Ship of the Damned (15 page)
Read Ship of the Damned Online
Authors: James F. David
E
lizabeth and Anita stepped into the bathroom—“head,” is what it would be called on a ship, Elizabeth realized—and it was much as she remembered it. The facilities were designed for men. A long trough was mounted against one bulkhead, serving as a urinal. Toilets were set along the other side, separated by low partitions. Down the middle was a double row of metal sinks. Each sink had a mirror mounted over it. There was more detail than before, with faucets and handles, spouts and drains. Elizabeth went directly to the same mirror as before.
lizabeth and Anita stepped into the bathroom—“head,” is what it would be called on a ship, Elizabeth realized—and it was much as she remembered it. The facilities were designed for men. A long trough was mounted against one bulkhead, serving as a urinal. Toilets were set along the other side, separated by low partitions. Down the middle was a double row of metal sinks. Each sink had a mirror mounted over it. There was more detail than before, with faucets and handles, spouts and drains. Elizabeth went directly to the same mirror as before.
“Wes, are you there?”
“What is it, Elizabeth?”
Wes said.
Wes said.
“We’re in the bathroom—the head—and I’m looking in a mirror.”
“Lift me up, Elizabeth? I want to see too,” Anita said.
“I’m looking in the mirror, but I don’t see myself. I see a man.”
“Standing behind you?”
Wes asked.
Wes asked.
“No, I’m looking at myself, but I’m a man.” Elizabeth said. “He’s young, maybe twenty-five, with short brown hair. It’s oiled and combed to the side. He’s got a blue shirt on and the sleeves have been cut off.”
The hatch creaked and Elizabeth and Anita turned, startled to see four people step into the compartment. Three were dressed in the blue dungarees
and work shirts of sailors. The fourth was a black woman wearing green bell-bottom pants and a yellow shirt covered with big orange flowers. Most striking was her hair, which looked like a perfectly shaped ball. Elizabeth remembered the style from the sixties and recognized it as an afro.
and work shirts of sailors. The fourth was a black woman wearing green bell-bottom pants and a yellow shirt covered with big orange flowers. Most striking was her hair, which looked like a perfectly shaped ball. Elizabeth remembered the style from the sixties and recognized it as an afro.
“Have you got someone, Dawson?” the sailor in front asked.
The group approached, crowding in. Elizabeth backed up, making room. There was a hatch on the other side, and she backed toward it instinctively, ready to run.
“Elizabeth,”
Wes said.
“What is going on? Your vital signs—”
Wes said.
“What is going on? Your vital signs—”
“There are people here,” Elizabeth said.
“Who are you talking to, Roger?” the sailor said. “You made contact, didn’t you?”
“I’m scared,” Anita said.
Then another man stepped into the room. His presence was nightmarish, making what had felt real seem like a dream again. His facial features were barely distinguishable behind thick scar tissue. Anita gasped and clutched Elizabeth’s leg. The others turned to face the newcomer, as shocked as Elizabeth by his sudden appearance.
“We’re dissolving the integration!”
Wes said.
Wes said.
The disfigured man wore a silvery suit with a wide belt, and straps that held a backpack. In his hand was a gun, but he didn’t fire. Instead, he stared at the group in front of Elizabeth, and suddenly they were knocked aside, tumbling like tenpins, slamming into the bulkheads. Elizabeth had seen it before—the man was using psychokinetic power. When he turned on Elizabeth, she pulled Anita close. Before he could strike, another man in a similar suit stepped into the room, a gun in his hand. One step behind, walking with his long stride, his fleshy face shaped into a concerned look, was Ralph. Before she could speak she was hit in the chest with an invisible fist, which knocked her into the back bulkhead. Anita was pulled with her. Gasping for breath, Elizabeth collapsed, Anita kneeling with her, face buried in Elizabeth’s lap.
“Ralph,” she said hoarsely as she felt the integration begin to dissolve. Details disappeared as the dream was deconstructed—seams, rivets, bolts, faucets and pipes vanished. She tried again to get enough breath to call Ralph’s name, but it was useless, she was losing the dream. As her vision faded to black, she saw Ralph reaching for the scarred man.
E
vans killed the first two men with head shots. The Teflon slugs punctured their skulls but didn’t have the energy to blow out the other side; instead, the prefragmented bullets came apart, rattling around in their skulls, destroying soft neural tissue, pithing them like you would a frog in biology class.
vans killed the first two men with head shots. The Teflon slugs punctured their skulls but didn’t have the energy to blow out the other side; instead, the prefragmented bullets came apart, rattling around in their skulls, destroying soft neural tissue, pithing them like you would a frog in biology class.
The third man threw himself in front of the woman, saving his own life. Evans’s shot passed just over his crew cut. Evans had another shot lined up when Ralph reached him, wrapping him in his meaty arms, pinning him. Jett covered the man and the woman Evans had targeted and ordered Compton to cover the remaining man. Peters and Thompson crowded in, fingers twitching on their triggers, wondering why there were still three Specials alive.
“Let go of me?” Evans screamed.
“You gots to calm down,” Ralph said, his voice even.
“You’re dead, Ralph! You’re dead!”
Jett turned from the Specials, pointing his gun at Evans.
“Stop struggling!” Jett ordered.
Evans’s face was impossible to read through the thick scar tissue, but he relaxed, ignoring the gun in his face.
“No one touches Ralph,” Jett said.
“I won’t kill him,” Evans said finally.
Jett couldn’t trust Evans. Like Jett, his psychological profile made lying as easy as killing. Jett stepped aside, keeping his gun on Evans’s head.
“Let him go, Ralph.”
“I dunno, Nate, he did something real bad to those men.”
“Let him go!” Jett repeated.
“Okay, sure, Nate. If you say so.”
Ralph released his grip, stepping back, staring at the two dead men with his face contorted into concern. Evans flexed his arms to restore circulation, then checked his weapon. Jett relaxed, turning to the man who they had first seen on the deck. He was slumped against the far bulkhead, just coming to. Glassy-eyed, he felt the back of his head, his fingertips coming away damp with blood. Suddenly Evans’s arm snapped toward the couple cowering on the floor, his gun firing twice. Both died instantly. Ralph immediately wrapped his arms around Evans again.
Evans struggled briefly, then relaxed. Now Evans looked at Jett, smiling with the lips of a corpse.
“I only promised not to kill Ralph.”
“Thompson, take his weapon,” Jett ordered.
It wasn’t as simple as taking the gun from his hand, since they had to disconnect the pressure hose from the gas canisters in his pack. Thompson disconnected the gun, storing the weapon in Compton’s pack. Then Jett ordered Ralph to release him again. Strangely, Evans didn’t protest. Jett knew it was because in Pot of Gold Evans was a Special and was never without a weapon.
“It’s better that you don’t have a gun, Robin, even if it is just a BB gun,” Ralph said.
Evans glared at Ralph, his eyes glistening with hate.
With the other Specials dead, they turned to the lone survivor. Compton moved aside to let Jett get closer in the cramped head. The Special Evans had knocked against the back wall was fully conscious now.
“Please don’t kill me,” he begged. His eyes were riveted on Evans, either horrified by the man’s appearance, or aware that it was Evans who had done the killing.
“How many more of you are there?” Jett asked.
“You came to kill us,” the man responded.
“We only want to get to the generators,” Jett said. “We came to shut them down.”
“We’re never going home,” the man said.
Jett knew that much was certain. There was a way out for his team, but none for the Specials. The Specials were powerful and uncontrollable, and a threat to those on the outside.
“We’ll find the generators with or without you,” Jett said. “If you help us we won’t kill you.”
“We don’t need him,” Peters said with a wink, then squatted next to the man. “But I think I can get him to talk.”
Peters put his gun on the sailor’s knee.
“Whatcha doin?” Ralph said, trying to push through.
Thompson gripped Ralph’s arm, holding him back.
“Don’t hurt me,” the sailor said.
Jett held up his hand, and Peters held his fire, giving Jett another wink.
“This is your last chance,” Jett said. “Make yourself useful.”
“They won’t let anyone get near those generators,” the man said, looking down at the gun still pressed against his knee.
“Who won’t let us near them?” Jett asked.
As if in answer, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Peters dragged the captive to his feet, using him as a shield. The others turned to face the door, taking cover behind sinks and toilet stalls—there was precious little cover. With all guns trained on the door, Jett dragged Ralph to the side, reminding him with a hand motion that his lips were locked, then pushed him behind. Just ahead of Jett, Compton whispered, “Shouldn’t Ralph be in front?”
She was right. This was why they had brought Ralph. Then the footsteps stopped just outside the door. The tension grew as they waited for something to happen.
“He’s reading us,” the sailor said. “I can feel him.”
Jett took that to mean that someone outside was using a psi power.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” the sailor said.
Jett motioned Peters to keep the sailor quiet.
The hatch slammed shut. With the ringing still in their ears, the hatch opened and slammed again and again. The sound was deafening. Ralph put his hands over his ears as the door continued to pound. Suddenly it stopped; the hatch was open. Outside, the corridor began to glow, quickly growing brighter than day. Soon it was too bright for their eyes.
“Jerry Rust is out there,” the sailor said, clearly terrified. “We have to go now!”
The glow spread into the room, and Jett looked down, trying to keep his pupils from constricting. Finally, the light was so bright that he feared
being blinded and closed his eyes. Jett used his ears now, listening for the attack.
being blinded and closed his eyes. Jett used his ears now, listening for the attack.
The light grew even brighter until his eyelids glowed, so he covered them with his left hand. His skin grew warm while they waited, and he wondered if this was the attack. Then he heard a step; when he opened his eyes someone was in the doorway. As Jett raised his gun he was hit by an invisible wall.
He was knocked back, Ralph catching him, holding him up. Compton was driven back too, slamming her head on the pipe under the sink. She bounced off, lying flat. Jett was off balance, being held up by Ralph, but he fired over Compton’s head, knowing she had the sense to stay down. He was still functionally blind, unable to aim with any accuracy. Thompson fired too, and then Compton. The figures in the doorway were nothing but blurs, but Jett could see that they held some sort of weapons and were taking aim. Suddenly, the attackers were knocked back through the doorway—Evans had used his power. A bullet fragment bounced off the wall next to Jett. The room was filling with their own riccochets.
“Hold your fire!” Jett shouted.
“Yeah,” Ralph said. “One of those BBs hit me in the leg and it hurts.”
“Cover me,” Peters said.
Peters dragged the frightened sailor to the far end of the head, opening the far hatch, peeking through a crack first, then opening it wider.
“You go first,” Peters said to the sailor. “If you run I’ll kill you.”
The sailor nodded, then let Peters push him through the door into the corridor to the other side. Near panic, the sailor checked the corridor in both directions. Peters went next and then signalled the others. Jett motioned Compton to the back hatch as the attack resumed. This time Jett’s team was ready, backs against the wall, tensed for the psychic blow. It felt like a punch in the face. Jett’s nose stung, blood trickling from his left nostril. His team opened fire, aiming carefully now, the bullets angling into the corridor. When the room began to glow again, Jett ordered retreat.
Evans went through first and then Compton, who fired a burst through the open door as she retreated backward. Jett pushed Ralph toward the door, noticing that his leg was bleeding.
“It hurts, Nate,” Ralph said. “Those BB guns hurt people. I’m never gonna play with one.”
Jett reached the door and then crouched to cover Thompson, who backed toward him. The glow in the doorway was painfully bright. Now
the room was getting hot. Jett’s skin was warm to the touch when Thompson passed him, stepping into the corridor. Jett stepped through, pulling the hatch closed behind him, dogging it.
the room was getting hot. Jett’s skin was warm to the touch when Thompson passed him, stepping into the corridor. Jett stepped through, pulling the hatch closed behind him, dogging it.
Jett checked Ralph. His wound was minor, little more than a gash.
“We better move, Jett!” Compton said. “This hatch is getting hot.”
Jett touched the hatch, feeling the heat. Then he had a thought.
“Ralph, come here, touch this door.”
“Okee-dokee, Nate,” Ralph said.
Ralph put his hand on the door, his face expressionless.
“What do you feel, Ralph?”
“It’s smooth, Nate.”
“Is that all you feel, Ralph?”
“I suppose,” Ralph said, looking puzzled.
“So he is immune,” Compton said. “He wasn’t knocked over with the rest of us and he doesn’t feel the heat. I wonder if the light affected him?”
Jett and Compton exchanged puzzled looks.
“But I felt the heat and that light was as bright as looking at the sun,” Compton said.
“Induced hallucinations?” Jett suggested.
“We’ve got to get away,” their captive said, backing down the corridor.
“The heat isn’t real,” Jett said.
Then Jett remembered the blood coming from his nose. He touched his upper lip, his finger coming away sticky with blood.
“Nate, can I take my hand off now?” Ralph asked. “It’s getting awfully hot.”
Compton and Jett exchanged quick looks.
“Run!” Jett yelled.
They made only a few steps before the hatch blew, heat and smoke boiling down the corridor. Jett had Ralph by the arm, dragging him along when they were knocked to the ground, the heat and smoke washing over them. Jett held his breath and rolled over, firing toward the head. The smoke dissipated, and he could see the hatch again—there was no one. Then they were hit from behind.
Peters and the sailor were thrown back into the others, rolling over Jett and Ralph. Thompson and Compton came up firing, Compton yelling to the others to run. Evans stared down the hall using his special ability. The smoke swirled, but there were no thumps from falling bodies and no satisfying screams.
Peters and the sailor were up and running, Evans following. Jett pulled Ralph to his feet and got him into a fast walk. Ralph’s sensorimotor system
wasn’t wired for running; a fast, loping walk all he could manage. Reaching a junction, they took cover around the corner where Peters waited with the sailor and Evans. Thompson and Compton came next, retreating down the corridor, firing into the gloom. Before Compton and Thompson could reach the junction, they were sent flying, they landed flat and skidded along the deck.
wasn’t wired for running; a fast, loping walk all he could manage. Reaching a junction, they took cover around the corner where Peters waited with the sailor and Evans. Thompson and Compton came next, retreating down the corridor, firing into the gloom. Before Compton and Thompson could reach the junction, they were sent flying, they landed flat and skidded along the deck.
Jett straffed the smoke blindly, then reached out and dragged Compton around the corner to safety. Thompson crawled to the far side. It was a mistake. Now he had to cross the intersection to get to the others. Thompson signalled Jett that he would cross to their side on the count of three. He held up three fingers and then dropped them one by one. With the last finger Jett and Compton opened fire. Thompson waited only a second before making his move.
Thompson’s football career had ended because he was a step too slow for the pros, and now his life ended for the same reason. A fireball came out of the gloom, catching Thompson midstride. Enveloped by the fireball, he was knocked to the deck. His body was partially protected by the fire-resistant silver coverall, but his head was exposed and the flames concentrated there, his hair bursting into flame. Screaming in agony, Thompson started to rise—running was always the first impulse. Then he dropped and rolled, beating the flames on his face and head to no avail. Peters’ gun sputtered, Teflon bullets piercing Thompson’s skull. Now he lay still, his body still burning, but the agony over. Jett turned on Peters.
“He could have made it,” Jett said. “Evans did.”
“I wish to God I hadn’t,” Evans whispered through rebuilt lips.
Peters winked at Jett, then was off with the captive sailor.
“They’ll be coming,” Compton said, grabbing Ralph and pulling him after Peters.
Jett and Evans locked eyes, Jett wondering how much sanity was left beneath those scars. Evans broke the stare and followed the others. Gun in his hand, Jett thought of shooting Evans. It would be the safest move to make, but for the first time in his life he didn’t think of it as killing, he thought of it as murder.
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