The Raven (A Jane Harper Horror Novel) (23 page)

I turn back to Willem. “Lock the doors.”

Willem quickly spins the locks on the thick metal door through which we entered. The six locking pins slide into place. Nothing short of modern explosives can get through the door now. Not even water. He tiptoes through the fleshy muck, slowly heading for the second door.

“The systems look like they’re active,” Steven says, and he’s right, the bridge is lit up with blinking lights, glowing screens, and
flashing sensors. With a splash of green, the bridge would look like Christmas in hell. “C-couldn’t we just purge the gas tanks from here or something? There has to be a way we can strand the ships.”

“We don’t want to strand the ships,” I say. “We want to sink them and kill everything on them.” I pause. “Except for us.”

Steven shrinks in defeat. There are probably a number of things we could do from the bridge that might hinder the Draugars’ plans, but by how much? We don’t even know what those plans are, and it’s likely that the propulsion provided by all the other ships tethered together would be enough to carry the island on its merry way. No, the only direction we want these ships going is down.

Willem reaches the second door and quickly locks it. Just as he finishes, there’s a loud
thump
on the first door. The small, thick glass window reveals a peeling, bloody face with white eyes. It can’t get in, but it can see what we’re up to.

“Move away from the rear door!” I whisper.

The group quickly moves.

“Act like we’re interested in the ship’s systems.”

As the charade gets under way, I pick up a discarded shirt, tear it in two, and toss half to Willem. “Cover the door window.” There’s no way we can cover the forward-facing windows. They’re huge. But they’re also largely coated in dried blood, and unless the Draugar know how to rappel, I don’t think it’s a concern.

The banging on the door grows frantic. The man outside is missing more skin on his face than he has, and one eye looks partially deflated. He’s hard to see thanks to the setting sun, but his face is caught in the glow of the bridge lights.

I’m not sure why, but I return the man’s stare.
I see you
, I try to say with my eyes,
and I’m not afraid
. When a stiff breeze catches the man’s comb-over, it pulls the flap of hair vertical. But it doesn’t stop
there; the skin of his skull lifts like a second comb-over. The image is ghastly but so ridiculous that I crack a smile.

The zombie reacts first by curling its lips in a snarl. Then it flings itself at the door, kicking and thrashing like a kid in a toy aisle who didn’t get a Nerf Vortex Nitron Blaster. I flip the tantrum thrower the bird and tuck the shredded shirt behind a steel bar above the door. The shirt dangles down, covering the window.

The banging instantly stops.

Out of sight out of mind? I doubt it.

Probably working their way around to the other doors. Time to go.

Willem must be thinking the same thing. “This way?” he asks, pointing toward the open door at the back of the room.

Steven scrunches up his lips like he doesn’t want to answer, but then he nods quickly.

Talbot takes the lead, sidestepping slowly toward the door. Standing next to the door frame, he takes a quick peek around it and then pivots in front of the door, raising his gun and scanning for targets. The maneuver is so rehearsed and natural that I remember the man was an honest-to-goodness Texas Ranger before he joined the UFO-loving Dark Side. He’s done this before. Well, he hasn’t stormed a ship full of zombies, but he’s probably raided a home or two. Maybe a bank full of hostages. Or a drug factory.

“Talbot, take the lead,” I say, then motion to Steven. “You next.”

“M-me?”

I roll my eyes and step up behind Talbot. “Just tell us where to go.”

“Take the stairs down three decks,” he says. “That will put us just behind the theater.” He gets a wistful look in his eyes. Then Jakob pokes him in the back with the barrel of his gun. “Okay, okay.”

As we descend the red-carpeted staircase, the feel of the ship immediately changes. The exterior is all white and turquoise, like some kind of polished dinner plate. And the bridge is like the bridge of USS
Enterprise
—the starship, not the aircraft carrier, though the aircraft carrier probably looks similar, too. But the beige-and-red-striped wallpaper lining the walls, brass railings, and corny modern art lining the walls smack of Las Vegas.

At least the rug is plush
, I think. It will muffle our movement through the ship.

At the bottom of the first flight, Talbot pauses and points to a gaudy-looking brass sconce. “Why’re the lights still on? If they didn’t want us in here, they shoulda shut off the lights.”

My first thought is that he’s right and we must be walking into a trap, but then I remember the cave. We were freezing and afraid, Jakob, Willem, Chase, and me. That night, in the pitch-black of the cave, a man named Jackson—a Draugr—came in after us. But he couldn’t see us. He nearly drooled a parasite into my mouth, but in the dark, he was as blind as the rest of us. “They can’t see in the dark,” I say. “Even if they take a mammal that can see in low light, they inhabit the eyeballs. They can’t improve their vision, which is as limited as ours.”

Talbot accepts the answer and starts down the stairs once more.

When the staircase ends two flights down, Steven says, “We’re on the fourth deck, just behind the showroom. We can go around or through the showroom, cut through the duty-free shops, and take the main stairway down to the second deck. One of the maintenance shops is toward the bow end of that deck, so we’ll have to backtrack a little, but I’m pretty sure we can access the maintenance tunnels there, too, which will get us to the gas tanks.”

I hear the “but” coming before he says it. “But?”

“You can’t just walk in there. Unless the door was left open, which I suppose is possible, ’cause, you know, we’ll need a maintenance crew or senior crew keycard to unlock the door.”

“Any idea on where to find one?” I ask.

“Well I’m sure there are more than a few zombies carrying them around,” he says.

At first I think he’s joking, which pisses me off, but then I realize he’s not. “Fuck.”

“What about the captain’s quarters?” Willem asks. “He must keep a spare.”

Jakob nods at this. “He’d be a fool not to.”

Steven shakes his head. “Captain’s quarters are on deck three.”

Jakob’s eyebrows rise. “The captain spoils himself.”

Steven smiles and gets that wistful look again. “He spoils everyone he likes.”

I clear my throat. “We’ll try to find a card on the way. If that doesn’t pan out and the door isn’t already open, we’ll worry about getting up to Captain Happy Tappy’s quarters.” I’m about to give the go-ahead when I see Talbot cock his head to the side. “What is it?”

“Music,” he says. “I think.”

We all listen. I hear something, but it’s indistinct. Muffled through walls. Steven, on the other hand, lights up. He’s about to speak when a loud squeak drowns out the distant music.

Talbot points up the stairwell, then shushes us with a finger to his lips. He leans out over the rail and turns his head up.

The door above squeaks loudly again, and then slams shut. Talbot holds out his index finger and mouths the words, “One person.”

An electric whirring sound comes from above as something rumbles over the rug. I can actually feel the floor shaking beneath me. Whoever it is, they’ve eaten one too many Twinkies, or maybe
people. I join Talbot at the rail, looking up, hoping to see something that indicates whether we’re dealing with a Draugr or human. The latter seems unlikely, but if Steven can survive, it’s possible that there are other survivors on board.

A hand grips the rail two floors up. The fingers, which sport chipped ruby red nails, are grotesquely fat and bloated. They look ready to split, like overcooked sausages. The head slides into view, peering over the rail with white eyes. The woman’s pushed-in nose and flaccid jowls remind me of a bulldog. She’s wearing layers of old makeup, but is strangely blood-free. Her blond hair dangles from twin ponytails—what a past boyfriend referred to as handlebars, because men can’t resist riding a girl with ponytails. But I’m pretty sure he’d change his mind if he ever had a look-see at Chubby Cheeks here.

Shit.

But the Draugr reacts to our presence with a wet-sounding rasp.
Why isn’t she attacking?
I wonder. Because she doesn’t have to. Every Draugr on board, on the surrounding vessels, or swimming around the island inside hijacked marine mammals has just seen what this one has seen. We won’t be alone for long.

I’m about to bolt when Handlebar Helga starts twitching her head up and down.

The hell?

With each upward motion, the undead woman makes a sound that’s one part belch, one part frog croak. Thinking of frogs, I notice her triple chin growing larger. It’s expanding like a balloon.

“That gal’s been rode hard and put away wet,” Talbot says.

I barely hear him. “Look out!” I shout, jumping away.

But Talbot doesn’t move. He just stares straight up, captivated by the horrible sight. There’s a retching sound, followed by a pop. Talbot only has time to widen his eyes before a blob of fat, bloody, and maggoty parasites drops onto his face.

M
y mind recoils from what’s just happened. It ranks near the top of Jane Harper’s nastiness chart. The fat zombie actually launched a parasite-laden projectile formed from its insides. The softball-size glob splattered when it struck Talbot, sending dollops of wriggling fat to the rugged floor at my feet, but most of the viscous stuff burst all over the cowboy’s face. It’s in his eyes. His nose. His mouth. His mustache is thick with the stuff.

At first, his reaction is similar to someone who’s just gotten a pie in the face. He scrapes the goo from his eyes with his fingers and spits out a wad.

He’s already dead, I know, but he hasn’t quite realized it yet. Whatever parasites reached his face would have wasted no time wriggling inside him.

“Talbot…” I say.

I don’t know if it’s the despair in my voice or the feel of parasites beneath his fingers as he rubs the gunk from his face, but his movements become frantic. “Shit! Shit!” He removes his jacket and uses it to roughly scour the remnants of the fat-bomb from his face. When he stops, he looks like himself again, though his skin now has an oily sheen.

He looks sick when he looks at us again. “Knew my curiosity would git me killed someday.” He winces. “I can feel ’em in there. Diggin’.”

He raises the peacemaker, and I think he’s going to shoot himself.

“I can do that for you,” Jakob says. And I know he can. He shot his oldest friend, Alvin, to prevent him from becoming a Draugr.

Talbot gives a nod. “I reckon you could, but that’s not how I’m gonna leave this world.”

A spasm racks his body. The parasites work quickly. It won’t be long before he’s just another mindless zombie. Well, not quite mindless. Some tortured part of him will remain, but he’ll also be part of the collective. He stands and looks up the stairwell.

There’s a whir of an electric motor. The door above squeaks. The lard-spewer is leaving.

Talbot starts up the stairs.

“What are you doing?” I ask, wondering why he doesn’t want to be killed. It’s a strange way to think, but the alternative is far worse.

Talbot stops at the top of the first staircase. “I’m gonna kill the sombitch. Next time you see me, Raven, you put a bullet in my brain. No hesitation. You put me down.”

I give a nod, and he’s charging up the next flight of stairs, off to exact his vengeance before he becomes one of the enemy.

“Let’s go,” I say, turning to Steven.

“That’s it?” He looks aghast. “Your friend is about to become
one of them
, and you’re all, ‘Let’s go?’ How can you be so—”

I slap him. Hard. I don’t know if it knocks some sense into him, or out of him, but it shuts him up. “When you’ve seen your friends come back from the dead, talked to their severed head after it’s been transplanted onto a thousand-year-old body, or
watched someone you know sacrifice themselves—then you can bitch about my response to it. Until then, you can shut the fuck up.”

A glimmer of blue light catches my attention. The little bastard is thinking about Tasing me. “Let me make this clear for you. If you’re not with us, you’re against us. And if you’re against us, you’re with
them
. And if you’re with them…”

Jakob brings the point home by pumping his shotgun.

“You people are insane,” Steven says.

I’ve got a thousand quips lined up, most of which insult his masculinity or make me look crazier, but I keep them to myself. Silence is the best kind of intimidation.

Steven sighs. His shoulders slouch. “Fine.”

Willem opens the door slowly and peeks into the plush hallway on the other side. Wall-to-wall blue Oriental rug stretches down the hall, which is lit by recessed lighting in the ceiling. A few blood-streaked handprints mar the yellowish walls and the railings that stretch down the hall, but the space is empty, which begs the question, Where is everyone? This place should be swarming.

No one has an answer, so we push forward into the hall. When the door closes behind us, the pressure changes and the music we heard earlier comes through more clearly. It’s a mix of horns and an up-tempo beat, like a combination of big band music and salsa.

Steven stops, straightening. He recognized the music before but forgot about it when fatty-bo-batty showed up.

“The cabaret!” he says with a gasp. “They must be okay!”

He rushes past Willem and sprints down the hall.

“Steven!” I hiss at him, afraid to yell and draw attention. But there’s no stopping the man. He passes ten open doors and two hallways without incident before turning right.

Willem, Jakob, and I stand still. We share glances at each other.

“Should we leave him?” I ask.

“He’s not giving us much of a choice,” Willem says.

“We might need him,” Jakob says.

I can’t fathom a reason why we’d need Steven beyond his being our guide, but even that might not be necessary. “I remember his instructions for reaching the second deck, and those are everywhere.” I point to a black plastic diagram of the ship mounted at the intersection ahead of us with a big Y
OU
A
RE
H
ERE
posted toward the front of the ship.