Read Ship of the Damned Online
Authors: James F. David
Ship of the Damned (25 page)
“Compton, you take the point. Peters, cover the rear,” Jett ordered.
Peters pushed through the surging crowd like a salmon swimming upstream. As Compton turned, Jett realized that Evans was missing.
“Where’s Evans?” he shouted above the growing din.
“Either dead or killing Specials,” Compton said.
Jett had never trusted Evans, but they could have used his ability and his weapon. Reaching for Ralph, Jett pushed him forward.
“Lead us to the door, Ralph. The door you told me about, remember?”
“Sure, Nate, I know.”
“Good. Take us there.”
Jett noticed that Dawson had Ralph’s arm and was pulling him along too.
“Remember you promised to go home, Ralph,” Dawson shouted.
“Sure, sure, I remember,” Ralph said, leading the party past the last crew berth and past the magazines for the stern eight-inch battery.
“Remember to go home,” Dawson said again.
Then Dawson released Ralph’s arm, letting him move ahead at his own speed. Jett heard Dawson say, “Wes, bring us out.”
Suddenly they were sprayed with metal pieces, one burying in Dawson’s
leg. Dawson fell, and the panicked crowd behind pressed past. Jett helped Dawson to one side, letting Kellum’s people pass.
leg. Dawson fell, and the panicked crowd behind pressed past. Jett helped Dawson to one side, letting Kellum’s people pass.
“We’ve got to keep moving,” Jett said to Dawson.
“The integration is dissolving,” Dawson said, eyes glassy.
Peters and the rear guard backed toward them. One of Kellum’s psychokinetics sprayed a handful of metal shards. Jett noticed that the man’s nose was bleeding.
The Crazies were at the other end of the corridor, dashing from one crew-berth hatch to another, working forward. They were even wilder looking than Kellum’s people, being two rungs lower on the civilization scale. Most had facial tattoos, and many had crosses dangling from their necks or painted on their clothes. Their ears were pierced and they wore dangling copper earrings, many of them crosses hammered out of copper shell casings. They were a ragged bunch, and more reckless than Kellum’s people.
When one of the Crazies sprinted for a hatchway, Jett picked him off, realizing as the man fell that he wasn’t tattooed and he wore a purple jersey. Jett knew the Nimitz flight deck crew wore colored jerseys so that they could be easily distinguished from flight control in the ship’s tower. Crew in purple jerseys were called “Grapes,” and were responsible for fueling the planes. Jett spotted another man in a green jersey—he would have been on the catapult or arresting wire crews. This was the first concrete evidence Jett had that the Nimitz was indeed in Pot of Gold.
“We’re going home now, Anita,” Dawson said, looking to the side as if he was seeing someone.
Jett pulled Dawson to his feet. The man was confused, his face blank.
“Let’s go,” Jett ordered.
“What’s going on?” Dawson said suddenly.
“Are you Elizabeth, or Dawson?” Jett asked.
“Dawson.”
Supporting Dawson with one arm, Jett fired with the other as they backed down the corridor, fighting with the rear guard. The connection with Elizabeth Foxworth had been broken; Jett’s link with the outside world was gone. If Ralph didn’t find a way out, Jett would need Dawson to connect again. Dawson was limping, blood spreading down his leg. Jett let him move ahead, then dropped back, helping Peters pick off Crazies.
E
vans was hiding in a powder magazine. The heavily armored room was packed with shells for the six- and eight-inch guns, and ammunition for the forty-millimeter and twenty-millimeter guns. Evans had fought the Crazies using his gun and his power. There had been too many for him, and he had been forced back, retreating slowly, leaving dead bodies and wounded men behind. He knew Compton thought he was suicidal, but he wasn’t. A man can’t die twice, and he had died years ago when the Specials had burned away any chance he had of a normal life. Only fantasies of revenge had kept him alive.
vans was hiding in a powder magazine. The heavily armored room was packed with shells for the six- and eight-inch guns, and ammunition for the forty-millimeter and twenty-millimeter guns. Evans had fought the Crazies using his gun and his power. There had been too many for him, and he had been forced back, retreating slowly, leaving dead bodies and wounded men behind. He knew Compton thought he was suicidal, but he wasn’t. A man can’t die twice, and he had died years ago when the Specials had burned away any chance he had of a normal life. Only fantasies of revenge had kept him alive.
The red-hot fragment that pierced his suit had cauterized the wound, stopping the bleeding. It would scar, and Evans laughed at the thought. It must have been a ricochet—otherwise the fragment would have penetrated all the way to his lung. Instead, he dug the fragment from his chest. There was a wound on his neck, too, but the thick scar tissue absorbed the fragment. They had taken their best shot at him and he had survived, taking out four or five Specials. He could kill them a few at a time, but eventually they would get him. If Jett and Compton had stayed on task, he would have had allies, and the decks of the ship would be running with the blood of the Specials.
Something was wrong with Jett. He had a reputation as a ruthless agent, but the Jett he had seen on this mission would never have been retained by the agency. Evans couldn’t count on Jett—he had a thing for the moron, Ralph. He had gone off with Ralph and was likely dead. If the Specials were going to die, he was going to have to do the killing, and the best way to do that was to destroy the generators.
Standing, Evans noticed that his chest ached, but less than when he first hid in the magazine. He was healing at abnormal speed, since the efficiency of his body’s repair mechanisms was facilitated in Pot of Gold. Evans had no sense of which way to go, knowing only that the generators had been installed in one of Norfolk’s boiler rooms. He trudged up and down corridors, working his way to the lowest decks, checking the boiler rooms and finding them empty, then working higher into the ship, trying to find his way to what the captured sailor called “level one.” On his fifth trip through the ship he heard sounds.
Cautious, Evans waited, listening, trying to identify the sound. After a minute his mind matched it with his past experience. It was a hacksaw cutting through metal. Evans advanced slowly along the corridor. The sound came from a compartment near where he had battled the Crazies. He paused by the hatch, his back to the bulkhead, and listened.
The “stroop, stroop, stroop” sound of the saw stopped and there was the dull clink of a small piece of metal. He waited until the saw began again, then peeked into the compartment. There were two men inside. One wore the overalls of a farmer, his shoes still caked with dirt from the patch of ground he had worked. The other was a seaman dressed in work denims, white sailor cap on his head. The farmer was sawing through a pipe locked in a pipe vise. The sailor stood next to him, holding the pipe unnecessarily. There was a bucket below, and after a dozen strokes a piece of the pipe fell into it. Evans waited until the farmer started another cut before he stepped into the room.
Evans didn’t know if they were Crazies, and he didn’t care. It was more important to know if they were Specials. He doubted it. If they had significant talent they wouldn’t be given menial jobs.
“Don’t move,” Evans said, menacing them with the gun.
The farmer turned to face him, his chin covered with a day’s growth of beard. His face had the weathered look of a man who spent sixteen hours a day outside. He stared with dull eyes—no spark, no anger, no fear. The sailor’s eyes were bright with intelligence.
“You got no business here,” the farmer said, taking a step toward Evans.
Evans aimed for the farmer’s foot, but the shot caught him in the ankle
and he went down with a yelp, both hands reaching for his wound. The sailor’s eyes never left Evans, who now wondered if he’d shot the wrong man. The sailor had nerve; he kept his head the way an agent would.
and he went down with a yelp, both hands reaching for his wound. The sailor’s eyes never left Evans, who now wondered if he’d shot the wrong man. The sailor had nerve; he kept his head the way an agent would.
The farmer was moaning, but both Evans and the sailor ignored him, eyes locked.
“You’re going to lead me to the generators,” Evans said.
The sailor shook his head no.
“Turn around,” Evans ordered.
Slowly the sailor turned, facing the workbench. There were tools and pieces of pipe on the bench, so Evans ordered the sailor to put his hands behind his head, fingers laced. Then he went to the pipe vise next to the moaning farmer. The pipe was held by a chain that looped it. The chain could be tightened with a ratchet until the pipe was held tight. Evans released the catch and loosened the chain, sliding the pipe out. It was a length about three feet long, one end cut at an angle where they had been working. The bucket was a quarter full of one-inch slivers of pipe.
“Put your arm in!” Evans ordered the farmer, pointing at the loop of chain.
The farmer didn’t look up, so Evans poked him with the sharp end of the pipe. He flinched, eyes still dull, but now moist.
“Put your arm in or I’ll kill you,” Evans said.
The farmer got to his knees slowly, wincing from the pain in his ankle. Half crawling, dragging his limp and bleeding leg behind, he inched toward the pipe vise and put his left arm through the loop. Evans wrapped the chain just below the farmer’s elbow, then tightened it, the farmer yelping with the pain and then sobbing as the chain cut through his flesh and the blood started to flow.
“Turn around,” Evans told the sailor.
When the sailor saw the farmer, his eyes widened at the sight of the man bleeding from his ankle, his arm locked in the vise. It was the sign of weakness Evans had hoped for. The farmer could stand it no longer and reached for the release on the ratchet. Keeping his gun on the sailor, Evans brought the pipe down on the farmer’s wounded ankle. The farmer yelped, his free arm reaching for his ankle.
“Don’t touch the vise,” Evans ordered.
The sailor was wide-eyed now, shocked by Evans’s cruelty.
“You’re going to lead me to the generators,” Evans repeated.
“You can’t go there,” the sailor said. “It’s not our territory.”
Evans took two sideways steps toward the vise and swung the pipe around in a big arc, putting all his strength into the blow. He hit the
farmer’s arm halfway between the wrist and the elbow, snapping the arm in half. The farmer screamed and clawed ineffectively at the vise, too wracked with pain to work the release. Broken in the middle, the arm hung limp, connected only by muscle and skin. To Evans’s satisfaction the sailor stared open-mouthed. Then he turned, bent over, and threw up—nothing came out.
farmer’s arm halfway between the wrist and the elbow, snapping the arm in half. The farmer screamed and clawed ineffectively at the vise, too wracked with pain to work the release. Broken in the middle, the arm hung limp, connected only by muscle and skin. To Evans’s satisfaction the sailor stared open-mouthed. Then he turned, bent over, and threw up—nothing came out.
“I’ll take you to the generators. Just don’t hurt him anymore.”
Evans ordered the sailor to the corridor.
“Let me help him first,” the sailor pleaded.
“No.”
“Let me get him out of the vise, at least.”
“He can let himself out,” Evans said.
The sailor left reluctantly, looking back at the farmer. Evans let the farmer live because he wanted the sailor to have hope. He would kill the sailor eventually, but hostages with hope were easier to manipulate. The moans of the farmer followed them down the corridor.
“S
hould I call for an ambulance, Wes?” Shamita said.
hould I call for an ambulance, Wes?” Shamita said.
They were all gathered around Elizabeth’s cot in the lab where she lay unconscious. Wanda sat on the edge of her cot, cigarette in hand, blowing smoke rings toward Len. Len periodically waved his hand to clear the rings, but otherwise ignored Wanda. Anita, in her Bugs Bunny tee-shirt, kneeled on her cot, one pigtail in her mouth, chewing anxiously and straining to see over the adults who stood around Elizabeth. The room was silent except for the whir of disk drives, the drone of computer cooling fans, and the soft pumping sounds of the liquid-nitrogen cooling system.
“Maybe you better get an ambulance,” Monica said.
Monica’s belated concern irritated Wes. She had pushed him to continue the experiment.
“Do it, Shamita. Call an ambulance,” Wes said.
Shamita was moving before Wes finished speaking.
“Len, keep your eye on her vital signs,” Wes said.
Len returned to his station, glaring at Wanda as he passed.
Wes held Elizabeth’s hand, talking to her, saying her name over and over, coaxing her back to the world. The others had woken immediately when the link was dissolved—even Anita, who was the strongest receiver.
Elizabeth still wasn’t conscious six minutes after dissolution, and her body was reacting as if it was still in the dream.
Elizabeth still wasn’t conscious six minutes after dissolution, and her body was reacting as if it was still in the dream.
“Her heart rate is coming down, Wes,” Len said. “Coming down fast. Blood pressure is dropping.”
Elizabeth’s eyelids fluttered, and everyone took an expectant breath. After a half dozen blinks the faces around her came into focus.
“Elizabeth, can you hear me?” Wes asked.
“I talked to Ralph,” Elizabeth said. “I told him to come home.”
“BP is still dropping. Heart rate is down to fifty-five,” Len said.
“Don’t talk,” Wes told her.
“What about Anita?” Elizabeth said suddenly, trying to sit up.
Wes held her down with a hand on her chest.
“Anita is fine,” Monica said.
“And Wanda?” Elizabeth wanted to know.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Wanda said loudly from behind. “I’m as tough as a cockroach. You couldn’t kill me with a rock if you tried.”
“Much as we’d like to,” Len said.
“Ha?” said Wanda, blowing a stream of smoke at Len’s head.
Elizabeth smiled weakly at the continuing war between Len and Wanda, then her eyes lost focus and her eyelids drooped.
“Heart rate is forty-nine beats per minute,” Len said. “Her blood pressure is continuing to drop.”
“Stay awake, Elizabeth,” Wes said. “Tell me what you saw, what you did.”
Elizabeth’s eyes opened again.
“I saw Ralph,” Elizabeth said weakly.
“Yes, tell me about Ralph.”
“If he comes home …”
“Yes, Elizabeth, if Ralph comes home, what?” Wes said.
“If Ralph gets home, don’t let him go back to the ship.”
Wes hesitated. To save Elizabeth, he had to find the source of the dream and stop the dream transmission. He didn’t know how to get there without Ralph.
Weak as she was, Elizabeth sensed his hesitation.
“Don’t go to the ship,” Elizabeth said. “Promise me you won’t go to the ship?”
Wes couldn’t promise. He would do whatever he had to, to save Elizabeth.
“I can’t promise, Elizabeth …” Wes began, but never finished. Elizabeth was unconscious.
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