100 Fathoms Below

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Jerry dragged Matson’s body across the torpedo room all the way to the hatch, before he remembered that the opening wasn’t flush with the deck. Along the bottom was a three-inch-high metal lip, which you had to step over when entering or leaving the room. Matson’s limp body slid over it easily enough until the mop handle jutting from his torso caught on it. Jerry tugged, but the body didn’t budge.

He dropped Matson’s legs. He knew what he was going to have to do. He was going to have to get closer to the body than he already was and heave it over the lip. The thought made him freeze up. Matson’s eyes were still open, even the gory, ruined one. The good eye stared up at the ceiling, but Jerry half expected that to change as he reached for Matson’s coveralls at his waist. How did he know that Matson was really dead and not just trying to trick him? He had survived being shot in the face. Who was to say a broken mop handle through the heart was enough to do the trick? Jerry grasped a handful of material and imagined that eye snapping toward him, the body rearing up, grabbing his hand.

But Matson stayed dead. With one hand holding the web belt at Matson’s waist, Jerry hauled him over the lip. Then he resumed dragging him by the legs down the corridor toward the main ladder.

Oran Guidry and Lieutenant Abrams were ahead of him. Abrams leaned against Oran for support, listing to one side and then the other as they walked haltingly forward, reminding Jerry of a drunk who couldn’t find his balance. Oran was holding the lantern now, but the beam faded into darkness in the corridor beyond. He swung the lantern so its beam hit every surface, every doorway, every corner it could reach, but no one was there. That didn’t mean much, though. There were still plenty of places to hide.

Not until Jerry was dragging Matson’s body down the corridor did he realize how badly the vampire had injured him. He had stinging cuts on the backs of his arms where Matson’s fingers had dug into his flesh, and persistent throbbing pain in a dozen places. There was blood on the sleeves of his poopie suit, which he noticed only now that it had grown cold against his skin. He refused to let his injuries slow him down, but he felt tired, weak, and light-headed. How much blood had he lost? On second thought, he didn’t want to know.

Abrams went first up the main ladder to the middle level. His grip on the rungs was wobbly, but Oran went up right behind him and kept a steadying hand on his back. Getting Matson’s corpse up the ladder was a lot trickier. While Abrams slumped against the bulkhead on the middle level, Oran and Jerry worked out a system similar to how they had gotten Stubic’s body bag down. On the bottom level, Jerry propped the body upright against the ladder and extended the arms upward. Oran reached down from the hole above, grabbed both arms by the wrist, and began to pull. Jerry got his shoulders under Matson’s body and shoved upward, climbing the ladder as he pushed and keeping the broken mop handle from snagging on the rungs. Even with Oran’s help, most of the weight was still on Jerry, and he began to feel dizzy from the exertion. It was taking longer than he had thought it would. His arms flared with pain, and he felt warm blood inside his sleeves again.

“You sure you don’ wanna leave him behind?” Oran groaned, hauling the body up.

“He’s our only proof,” Jerry said through gritted teeth.

At last, they got Matson’s body onto the middle-level deck. But Lieutenant Abrams looked worse than before. He was breathing hard, and in the lantern light, Jerry saw a glistening sheen of sweat on his face.

“Lieutenant, sir, we’ve got to keep moving,” he said.

Abrams swallowed. “I’m burning up.” He touched the welts on his neck. “One of them… one of those things bit me. Gave me the fever.”

“I know, sir,” Jerry said. “We’re going to get you back to the others and see what we can do for you.”

“Do for me? Matson was the only medical officer aboard,” Abrams said, glaring at the corpse on the floor. “He couldn’t do anything even before he… before he turned. No one else will be able to do anything, either.”

“You don’t know that, suh,” Oran said. “Let ’em try.”

Abrams swallowed again, his throat making a dry croaking sound. “Just promise me that if I start turning into one of them, you’ll kill me first.”

Oran glared at him. “No, suh!”

“You’ll be saving yourselves and doing me a favor at the same time,” Abrams insisted. “White—Jerry—please, I’m begging you. If I turn into one of them, kill me before it’s too late. I’d rather die as me than as… as one of those things.”

“Don’t talk like that, suh,” Oran said. “You ain’t gonna die.”

Abrams hung his head. “You’re wrong. We’re all going to die. I can hear them in my head. So many voices calling me. They’re all around us, in the dark. They’re here. They’re already here.”

Oran grabbed the lantern and twisted around, shining its beam into the corridor, when out of the darkness lurched Steve Bodine, his eyes open and glowing, and his teeth bared. But when the beam hit him in the face, he reeled back with a hiss and threw an arm across his eyes.

Jerry jumped to his feet. Oran held the lantern on Bodine, keeping him at bay, while Jerry grabbed Matson’s feet and started dragging the body up the short flight of steps to the reactor-room hatch. Abrams followed him. Oran brought up the rear, keeping the light trained on Bodine.

Another dark shape emerged from the mess. Two glowing eyes burned in the darkness. Oran turned the lantern toward them, and the figure stepped back. But even half shrouded in shadow Jerry could see his features. It was LeMon, Oran’s brother. He stood as silent as a ghost, not coming toward them, only watching.

“Dear God, LeMon,” Abrams breathed. “Oran, you were right! He’s one of them!”

LeMon smiled a terrible smile, baring his elongated upper canines.

“You stay away!” Oran yelled. “You ain’t Monje!”

The lantern light spilled past LeMon and into the mess. Jerry saw two bodies slumped at one of the tables: Ortega and Keene. Their throats had been torn open, leaving behind hanging flaps of skin and a red bib of blood on the front of their poopie suits.

LeMon and Bodine watched silently, not attacking. Were the vampires just toying with them, or was something holding them back? Jerry didn’t know, and he wasn’t about to question his good luck. In the dark corner closest to them, he saw two more glowing eyes. Oran flicked the lantern at them, illuminating the shape in the corner. Jerry nearly dropped Matson’s legs in shock.

It was Lieutenant Junior Grade Charles Duncan, the man who had made it his mission to humiliate Jerry at every opportunity. Jerry stared at him, waiting for him to make a move, but he stood as still as the others.

“Mighty thin ice, White,” Duncan hissed.

Abrams reached the hatch first. He opened it, and held it open as Jerry dragged Matson’s body through. Oran came last, wielding the lantern as a weapon, although Jerry was convinced that something else was keeping the vampires at bay—something about the reactor room itself.

When they all were inside, Abrams slammed the hatch shut again. The sailors guarding the hatch had pistols now from the weapons locker, trained on Jerry and the others as they turned around. Jerry didn’t even flinch at the sight of them. After facing down vampires, he just didn’t find guns all that threatening anymore. The worst a gun could do was kill you.

“Lower those weapons!” Captain Weber told the men. “It’s them!”

As the captain walked up to them, Abrams turned toward him and then collapsed. The captain stooped to catch him under his arms before he hit the deck.

Captain Weber turned to his men. “The lieutenant needs medical attention immediately!”

Two enlisted men took Abrams from the captain and escorted him farther back into the reactor room. Oran followed them.

“What happened, White?” the captain said. “Where are Ortega and Keene?”

“They’re dead, sir,” Jerry said. He let go of Matson’s legs, and the body rolled on its side, the mop handle still jutting from its chest.

Captain Weber looked down at the body on the deck. “I see Senior Chief Matson got what was coming to him. Good work, White, but there was no reason to bring him back with you.”

“With all due respect, sir, there was,” Jerry said. “There’s something you need to see. This isn’t a mutiny, sir. It’s something else.”

The captain frowned. “What are you talking about, White?”

“The fever, sir,” Jerry said. “It wasn’t just a virus, it was the incubation period of a—a kind of transformation. A terrible transformation. Bodine, Matson, and all the other infected crewmen have become something no longer human, sir. They’re stronger, they’re faster, they’re hungry for blood, and they’re damn hard to kill.”

The captain listened, the look of incredulity on his face growing with each passing moment. When Jerry was finished talking, Captain Weber stared hard at him.

“Mr. White,” he finally said, “I can only assume that this nonsense you’re telling me is the result of either a serious blow to the head, or psychological trauma, because this is not the time for a practical joke.”

“Sir, he’s telling the truth.” Tim Spicer stepped out of the crowd of dumbfounded sailors. “I saw the vampires too, sir.”

He nodded at Jerry, and Jerry nodded back. Not quite all was forgiven, but Tim had his back, and that meant something.

“Vampires?” the captain said. “You seriously expect me to believe that?”

“No, sir,” Jerry said. “That’s why we dragged Senior Chief Matson’s body all the way up from the torpedo room. I knew you wouldn’t believe it unless you saw for yourself, sir. I know I wouldn’t have.”

They knelt over the body. Matson’s ruined eye socket looked even worse in the bright light of the reactor room.

“What happened to his face?” Captain Weber asked.

“I shot him with the M1911, sir,” Jerry explained. “Right in the eye at point-blank range, sir, and it didn’t even slow him down. He came right back at me. Would have bitten me too, if—”

“Bitten you?” the captain interrupted.

“Aye, sir. He would have bitten me if Seaman Apprentice Guidry hadn’t stabbed him, sir. With that.” He nodded at the broken mop handle skewering Matson’s chest.

“A wooden stake,” Captain Weber said. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I were, sir,” Jerry said.

The captain turned Matson’s head to the side and winced at the bite marks on the neck. “Are those…?”

“Aye, sir, but that’s not all,” Jerry said. “Look at this, sir.”

Steeling himself with a deep breath, Jerry pushed Matson’s rubbery lips apart to reveal the elongated, strangely sharp canine teeth.

Captain Weber’s eyes went wide. “Holy Mother of God!”

In the bright light of the reactor room, Jerry could see the teeth more clearly. They were curved like a viper’s fangs, smooth across the front but sharp as carving knives. The enamel had an iridescent sheen that looked very different from human teeth. Captain Weber stared in silence. Jerry could see him trying to think it through, trying to come up with a reasonable scientific explanation for it all, and almost felt sorry for him. It was one thing to face a mutiny. They were rare, but they were recorded in the historical archives. No one doubted that they had occurred. But vampires? They were the stuff of horror movies and novels and campfire tales. Until now, even Jerry would have scoffed at the idea that vampires were real. Whatever mental gymnastics were happening inside Captain Weber’s head at that moment were no doubt much the same as those Jerry had gone through not so long ago—a path that had led from denial to anger and, finally, to acceptance.

The captain shook his head, obviously still in the first stage. “I don’t believe this. I do not fucking believe this.” The astonishment in his eyes gave way to fury. “On my submarine. On my goddamn submarine!”

The room tilted and spun suddenly. Jerry couldn’t stay upright and fell forward onto the deck. He heard Tim cry out, “Jerry!” Someone else said, “Jesus Christ, look at his back!” And then he passed out.

When he opened his eyes again, nothing had changed. He felt as if he had been out for hours, but it may have been only a few seconds.

“Don’t try to get up,” someone said.

Jerry hadn’t realized he was trying. He looked up and saw Tim crouched over him.

“You’re… The whole back of your uniform—it’s covered in blood, Jerry.”

“I’m okay,” he said. “Help me get up.”

“Slowly,” the captain cautioned. “I need to see how bad it is, White.”

When Tim had him sitting upright again, Jerry unzipped his coveralls to the waist. He pulled his arms out of the sleeves, wincing in pain as he peeled the sticky, wet fabric from his skin. Then he turned around to let Captain Weber and Tim see the damage.

“Dear God,” Tim murmured. “Those bruises look awful. And those cuts… Jesus…”

“Senior Chief Matson did this to you?” the captain asked.

“Yes, sir, when he grabbed me by the arms,” Jerry said. “He was unnaturally strong. He wasn’t human anymore.”

A shocked murmur ran through the crowd of sailors. If any of them hadn’t believed Jerry’s story about vampires before, they were starting to come around now.

“Someone get me some disinfectant!” Captain Weber ordered.

An engineer scurried off, and a minute later, he was dabbing Betadine-soaked cotton balls on Jerry’s wounds. At first, Jerry winced with each touch, but soon the pain passed. The engineer put bandages on his wounds, and Tim brought him a fresh uniform.

“You should rest now,” Captain Weber told him after Jerry had changed coveralls. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“There’s no time, sir,” Jerry said. “We have to take back the boat.”

The captain shook his head. “You won’t be any help if you’re in danger of passing out again. Now go rest, White. That’s an order.”

Jerry didn’t argue. “Aye-aye, sir.”

He found Lieutenant Abrams and Oran sitting against the bulkhead. Abrams had a blanket around his shoulders, and a white, square adhesive bandage stuck to the side of his neck. He had been treated, but it didn’t seem to be helping. He looked even worse. His skin was pale, and he was soaked with sweat. He blinked rapidly and turned his head to the side, away from the bright lights above.

“How are you holding up?” Jerry asked.

“I feel like I’m on fire,” Abrams said, squinting at him. “The light hurts my eyes. I know what’s happening to me, White. Please, remember what I asked you to do.”

“It won’t come to that, suh,” Oran said. “I promise you.”

But Jerry knew better. Oran was trying to comfort Abrams, but down in the torpedo room, he had made his true feelings known. No one would survive this.

Tim approached and squatted down in front of Abrams. “What happened?”

“We found him locked inside one of the torpedo tubes,” Jerry said. “We were lucky Matson hadn’t drowned him yet.”

“He should have drowned me,” Abrams said. “That would have been better.”

Tim turned to Jerry. “What’s he talking about?”

“This!” Abrams exclaimed. He tore off the adhesive bandage on his neck to show Tim the bite marks.

“Suh, don’t do that,” Oran said, but Abrams ignored him.

“Matson bit you, sir?” Tim asked, taken aback.

“One of them did,” Abrams said. “I didn’t see who. Matson, Bodine, LeMon, Jefferson, Duncan, Penwarden—what does it matter? I’m going to be like them soon, I know it. I’ve got the fever; the light feels like it’s stabbing into my eyes. I can… I can hear them in my head, calling my name. How much longer will I be me?”

“Now, Lieutenant, you got to stop talking like that,” Oran said.

“Sir, you should listen to Guidry,” Tim said, putting a supportive hand on Abrams’ shoulder. “You’re lucky to be alive. We’re going to do everything we can to keep you that way.”

Abrams looked up at him with dark, sunken eyes. “And when I lose control and tear into your neck with my teeth, Spicer, will you still think so?”

Tim looked at Jerry. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure,” Jerry said. He got up, and they stepped a few paces away from the others. “I don’t know what we can do for Lieutenant Abrams. If there’s a cure, Matson never had the chance to find it.”

“That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” Tim said. “I wanted to apologize. Again. I was stupid. I should have been straight with you from the start about the captain asking me to keep an eye on you.”

“Forget it,” Jerry said. “Water under the bridge. If I’d been in your shoes, I probably would’ve done the same thing. There are more important things to worry about.”

“So we’re good?” Tim asked.

“Depends,” Jerry said.

“On what?”

“On whether we get out of here alive.”

“Something tells me the odds aren’t in our favor.” Tim looked past Jerry’s shoulder into the main part of the reactor room. “What the hell are they doing?”

Jerry turned around to see a group of sailors carrying Matson’s corpse. Captain Weber walked in front of them.

“Putting him somewhere safe, I guess,” Jerry said. “In case he’s not fully dead.”

“Can you really kill something like that?” Tim asked. “Aren’t they supposed to be dead already, technically?”

“Who knows?” Jerry replied. “They left out the chapter on vampires in The Bluejacket’s Manual.”

The sailors carrying Matson passed in front of the reactor. Several of them cried out and dropped Matson onto the deck. One of them shouted, “Captain, look!”

Jerry and Tim hurried over. On the deck, surrounded by a circle of gawking crewmen, Senior Chief Matson’s corpse had begun to smoke. A moment later, his skin started sizzling, stretching like a web over his muscles and bones as it blackened and burned away.

Jerry watched the corpse smolder. His suspicions were confirmed. There was something else besides light and wood stakes could harm the vampires. Something that was right here in the reactor room.