Offshore

by Lucy Pepperdine

  From her upturned position she could see black rig mats passing beneath boots. Black rubber - safe. Yellow - caution. A flash of red - danger, and then the steel disc welded over the mouse hole like a bulls-eye in a target. Yellow again, then back to black.

  The harsh cold. The wet. She was outside, slung over someone’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and being carried across the drill deck.

  Where was she going … and whose back was this? Not Duncan Cameron’s. He would never treat her so roughly. Neither would Shaw. It couldn’t be Eddie’s either, because Eddie was dead, his skull smashed in with the lamp base before being kicked to death by … Lawrence Brewer.

  “Mmmmnnfffnffffff,” she squealed behind her silver gag, beating her hands against her abductor’s back. His foot slipped on a patch of icy water and he momentarily wavered in his step.

  They then stopped moving and she heard metallic fumbling and wet creaking, followed by being plunged into a dank darkness.

  She found herself slipping, falling, and grabbed at the fabric of the overalls, but it was a guided drop onto a pile of what felt like unrefined fabric, rough against her skin.

  He pulled the door closed and crouched before her, the yellow deck light outside seeping through the window behind him and creating a halo in his hair, leaving his face a dark blank oval, apart from his eyes; impossibly bright in this dim light, their retinas reflected back circles of the palest green … like an animal’s.

  What was he waiting for?

  To Lydia’s unsophisticated eyes, Brewer appeared as nothing more than a shadow in the dark, but he could see her as plain as in daylight. Wide eyed over her gag, nostrils flaring, shivering with cold, yet still so beautiful.

  Oh no, there would be no decapitation of this beloved creature, no scattering of viscera, no succulent dining on sweet tender flesh.

  He could never bring himself to make so much as a nick in that beautiful body, let alone open her up and devour her. Such disfigurement would be nothing less than sacrilege. Euterich had to have her with him, a solid, living, breathing being, to see her, touch her, love her, for as long as they both shall live.

  You may now kiss the bride.

  “I’m going to remove the tape now, okay?” he said, and took her silent stare to be assent.

  The instant he ripped off her silver gag she opened her mouth wide to scream, only to find a meaty hand tasting of sweat and ether clamped over it.

  “Don’t waste your breath,” he said. “No one will hear you out here.”

  He was right. They wouldn’t. She should save her energy. She nodded. He removed his hand before she could sink her teeth into it.

  “Let me go,” she said, fighting to keep the shiver from her voice.

  “No.”

  She bit down on her lip to stop it, and her chin, from trembling. “You killed Eddie. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yes I did,” Brewer said. “He got in the way. He would have spoiled everything. I didn’t really have a choice. It’s for the best. I’m sorry if you’re upset. I’ll give him credit; he died bravely, fighting for you. You should be proud of him. Such gallantry is rare nowadays. Do you know what Robert Heinlein said? ‎Almost everything about a human creature is ridiculous, except its ability to suffer bravely and die gallantly for whatever it loves and believes in. It’s so true, and Eddie Capstan was a fine example. Such a shame.”

  “What do you want with me?” she whimpered, head swivelling, huge eyes searching for an escape route.

  He stroked icy fingers down her cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “You’re going to give me a whole new lease of life,” he said.

  “Wha … what do you mean?”

  “My future lies in you.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  His hands went behind her head, released her ponytail and spread her hair across her neck and shoulders. “You will. Once you accept it’s a fait accompli.”

  Another tear, another caress of the stone cold fingers. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “I can help you.”

  “To do what?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  Euterich barked a laugh. “My dearest Lydia, I have everything I need right here. You!”

  She twisted her face into a plastic smile of pure amicability, so tight and false her mouth twitched at the corners. “Lawrence…”

  Euterich stretched Brewer’s mouth into a wide grin, white teeth visible in the black gash. “And I’m not Lawrence … at least not the one you think you know.”

  Lydia’s beatific smile slipped slightly, a small double furrow of frown appearing between her eyes as she tried to work it out. Multiple personality disorder? It had to be. He’d had some kind of psychotic episode and it had brought forward another, darker persona. “Can I speak to Lawrence - to Doctor Brewer?” she said in the carefully measured tones of a medical professional. “Can you let Lawrence come forward to speak to me?”

  “I’m afraid the good doctor is not available right now, only his thoughts and memories in an outward projection. Please leave a message after the tone and if he ever gets the chance I’m sure he’ll get back to you, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. Beeeeeeeep!”

  Euterich laughed, a brittle unpleasant sound, and Lydia eyed him closely, his face clearer now her vision had acclimatised. He looked like Brewer, he sounded like Brewer, even though he was talking gibberish, but, those eyes…no human had eyes like that.

  Not looking at you…through you…weighing you up.

  “Who are you?”

  He pressed a cold palm to her cheek. “Patience, my sweet. I’ll tell you, soon.” The green glare averted. “I had a grand plan once,” he said. “I won’t tell you what it entailed because it might scare you, so you’ll be pleased to know that since then I’ve changed my mind and…oh, Lydia, we are going to be so happy together.”

  She swallowed hard, her throat tight. He really was insane. Best not aggravate him further lest he change his mind again. He held her again with a rock hard gaze, his retinas gleaming like beacons. She shivered under their unblinking glare.

  “Don’t be frightened, Lydia. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s going to be wonderful.” He sighed and looked toward the window, his face illuminated by the decklight outside. “After I’ve disposed of those two idiots still running around looking for us, we’ll–”

  “Leave them alone.”

  “Not possible, my dear. You see, I’ve done some bad things and they want to hurt me, and I’m not good with pain. I won’t tell you what I did, you don’t need to know. Suffice to say, I did it for you, Lydia. I did it so that you would love me and we would be together.”

  “Love you? You must be joking!”

  “You will. You have to. After all I’ve done for you.”

  “I could never love someone like you. You’re a bona fide crackpot–”

  The open handed slap across her face knocked her back and she squealed as he grabbed her upper arms and pulled her to him. His eyes were now hard and cold, his demeanour totally changed. A complete about turn from love to … what?

  Fear slid through her in a sluice of coldness.

  “I wanted to do this inside,” he said, his voice hollow. “In the warm, in one of the cabins, in comfort. I wanted it to be special, so I could tell you how much I love you, and you would tell me the same … and then we’d–”

  “We’d what?” she whispered.

  “Make love of course. We have to procreate; create a child.” His unyielding hand held her slender neck in a vice-like grip. “How can we live together as a happy little family if we don’t have children?”

  “Children? With you? Never!”

  “I’m not asking for your cooperation.”

  She wrenched her arms free and kicked her legs wildly, striking him with a heel. “Don’t you touch me!”

  He snatched at her again, his grip solid, unbreakable. “I love you Lydia, and I want you … I need you so much it hurts. I have to have
you!”

  “No! Get away from me you fucking–”

  He pressed his lips to hers, hard and cold like strips of half frozen meat, and forced his tongue into her mouth, a gelatinous worm that tasted of rubber.

  She couldn’t breathe and balled her tethered fists against his chest, pushing at him with all her strength, but she was too small and too weak, and he was too heavy, too strong, too determined.

  Then suddenly she was freed to breathe again, but not free.

  He caught hold of the tape shackling both her arms at the wrists, yanking at them, forcing her flat on her back, arms bent at the elbow above her head.

  With his free hand he started to ease her panties down her legs.

  She thrashed about like a wild thing. “No! Stop it! Let me go!” A savage burning slap to her naked thigh stilled her wriggling. Off came the panties. “Please stop–”

  He kissed her exposed breasts, nibbling around the nipples, hot turbulent breath against her skin as he murmured her name over and over, his excitement mounting at what was to come.

  She bucked and writhed to break his grip, to separate them, to no avail.

  He used his legs to spread hers wide, opening her up whilst he undid the zipper of his overalls, freeing an already straining erection from the confines of the material. His intention could not have been more obvious.

  “NO! Please!”

  His hand went under her backside, lifting her to him, and with the force of a red hot poker he rammed himself into her.

  She screamed. “EDDIE HELP ME!!”

  Oblivious to her distress, deaf to her cries to her dead lover, he speared her over and again, deeper and deeper.

  This wasn’t like the gentle slow dance she’d had with Eddie, tender and caring and thoughtful, nor like the fun quickie she’d had with Duncan Cameron in the pantry; this was forced and desperate … and, oh God, it hurt so much.

  “No…please.” No more than a breathy whisper, distress forcing the fight out of her.

  He pushed hard and fast, tearing her delicate flesh, forcing tears of pain and fear to well in her eyes, simultaneously kneading at her breast as if he were shaping a lump of dough.

  She could resist no more, all strength drained from her and with a small whimper of submission, she resigned to the assault.

  Time turned in on itself as the attack continued, and just when she thought it would never end he stiffened and his breathing came in fast laboured grunts. His grip on her wrists tightened like a hot steel ring, and the ache in her breast flared such that she feared he had torn it off.

  His neck corded with tension, teeth gritted, lips drawn back, and with a cry more animal than human he ejaculated into her over and again, until he had no more to give. Grabbing at air, he panted, groaned…and relaxed.

  He slipped from her, kissed her naked stomach, climbed off her, and released her wrists, allowing the blood to flow back into her hands. She did not move. She just lay there, huge dark eyes staring up at the ceiling, sobbing silently as semen and blood oozed from her torn and bruised vagina.

  Carefully Euterich tucked his rapidly receding erection back into his undershorts, zipped up his overalls, and got to his feet.

  “Thank you,” he said, and went to stand at the window, peering out through the grille covered pane, the overhead deck light turning his gaunt face an unnatural yellow-orange. For a moment she though she saw tears on his cheeks. “I’ve got to leave you now,” he said thickly, and pushed the door open, letting in a gale of freezing air. “I have something I need to do.”

  “W-w-what? Where are you going?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about. I won’t be long. You’ll be safe here while I take care of business, and then it will be just you and me.”

  “You can’t leave me here like this. I’ll die of hypothermia,” she said, with all the emotion of a run down automaton.

  “Wrap yourself in the sacks. I’ll be back soon and then … and then I’ll take you somewhere warm and we’ll talk. We can plan for the future in comfort.”

  “I can’t. My hands are still tied.” She held them up to demonstrate.

  He reached for something in the dark. A swift movement, a tug, and her hands were free. Without another word he left, slamming the door behind him, through which she heard the soft metallic chittering of him refitting the padlock.

  Alone and terrified she whimpered and shivered in the dark, clutching her knees to her aching chest, dropping her forehead onto them to weep openly, not only for the mortifying rape she had failed to prevent, nor out of fear of what was yet to come, but to mourn the one man who could have saved her from this awfulness.

  Euterich leaned over the safety rail, breathing deeply, the icy air burning his lungs, fighting to control the shaking in his limbs, incandescent fury boiling in him like hot lava ready to erupt.

  It was their fault - interfering bastards. They had ruined everything.

  They had buggered everything up and forced him to take her out there to that dirty despicable place and do what he did, compelling him to have rushed common sex in that hole instead of spending their honeymoon in a nice comfortable cabin, awash with sensitivity and passion.

  Now she would harbour ill feelings towards him which would not bode well to her loving him. Everything was their fault and they were going to pay with their lives.

  At least Eddie Capstan was dead and out of the picture, that insufferable fly in his ointment, that loathsome irritant, no longer a threat. She couldn’t love a dead man, and one man down left all the more room in her heart for him. But that still left the other two running loose somewhere. Not for long though.

  He would use his superior skills to hunt them down and kill them, not to change, he didn’t need to now, but purely to despatch them, to be free of them, and then he would return to his lovely lady and seek her forgiveness for having treated her so shabbily.

  She would give it, of course, and gladly, because she had a gentle soul and a heart full of love, and it would all be for him.

  Lydia would worship him, be devoted to him. He would be to her as a god, and this time, when they made love, they would do it as it should be done - perfectly, in a comfortable bed with soft lighting and music, and she would give herself to him willingly, openly, with passion and fervour, and then, when they lay together basking in each other, they would pledge their oaths to be together forever – one body, one soul.

  He saw no flaw in his obsessive insanity.

  On the horizon lightning flashed. Another storm front coming, or confirmation from on high that his lunacy would succeed?

  He opted for the latter.

  Time to think.

  It wouldn’t be long before the two remaining nuisances found Eddie Capstan’s body in the sickbay. They would know he was responsible and come searching for him again. Two against one was hardly fair. He had to even the score. One against one he could manage much better.

  Which one to eliminate first?

  Which one would cause him the most trouble?

  In this body he would be at a disadvantage. His opponents were both fit men, much younger and stronger than he; Cameron in particular had plenty of meat on his bones, nicely muscled. He would put up a fight.

  Shaw in contrast was smaller and skinnier, not enough flesh on him to feed a Chihuahua, but as he had learned to his cost before, wiry didn’t always mean wimpy; it often meant hidden strength.

  So … what to do?

  Find them. Separate them. Scare them.

  Take them out one at a time.

  How?

  By whatever means available.

  There were plenty of tools onboard, heavy metal objects with which to dole out a classic blow with a blunt instrument, but to utilise them he would have to get up close and personal.

  He didn’t fancy that. Too much opportunity for retaliation. He needed something he could use from a distance, or at least arm’s length.

  What he really needed was a gun. No chance of that here. There weren�
��t any onboard. No firearm of any type permitted. Forget that. Think again.

  The lifeboat would have flare guns. One shot deals and not built for accuracy, but better than nothing. He would get one anyway. Euterich trotted across the deck, past the charred ruin of the welder’s hut, heading for the external stairs which would lead to the lifeboat gantry, coming to a skidding halt when another thought occurred.

  The hut was where he killed McAllister and took on his form, and he had done it with shots to the head and the heart with - the nail gun. He’d put it in the tool chest when he tidied up. It might still be in there, along with a goodly amount of ammunition. This time his need for tidiness may have worked in his favour.

  The explosion had all but annihilated the hut, but what about the tool chest? Had it survived the conflagration? He picked his way carefully through the wreckage to where it ought to be.

  There it was, and apart from a severe scorching, it looked for the most part to be intact, having suffered no more than a deep dent in its lid.

  He undid the hasp holding the lid closed, and heaved. Warped by the dent and the heat, the lid stayed put. A strategically placed crowbar made short work of overcoming the resistance, and he soon had it propped open.

  A little digging inside, and he found what he wanted. The nail gun was sooty, its plastic handle bent out of shape, but overall the tool looked to be undamaged.

  He checked the magazine: half empty. A quick search of the chest and he located the spare gas cartridges, and a fresh supply of five inch nails.

  He refilled the magazine, and with a quick yank from a well placed screwdriver, disabled the safety catch. He fired off two shots. It worked perfectly, each little puff of gas ejecting its projectile with sufficient force to send it across the room to embed itself fully in the concrete lining of the remaining side wall.

  “Just the ticket,” he said, stuffing his pockets with extra ammunition and gas cartridges. Now armed, he set off through the rain to begin his hunt.

  He cracked open the main door sufficient to see inside. There it was, the CCTV camera trained on the main door to monitor traffic, its little red light showing it was active. Not for long.