Deluge: The Conqueror Worms II

CHAPTER 37

“Do you see anything?”

Yawning, Mylon shook his head. He lowered the binoculars and pointed at the lenses. “Can’t see shit through these things. They’re all fogged over. Got anything dry I can wipe them with?”

Riffle laughed. “You’re kidding, right? I can’t remember the last time I had something dry.”

“I dream about it sometimes. It’s funny. Before the rain started, I used to dream about other stuff. Food, mostly. And sex. But these days, I just dream about being dry. And warm.”

Nodding, Riffle peered through the haze, trying to catch a glimpse of Novak and the others. The mist had grown thicker since their departure, and the rain fell harder. The island was still visible, but the small boat had disappeared from sight. He felt uneasy. Granted, he usually felt that way all day long in this new world, but now the feeling was amplified.

“I hope they’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Mylon said, raising the binoculars again. “I hope so, too. I reckon they will be. Novak’s a tough son of a bitch.”

Riffle grinned. “That he is. I remember when I first met him, he—”

A scream cut him off. Mylon sat the binoculars down and both men ran out onto the deck. They skidded to a halt. Paris knelt by the rail. Morgan stood overtop of her. He clutched a pistol in one hand and Paris’s hair in the other. He yanked her head back, forcing her to cry out again. Ben stood next to them, armed with a rifle. He appeared anxious and sick, almost as if he were going to vomit.

“What the fuck?” Riffle yelled.

“I’m sorry,” Paris sobbed. “They didn’t give me a—”

“Shut up.” Morgan pulled her hair again, and then pointed the handgun at her head.

“Where did you get those guns?” Riffle asked, staring at them in disbelief.

“Your boss man is slipping,” Morgan said. “He told us to stow them again and then sailed off to Fantasy Island—after threatening to toss me over the side. I guess I forgot to lock mine up again. Oops.”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Morgan?” Mylon took a step toward him. “What is this?”

“It’s a mutiny. And if you come any closer, I’m going to decorate the deck with this girl’s brains.”

The rain fell on them all. Paris sobbed. Riffle and Mylon froze, their hands in the air. Ben’s eyes darted from the two of them to Morgan and then back again. The rifle shook in his hands.

“Okay,” Riffle said, his voice low. “Look… you guys don’t need to do this. Ben, come on, dude. This isn’t you.”

“I don’t want to die,” Ben said. “Novak’s gone crazy, Riffle. All that talk about suicide pacts? He needs to step down.”

“And you’re gonna put Morgan in charge instead?” Mylon’s tone was incredulous. “Listen to yourself, man!”

Morgan released Paris and prodded her with his foot. “Get over there with the others.”

Still sobbing, Paris crawled across the slippery deck. Riffle reached out a hand and helped her to her feet. She clung to him, shivering.

“Now,” Morgan said. “We need to figure out where everyone stands. Tatiana and Caterina are below, sound asleep. It’s just us. Believe it or not, we’re doing this for your own good. It’s like Ben just said, Novak isn’t fit for command of this vessel. All we want to do is relieve him of duty. The question is, where do you stand on that?”

“You know where McCann and I stand on that, you son of a bitch.”

Morgan nodded. “I expected as much. Both of you are loyal to a fault. How about you, Mylon? Want to join the winning team?”

“I’d rather chug gasoline and then piss on a campfire. I ain’t throwing in with you.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Morgan,” Riffle said. “Think about this. If you kill me and McCann and Novak, who’s going to pilot the boat? You need us.”

“I’ve already considered that. Ben has had experience and I’ve been watching. Studying. I think we’ll manage. And besides, who said anything about killing you? We’re not savages.”

“Well,” Mylon said, “you’re gonna have to kill me, cause there’s no way I’m putting up with this happy horseshit.”

He snorted and then spat at Morgan’s feet. Morgan twitched, and Ben trembled harder.

“Then I guess there’s nothing more to say.”

Morgan raised the pistol, extended his arm, and pointed the weapon at Mylon’s head. He stepped closer, until the barrel was only inches from Mylon’s face. Then he motioned with the gun.

“Get over there by the rail. Ben, you keep the others covered.”

Mylon swallowed. “N-now wait…”

“No? Change your mind? I thought you were ready to die?”

“I…”

“That’s what I figured. It’s one thing to talk about it in the galley. It’s another to actually face it head on. Get out of here, Mylon. You too, Paris. Go below. Dry off. Wake the others if you must. Tell them there’s been a change in management.”

Riffle grabbed Paris by the arm. “Don’t. He’ll shoot you soon as your backs are turned.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Morgan said, sounding offended. “How many times do I have to say it?”

Paris wiped her eyes. “You’ll really let us live?”

Morgan nodded. “Now go.”

Mylon and Paris hurried past them. Mylon glanced over his shoulder once and mouthed an apology to Riffle. Then they went below.

“So what now?” Riffle asked.

“Get on over by the rail.”

“I knew it. You’re gonna kill me after all. Fucking lying bastard.”

Morgan sighed. “No, Riffle. I’m not going to shoot you. I’m going to give you a chance. The same chance your boss offered me.”

Riffle’s eyes went wide. “W-what?”

“You’re going overboard. You can take your chances in the water. If I were you, I’d swim for the island. You wanted to stand beside your shipmates. I’m sure they’ll welcome you.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m jumping into that shit.”

“You jump or I will shoot you. If you think I’m kidding, just try me.”

Riffle stared at them both. Ben refused to meet his gaze, and turned away. Morgan returned the glare, and what Riffle saw in his eyes convinced him. Mouthing the Lord’s Prayer, he stepped over to the rail and fought to keep the panic out of his voice.

“You’ll pay for this, Morgan.”

“Not today I won’t. Now jump.”

Shaking, Riffle climbed over the side. The water churned below him. The waves suddenly seemed louder. His hands clutched the cold, wet rail. He dangled there, heart pounding in his ears. Salt spray stung his eyes.

“Let go,” Morgan said.

“I—I can’t…”

“Then let me help you.”

Morgan spun the pistol around and smashed the butt against Riffle’s fingers. Screaming, Riffle plummeted into the ocean and sank beneath the waves.