The Aeschylus (16 page)

“Just what the hell happened here, boss?” Melvin asked.

Mason was about to open his mouth. He was about to tell them that their job wasn't to play detective. Their job wasn't to worry about how the dying started, when it started. Their job was to secure and contain. That's what they did. He figured that if he concentrated, he could even say it without laughing. That's when they heard a bang at the end of the hall.

Turning, Mason saw a heavy hinged door. A chair had been placed beneath the handle, and the door shook as someone tried to get out. A knife blade stuck out from beneath the floor crack, sweeping left and right. He held his breath, ready to squeeze the trigger and put down whoever or whatever lay on the other side.

Somewhere Over the Atlantic:

January, 1939

Harald stood on the deck of
The Adalgisa
, watching Cape Town edge towards the horizon. The city rested between two mountains, sitting just beyond a shallow bay. It was the warm season here, and the mountains, covered in greenery, would have seemed majestic if it weren't for the garish orange buildings on the inward slopes. Their South African friends had proved reliable though, and that was something he hadn't anticipated. Within an hour of docking, their ship had been outfitted with fresh supplies. Every square of the vessel now had boxes of food and victuals. They even got a crate of rifles. The K98s came with horseshoe hoods clamped to their front iron sights, a prototype modification to reduce glare in the sun. It was a sure sign The Reich had plans for them.

Not all had gone smoothly, though. When Harald had ordered an immediate departure, he'd found himself butting heads with Heinrich again. That seemed to be happening more and more these past few weeks. “Twenty-four hours of shore leave,” that's what he demanded. Harald thought it was mostly for show, more of that “nobody tells my crew what to do” nonsense. He was so frustrated, he wanted to shoot the man. In the end, they reached a compromise: twelve hours of shore
leave and no more. With the tip of Africa now fading into the night, Harald was glad it was over and they were back at sea.

“Pretty,” Jan said beside him.

“Are the prisoners up here?”

“As you requested.”

“They are more bloody obedient than Heinrich. How do they look?”

Jan shrugged.

Since Harald's encounter with Lucja, they had been significantly less prone to complaints. That was good. If there was one thing he didn't like, it was complainers.

“That damned captain will be—”

But whatever Heinrich would be, Harald didn't get to say. A floodlight flashed over the water.

“Inbound vessel! Eight o'clock!” someone yelled.

All at once, the deck was alive. Harald ran to the railing and peered out, spotting a fast-moving ship. It was only about half of the size of
The Adalgisa
, but it was headed straight towards them. He heard Heinrich's voice from the upper walks. “Cecil!”

“Yes, captain?”

“Get me a make and flag on that ship.”

One of the other men had a pair of binoculars and beat him to it. “It's a patrol ship, gas powered... the flag is South African navy, sir.”

Heinrich turned. “All hands below deck! We'll sort this out. Take off your hat,” he said, now looking at Harald.

“What?”

“I said take it off!” The captain grabbed Harald's hat and threw it over the rails. “Button your coat. I don't want them to see your uniform. Let me handle this, do you understand?”

Harald fought the urge to scream. “Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

“Those aren't navy. Just do as I say, your men too.”

Both men ducked as the sound of machine gun fire clanged through the night. The first few shells hit water, but a second burst slammed into the side of the hull.

“They've got a Schwarzlose!” someone yelled.

The little patrol boat was now almost on them, and Harald could see a heavy, antique machine gun with a wide barrel mounted to the front. Behind it, he could only see an angry pair of eyes. The man on the weapon had skin as black as the night itself.

On
The Adalgisa
, someone raised a white flag.

“How could you surrender? How could you let them sneak up on us?”

“Shut up,” Heinrich said.

A bullhorn clicked, and an angry voice came resounding through it. He couldn't understand it, but apparently Heinrich did because he stood up and raised his hands. Jan, still hunched, started to reach inside his coat for his pistol, but Harald shook his head. Now was not the time, not when they could be cut down by that mounted gun.

In the silence, he whispered to Seiler, “Get below deck. See if you can find something from the stash.”

“I kill them myself,” the man said, and then crept out of sight.

Harald wasn't sure how closely the men on the other ship were watching him, but he didn't have much time. They began throwing hooked ropes onto the deck of
The Adalgisa
. Someone slapped a large board down, making a bridge between the ships. Four of them crossed the plank, all carrying weapons that looked cobbled together from The Great War. One of them—a skinny black man wearing a turban—didn't even have a gun, only a vicious machete that dangled from his fist. The leader seemed to be man with a large machine pistol. He stepped to the center of the deck in front of Heinrich and grinned, showing a rack of metal teeth. He spoke a single sentence in a language both languid and menacing. It was almost French, but not quite.

“Get Burke,” Heinrich said to one of his men.

While Metal Mouth waited, the other three Africans busied themselves by smashing into the ship's new crates, tossing supplies about the deck.

“Where is he?” Heinrich yelled.

“Here!” Burke called, stepping through the cabin door.

The man with the metal teeth spoke a few curt phrases, these more angry and impatient than the last.

“He says you picked up a crate of weapons in Cape Town,” Burke began. “He wants to know where they are.”

Suddenly, Harald understood. Heinrich hadn't brought Burke on board because he needed a cook, he brought him on board because he needed a translator. He knew he would have to deal with pirates.
He knew!

“Tell him they're in a marked crate below deck,” the captain said. “I can have my men bring it up.”

Burke translated this to the other man, to which the hijacker spat and said, “No!” Then, he spoke quickly again.

“He says he wants no tricks. He says his two men will go down and one of your men will show them where it is.”

“Would one of you kindly show these gentlemen where the crate is? Cecil, how about you?”

“Aye, Captain!”

Harald looked at Jan, alarmed. “He can't do that!” he whispered.

The sergeant, who looked torn between agreement and denial, only frowned.

With alarming speed, the man named Cecil jumped down onto the deck and signaled to the hijackers. He disappeared into a trapdoor below, and two of the men followed. Only their leader and Mister Machete remained. Harald contemplated the odds and found himself unable to find an angle of attack.

He didn't have long to consider. Within half a minute, all three men reappeared, the two Africans carrying the weapon crate. Their skinny arms strained under its weight.

The captain watched with disinterest. “Mister Burke, if you would help them across the plank so that they can be on their way?”

“Uh... yes, Captain.”

The cook waddled to the edge of the ship and put one foot on the wooden plank. The leader was smiling again, showing
his teeth to the crew. His Mauser pistol rested across his shoulders, propped behind his neck.

Seiler reemerged a moment later, stepping out of the cabin door as quiet as an assassin. He was carrying a Model-24 grenade, the long stick of the potato masher tucked against his chest. Harald felt sweat begin to bead on his forehead and drip down his face.

The two men carrying the crate slipped just before they reached their own vessel, and the box clanked down onto the plank. Metal Mouth cursed, then shouted across the gap. It was then Harald saw what he was waiting for. The man on the mounted machine gun looked back and forth, realizing their leader was talking to him. He was the closest to the boarding plank, and the crate of weapons threatened to slip overboard. Reluctantly, the man left his post.

Harald stepped forward, drawing his pistol in one smooth motion. “Now!” he yelled.

He watched the Model-24 spin up into blackness. It reappeared a moment later, bouncing onto the hijacker's ship between the plank and the mounted gun.

Heinrich lunged towards the railing. “No!”

The grenade detonated with a concussion of smoke and fire. A human shape spiraled into the night, flapping its arms as it burned. Gunshots erupted, the hijackers firing blindly over the deck.

Burke spun a hundred and eighty degrees on the plank and froze. A rifle bullet tore through his side, taking a spray of his guts with it. He collapsed to the floor, screaming.

Two of the hijackers were trying to pull the crate of munitions the rest of the way on board. They gave up when one of them took a bullet. Harald's men were firing full bore. He raised his own Luger and fired eight shots in the general direction of the ship, unaware if he had hit anything or not. It took him a few seconds to realize his magazine was empty.
Shaking, he crouched below the crate and ejected it, reaching into his jacket to load another. When he stood up, the last hijacker, Mister Machete, dropped his weapon and decided to run. He clambered onto the wood plank, stumbling in the chaos. Harald raised his gun to the man and fired, and fired, and fired. The third shot hit the hijacker in the heel of the right boot, casting him forward onto the weapon crate. Both tipped over the edge and fell into the water with a splash. Seiler ran to the plank and then kicked it in, removing whatever chance the man had of saving himself.

The other ship roared and began to move. Heinrich, who had been planted belly-first on the deck, jumped to his feet. “The ropes!” he yelled. “Throw the hooks out!”

He made to run but slipped on the blood next to Burke. The cook howled, still clutching at his guts.

“The gun!” Seiler yelled. “They are aiming it!”

Harald squinted through the smoke and saw a man climbing towards the Schwarzlose. He fired his pistol but heard only an empty click. He was out.

The ship lay in the grip of pandemonium. Men rushed in front of him, grabbing the wounded and putting out a fire by the mast. Heinrich regained his footing and busied himself tossing the hooks over the sides. Harald swiveled his head to search for a weapon, his eyes settling on the giant harpoon cannon at the bow.

Across the water, the man on the Schwarzlose pulled back the firing rod, and even through the chaos, Harald heard the clacking sound as it slid into place. Without thinking, he sprinted to the bow of
The Adalgisa
and dove behind the harpoon gun. Could it be loaded? Of course not; what kind of madman kept his harpoon loaded when he was not hunting? But it
was
loaded, the end of the giant hook poking straight out of the barrel. Harald aimed the weapon, pointing it straight to the white of his enemy's eyes.

When he pulled the trigger, the harpoon exploded from the barrel, finding its mark like a lightning bolt from the heavens. Harald blinked, and suddenly, the man behind the machine
gun was no longer there. The man was pinned to the side of his own ship, the huge rod impaling him through the ribs. For a moment, Harald could do nothing but stare, his mouth agape. Then, he found himself grinning; the pirates were fleeing, their gunner dead. He looked back to the others to ask if they needed help, but he couldn't. He couldn't get the goddamned grin off his face.

“The rope!”

The captain was running towards him, his hand outstretched.

“Cut the rope! Hurry!”

His victory interrupted, Harald looked down. Something moved by his feet, and then, it dawned on him: the rope was still attached to the harpoon.

“It's sinking!” Heinrich yelled. “It'll drag us down!”

The pirate vessel was dropping like a great beast, taking water from an unseen wound. Seiler's grenade had missed the machine gun, but it had done terrible work just the same.

“Heinrich, I—”

And suddenly, the captain was screaming. The rope spun halfway around the mast and pinned his left arm between it and the wood. Until he had heard it, Harald would have never imagined a man like Heinrich would be capable of screaming. But here it was, like an animal crushed beneath a street car.

The lieutenant grabbed at the rope and felt the immense strength under it. He looked towards the crew, but they were struck dumb.

“What do I do?” he shouted.

“
Cut... the... rope!
” Heinrich cried, grunting each syllable through clenched teeth. “
Cut it!
”

Harald remembered the ax. The large red ax tucked under the rail, mounted to the spot for this exact purpose. He grinned madly. The night was his, and nothing could stop him. It was
his
.

As he turned and found the mounting hooks, however, the smile disappeared quite naturally from his face. The ax was gone.

The Aeschylus:

Present Day

Gideon awoke in darkness, the reports of gunfire fading from the edge of his senses.
Gunshots
. Gunshots meant people.

It took him a moment to remember where he was. The kitchen. He was still trapped in the kitchen. His hands traced along the side of his head and felt the lump, the spot where he had been hit with the rifle butt the day before. It still hurt like hell. Frantically, he got up and brushed himself off. He could hear voices now, people somewhere in the barracks. Or at least, what sounded like people.

He found a piece of dry cloth and ripped it in half, then tied the remainder around his head. It didn't look pretty, but he was well beyond the point of looking pretty. He could smell himself in the enclosed space, his clothes now... what? A week old? He counted the days off on his fingers and thought that was about right. He wondered what would happen when the Argentinian rescue unit was reported missing. Someone else would come. Eventually, the crazy Argentinians would be put down. And what then? They'd leave. They'd all leave, even him. The Carrion would make its way back to civilization, and it
would spread. It would find that the world beyond the sea was vast indeed.