Ship of the Damned (21 page)

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Authors: James F. David

BOOK: Ship of the Damned
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E
lizabeth found herself sitting with her back to a bulkhead on the dream ship. The detail was rich and clear again. There were people wearing silver suits like the one Ralph had worn, but no Ralph. One was a woman who leaned against another bulkhead. She had short brown hair and her face was hard, determined. With a start, Elizabeth recognized her from Dr. Birnbaum’s sketch—the woman who had helped kidnap Ralph. Another man squatted a short distance down a corridor. He was tall and thin, with nearly white-blond hair. She looked the other way and saw the scarred man squatting near the top of a steep staircase. They were at a corridor junction, with stairs leading to the decks above and below. Everything around them was steel, painted navy gray. Then she remembered Anita. The little girl was next to her, holding her knees to her chest. She was staring at the scarred man, terrified.
“Don’t be afraid, Anita,” Elizabeth said.
“I can’t help it. He’s a monster.”
“What did you say, Dawson?” the woman asked.
Elizabeth realized that the people in silver suits could hear her, but not Anita.
“Where’s Ralph?” Elizabeth said.
The woman stared at her, puzzled.
“You know where he is, Dawson.”
The blond man and the scarred man turned to listen. The woman had called her “Dawson.” Elizabeth held out her arms and looked at them. She was wearing the blue shirt with the cut-off sleeves. Her arms were the muscular ones of the man she had seen in the mirror. He was channeling her, letting her see through his eyes.
“Why are they calling you Dawson?”
Anita asked.
“They don’t see me the way you do,” Elizabeth replied.
The people in silver suits stared as she appeared to talk to herself.
“I’m not who you think I am,” Elizabeth said.
The others exchanged looks, the woman stepping closer, pointing one of their strange pistols.
“What’s the game, Dawson?”
“It’s not a game. My name is Elizabeth Foxworth and I’m a social worker. Right now I’m lying on a cot at the University of Oregon.”
“Elizabeth, this is Wes,”
a voice broke in.
“Your vitals are elevating—Anita’s too.”
“Don’t pull me out, Wes. Give me some time.”
The woman aimed the gun between Dawson’s eyes.
“Who are you talking to now? Who’s Wes?”
“He’s schizophrenic,” the scarred man said.
Elizabeth spoke quickly. “Dr. Wes Martin is here with me in the laboratory. He’s the one that created the machine that allows us to link minds together. We found people who have been dreaming of this ship and we think someone on the ship is telepathically transmitting from here. Probably this man,” Elizabeth said, pointing at herself “Using Doctor Martin’s equipment, we linked the minds of people dreaming of this ship in order to make them a better receiver. When we did, we linked with this man’s body, and now I’m seeing through his eyes.”
“He’s talking nonsense,” the scarred man said.
The blond man watched the exchange from his position, but his only contribution was a wink whenever Elizabeth caught his eye. The woman stared, her jaw set, her finger tensed on the trigger.
“I say we kill him and break out of here,” the scarred man said. “We don’t need him to get the job done.”
“We wait for Jett,” the woman said.
“Jett’s lost his nerve,” the scarred man said. “Look at the way he protects that moron.”
“Is she going to shoot you, Elizabeth?”
Anita said.
“No. It’s only a dream, Anita.”
“Who’s Anita?” the woman asked.
Elizabeth started to explain, but was cut off.
“Just shut up and sit there, Dawson, or Elizabeth, or whoever you want to be.”
Then the woman in the silver suit turned away.
“Elizabeth, what’s going on?”
Wes asked.
“I can’t speak for a while, Wes. You’ll have to trust me.”
The woman whipped around, the gun back in Elizabeth’s face.
“Not another word,” she hissed.
The gun frightened Elizabeth even though her left brain told her it was “just a dream.” Her right brain wasn’t as easily convinced, and insisted on imagining the horrible consequences of a bullet in her face. Then, in her mind, she saw the black woman with the afro haircut shot dead, and the others peppered with bullet holes, blood trickling from their wounds. There was an image of a burning man, too—a black man, his flesh turned crisp and peeling away from the meat underneath; then the flames repeated the process and burned away another layer.
All these thoughts ran through her mind, and yet they were alien to her. Real yes, but not memories of events she’d seen. These were Dawson’s memories, like the dream of fighting a fire on a ship, shells exploding all around. She was sharing the mind of the man wearing the blue shirt with the cut-off sleeves, and she was feeling his fears.
She tried to displace the gory images that made her recoil from the gun, tried to regain control, but her own emotions were elusive, too insubstantial to be grasped. Then the strongest emotion yet poured in, pushing out everything else. She didn’t understand what it meant, but she knew something—or someone—was coming, and it terrified the man whose body she shared. A warning bubbled up from the inaccessible depths of their shared mind, and she couldn’t help but speak.
“They’re coming,” she said out loud, voice trembling.
“Who?” the woman, Anita, and Wes asked at the same time.
Elizabeth dug deep into her mind, finding no clear image. Then she relaxed, letting the Dawson mind direct the flow. Out of the depths came more images of death and burned flesh, of bright lights and bloody mayhem. Then an answer formed, but it was meaningless to her.
“The Crazies,” she said through the man’s lips. “The Crazies are coming.” The thick tissue that was most of the scarred man’s face was capable of
only slight emotional expression, but his eyes clearly showed a mix of hate and fear.
The silver suits came alert now, the blond man peeking around the corner and down the corridor. Then there was the sound of thumping above them, and the sound of a hatch being slammed closed.
“Give me my gun,” the scarred man said to Compton.
“No, Evans,” the woman said.
Elizabeth began putting names to the faces of the people in the silver suits. Evans was the scarred man with the angry eyes. Then Elizabeth heard running feet in the corridor above, followed by the screech of metal on metal. Someone screamed above them, and the corridor at the scarred man’s end lit up as if a strobe light had flashed. Elizabeth and the Dawson part of their unified consciousness both cringed, tensing their shared body, getting ready for fight or flight.
“Give me my gun!” Evans ordered again.
The sound of running came closer, and then a half dozen men and one woman ran down the corridor in front of the blond man. Most wore sailor uniforms, but a few of the men and the woman were dressed in street clothes, adding to the surreal feeling of the ship.
“Compton, the Crazies will be here any second and you’re going to need me,” Evans said.
“Use your power,” the woman said.
Elizabeth noted the woman’s name, and also her reference to the scarred man’s “power.”
“We’ll need both when they get here, and you know it takes time to hook the gun up,” said Evans.
Compton waffled only a second.
“Get his gun,” Compton said, backing up toward the blond man.
The blond man dug in Compton’s pack, then tossed the gun to Evans, who set about reattaching the weapon to the pressure hose. Elizabeth noticed that Compton kept her gun trained on Evans while he attached the hose to his gun.
Now there was more thumping and banging, closer than before. It was coming from Evans’s side, and Compton moved forward to reinforce his position. The blond man kept his position, protecting them from a rear attack. Evans had his gun reattached now, and was checking the pressure gauges and his load. Elizabeth kept down on the floor, arm around Anita, whispering comforting words to her.
“What’s going on, Dawson?” Compton asked.
“I know it’s hard to understand, but I’m not Dawson right now, I’m
Elizabeth. At least some of me is. A little girl named Anita is here with me, too.”
Compton stared icily, her gun swinging toward Elizabeth. She acted as if she thought Elizabeth was lying, but it was Dawson’s body Compton saw and Dawson’s voice she heard. The idea that Dawson was channeling for a social worker in Oregon would be hard for any rational person to accept.
“I need to get a message to Ralph,” Elizabeth said through Dawson’s body.
“I need to know what is happening,” Compton repeated, her words cold steel.
Elizabeth knew that Compton was desperate. They expected an attack at any moment, and Dawson had been some sort of guide for them. When Elizabeth took control of Dawson’s mind, she turned Dawson from an asset to a liability. They had no reason to keep him alive now, and Elizabeth expected a bullet at any second. She feared being in Dawson’s body when it died, not knowing what that would do to her own mind and that of the other dreamers, but she also feared for the Dawson part of her. It wasn’t his fault that they had taken control of his body, and she feared for him as she would for a friend. Then, from that deeper part of her mind where Dawson’s consciousness dwelled, a new thought came to her.
“The Crazies know the outsiders are here,” Elizabeth said suddenly. “They’re coming to kill them.”
As the words came out of her mouth, Elizabeth realized that she was with the outsiders.
“You’re scaring me, Elizabeth,”
Anita said.
“Don’t worry, Anita, I won’t let anyone harm you,” Elizabeth said. “It’s just a dream, remember.”
“Elizabeth, can you talk yet? Your vital signs are roller-coasting up and down,”
Wes said.
“I’ll explain when I can, Wes,” Elizabeth said, knowing that Compton and the others were preparing for attack and ignoring her.
They heard more running, and then men with spears and crossbows crossed in front of Evans, hurrying somewhere. Suddenly, the men were knocked down like bowling pins, tumbling back down the corridor and out of sight. Evans turned and put up one finger, the others tensing, getting ready. Suddenly a fireball streaked past, and they all turned their heads reflexively to protect their vision. Anita whimpered, and Elizabeth hugged her close, comforting her as best she could, her own voice trembling. Then there was an earsplitting “whump” from down the corridor, followed by a loud sizzling.
“Time to move,” Compton whispered to Evans. “I’ll take Dawson down the stairs first, then Peters, then you.”
Evans stared back defiantly, and Elizabeth feared he would refuse. Evans wanted to fight.
The corridor was quiet now. Then Elizabeth heard footsteps on the metal deck. Compton pulled Elizabeth to her feet, signalling with quick motions to Peters, who nodded, then turned back to cover his end of the corridor. Now Compton leaned close to Elizabeth’s ear, whispering.
“If you want to live, keep your mouth shut and come with me.”
Compton brought her gun up to Elizabeth’s eye level, and Elizabeth nodded. Then Compton pushed her toward the stairs.
“Go down, and if any of your people start shooting, you’ll be the first to die,” Compton whispered.
Elizabeth started down, trying to climb softly, but the metal stairs rang with every step. The deck below looked like the one above, nothing but intersecting corridors. There were hatches down the corridor, but none were open. Far down the corridor she saw a leg and arm protruding from the wall, but thankfully no head. She found that Anita was with her when she reached the bottom, and she comforted her as best she could, the little girl staring down the corridor at the body parts sticking through the wall.
Compton came down right behind her, gun pointed at Elizabeth, her eyes sweeping right and left. As soon as Compton was down she snapped her fingers and Peters followed. With a hand motion she sent Peters forward to check out the next corridor junction. He approached cautiously, finding nothing and signalling Compton. Compton snapped her fingers again, the signal for Evans to climb down. When Evans didn’t appear, she snapped her fingers again, but there was no Evans. Then she pointed her gun at Elizabeth.
“If you move I’ll kill you,” Compton whispered.
Anita was invisible to everyone but Elizabeth, so only Elizabeth saw her recoil at the threat. As Compton climbed back up to the deck above, Elizabeth knelt and whispered to Anita.
“It’s just a dream, Anita. She won’t really hurt me.”
“She’s so mean,”
Anita said.
“She’s scared, just like you and me. As soon as we find Ralph we’ll go home, I promise.”

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