rail and look around for Murphy, who should be right there and ready to jump with us.

He's gone.

“Murphy?”
I say.

I hear a giant splash and the rising cries of my friends. The dinghy's hit the water, then. But we can't leave without Murphy.

“Bria, c'mon, let's go!” orders Cortés.

“Where's Murphy?” I demand, squinting against the driving rain.

Oh, God. Murphy, no.

Murphy's dropped to one knee in the middle of the deck. He's got his rifle braced against his shoulder and is squinting through the sights, taking aim at something far above him.

I look at the chimera, which has become an even bigger and more grotesque version of itself. Now about ten or fifteen feet tall—God, how can anything grow that fast?—it's got thicker tentacles and longer legs. A triangular-shaped head with a wider mouth that allows for what looks like twice as many teeth. Tangled teeth that flash white against the darkness and the rain, each one longer than my hand. The new shell is ridged and horned, spiking at the sides and as impregnable as the stone walls of some medieval castle.

Rising up on its hind legs, it snaps its enormous claws and growls at Murphy.

Murphy never flinches.

The first rifle shot pierces the storm's fury with a sharp crack, but the bullet seems to glance off the top of the chimera's head without fazing it. The second shot hits its cheek, and I can just make out the shower of blood. The chimera writhes and squeals, making my heart soar. So it
can
be wounded! If Murphy can just hit it a couple more times. . .

The chimera folds up its legs and falls to the deck with a crash that makes the ship shudder. Then it retracts into its shell until only its splayed tentacles, claws and gleaming eyes are visible.

Murphy's next two shots hit the shell and emit sparks before ricocheting harmlessly away. Cursing, he adjusts his aim and tries to nail it between the eyes with another shot, but the shell's horny ridge forms a protective shelf.

Murphy pauses, frowning, and I can tell he's as stumped and desperate as I am.

Where is the chimera's weak spot? How can we kill it now?

Using its powerful tentacles for traction against the deck, the chimera slowly turns its body toward the glass door. The three of us watch, disbelieving, as the thing slithers a few feet away. Murphy lowers the rifle just enough to exchange a wary glance with me and Cortés, and his expression slides into a smile as the chimera keeps going.

It's retreating!

“Now's your chance!” Murphy jerks his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing at the dinghy. “Get your asses outta here.”

Lifting one of its tentacles high like a dog peeing on a hydrant, the chimera expels a dark liquid at Murphy, splashing him squarely across the top of his body.

Is that
. . . ink?

The stench—a solid force of rotting decay and salt—hits me in a revolting wave.

Then I see white tendrils of smoke as the ink, or whatever it is, sizzles on Murphy's flesh.

Then I hear Murphy's shrill scream of pain as he recoils and slaps at his face, trying to wipe off the liquid.

“Murphy!” Cortés shouts.

The chimera emerges from its shell, stretches its spindly legs to their full height and rears up over Murphy. Its bottom jaw drops open, flashing the razor sharp forest of teeth.

It leans down, clearly preparing to bite Murphy's head off as effortlessly as it severed Maggie's body a few minutes ago.

“Nooo!” I scream.

The chimera spews an endless stream of orange and purple flames at Murphy.

I cover my eyes and back away from the blinding light and heat, but not before I see Murphy ignite.

My elementary school training kicks in. I look wildly around for something to put the flames out with—extinguisher? Blanket?—but there's no need. The fire consuming Murphy flares up and dies out as quickly as a short fuse on a stick of dynamite, and the driving rain has no effect on it whatsoever.

The fire is gone, but the damage is done, and done well.

Murphy drops, facedown, to the deck.

The chimera looms, bellowing so loudly it feels as though someone is using a sword to slice through my eardrums. The excruciating noise cranks my agitation level higher, until finally the rage ballooning inside me explodes and shoots shrapnel in all directions.

That evil monster just killed Murphy.

And, I swear to God, the next thing to die on this ship will be the chimera.

Because I'm going to kill it, and I don't care if it's the last thing I ever do.

Raising the panga overhead, I go temporarily insane and sprint for the monster. I don't know where the courage comes from, but I shriek out a war cry as I charge at it.

“Bria, no!” Cortés shouts, trying to catch my arm.

There's no stopping me.

My entire universe now consists of the chimera and making it squeal with pain the way Murphy is squealing with pain.

The chimera hesitates and watches my approach, its ugly black and white head cocked with keen interest. It doesn't run, and I don't expect it to.