He yelled to the camera operator.
“Herb! Herb—come back!”
Denham waved, then joined by Preston and Hayes, all three now waving, yelling.
But whether it was the wind or that his goal was close, Herb didn’t acknowledge them and kept going.
Right to the indentation, just behind the collection of pups.
They screamed some more, waving frantically.
“I’ll go get him,” Denham said.
But Hayes grabbed Denham’s arm.
“No. If he sees us, maybe, just maybe, he can slip away. But you or I head over there, it could get the entire rookery crazed. Guess you never seen one of those bastards attack, never seen them fight each other?”
“They’re seals. What do you mean fight?”
“Yeah, leopard seals. When two males go at each other, or even when they face off against a polar bear…that snout makes any wolf snout look like a toy. And all that weight, lunging, snapping—”
Denham broke away from Hayes and yelled again. But now Herb was at the indentation, quickly setting up the camera, turning to face in their direction.
He stopped. He saw them waving; he waved back.
“Fool,” Hayes said. “He doesn’t know we’re waving at him to get himself back here.”
They kept on motioning, but all Denham could see was Herb leaning down, hand on the crank, and—
The wind shifted.
He heard a sound, a low, rumbling roar…like an engine, but then steadily building in volume.
The male bulls, raising their heads in anger.
“Christ, Denham,” Hayes said.
“Carl,” Preston said, “what are we—”
Herb cranked the camera, oblivious of what was happening. Some of the pups scurried away, guided, herded by females. The sound grew loud enough that Denham finally saw Herb look up. Look up, and see movement, that sea of animals shifting positions.
“Forget the goddamn camera,” Denham muttered. Something he’d never thought he’d say. “Forget it. Move. Move Herb…”
There was no need for them to yell or wave anymore. Herb could finally see what was happening. The seals were moving, shifting, and in a matter of moments, the pups were all away and the bulls had tightened around Herb, trapping him.
Just that fast, Herb was surrounded. The horrible growling of the dozens of creatures swelled, building to something.
Some kind of primal group signal that would trigger what would happen next.
16
Atlantic City, New Jersey
ANN KNOCKED ON THE DOOR of the third-floor walk-up apartment, 3B. The stairwell had been filled with the sounds of radios, people talking, and the smell of countless meals, trapped in the airless space.
She still felt rattled by her trip in the diving bell. Sure, nothing had happened, but the terrible fear she felt, the panic—it still made her stomach tighten just to think about it.
But that was the one and only time she would have to do that. In a way, she was glad that she didn’t get the job working with the diving horses. What would that be like, jumping off a platform, flying into the ocean while an audience watched?
That sounded even more terrifying.
She knocked again.
No answer.
Maybe her new roommates were out. She knocked a third time, and now she heard footsteps on the other side, and the door opened.
“Yeah?”
The girl was young, but her bleary eyes spoke of either tiredness or maybe a slug of one gin too many. The girl’s brunette hair was up in curlers, and dabs of cream dotted her cheeks.
Yeah…. as if she didn’t expect me at all, thought Ann.
“Hi, I’m the new—er, I just came to the Steel Pier, to—”
“Oh, right.” The girl didn’t smile, but she did open the door wider. “Yeah, Nadler said you were coming.”
The girl held the door open with about as little enthusiasm as she could muster. As Ann walked in, she smelled the stale odor of cigarette smoke. She had hoped that they wouldn’t be smokers—such a horrible smell.
After Ann was inside, the girl shut the door.
“I’m Ellie. Susan isn’t here; she’s out with her guy. Might not be back tonight, if you know what I mean. Your bed is in her room.” Ellie looked right at Ann. “Could be a problem sometimes, if you know what I mean.”
Ann nodded, guessing she did “know what she meant.”
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
Though the girl had to be in her early twenties, she walked slowly, shuffling down the hallway.
Must have been a rough night.
“That there is the kitchen.” A look back at Ann. “But I guess you can see that. And over here, the bathroom. Gets kinda jammed in the morning.”
A few more steps, and Ellie turned and pushed open a door.
The room, painted a pea soup green, was a mess. “She kinda dresses and runs, you know?”
Clothes were strewn on the floor, a dress, some lingerie, a pair of high-heeled dance shoes. “Susan’s a bit of a party girl, a real flapper. Doesn’t know that those days are over. But between the pier and her beaus, she does all right.” Ellie dug into the pocket of her chinoise robe and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes. She tapped one out, and plucked it into her mouth.
She offered one to Ann, who politely held up a hand.
“Not a smoker? Too bad. This place gets like a firetrap sometimes.” Ellie pulled out a lighter and with one hand deftly lit the smoke. “Susan’s fun though—if you don’t mind the mess. She really cares about people.”
“I—I don’t mind the mess.”
Ellie laughed. “So you do think it’s messy?”
“No, I meant—”
Ellie reached out and touched Ann’s arm. “Hey, honey, it’s okay. It’s messy, the place is smoky, sometimes we have a belt or three too many. It’s okay. You’ll be fine.”
Ann smiled, and realized that—despite everything—she was starting to relax, and starting to like this girl with her weary attitude and funny sense of humor.
“So, that’s your bed there. Susan’s stuff is on it, but you can just move that junk. She won’t be back tonight.” Another touch to Ann’s arm. “You can trust me on that one.”
Ann put down her small brown suitcase.
“That all you got?”
“I have more back in New York City, at a friend’s apartment. I just brought this to see what I need.”
“Well, you can take a drawer, I guess. Move her stuff. Then, hey come on into the kitchen and have a drink. If we’re going to be roomies, toots, we better start swapping hard-luck stories, hm?”
Ann walked into he kitchen and saw Ellie with another cigarette, a foot up on one chair, and the bottle of Gordon’s Gin on the table.
“Pour you a glass?”
Ann didn’t drink, not really. A bit of wine maybe. She couldn’t remember when she last tasted hard liquor.
But she said, “Yes.”
Ellie filled the slim glass a third of the way.
“So—” Ellie picked up her glass. “Here’s mud in your eye, sis.”
And Ann grabbed her glass and took a deep sip of the icy, clear liquor. Like liquid fire, it burned her tongue, then sent a burning feeling shooting down her throat. Bitter, yet the glow when it hit her stomach felt good.
“There you go. So what show you working?”
“What?” Ann said.
“You doing the revue? You a dancer, or—”
“I do dance. But I’m an actress—a comedienne, really.”
Ellie smiled, almost a smirk. “Really? Didn’t know the pier needed actresses.”
“They don’t. But I got hired to dive.”
Ellie stubbed out the cigarette, and Ann was glad to see that she didn’t tap out another.
“Oh, you mean the horses.”
“Yes, I—”
“Never catch me doing that. Jumping off that high platform on a damn horse. Right into the ocean?
Those girls are a little strange…know what I mean.”
“Yes. I mean, no…but that’s what I was hired to do—but not what I’m doing.”
“No? Working the Ford display? Now, that could get boring.”
“No. I was hired to dive, but they don’t need me now with the horses, not there. I’ll be running the diving bell.”
And Ellie burst out laughing.
“The diving bell? Honey, you’re going to need a lot of gin to get through that job.”
“Why? It doesn’t seem hard, putting people in, telling them about—”
“ ‘The mystery of the sea’…‘you are now twenty feet below the surface of the great Atlantic Ocean’…every day, dozens of times day.” She laughed some more and shook her head. Then she took the bottle and poured another splash into Ann’s glass.
“Good luck, Annie…you’re going to need it.”
But Ellie’s laughing seemed so good-natured that Ann had to laugh too, smile, and then grab her gin glass to take another cautious sip.
17
Baffin Island
CARL DENHAM GRABBED HAYES’S ARM.
“We’ve got to do something!”
Denham turned and looked back at Herb. The male sea lions had edged closer, the sound now filling the cove. The pups were nowhere to be seen.
“Move, damn it. Get the hell—”
And then as if reading Denham’s mind, Herb started to run around the circling group of leopard seals.
“Drop the camera,” Denham muttered again. “Drop the goddamn—”
But Herb held it tight.
He wasn’t the only one moving. Hayes ran to the right to a jumble of large boulders, chunks of granite that sat at strange angles, jagged edges everywhere. But Hayes didn’t pause, running full-out with his rifle, to a high point.
Denham turned back to Herb.
His attempt to escape was cut off.
Denham watched one large bull seal leap forward, and then just like that, Herb was down. Now Denham could see Herb scrambling to get up, while another pair of seals raced forward, onto him.
Denham heard a new sound.
A scream, cutting through the rumbling growls and barks of the seals.
Then finally, cutting through it all.
A shot, then another…and another.
Turning to Hayes, on the rocks, the gun at his shoulder.
Shooting one round after another. The distance wasn’t bad, and Hayes had a good perch from up there. Still, could the ex-doughboy, medals and ribbons not withstanding, be sure he was hitting the seals and not Herb?
The shots kept coming and, as if finally getting the message, the crowd of seals backed away, maybe scared by the sight of the others dropping dead in their tracks.
They kept backing away, some even scurrying into the water, others just moving far away from the carnage. One of the crew ran up to Hayes carrying what looked like more cartridges.
Hayes wasn’t the happiest crewman on the Venture…but no doubt at times like this, he was the guy you wanted with you.
Denham watched Hayes reload his rifle, but the pack around Herb had cleared. Carl ran over to Hayes. Other crewmen were already racing there, some with more guns.
“We can get to him now,” Hayes said. “Come on!”
Denham nodded. In situations like this, it was clearly Hayes who was in charge.
The pack of seals now seemed to be aware that these other mammals walking toward Herb were not to be bothered. Only one or two would raise a snout, make a snarling noise, then turn away.
The universal language of blood, Denham thought. Every animal knows what it means. The smell, the color—a flag of warning.
Hayes led the way, still with his gun held close as if he might be entering a French village, leading a squad of black soldiers fighting not only for their country but their future.
Denham well knew the bitterness Hayes carried with him about how that all turned out. The war should have been their gateway to getting everything they wanted in white man’s America. This time, this war, it didn’t turn out that way. Might have been the Depression, or the times; everyone was sick of the fighting and hoping that war was a thing of the past.
Now they scrambled over a scattering of rocks, tricky to keep one’s balance.
Denham forced himself to look ahead. To look at Herb on the ground, expecting the worst.
But Herb was moving his head, as if struggling to sit up.
“God,” Hayes said. He turned to some of the crew behind him. “Get the stretcher, some bandages, and move!”
A few crewmen ran back to the beach.
And then they were there, in front of Herb.
Denham did a quick scan of his friend, the camera operator. He had been bitten on one arm, and he also had some bite marks on his torso, oozing blood. Nothing too bad there.
But his right leg…
Something had obviously wrapped its maw around it and chomped down, hard. Denham could see the white of bone, the swirling mix of red, gushing.
What was left of Herb’s lower leg remained attached to the kneecap—but barely.
Denham went to his friend’s head and cradled it.
Why isn’t he screaming? Why isn’t he howling out in pain? Had to be shock. Sometimes the sensation just shuts things down. Thankfully. Denham could only imagine the waves of pain that Herb would feel—if his brain hadn’t walled off that area.
“H-how bad is it, Carl? The bite, it felt—”
“Hey, you’re gonna be fine, Herb. Just fine.”
A quick glance back, and Denham watched Hayes grab a roll of gauze from someone, and quickly whip out a yard.
“This is going to hurt, Herb.”
Hayes began wrapping the area just below the knee.
“We gotta stop the bleeding.”
“Right,” said Herb. “Right. But,” he turned back to Denham, “it’s going to be okay, right? I’m going to be fine?”
“Sure. It’s going to be okay, Herb. You just relax. Hey look, here come the guys with a stretcher.” Denham’s tone was soothing, as some crewmen, led by Englehorn, scrambled over the rocks and approached.
Englehorn came and squatted beside the camera operator.
“We have a first-aid kit, Carl, Do you want to—”
“No,” Hayes said. “You should get him out of here, back to the boat, and…do what we can do there.”
Right, thought Denham. Do what we can do…
Because you didn’t have to have a medical degree to know that Herb’s leg…had to be a goner.
“Okay, Herb—they’re going to move you onto the stretcher. Get you back to the Venture.”
The man’s eyes were wide, wild with fear, and pain. Herb kept licking his lips. His eyes blinked, the closest thing to a nod that he could manage.
And Denham backed away as six people tried to move Herb as carefully as they could.
Once on the Venture, Billy Clarke, the ship’s semiofficial medic, bandaged Herb’s wound as best he could, covering the area with hydrogen peroxide and giving as much morphine to the camera operator as he could stand.
Denham and Englehorn conferred out in the corridor.
“Once that morphine wears off, he’s going to be screaming,” Denham said.
“Then we’ll just shoot him up again.” Englehorn nodded, then looked at his friend. “You know the leg is gone. I mean, Clarke is in no position to cut it off. But there’s no hope.”
“I know.”
“I told Hayes to set a course for Halifax, fast as possible. We’ve radioed ahead. They’ll have an ambulance waiting.”
“Good.”
“Guess this messes up your film.”
Denham smiled. “Not the first time. But the important thing is to get Herb some help.”
“Glad to hear you say that, Denham.”
“Hm?”
“Sometimes…I think all you care about is your movie.”
“Oh, I do care. But it’s people that make pictures
, Captain. And Herb has been with me from the beginning.”
“With luck, he can still be with you.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Englehorn turned away. “I’d best see to the bridge…”
But then he stopped, and turned back to Denham.
“One of the crew ran out and grabbed the camera. Pretty brave, I say. So whatever Herb shot, that whole scene there, you’ve got the film.”
Denham smiled at that. “I’m glad. And you know what, when this is all over, I bet Herb will be glad too.”
“Yeah, I imagine he will.”
Englehorn continued topside. Denham stood there for a moment, alone, thinking about what was next, what would happen, wondering what the future held. Then he turned back to the small room turned into an infirmary, opened the door, and went back to the bedside of his good friend.
18
San Francisco
SAM KELLY LEAFED THROUGH THE San Francisco Examiner classifieds, thinking…Where’d they hide all the jobs?
He knew things were bad—but Sam had skills, he could actually type, file a report, knew his way around a car engine, and—oh yeah, by the way—he was a trained helmet diver.
The classifieds had nothing.
Good thing he had a little nest egg saved from the Navy. But how long would that last?
He did see a listing for an employment agency and gave the number a call.
A woman with a nasal accent answered the phone.
“Hel-lo?”
More of a question than anything.
“Yeah, I saw your listing and I’m—”
“Anyone looking for employment must come in and fill out an application and pay the fee.”
“Fee? You mean I got to pay to find a job?”
“That is how we operate, sir. If you want our assistance in procuring employment, then you will have to—”
Sam hung up.
Time for a different plan. No jobs in the papers, the agencies scamming and skimming from the out-of-work. But he could walk around and see what was available.
So on a beautiful late spring day, he hit the streets of San Francisco.
He walked as though he was in some kind of competition, from the heights of Telegraph Hill, to the area south of Market, then back to the Embarcadero.
The Island of the Skull Page 7