Stranded (36 page)

The shot that cut him down was deafening.

 

37

The room erupted in a muted, incomprehensible mess of muddied shouts and screams. Noah watched John Boduf go down like a felled tree; lock-kneed and stiff, he toppled straight over. Behind him, Brewster stood in a white maelstrom, looking like an elemental force. Gray beard caked with ice and skin paled by frost, nose and cheeks blackened with frostbite, he was the viciousness of winter given flesh. Grimacing, he raised his pistol again.

Noah lurched to make a grab for Nevins, but the mechanic was out of reach, having retreated between the command chair and the curved console table. Noah shouted for him to get away. His warning sounded like it came from someone standing behind him, uttered by a person half hidden in another reality.

The Old Man fired again. A flash of fire and smoke erupted from the end of the gun barrel. Noah felt the round hit the wall behind him more than he heard it and skidded to a stop. Marty made a lunge for Brewster. The Old Man turned. A bullet hit the man squarely in the chest. Marty's body fell next to Boduf's, adding to the growing pool of blood spreading out from the ship's master's feet.

“That wasn't nice of you to leave me out there with no way to get on board, Noah. The other fellas outside were kind enough to give me a boost, though. Even a dead man is more useful than you.” Brewster's grimace grew wider into a smile that said all anyone needed to know about madness.

He took steady aim and squeezed the trigger. Connor shoved in front of Noah and Brewster jerked his hand upward, sending the bullet into the overhead. “Out of the way, Connor! I still need you.”

“Stop this!” Connor yelled. “Everything is getting better now the other ship is gone. The machines are working again. See?” He pointed to the communication array. “It's working. No one else has to die!”

“No?” he said, pointing a gnarled finger at Noah. “He was supposed to die on that deck a year ago. Not you. I'm setting the world to rights. The way I intended!”

Noah froze, not sure he heard the words through the ringing in his ears, but painfully certain he'd understood them exactly as they'd been uttered. The Old Man set him up a year ago. If Noah hadn't asked Connor to cover for him, he'd have fallen into the trap instead and their separate realities would have turned out the same.

It made sense. The night Connor died, Noah had gone to Brewster's cabin to argue about Abby. He'd wanted to ask one last time for his father-in-law's understanding and for him to forgive his daughter, knowing fully he'd never receive that forgiveness himself. Brewster had been furious and tried to force him to leave.
“Do what I ordered you to. Get out there and check the lashings, god damn it.”
Noah told him the lashings were fine.
“Connor's checking them so we can have this conversation now.”
Brewster wanted out of his cabin, out of that fight, as badly as Noah had ever seen him want anything. But he hadn't let the Old Man loose. He cornered him and said his piece, digging the knife in when it was clear Brewster wasn't ever going to listen to him. He shamed him for not coming to say good-bye to his girl, and if he felt any lasting regret guilt over that, well, he'd earned it.

He
deserved
it.

Noah had misinterpreted the look on Brewster's face in that instant so long ago. What Noah took as regret over Abby's death was actually worry he might have just killed the wrong man. Which he
had
done.

“Out of the way, MacAllister,” Brewster said. “Let me kill him so we can go home.”

Connor stood still, wide eyes staring into the black bore of the Old Man's gun. He raised his hands, silently imploring him once more to stop. “The radio is
working,
” he repeated. “Nevins called for help and they're already coming for us. We
are
going home.”

Brewster's expression softened. He knitted his brow and his blistered lips turned down. They cracked, glistening with blood when he spoke. “No. That's wrong. They can't come for him. They have to come for
you
.” His gun arm dropped a little.

“We can't pick, William. They're already on their way. The choice has been made and we're gonna get whatever we do when they get here.”

The Old Man's shoulders rounded as his back slumped and he dropped his gaze into the middle distance, staring somewhere outside the room, but still close, like he was trying to look into the world he wanted to inhabit instead of the one he actually did. “Maybe we can't choose,” he said. “But I still want to even the odds.” He straightened up, raised his gun, and stepped to the side, taking aim for a better shot. Connor tried to match his step, keeping in between him and his target, but the feint was meant to draw Noah's human shield away. Brewster pivoted quickly in the opposite direction and fired.

The round took a piece of Noah's ear opposite the trench already in his cheek before embedding in the wall behind him. Noah clapped his hand to the side of his head in astonishment at the second close call he'd received from one of Brewster's bullets. It seemed absurd to think his father-in-law's desire to put a bullet in his head was lucky, but it was. Brewster had shot other men in the chest, but something—luck, or more likely, pure hatred—kept his aim on Noah's head instead of a larger target. Noah was thankful for Brewster's impulsivity. It would only be so long before the Old Man would get a real bead on him, though. Once he realized a bullet in the guts would give him a leisurely opportunity to press the gun against Noah's face and really savor the moment, it was all over.

Noah screamed something, but wasn't sure if the words made sense or if he only tried to say them and what came out instead was a terrified babble. He yanked at Connor's coat, pulling him out of the line of fire and shoving him toward the door, hoping as he did that, Connor wouldn't tumble down and break his neck on the landing below like Delgado. Connor came alive at the pull of gravity and half staggered, half leaped down the ladder to land flat-footed on the deck below. His knees buckled and he took a few hard steps, but he stayed on his feet. Noah was right behind him, slamming the wheelhouse door closed as Brewster rushed for the opening. The locks were on the other side and he couldn't dog it down, but Noah spun the wheel, securing the hatch and slowing Brewster's pursuit for a second or two at least.

Though his body had found yet another reserve of temporary energy, Noah felt slower than ever. He was weary of running. Still, he lumbered along the passageway, pushing his friend ahead of him, doing his best to be a moving target, even if he wasn't one that moved very fast. “Lay below,” he shouted. “Go!” Connor staggered along the passageway toward the next ladder.

Force of habit made Noah slow as he passed sick bay. He could hear Brewster behind him spinning the hatch wheel and pulling the heavy door open. Even though there might be something useful in the hospital, there was no time to look for whatever that might be. Death was seconds away. He ran on, turning the corner past the change room as footsteps pounded down the steps behind. He skidded around the next bend and leaped down the ladder to A-Deck, pulling another waterproof hatch closed after him.

He was halfway around to the next ladder when he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.
Not the shades,
he thought.
Not now.
He flinched as one separated itself from the shadows, and despite wanting to press on, turned to confront it, even though he knew the figure would be gone before he could lock eyes on it.

It wasn't a shade, however. Andrew Puck stood in the doorway to the main passageway, shouting questions. “What's going on? Was that
shooting
?”

Noah told the deckhand to get to his quarters. “Lock yourself in and don't come out.”

“The fuck happened to you, Cabot?” Puck looked at Connor. “And who are you? What the hell is going on?”

Noah tried to grab Puck by the arm to pull him along. “There's no time for bullshit. Come on!” Another shade passed in the periphery of his vision, making his step falter. The darkness materialized into Heath running for the ladder Noah had just come down. The shades had been a premonition, the dark movements playing out their last moments out of the corners of their eyes in eternal recurrence—the end in the beginning. They would all suffer the fate of shadows in the dark. Forever.

Puck took advantage of Noah's distraction and slammed him into the wall. “Get your fuckin' hands off me, Cabot.” He fell in behind Heath and the two disappeared down the passageway.

Noah started after them but Connor grabbed his arms, holding him back. “They won't listen,” he said. Noah watched the pair disappear up the ladder, knowing he couldn't stop them. They would have to see Brewster for themselves. And when they did, they would give Noah and Connor a few seconds more at least. Slowing him down was the best they could hope for.

“Let's get safe. Come up with a plan,” Connor said.

“No more plans. There's nowhere left to run.” A pair of gunshots echoed in the passageway. Noah ran to the end of the compartment and grabbed the handle of a red fire ax affixed to the wall. He yanked, but the salt and moisture in the air had conspired to rust the metal band holding the head in place and the tool stuck. He shouted in frustration, pulling harder. It gave some, wiggling on the mount, but still wouldn't come free. “God damn it!” He stepped back and kicked at the u-shaped bracket holding the handle in place until it bent far enough out of the way for him to get a surer grip. He pulled it out like a lever. The bolts holding it in place popped and the ax head snapped the wide bracket off the wall. Fumbling with its unexpected weight, the head dropped, clattering on the floor between his feet.

Fixing his grip, he hefted the thing, feeling its weight, its balance. He finally had his ax. Although designed to rescue souls, it would take a life as easily, if put to it. It was power and lethality in his hands. All it needed was intent. And Noah had that. Still, it wouldn't stop bullets.

“Get below,” Noah said. “Get somewhere safe. You know the ship.”

“You can't.”

He bounced the ax in his hands, testing its weight. “Sure I can,” he said, and ran to confront his father-in-law.

*   *   *

Noah found Puck and Heath slumped against a wall at the top of the landing, but no sign of his quarry. Heath was panting shallowly, clutching his wet stomach. Puck slumped over, leaking from an eye onto the floor.
He must have run right into Brewster,
Noah thought. He crouched in front of Heath and asked, “Which way?” Puck pointed toward the far ladder. He coughed, dropping his hand and squinting tightly against the pain. A long line of red saliva slid over his slack lip. Noah caught a hint of a smell from the man's wound that told him no matter what he did to help, Puck was done. Noah left him and ran for the command compartment.

Frigid wind buffeted the room as he pushed through the door. The opposite exit leading outside stood open. Noah gave the cooling bodies in the center of the room as wide a berth as he was able. Still, he found himself stepping in their blood. Trying not to look as he navigated past them, he was unable to help it. He peered down at Nevins and Boduf. Every dead body was another step toward Brewster's goal of being reunited with his daughter. Noah felt a sharp tinge of guilt. A small nagging voice in the back of his mind that accused him of not stopping the Old Man because he wasn't entirely opposed to the plan. Returning to Connor's world instead of his own meant he could have it all. It meant having Abby
and
Ellie. It meant the life he was supposed to have before everything went wrong and he lost the people he loved the most.

The little voice poisoned his mind, telling him he was a collaborator and conspirator in the sacrifice of men with their own lives, their own families and friends who would miss them and mourn. He was complicit in all this wrong. And it was too late to undo any of it.

A blast of wind rocked him, breaking the spell. He crept toward the opening, uncertain if Brewster was hiding behind the door, or had already lay below, rushing to flank him and finish what he started. Noah stalked out of the compartment and into the night.

The wind hit him hard, pushing him off balance and making his descent unsteady on the slick steps. His bare hands instantly hurt in the blast; he gripped the ax tighter, trying to focus on the feeling of the implement in his grasp. He refused to let go of his weapon to use the rail despite his unsure footing. As cold as the handrail was likely to be, he was better off taking his time and possibly falling than using it. At the very least, he'd leave the skin of his palm behind if he grabbed it. He paused, steadying himself before continuing down, careful not to do Brewster's work for him by slipping and impaling himself on the pick end of the ax.

When he reached the first door to A-Deck, he pulled his sleeve down over his hand before trying the handle. The metal still stung. Worse, the door was locked. He glanced at his feet and back the way he had come, searching in the light dusting of snow on the weather deck for footprints other than his own. There were none. The wind was blowing even his tracks away. If Brewster had been this way, he couldn't tell. And he couldn't afford to spend more time trying to guess. He had to get inside before his numbing hands froze entirely and he couldn't fight.

He proceeded on along the length of the deck toward the next door. If that one was locked, he'd have to return to the wheelhouse, leaving him so far behind Brewster, he might as well sit down and wait for the end. He tried the handle. Relief loosened his tense muscles as it clicked and turned freely. He felt the heavy steel door swing free and thought,
I can still get ahead of him
.

A shade burst through the opening at him. No. Not a shade—William Brewster. The man who had slaughtered two dozen others by knife and gun and fire, bellowing with berserk rage, coming to finally kill Noah, too.