Cameron halted and looked down to see Brewer on the deck below him, grinning back at him like a lunatic, the pneumatic nail gun in his hand fully loaded and pointed directly at him.
He snatched at the next rung up with frigid fingers and started to climb for his life. Not fast enough. Another explosion and an inferno erupted in his right thigh.
A hit, gone deep, down to the bone, touching a nerve. He yelled as pain shot through his leg and buttock, immobilising him, leaving him a stationary target.
Another discharge, another hit, this time across the back of his right hand, gouging a furrow in his skin; hot, wet, stinging.
Blood oozed between his fingers to mix with the half frozen rain, making the already slippery metal rung too slick to grip.
He snatched at the upright instead, hooking his elbow around it to haul himself up one more step, forcing his wronged leg into action, raising his boot and placing it on the rung. He offered it his body weight.
Without warning his foot shot out from under him, leaving him dangling precariously by his crooked arm. Seeing his helpless target scrambling desperately for another foot and hand hold, Euterich took careful aim - and fired.
The nail entered Cameron’s left bicep, numbing his arm to his wrist. All strength, all grip, left it.
With nothing to hold on to, or to hold on with, and with no safety harness to stop him, Duncan Cameron screamed into the dark as he plunged through fifty feet of fresh air into the outstretched arms of the Grim Reaper.
On the drill deck below, nail gun in hand, Euterich watched the screaming figure plummet toward the dark cube of the doghouse. A sickening crash as it punched its way through the structure’s roof, followed by a deep and penetrating silence.
Euterich grinned and nodded his satisfaction. “Full house,” he said, and made his way back inside.
He had a love nest to prepare.
Chapter 47
Lydia heard the scream, faint above the wind; a terrified piercing screech followed by a harsh crash.
Who had it been? Shaw? Duncan?
Brewer, please God?
She listened for more. Only the howl of the wind and the distant rumble of thunder answered. The loneliest sounds she’d ever heard.
What were her choices now? Sit here meekly in the dark and wait for someone to rescue her?
But suppose there was no one left. Suppose that scream had been the last of them dying. What then?
What if it hadn’t been Brewer, but one of the others? What if now it was just her and her insane rapist, and he was on his way back, possibly to violate her again? Or kill her? Perhaps she should do it herself and save him the trouble.
It wouldn’t be hard to finish what she started five years ago, opening up the scars again, and it would certainly take the shine off Brewer’s day to get back from his mysterious mission to find her lifeless body bleeding out onto the filthy sacks.
“No! You’re not getting away with it that easy!” She scrabbled around seeking her panties. “Eddie might be dead…”
She swallowed down the words, drew a breath and continued. “But there’s always the chance, no matter how slight, that Cameron, or Shaw, might still be alive. Even if they’re not, that demon is not going to touch me again.” She raised her voice to the ceiling. “I will fight you with the last drop of my blood and the last breath in my body, Brewer, so help me God. Only one of us is leaving this place alive, and it’s not going to be you.”
She found the underwear and wriggled into them, flinching as she pulled them up. The rape had bruised her, possibly torn her, but she couldn’t worry about that now.
The door handle did not yield under her grappling with it and she’d heard the metallic clatter as he fitted the padlock. The fox wasn’t taking any chances of his hen fleeing the coop while he went a huntin’.
Time for some logical thinking.
Where was she? An equipment store?
And what did an equipment store have plenty of? Tools. Big, heavy, metal tools.
Big, heavy tools – small, slight woman. Not a good combination, but throw in a rush of adrenaline and a whole shit load of anger, and her strength doubled.
Feeling her way around the store, her hands came upon all manner of cold metallic object, in all shapes and sizes - spanners, wrenches, hammers, chisels, then - a long wooden shaft. A broom. She let her hands drift down to its base, a solid metal rectangle. A sledge hammer.
Using every ounce of strength she could muster she dragged the tool across the floor to the window more than halfway up the wall.
Not tall enough to reach it.
She leaned the hammer against the wall and fumbled about the room again, praying she might come across a stepladder.
Not a chance. A galvanised bucket was the best she could find. It would have to do.
She upended it, climbed on it, and took hold of the hammer’s wooden handle.
Christ it was heavy.
Sucking in deep breaths and summoning a strength she never knew she had, she swung the hammer at the toughened glass pane.
It bounced harmlessly off, rebounding back at her, its inertia unbalancing her and forcing her off her perch.
“Fuck it!” She climbed up again. This time she swung the hammer like she meant it. For Eddie.
The window cracked under the blow. Yes!
Again. And again. And again. The metal block pounded at the window until the glass was no more than a crazy pattern of interconnecting cracks. Yet still it did not yield.
She was tiring, sweat pouring from her as her corded arms strained. Her shoulders burned and her back felt as if every muscle had torn itself into ragged strips.
The glazing might be able to withstand more than she could throw at it, but the same could not be said for the outer frame. Its weakened rivets, rusted by salt water erosion, were no match for the blows.
The next one saw them break loose from their fixings, one more and the whole of the metal rectangle popped free of the wall, held in place only by the wire grille outside.
She had just enough strength left for one last swing. She had to make it count.
Both hands wrapped themselves around the swollen far end of the handle. She sucked in a lung-full of air, and with a full throated roar drove the hammer for all she was worth.
“Aaaarrrrrggghhhhhh!”
Physics triumphed. The mass of the head multiplied by the square of the speed of swing at point of impact equalled the window shattering into a thousand cubes of glass and the metal grill and all its fastenings parting company with the wall, taking flight for a good five feet, clattering to the deck below.
Panting out thanks to the hammer for all its hard work, she kissed its wooden stave and leaned it respectfully against the wall, before using the bucket as a booster to scramble up and through the window, dropping down onto the freezing wet deck.
Fighting against the gale threatening to pick her up and toss her overboard, she slapped her way across it in her bare feet to the nearest bulkhead door.
Like the figures on a traditional weather house, as she went in one door, Eddie exited by another.
Chapter 48
The wind hit him in the face like the back end of a shovel.
Clouds, back lit with flashes of lightning loomed menacingly in air turned electric, the negatively charged ions prickling the small hairs at the back of Eddie’s neck.
A monstrous blue white God-light arched across the sky, ripping it open from horizon to the edge of space, turning night into day for a fraction of a second, giving birth to other smaller weaker flashes.
In the windswept silence he counted. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.
The first rumble reached him, faint but growing more intense as the wave of sound hit. Stronger, louder, until its roar claimed dominion, vibrating the very atoms of creation. Only seconds at its peak, but enough to stop a heart in its beat.
The wave rolled on, fading away to a low grumble like a hungry stomach, and was g
one.
Then began the sporadic pit, pat, pot of fat wet raindrops hitting the deck plating.
The pittering and pattering became frequent, taking on a more metallic tone as the drops of clear rain water gave way to sharp white pellets, striking the deck, rebounding, before giving it a second strike.
In the time it took Eddie to cross the drill deck to the shelter of the tool store, a moderate shower of rain had turned into a full blown storm of hail, marble sized white bullets pinging off every surface, the sensation on his exposed skin one of being struck by icy blades. His bright yellow hi-vis jacket provided little protection against the onslaught.
A particularly large piece struck him on the back of his head. His fingers came away from the source of the stinging clarted in a thin liquid. Blood diluted by melting hail.
He gave it no more than a cursory thought. One more cut to his already ravaged body wouldn’t make any difference. He struggled with the slippery padlock, left on the hasp but not locked, finally able to wrench the door open.
Out of the orange deck lights and into almost pitch darkness, the open doorway admitting barely enough light for him to pick out the lengths of chain and coils of rope hanging on the wall, canvas tool bags dangling from hooks, shelves with cans of paint, but no living presence unless he counted the spiders.
Fingers fumbled along the wall beside the doorway until they touched against a rocker switch. He pressed it, and a single naked bulb glowed into life, its light weak but sufficient. He let his vision wipe the floor and walls, looking for any clue Lydia might have been there.
Nothing.
A final sweep before turning to leave, and out of the corner of his eye he picked up an out of place gentle metallic glint on the floor, half hidden by a pile of greasy sacking. He got down for a closer look.
Lydia’s Saint Christopher, its fine gold chain snapped an inch from the clasp. He picked it up and let it lay in the palm of his hand, slowly curling his fingers protectively over it.
A sudden blast of frigid air made him look up. In the wall of the hut, instead of light from the bulb reflecting back at him from the glass of the window pane, there stood an empty space letting in the wind and the rain. He stood on tiptoes to peer through the void.
The window frame and grille lay some distance away on the deck, surrounded by glittering cubes of broken safety glass, and it didn’t get there by itself.
Lydia had been here and escaped. She was alive, but where was she now? He pushed open the door, staggered out onto the slippery wet deck, and yelled into the sky. “LY-DI-YA!!” The cry got no further than his lips, immediately snatched up and lost in the howl of the wind.
Head down, hunched against the gale, he made his way back to the silent habitat. The lights might be on, but it was far from welcoming.
Avoiding the locker room and its gruesome inhabitant, chilled to the bone, hair plastered to his head, dripping rainwater in his wake, he started towards the stairs. At the first half turn landing he paused, a twinge in his side doubling him over.
The analgesia was wearing off, allowing the discomfort of his battering to get the upper hand again, slowing him down. He took a moment to get his breath.
Should he risk taking the time detouring to sickbay to find more painkillers? Somewhere in the silent distance a faint metallic clatter rang out.
Someone was in the galley! Lydia?
Up in the kitchen, Euterich explored the cupboards and fridges, gathering supplies with which to wine and dine his beloved before their night of passion.
Except there was no wine to be had, only bottles of non alcoholic beer, and no food fancy enough to grace a table fit for a queen; no lobster, or oysters, no strawberries, only some vacuum packed deli meats, a dish of leftover macaroni cheese sporting a skin, and some plastic wrapped low grade cheese, already going mouldy.
The pantry yielded only cans and packets of tasteless processed muck. His princess was worth more than that. There weren’t even any candles for atmosphere.
Rummaging on a high shelf, he knocked against a half empty tin of crackers. It fell to the hard floor, losing its lid and spilling its contents, its hollow metallic clang reverberating around the empty room.
It wasn’t until the echo and his cursing dwindled that he heard footsteps on the stairs.
Somebody was coming up. But who?
Not Lydia, she was safe and sound locked in the tool shed.
Not Shaw, he wasn’t going anywhere without his head. Cameron? If he survived his high dive at all it would be a miracle worthy of Jesus himself. There was only one person it could be.
Sodding Capstan! He was still alive after all.
Euterich checked the nail gun for readiness.
“I’m going to finish you off once and for all you persistent– Wait a minute, whoa, whoa whoa! This might not so bad after all.”
This could be a chance to salvage his battered relationship with Lydia. The final act before the curtain came down, and all thanks to Eddie Capstan, not that he would have any say in the matter.
Once more, Euterich’s scheme changed.
Chapter 49
At the sound from up the stairwell a fresh surge of adrenaline coursed through Eddie, banishing the pain. He took the stairs two at a time, burst through the doors to the hub, and stopped.
“Think man. It might not be Lydia in there. It might be him. Brewer. Be on your guard, or he’ll have your head too.”
He crept through the lounge to the double doors to the mess, crouching below the level of the glass panels. He pushed one of the doors until he had a gap of an inch or so, until he could see through it.
No lights on in the mess room, but a faint blue glow spilled from the kitchen area - the ultra violet antibacterial lamp.
Keeping to the shadows he eased his way towards the open hatchway in the servery which led to the kitchen.
The freezer locker door stood ajar, a fine mist drifting from it as the frigid air within met the relatively warm air in the kitchen, beckoning him to investigate.
Should he risk it? It might be a trap? He’d seen these sort of things on TV – hapless have-a-go-hero creeps forward, opens the door, gets pushed in, door slams closed behind him, locking him in and it’s goodnight Vienna.
He wasn’t that stupid.
But what if Lydia was in there? He had to risk at least a glance.
He took hold of the nearest solid object, a heavy steel spoon. Not exactly a Samurai sword, but it was better than nothing.
Holding his weapon in his outstretched hand, he inched forward, eyes peeled for the slightest movement, ears keen for the smallest sound.
He teased the door further open with his foot until it tripped an automatic switch and the overhead light came on, flooding the icy store room with cold white light.
An insulated crate used for storing meat had been dragged into the centre of the small room, its lid left tantalisingly open, daring him to look inside.
He pondered the threat, until common sense triumphed over curiosity.
“No way,” he said, and pushed the freezer door closed with a solid thunk, engaging the locking pin in the handle.
“No fooling you is there?”
He spun round, spoon raised above his head.
A dark shape detached itself from the darkened hole of the pantry and slid into the cold blue light. Lawrence Brewer, nail gun in hand, his skin bathed in an almost ethereal glow like a walking ghost.
“You are a hard man to kill, Mr Capstan,” he said, and raised the gun and pointed it directly at Eddie’s head. “You must have a guardian angel. If you want to have another go, I’m happy to oblige. I’m getting to be a pretty good shot with this. It’s a remarkably effective weapon in the right place.”
At once Eddie knew what had been wrong with the skull of the body in the welding hut – the small round hole piercing the temple, about the diameter of the weapon being pointed at him right now.
“Reynolds,” he said. “The hole in his head. You did
it? With that?”
“Yes…and no. Yes, in that Reynolds is dead, but not by this.” Euterich wafted the nail gun. “And despite all the evidence, it wasn’t his body you found after the fire.”
“So whose was it?”
“Jock McAllister.”
“And Reynolds?”
“Fish food I’m afraid. Long since. You were right to suspect the body in the welding hut was not a suicide by the way. The slashed wrists and the fire, they were all for show, a couple of red herrings to throw you off the scent and give you something to think about. Worked too, didn’t it? I heard you and Miss Ellis talking about it during your cosy little night-time get-together. I have exceptionally good hearing, although I didn’t quite catch the next part. Care to share?”
“No,” said Eddie. “What about the others? Did you kill them too?”
“Yes.”
“Why? What did they ever do to you?”
“I had no option. I needed them. Lonny Dick wouldn’t have been my first choice, but when it came down to it, I was desperate and didn’t really care who I took. It was him or me, and I chose me. He didn’t know it at the time but his sacrifice saved me.”
“And why Matt? Why did you have to … mutilate him like that?”
“Just having a little fun. Surprised you didn’t it? I know it did Cameron. He nearly pissed himself before he ran away like a scared rabbit.”
“Did you kill him too?”
“Didn’t have to. He managed it all by himself.”
He made a swan dive action with his free hand and whistled, ending with a loud smacking of his lips.
“Craig McDougal,” said Eddie.
“What about him?”
“I saw what you did to him. You were eating him!”
Euterich puckered his mouth.
Looking thoughtful, he said, “I wouldn’t call it eating. I only managed a little bite of his liver. Not enough to do me any good.”
“He was still alive.”
Euterich’s eyebrows arched and he registered genuine surprise. “Was he? Oh dear. A terrible oversight on my part. I’m usually very careful to ensure complete dispatch. I do apologise for any upset that might have caused you. I shall have to be more careful next time. I do hope he wasn’t in much pain.” He cocked his head. “Aren’t you going to ask about Doctor Brewer? Don’t you want to know where he is?”
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