“Morgan!” Gail placed her palm against his chest and pushed. His flannel shirt was wet. He didn’t budge.
McCann and Riffle ran up behind her, panting for breath.
“Jesus Christ, Morgan,” McCann shouted, “get the fuck out of the way!”
Blinking, Morgan turned to him. “W-what? Oh… yeah.”
He stepped aside slowly. Gail, McCann and Riffle shoved past him. The two men clambered down the ladder, heading below, while Gail positioned herself at the hatch, shouting at the others on deck to hurry. They needed no encouragement. With a speed that belied imagination, Hansen’s corpse had been reduced to nothing more than bones and some scraps of wet clothing, and now the flying fish were darting after new prey. Raindrops rolled off their silver scales. One by one, Lynn, Caterina, Paris and Mylon ran toward the open hatch, hands held uselessly over their heads in a futile effort to protect themselves.
Mylon slipped on the wet deck and almost went down. The fish darted toward him, but he scrambled to his feet and limped on. As he flung himself through the opening, Gail shoved the door, slamming the hatch closed. Only then was she aware that Morgan was standing beside her. He finally seemed to come out of his trance, at least long enough to push the lever on the inside of the door. The tumblers clanked into place, sealing them inside.
Gail leaned against the bulkhead and began to tremble. Her hands and feet felt jittery. Her stomach turned.
Booted footsteps pounded up the ladder. Novak appeared, a lit cigar chomped securely between his teeth. In his hands was the makeshift flamethrower he’d fashioned from two propane bottles and assorted spare parts. McCann was right behind him, his face ashen.
“What are we fighting today?” Novak asked. “Not those fucking shark men again, I hope?”
“No.” Gail shook her head. “This is something new. They’re like sliver piranha, but with wings.”
Novak nodded, seeming to take this in stride. “Everybody make it?”
“All accounted for except Hansen.”
“Any chance he’s still alive?”
She swallowed. “I doubt it. If he is, then we have to…”
Novak raised the flamethrower and nodded at the hatch. “Open it up, and shut it as soon as I’m outside.”
“But you—”
“Just do it, Gail.”
His tone wasn’t stern or argumentative, nor did he act as if he was giving an order. If anything, Novak just sounded tired.
Gail did as he asked. Novak stepped forward as the tumblers clanked again, and said, “Get the fuck out of the way, Morgan.”
He puffed the cigar until the tip glowed orange. Then he touched it to the flamethrower’s nozzle. Gail opened the door and Novak stepped outside, his pace slow and measured. He stood with his feet at shoulder-width apart, raised the flamethrower, and unleashed its contents on the fish, all of which were soaring toward him. He swept the weapon back and forth, engulfing them all in a fiery arc. The creatures fell to the deck, flopping and thrashing as they burned. Novak hit them with another burst and they lay still. Then he stepped over their smoldering bodies and trained the flamethrower on Hansen’s grisly remains.
When he was finished, Novak turned off the flamethrower and strolled back to the door. He smiled at Gail, McCann and Morgan.
“Thought I told you to shut the hatch behind me?”
“I- I’m sorry,” Gail stammered. “I just…”
His grin grew wider. “You couldn’t resist the smell of fried fish, right?”
McCann frowned. “How can you joke around after that?”
“It’s not so bad.” Novak shrugged. “Everybody’s alive, right?”
“Everyone except Hansen,” Gail reminded him.
“Well, that’s okay. Nobody liked him anyway.”
The cigar jiggled as he laughed. A moment later, Gail and McCann laughed too. Morgan stared at the three of them and then joined in.
“It could have been worse,” Novak said as he stepped inside. “Much worse. And if things keep going the way they have been, it probably will be soon enough.”
They went back down the ladder. Gail felt the tension drain from her body as they rejoined the rest of the crew. She preferred being below decks rather than topside—not because of the protection the ship’s steel bulkheads offered, but because when she was inside, she couldn’t hear the incessant sound of the rain.
CHAPTER 29
They gathered in the galley. When they were all assembled, the small space soon stank of body odor and bad breath. They’d run out of toiletries weeks ago. Normally, Gail’s senses were dulled to the smell, but with everyone in a group like this, the stench became overpowering. Caterina cleared her throat, and Mylon cracked his knuckles, but no one spoke. The silence was disconcerting.
Gail glanced around at the group and saw the same expressions mirrored on each of their faces—exhaustion and a grim sense of hopelessness. She felt the same things. How much longer could they go on like this—traveling aimlessly, scrounging for increasingly dwindling supplies of food and fuel, and picking up the occasional survivor stranded amidst the flotsam of the civilized world? Indeed, could they even handle more castaways onboard? As Novak had explained to Gail when they’d first rescued her, the multi-hulled super catamaran was one-hundred and twenty five feet in length. While the large vessel looked imposing from the outside, the interior was actually cramped. Living space was limited, especially given the size of the group, and finding a quiet place to be alone was almost impossible.
Novak, McCann and Riffle had been among the original crew. There had been two other crew members, but both had been killed before Gail came aboard. In addition to Gail, there was Lynn, Caterina, Paris, Mylon, Morgan, Tatiana, Ben, and Warren. It was funny to think that only hours before, Hansen had also been a part of this group. Now he’d joined the ranks of those they’d lost.
There had been many more castaways at one point. Howard had suffered a massive heart attack. His death had been the only one from natural causes. Dickinson had been killed by a human-shark hybrid. Diane became infected by the white fuzz and had been immediately set adrift with enough food and water to last her seven days. She hadn’t been the only one to go into the water, either. Lieberman had jumped overboard one night, lured by the siren song of a vampiric mermaid.
The worst death, in Gail’s opinion, had been Andre’s. He’d bravely jumped into the ocean to retrieve a floating crate of produce after their efforts to snag it with poles, hooks and fishing rods had proven unsuccessful. Andre was a strong swimmer, and he’d reached the wooden crate and dragged it back to the boat without incident. It wasn’t until he was below deck and drying off that they noticed the leech on his thigh—a squat, bloated thing, the length of an index finger and the width of a quarter. Its skin was the color of liver. Novak had safely removed it and then they’d put antiseptic over the pinhole-sized bite. Everyone had assumed he’d be fine.
Andre began complaining of a stomachache a few hours later.
Two nights after that, he was dead, eaten from the inside out by a horde of tiny leeches. The creature had impregnated him with thousands of her young. Andre had remained alive through the entire grisly process, even as the spawn wriggled from his mouth and nose and ears and anus.
Shuddering at the memory, Gail studied the group again. Everyone was present, except for Riffle, who she assumed must be on the bridge, piloting the ship. She wondered what Novak was waiting for.
As if reading her mind, the makeshift captain cleared his throat. Immediately, all eyes turned to him.
“I guess you all know that Hansen’s dead.”
Some nodded. A few shrugged or looked away. Nobody spoke.
“Riffle’s piloting. I told him if that guy from Boston comes back on the radio, he’s supposed to patch it through the intercom immediately. Meanwhile, we’ve got some things to discuss.”
