“Go ahead, you fucking wop,” Saks told him. “If you got the stomach for it.”
Fabrini backed off, thinking about his own knife, but never pulling it because Cook and Menhaus got between them. Were both sick to death of this shit. Even jolly old Menhaus had had enough.
“Put it away, Saks,” Cook said. “You know, we’re all getting shit-tired of you and your mouth. And we’re getting really, really tired of your high school locker room wit. We’ve had enough. If you don’t have anything good to say, then kindly shut the fuck up.”
Saks laughed, put his knife away. “Take it easy, big chief. Don’t go getting pissed-off at me if Fabrini can’t take a joke. Shit, we all know that wop is an ass-pirate, don’t jump me over his lifestyle choices.”
“Just shut up, Saks,” Menhaus said. “For once in your life, just shut up.”
Saks started laughing. Menhaus getting a backbone to him was like Mister Rogers telling you to go fuck yourself.
Fabrini, calmer now, said, “You think we should post a watch?”
“Against what?” Menhaus asked.
“Nothing to watch against… unless you believe in ghosts, that is.” Saks thought the whole idea was pretty funny. “Besides, I’m not standing out in that goddamn corridor all night listening to Fabrini moan while Crycek puts the meat to him.”
“You mother… fucker,” Fabrini said low in his throat like the growl of a dog and launched himself at Saks again.
Menhaus and Cook stopped him, holding him back.
Crycek just stood there, managing to look amused and disturbed at the same time.
And Saks? He just smiled, loving it how he could push Fabrini’s buttons so easily. Loved the power he had over the man. And the thing was, he honestly wanted Fabrini to come at him, to get in real close. Maybe Cook had been partially right when he said that Saks had a deep-set fear of being alone and that he wouldn’t kill the others for that reason… but that fear didn’t extend to Fabrini. He would’ve killed Fabrini. Happily so. You could see it in his eyes.
And what broke off all the fun and games was Makowski getting up and walking over to the porthole and saying, “None of you belong here. None of you. Tonight… tonight she’ll come… and you can’t be here.”
“Who?” Cook said, chilled now.
Makowski turned and looked at them, a sick yellow smile on his face. His eyes were dark and empty like drained ponds. “You know who. .. and she won’t want you here…” Saks wasn’t smiling now.
If it was possible for him to be scared, he was now.
14
So, in the raft, they waited.
They waited for small terrors and big ones, they waited for madness in every color of the rainbow… and some out of it. For although the talk was light as they rowed deeper into the weed, they fully expected death in their hearts. They expected it from the sea or the mist and possibly both. They did not know what form it might take, only that it would be terrible and immense when it showed itself.
Gosling and George were rowing while Cushing kept watch for trouble.
Gosling was worried about them, even though he would never have said this aloud. He worried about their flesh and blood, certainly, but more so, he worried about their minds. Because there was only so much the human mind could be expected to take. Only so much a man could drink down and hold in his belly before it all came back up. The camel’s back could only hold so many straws. And right then, he was thinking that those straws they were carrying were getting real damn heavy.
Cushing seemed to be taking it pretty well.
He had a well-disciplined scientific sort of mind. Regardless of how horrible the things in the mist were, he seemed to be able to rationalize their existence with a counterpart back home. For after all, he argued, even that big ugly jellyfish was really just a jellyfish. It was not some monster from hell.
Then there was George.
George was tough in Gosling’s book, he was sensible. He was the sort of guy who could take a lot because he pretty much had an optimistic turn of mind to him. But that was wearing. A little at a time it was wearing, just as it was wearing on Gosling himself.
And maybe George wouldn’t admit it, but he was beginning to fray around the edges.
Gosling didn’t blame him, for he felt the same.
The mist, the sea, those goddamn weeds… they seemed to go on forever. It was all bad enough, of course, but the ever-present billowing fog definitely was not helping matters. How long could you be trapped in a raft in that thick, pissing fog before you lost it? There was something about fog that played havoc with men’s minds. Gosling had seen it countless times at sea. The thicker the fog got, the thicker men’s fears got. They became silent and morose and brooding. It was eerie and oppressive, claustrophobic and suffocating. It squeezed the soul out of a man a drop at a time. And when the fog cleared – as it always did at sea, sooner or later – men’s minds cleared with it. They began to talk and laugh, clap each other on the backs, maybe feeling foolish for how the fog had gripped them, locked them down in a black, sightless box.
But what about in this godawful place?
What about here where the fog did not lift? Where it was always steaming and misting and haunted? How long could the human mind hold itself intact in that maze of bleeding mist?
There were times in these past few days… and even Gosling was no longer sure how long it had been now… when he had wanted to scream at that goddamn fog. Would have sold his soul just to part it like the Red Sea even for a few moments of clarity. It was just… everywhere. And it got so you could not only see it pressing in like a shroud, but feel it and smell it and taste it. And there were times when Gosling was almost certain it was inside of him, coiling in his belly or filling his skull with gray, nebulous ropes.
These were things you could not think on.
But these were the things Gosling worried about.
And that was one reason he had them rowing. The physical exertion would be good for them. It would give them a sense of purpose, the feeling that they were not just drifting aimlessly, but in charge of their fates. And something like that was very necessary to the human spirit.
It needed something to cling to.
Something to struggle against.
But there was more to it than that. The weed was very thick now, impenetrable in spots. But there were channels cut through it and Gosling was just enough of an optimist to believe that those channels were taking them somewhere. Maybe it would be somewhere they’d wish to God they’d never seen when they got there and maybe there would be deliverance.
So they kept rowing, spelling each other.
Looking and watching and waiting.
And it was while they were doing this that Cushing suddenly said, “Something… there’s something coming out of the mist.”
15
Saks waited, too.
He waited for the ultimate breakdown of Cook’s little command here. Because like death, taxes, and Fabrini’s ass getting wet, it was only a matter of time. Some things were inevitable. You could hide your head in the sand or stick it up your own ass, but the bottom line was, they were going to happen. And the real question was: were you going to be ready to face them like a man… or were you going to be like Cook’s little crew of ass cowboys and shit monkeys and have yourself a group hug and a good fucking cry?
