After a moment or two, Gosling went to the door and unzipped it. Nothing but the fog and the sea again, moving as one when they moved at all.
“Gone,” he said. “And we’re still here.”
18
“Well, I’m hungry,” Saks said, after a long period of silence. “What do you guys say we cut up Fabrini and have a snack?”
This elicited a low, dry laugh from Menhaus. Cook said nothing. Crycek just stared. Fabrini clenched and unclenched his fists.
“I mean, if this goes on for a long time,” Saks went on, “we’re going to have to eat someone. Fabrini’s my choice. Let’s face it, he’s the most expendable.”
“No, you’re wrong, Saks,” Fabrini said. “I’m too thin. What you want is some lardass. Like you for instance. A big, fat blowhard. A blubbery hothead that’ll cook in his own juices.”
Saks cackled. “You hear that, Menhaus? He wants my juices. All he ever thinks of is my dick.”
Cook tuned them out. He was watching the fog, watching Crycek, and mostly just watching Saks. Crycek’s diatribe earlier of some devil out there, waiting, was not lost on him. It seemed, that he could feel this other when he closed his eyes. Some presence nipping at the back of his mind. And maybe that was sheer imagination and maybe not, but there was a much more clear and present danger and that was Saks.
“Right now, food don’t sound so good,” Menhaus grumbled. “What I need is a cold beer.”
“Shut up,” Fabrini said.
“There’s no point in talking about that,” Cook said. “We have to be realistic.”
Saks held his hands out before him in surprise. “Shit, was that you, Cook? Who rattled your cage? Let’s be quiet, guys, he might speak again.”
Cook narrowed his eyes. “I’m just saying we must be realistic here. There’s no point in talking about beer. We’ll have to get by on our survival rations until… until something else shows up.”
“Well there you go,” Saks said. “Mr. Realism has spoken.”
“Oh, just shut up,” Fabrini said.
“Why don’t you go fuck your mother, Fagbrini?” Saks snarled.
Fabrini rose to his feet, the boat rocking slightly. “I’ve had as much as I’m going to take from you, Saks. You’ve been asking for this.”
Saks grinned without mirth. He stood up slowly, knowing that he had been asking for this. He’d been trying to push Fabrini to violence ever since the ship went down. And the fact that the moment had come gave him no end of satisfaction. He liked to be able to manipulate people. It gave him a feeling of power knowing he could push the right buttons and get someone to act accordingly. Like Fabrini, for instance. Hotheads were the easiest to control.
“Stop this,” Cook said. “You can’t fight in the boat.”
And in his brain he was trying to think of a reason why they couldn’t. Because it was wrong? Because it was immature? Because they might tip the boat? But, no, none of that was what he had been thinking at all. It had been something a little higher and a little mightier. They couldn’t fight because, dammit, they were men, they were both men and that had to count for something. For men were a rarity in this new savage world and if indeed there was some malefic devil out there, some puppet master, then they had to stick together. Had to show this thing that men always stuck together, always presented a unified front against adversity.
Sure, maybe it was all a little idealistic, a little pretentious, but Cook figured it was important. They could not allow themselves to become puppets, playthings, amusement for something wicked and inhuman. For negativity amongst their numbers made them weaker… and made it stronger.
“Please,” he said to them, “just stop this. Don’t you see what you’re doing?”
But they didn’t and continued to hurl insults back and forth, most of which were getting damned unfunny by this point.
Crycek said, “You should listen to Cook. Maybe some of you don’t know, but Cook? Oh, he knows, all right. He knows what’s out there, what waits for us. Divide and conquer, that’s what it’s doing. It feeds on fear and hopelessness and anxiety, violence and anger… and you’re feeding it. Oh, you certainly are. Filling its belly with your filth, making it strong…”
Crycek launched into another of his insane sermons about this mythical other who watched and waited and listened, amused, constantly amused. That both Saks and Fabrini were idiots because they didn’t really want to fight, that they were being manipulated by this thing, that it was in their heads seeding their actions. Crycek told them that they had to fight it, force it out of their minds… didn’t they see? Didn’t they see anything?
Cook knew Crycek was crazy, but that didn’t necessitate that he was wrong. Because Cook himself had been thinking along those lines. What if they were being manipulated, forced into this? Sure, they were both idiots when you came down to it, drowning in their own testosterone, and this is exactly how you’d figure they’d act. But what if Crycek was right?
Cook thought: It makes sense, doesn’t it? This thing, this devil, it would go after those with weakest minds, those it could bend the easiest. Saks and Fabrini might be physically strong, but mentally-like all such men-they’re simplistic, simple-minded. Everything’s black and white and minds like that are the easiest to exploit… that’s how countries got men to go to war, by exploiting their base instincts. This thing would know that. It would know the weakest psychological links instinctively…
Mind control… Jesus.
“Both of you stop it,” Cook said, trying one last time.
They both ignored him, edging closer by the moment.
Menhaus opened his mouth to say something, then closed it once more. He slipped around Fabrini to the bow and sat beside Cook.
“This is madness,” Cook said. “Grown men acting like this! We are in a life and death situation here and-”
“Let ‘em go, “ Menhaus said, enjoying it immensely. “Let ‘em get it out of their systems.”
Like a boxing match or a football game… Menhaus was relieving his own tensions and frustrations vicariously. These two were his pressure-release valve.
When they were a few feet apart, Saks stopped smiling. “Okay, you little shitfuck, let’s see what you got.”
The words had barely left his lips when Fabrini made his move. He swung roundhouse at Saks and Saks ducked under it easily. He came up quickly pounding Fabrini twice in the face with tight, economical jabs. Fabrini did not go down. He lunged forward with a stumbling grace, blood running from his nose, and tackled Saks. They both went down in the stern, the boat rocking wildly. Saks fended off two punches and took a third and fourth in the face. Fabrini was swinging like a man possessed. Very few of his blows found their intended target, but those that did were devastating. Saks was being battered badly. He got his foot in Fabrini’s crotch and kicked out with everything he had. Fabrini cried out and, arms flaying madly, went over the side of the boat.
Cook and Menhaus went to his assistance.
Saks wiped blood from his face. “Leave the bastard!” he howled.
But Cook and Menhaus were already pulling him onboard. “He was bleeding in the water,” Cook kept saying frantically. “He was bleeding. In the water.”
But the import of that was lost on Saks. “Yeah, and he’s going to bleed a lot more,” Saks said, coming at them. He had a knife in his hand. The same one he’d pulled from Hupp’s boot. Before anyone could hope to stop him, he slashed out with it, taking off the top of Fabrini’s left ear.
Somebody shouted. Maybe Cook, maybe Menhaus.
Fabrini didn’t seem to know what was happening. A look of rage swept across his features followed by one of dazed confusion and finally pain. His hand went to his ear, blood gushing between his splayed fingers. He saw the knife, felt the warm wetness course down his neck and started to scream, crawling away towards the bow on all fours.
