Demon (28 page)

“Doc, it's me.”

Schiffer moved to him and was in the process of kneeling when Morris turned and faced him.

“What the fuck?” Schiffer said and froze halfway between standing and squatting.

Morris's eye sockets locked on him. They were vacant, empty voids. Pieces of skin crumbled and floated off his face like dust stuck in a draft. Morris's rose toward Schiffer, and he saw bone.

Schiffer tried to backpedal and retreat but tripped over the corpsman behind him. He fell and landed on his ass. His tailbone hit steel and he yelped. But he didn't stop moving. He kicked with his feet, pushing himself back across the deck like a crab scrambling away from a predator.

“Sir—what the hell?” the corpsman said. He had stepped to the side after Schiffer tripped over him.

Schiffer motioned to Morris. “Get out of here.”

The corpsman looked and gasped. “Oh, shit.”

Schiffer jumped to his feet and lunged for the door. As he did, his stomach cramped. He fell and hit the deck. The world went black as his body started convulsing. All around him, he heard screams.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

M
ike retreated to his room, waiting for the inevitable to happen. It was just a matter of time. He believed wholeheartedly Temms was wrong. Dumping the bodies would fail because what they faced was smarter than they were. It would not let itself just be tossed over the side. It had proved so far to be a survivor. He just hoped they would outlive it.

The flight deck was now covered with bodies wrapped in plastic shrouds. The second deck and surrounding area forward of frame twenty were off limits to him. Not that he wanted to snoop around or anything. He'd seen enough of the results of the outbreak for a lifetime. The one reason he'd been sent to
Rushmore
, to ensure the crew of the
al-Phirosh
died in the event of another outbreak, had resolved itself without need of his presence.

He had nothing to do but wait. Either the ship would make it back to Djibouti without further incident or another attack by the demon would occur and they would abandon ship. For Mike that meant either he'd be stuck on the ship for a month in an imposed quarantine at sea or he'd be jumping in a life raft with the rest of the crew trying to flee the demon.

Or you'll be facing it,
Mike thought. He wondered about that. He couldn't imagine a situation where he would voluntarily face it rather than flee with everyone else.

Whatever the outcome, Mike had no job now. So he sat on his bed and pulled his flask from his bag and started drinking.

As the whiskey rolled down his throat, Mike thought of the demon. He swallowed and laughed. Had it gotten so bad that he'd actually accepted the idea that a demon existed and was roaming from place to place? He laughed again and drank more.

Mike screwed the cap shut and set the flask down. He lay and stretched out and closed his eyes. He doubted he would sleep but knew he would need strength for what was coming.

“I don't remember you drinking this much.”

Mike's eyes opened. His head lifted. Greg sat on the end of the bed, looking at the bulkhead. Mike sat up.

“You probably don't remember me killing so much, either.”

Greg nodded and smiled. “True. I don't.”

“Both started after you died.”

“So, I'm to blame?”

“No, I am. I showed how good I was at murder when I avenged you. Guess I didn't really consider the consequences of my actions.”

“You regret taking your revenge.”

“Absolutely not. I just wish it would have ended there.”

“Everything happens for a reason, even if we don't like it.”

Mike grabbed his flask and took a sip. “You mean like that?”

“It helps you with the demons, I know. They'll always be there, though. What you have to accept is there was a reason for them, all of them.”

“And I guess you died for a reason, too, right?”

“Oh, there's no doubt about that.”

“Really, and what reason was that?”

“To make you a killer.”

Mike almost choked on his whiskey. “That was the grand plan?”

Greg nodded.

“Great, glad there's a plan. Can't wait to see what's next.”

“You will soon enough.”

Mike took another sip. “Everything happens for a reason, right? Well, what's the point of putting up a good killer against something I can't kill?”

Greg chuckled. “Killing isn't the only quality you possess.”

“A hint would be nice.”

“You're not a hireling.” Greg shook his head. “Sorry, Mike, but you must face the wolf.”

Mike blinked and opened his eyes. He lay on his back, looking at the ceiling. He sat up. Greg was gone.

“Fucking dreams,” Mike said, grabbing his flask.

A demon,
he thought. Something supernatural. Something evil. And if it existed, some kind of hell must, too. Did it wait for him with open arms, ready to embrace a natural born killer?

Mike pondered that for a few minutes. This demon killed a lot of people, too. What did that say about Mike? Was he destined for the same fate?

Staring at him, almost mocking him, was a Bible sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. He lifted it and read the cover. The Ignatius edition. Catholic. Mike thought of his parents and Sunday mornings for the first time in years. When had he last gone to Mass? As a sixteen-year-old? He couldn't remember.

He opened it and inside the cover he found the inscription: “To our son, Come home safely. Love, Mom and Dad.” Probably belonged to the Marine CO currently training in the Horn.

Mike flipped past the Old Testament and settled in the Gospel of John. His eyes read down the page to chapter 10, verse 11; and his heart seemed to skip a beat. He read through it twice in his head and the third time out loud to ensure he was reading it right.

“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. He who is a hireling and not a shepherd, whose own the sheep are not, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and flees; and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. He flees because he is a hireling and cares nothing for the sheep.”

He slammed the Bible shut and set it on the table, his hands shaking. His eyes never left the leather-bound book though.

“I am not a hireling.” Mike lifted his flask again. “I must face the wolf.”

On his fourth sip from the flask, the word for security alert was passed again over the intercom. It wasn't the same message as earlier. This time, it extended the secured area to the O-1 level and all decks below it all the way to frame seventy.

Mike closed the flask and threw it on the bed, then headed for the bridge. He passed several people sprinting down ladders.

In the pilothouse, Temms stood in front of the helmsman, listening to reports on her radio. She'd gone stark white and her face looked like it had aged a hundred years since last Mike had seen her a half hour before.

“Captain,” Mike said, “what's happening?”

Temms looked at Mike. “It. It's happening again. It started in the same place, but it's spreading rapidly. CIC is getting reports of people hearing screams down both port and starboard sides near the second deck.”

Mike nodded. “Looks like option two is on the table.”

Temms shook her head. “We can wait it out. It'll stop again. As long as it doesn't spread above the O-1 level.”

Mike grabbed Temms by the elbow and walked her to the other side of the pilothouse. “Ma'am, you're doing the same thing Yusuf did.”

“What?”

“You're trying to save your ship, no matter the cost. You think you can save it if you can outlast the deaths and discard the bodies. But you're just losing more people than you would if you abandoned ship now. Whatever it is, it is attacking your people. You need to get them off and make sure it doesn't.”

Temms moved her mouth, but nothing came out. Then she blinked and nodded. “Yes, yes.”

She walked back to the center of the bridge. “Officer of the Deck.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Make this official in the deck log: Commanding Officer ordered all hands abandon ship. Do not pass the word. I'll take care of that over the radio. If this thing understands English, I don't want the order being broadcasted all over the ship.”

“Ma'am?”

“You heard me.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The officer of the deck turned from Temms.

As the OOD made the log entry, Temms lifted her radio and said, “All officers and chief petty officers, this is the captain. This is not a drill. Abandon ship. Security alert teams will maintain boundaries until all other personnel are safely off ship. Also, deploy life rafts one at a time at two-minute intervals, both port and starboard sides. I want safe distances between them in case the biologic makes it on to one of the rafts.”

Dozens of voices replied an affirmative over the radio. Temms, satisfied her leadership understood her orders, looked at Mike. “Looks like you need to go down and hitch a ride.”

Mike nodded. “I'll go grab my bag.”

M
ike gathered his belongings and took another shot off the flask, then headed down to the weather decks. As he did, he was passed by personnel running down the passageways and leaping over the metal lips, the knee knockers that marked the bottom of the watertight doorframes. One sailor caught his toe and pitched forward and hit the deck hard. Before anyone could ask him if he was okay, the guy was back on his feet and flying down the passageway again.

The craziness didn't end there. Mike walked by offices where personnel yelled at others to get moving. He saw one guy slapping another, trying to snap the guy out of his panicked state.

The hysteria was even worse on the weather decks. Officers and senior enlisted leadership tried to organize people into parties to deploy on the life rafts. Apparently, everyone had had a life raft number assigned to them upon reporting aboard, but no one seemed to remember which one they belonged on.

Mike looked over the side and saw two rafts in the water on the port side with about three hundred yards between them. The people in the rafts seemed to be doing better than those on board.

At least they're not killing each other out there yet,
Mike thought as he remembered Yusuf's tale. Probably relieved to be getting off the ship and away from the madness.

He watched another life raft go into the water and people climb single file down a Jacob's ladder to it. Once full, it cast off while another life raft went in and the process was repeated. By the time ten minutes had passed, five more life rafts had gone in the water. To Mike, the crew seemed to have calmed down and were evacuating pretty orderly.

A few feet away, he saw the officer who appeared in charge of the operation overall and walked over to him to try and get on one of the next few rafts.

“Excuse me,” Mike said.

“Mr. Caldwell, right?” the officer said.

“Yeah, how'd you—”

“Captain said you'd be looking for a ride.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Just hang tight a few minutes. I want to get a few more off and thin this crowd out some. Now that the chaos below has stopped, the crew is moving smoother knowing they have some time.”

“It stopped?” Mike said.

“Yeah,” the officer said. “About ten minutes ago. No more reports of screams. Captain put the word out over the radio.”

Mike was happy to hear the news but more encouraged to know Temms wasn't stopping the evacuation. “I'll be over here.”

“Got it.”

Mike walked over and leaned against the railing next to the Hell Hole. He stood there for a few minutes, watching the abandon ship operation proceed in a now disciplined manner. Glancing over his shoulder across the Hell Hole, he saw the starboard side mirroring the port.

Good,
Mike thought.
Let's hope they get the rest off before this shit starts up again.

S
emyaza opened his eyes and saw gray deck. He pushed himself up and found he'd been lying face down on the floor. He turned over and sat, then looked around. He was in a passageway marked with red piping and white walls. A few feet away from him lay a couple of dead bodies.

Delving into the memory of the vessel, he learned the man was named Robert Schiffer, and he was a ranking officer on board this ship, the
Rushmore
.

You do not have another leap in you,
Semyaza thought.

Semyaza shook his head, thinking of Uriel. He knew the great seraph did not speak in figurative language. If he said man would best him, then that is what he meant. He did not mean the shell of a man.

Enough,
he thought. He needed to find a place to hide and recover. He did not have time to debate himself.

Semyaza stood and walked down the passageway. He moved around the bodies and to a ladder. He climbed it and found another passageway filled with bodies. They were everywhere. Piled in some places. Blood seemed to cover every inch of wall and floor. He had beheld the carnage so many times already that Semyaza paid no attention to it.

The passageway tapered as he progressed forward. Then he found an open hatch. He climbed through it.

On the other side, he stood in a large open space with two tunnels. One tunnel led up an incline. At the top, he saw daylight and people running around, shouting.

Still panicked from what happened to their friends during the chaos,
Semyaza thought and moved toward the other tunnel. He had to avoid people at all costs right now.

The second tunnel led down an incline to an enormous open space that seemed to stretch on forever. He walked down it and started looking for places to hide. As he did, he looked over the wooden walls and floor of the space, knowing this empty cavernous location would not, in all likelihood, provide any good spaces to hide; he wondered why he had come down here in the first place.