Without warning

emerged from anywhere. Rather, Fifi was dancing about as if she’d trodden in something nasty. Which she had.

‘Oh goddamn!’ Fifi cursed again. ‘This is worse than rendered hog fat.’

‘What is it?’ asked Jules, as she hurried over, just one step behind Pete.

‘Gawd, that is nasty,’ he said, suddenly pulling up.

Before them on the deck was a pile of burnt clothes, out of which leaked a couple of gallons of the vilest- looking greenish black substance Jules had ever seen.

‘What is it?’ shrieked Fifi. She was losing it, badly.

‘I think it might have been the Shark.’ Pete rubbed at his face and gingerly toed another straw hat away from the mess. ‘Ugh… Hey darlin’, I really think you ought to throw those shoes of yours over the side.’

Fifi shook her head, disgust acid-etched into her features. ‘Man, I don’t wanna touch that gunk. What the fuck is it?’

Jules leaned over and peered at the toxic ooze. ‘I think Pete’s right,’ she said. ‘I think it used to be a person.’

‘So w-what happened to them?’

Fifi lit up a calming Marlboro with shaking hands. The only answer to her question was the hiss of the Pacific sliding past the hull a long way below them.

‘How many of those things are there, do you think?’ she asked, tiptoeing over to the gunwale and using a pistol to ease off her deck shoes.

‘Careful you don’t shoot yourself in the foot,’ warned Pete.

She shuddered. ‘Couldn’t be no worse than getting this crap on me. What if it’s like the Blob? What if I turn into that… stuff?’

Jules could hear clearly the approaching edge of hysteria in her friend’s voice. She strode over, put a steadying hand on the other girl’s shoulder, reached down and pulled off the shoe Fifi had been trying to dislodge, before tossing it into the sea. Some of the oozing substance ended up on her hand, but she wiped that off on her shirt.

‘It’s gross, Fi, but it’s not the Blob,’ Jules assured her. ‘We’ll need to have a good clean-up if they’re all like this. It’ll be a devilish health hazard otherwise. What do you think, Pete? How many people would have been on board?’

The Australian shrugged. ‘Dunno, sweetheart. At a guess, a boat this size, well over a dozen, maybe even twenty, but some of them would have been cooks, bartenders, cleaners, and so on. Perhaps even a caddy. There’ll be a crew manifest somewhere.’

‘Do you think he was on it, you know, when they got zapped?’ she asked, indicating the straw hat with a nod.

Pete stared at the obscene mess on the polished deck. He looked very grim. ‘The Shark? I dunno, could’ve been. Unless he lent it out to someone, or ran charters. I don’t think he did, though. I read somewhere he kept this baby very much to himself.’

It did raise other, more pressing questions in Jules’s mind. If it was the golfer’s yacht and the mess in front of them wasn’t him, then he was definitely going to want it back. But if it was Norman and they had to make a run Down Under, to put some serious distance between themselves and whatever had happened to the US, there’d be no hiding this yacht anywhere. It would be noticed.

‘Well, let’s just be careful where we tread from now on, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Fifi, maybe you could find a pair of shoes somewhere.’

Fifi nodded, looking sickly, as they moved further up towards the bow. Another pile of clothes, a uniform belonging to a crew member, lay at the bottom of the steps up to the next deck, oozing the same putrescent substance.

‘Man, I am so not looking forward to swabbing that up,’ muttered Pete.

‘Maybe we should blow this off,’ Fifi suggested. ‘It’s freaking me out, guys. You know, this is the bit in the movie where you’re sitting there yelling at the screen, “Get off the boat, you fucking dumbasses!’”

Jules and Pete both ignored her and stepped through the doorway ahead. A cool curtain of chilled air washed over them. The yacht’s climate control system was obviously unaffected by the loss of the crew. It kept the interior of the boat at a perfect twenty-one degrees Celsius. A small readout just inside the hatch confirmed the fact.

Jules stopped in her tracks and whistled in appreciation. It wasn’t the shock of cold air that had pulled her up short, but the full-blown opulence of the interior fit-out. Unlike the Diamantina, where you could never forget that you were on a small boat, Norman’s yacht seemed designed to provide the experience of stepping into a grand European hotel at sea. Polished wood panelling glowed with a soft red warmth. Brass gleamed. Thick woollen carpets covered the floor. As she got over the surprise and moved on, Jules briefly caught sight of huge staterooms, lavishly furnished with antique tables and cabinets and massive, overstuffed armchairs. Oil paintings hung from the walls wherever they turned. Here a bush scene – from Australia, she presumed – there, an enormous portrait of four white dogs. A grand staircase connected the decks above and below this one, again looking as though it would not have been out of place in a French palace or a grand Italian villa.

She counted another seven piles of clothes and organic matter as they explored.

The surroundings seemed to overwhelm Fifi, who momentarily forgot her fear and disgust. ‘Man, this is like a hotel or something,’ she cooed. ‘A real fancy hotel too, not just a Motel 6. This is more like a Holiday Inn.’

‘In here,’ said Jules, leading them into a private cinema where two rows of plush, royal-blue lounges faced a giant wide-screen TV. She thanked God there were no nausea-inducing rag piles in here. ‘Pete, do you think you could work some video magic?’

‘Mate, there’s gotta be more than five hundred channels on this thing,’ he replied, waving a black plastic remote control at the screen. Immediately, the sound came booming up, making them all jump.