Deluge: The Conqueror Worms II

CHAPTER 28

Before Gail could react, the school of fish had stripped most of the skin from Hansen’s face. He swatted at them with both hands, as if they were bees, rather than flying fish, and a moment later, his fingers had been reduced to raw, bloody stumps of bone and cartilage.

Gail screamed, stumbling backward across the boat’s slippery deck. Attracted by her cry, Hansen turned in her direction. His eyes were gone, and when he opened his lipless mouth to plead for help, the fish took his tongue in quick, savage bites. Then they started in on his gums. They hovered around his head, mercifully obscuring it from sight again. The sound of their wings was audible over the waves and the steady drumming of the rain and even the shrieks of the other people on deck, all of whom, like Gail, were trying to flee, rather than helping the dying man.

Like we’ve got anywhere to flee to, Gail thought, running for the hatch. We’re surrounded by water. Where would we go if we could escape?

She reached the hatch and slid to a halt. Morgan stood in the opening, watching as the fish went to work on Hansen’s torso. His expression was one of dreadful fascination. Gail didn’t know the man well—they’d found him clinging to some debris in the waters over Cleveland—but she was willing to bet Morgan had been the type to slow down on the highway and gawk at car wrecks.

“Morgan, move.”

If he heard her, he gave no indication. His eyes remained fixed on Hansen’s demise. He licked his lips slowly.

Hansen’s blood pooled on the deck, mixing with the rainwater.

“Morgan!” Gail placed her palm against his chest and pushed. His flannel shirt was wet. He didn’t budge.

McCann and Riffle ran up behind her, panting for breath.

“Jesus Christ, Morgan,” McCann shouted, “get the fuck out of the way!”

Blinking, Morgan turned to him. “W-what? Oh… yeah.”

He stepped aside slowly. Gail, McCann and Riffle shoved past him. The two men clambered down the ladder, heading below, while Gail positioned herself at the hatch, shouting at the others on deck to hurry. They needed no encouragement. With a speed that belied imagination, Hansen’s corpse had been reduced to nothing more than bones and some scraps of wet clothing, and now the flying fish were darting after new prey. Raindrops rolled off their silver scales. One by one, Lynn, Caterina, Paris and Mylon ran toward the open hatch, hands held uselessly over their heads in a futile effort to protect themselves.

Mylon slipped on the wet deck and almost went down. The fish darted toward him, but he scrambled to his feet and limped on. As he flung himself through the opening, Gail shoved the door, slamming the hatch closed. Only then was she aware that Morgan was standing beside her. He finally seemed to come out of his trance, at least long enough to push the lever on the inside of the door. The tumblers clanked into place, sealing them inside.

Gail leaned against the bulkhead and began to tremble. Her hands and feet felt jittery. Her stomach turned.

Booted footsteps pounded up the ladder. Novak appeared, a lit cigar chomped securely between his teeth. In his hands was the makeshift flamethrower he’d fashioned from two propane bottles and assorted spare parts. McCann was right behind him, his face ashen.

“What are we fighting today?” Novak asked. “Not those fucking shark men again, I hope?”

“No.” Gail shook her head. “This is something new. They’re like sliver piranha, but with wings.”

Novak nodded, seeming to take this in stride. “Everybody make it?”

“All accounted for except Hansen.”

“Any chance he’s still alive?”

She swallowed. “I doubt it. If he is, then we have to…”

Novak raised the flamethrower and nodded at the hatch. “Open it up, and shut it as soon as I’m outside.”

“But you—”

“Just do it, Gail.”

His tone wasn’t stern or argumentative, nor did he act as if he was giving an order. If anything, Novak just sounded tired.

Gail did as he asked. Novak stepped forward as the tumblers clanked again, and said, “Get the fuck out of the way, Morgan.”

He puffed the cigar until the tip glowed orange. Then he touched it to the flamethrower’s nozzle. Gail opened the door and Novak stepped outside, his pace slow and measured. He stood with his feet at shoulder-width apart, raised the flamethrower, and unleashed its contents on the fish, all of which were soaring toward him. He swept the weapon back and forth, engulfing them all in a fiery arc. The creatures fell to the deck, flopping and thrashing as they burned. Novak hit them with another burst and they lay still. Then he stepped over their smoldering bodies and trained the flamethrower on Hansen’s grisly remains.

When he was finished, Novak turned off the flamethrower and strolled back to the door. He smiled at Gail, McCann and Morgan.

“Thought I told you to shut the hatch behind me?”

“I- I’m sorry,” Gail stammered. “I just…”

His grin grew wider. “You couldn’t resist the smell of fried fish, right?”

McCann frowned. “How can you joke around after that?”

“It’s not so bad.” Novak shrugged. “Everybody’s alive, right?”

“Everyone except Hansen,” Gail reminded him.

“Well, that’s okay. Nobody liked him anyway.”

The cigar jiggled as he laughed. A moment later, Gail and McCann laughed too. Morgan stared at the three of them and then joined in.

“It could have been worse,” Novak said as he stepped inside. “Much worse. And if things keep going the way they have been, it probably will be soon enough.”

They went back down the ladder. Gail felt the tension drain from her body as they rejoined the rest of the crew. She preferred being below decks rather than topside—not because of the protection the ship’s steel bulkheads offered, but because when she was inside, she couldn’t hear the incessant sound of the rain.