The Raven (A Jane Harper Horror Novel)

by Jeremy Bishop

  As the whale falls behind, continuing its spiral through the waves, the Raven comes about, performing a tight turn that brings the ship on a collision course with the whale.

  “To the bow!” Willem says, rushing toward the front of the ship, where Helena stands alone.

  I follow him as quickly as I can, while Malik stays behind, rearming the harpoon. When we arrive at the bow, Helena isn’t manning the harpoon, she’s standing beside it, clutching the rail.

  “Helena,” Willem shouts, sounding annoyed. “What are you—”

  She turns toward his voice, eyes wide, and shouts, “Hold on to something! Jakob’s going to ram it!”

  I catch sight of the whale just twenty feet out and closing fast. The Raven is going to strike the beast’s side. Before I can react, Willem wraps an arm around my waist, lifts me off the deck, and deposits me between him and the rail. I see the muscles in his hands flex as he grips the rail and holds me tight. I’m pinned in such a way that I can look down over the rail, and my gaze casts downward just as the two titans of the sea collide.

  The ruined whale doesn’t stand a chance against the ice-breaking hull of the Raven. The sixty-foot body bends at the middle and then splits, falling away to either side. For all the violence of the collision, I barely felt the impact, though that might have been because of the human safety belt enshrouding me.

  With the collision over, Willem steps away. I’m about to thank him when I feel the engines of the Raven kick into high gear. We turn north and haul ass away from the whale. “What the hell? Why are we leaving?”

  “I’m not sure,” Willem says, looking back at the whale halves we’re leaving behind.

  “Our sample is right there!” I shout and storm to the bridge stairs.

  My leg hurts so bad that I make the climb about half as fast as I want, but my arrival on the bridge is no less dramatic because of it. “Why are we leaving!” I demand.

  Jakob keeps his eyes on the sea ahead, unfazed by my outburst. Talbot, on the other hand, looks up from the radar, looking a little worse than someone who’s just seen a zombie-whale split in two should. “More whales are coming,” he says. “A lot more.”

  16

  How many more whales?” I ask. My blood is pumping from the confrontation with the sperm whale and I feel ready for a fight, but I’m not stupid. If the odds are stacked against us, I’ll happily retreat. Even my father subscribed to the “live to fight another day” theory. “Wars are won by surviving,” he’d say. “Not dying.”

  “Hard to say,” Talbot says. “They keep popping on and off. Like the first. But the signals are spread out. Were I to guess, I’d say six. Maybe seven.”

  I’m not a fan of maybes. I turn to Nate and find him sitting at one of the workstations. He’s got his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. And, damnit, he’s got tears in his eyes. But I’m not about to coddle the kid. “Nate, how many came at the Arctic Rainbow?”

  His eyes flick toward me. Mixed with the tears is an angry fire. He twitches oddly, distorting his expression for a moment, and says, “How could you do that?”

  Apparently he saw me blow the front half of Moby-Draugr’s head off. I know where he’s coming from, understand his passion and revulsion. But there is a single glaring flaw in the kid’s logic.

  “It wasn’t a whale,” I say.

  “Certainly looked like a whale from here!”

  I take a step toward him, clenching my fists. “Kid, I swear if you don’t man up, like right now, I’m going to toss you overboard and let you find out firsthand if those are the nice kind of whales or the undead, man-eating, parasite-controlled sonsabitches that we’re fighting on behalf of you and every other whale-loving, tree-hugging, daisy-smelling asshole on the planet.”

  He stares at me. His stunned expression morphs to confusion. “Did you say parasite controlled?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It wasn’t a whale. It was a Draugr. The same thing that attacked your ship. Although somehow you didn’t notice.”

  “I don’t remember what happened to the Rainbow,” he says. “We were attacked, but I thought maybe the whales were just finally fighting back? Maybe they wanted to take back the ocean from all ships, you know? And the Rainbow could be fine for all we know. Did you find a debris field? An oil slick?”

  The kid makes a good point. We found neither. It’s not conclusive, but it could mean the Rainbow didn’t sink. There’s just one problem with his theory. “And yet you were found in a life raft.”

  “I don’t remember why,” he says with a sigh, eyes cast downward. “Draugr…” He says the word slowly, trying it on for size.

  “Draugar if there is more than one,” I add.

  Then I give him the whole spiel, the one I’m already getting a little sick of repeating. Not that I’ve had much call to. Áshildr Olavson and her relationship to the present-day Olavsons, the parasites, how they infect, preserve, and sometimes gnaw on their mammalian victims. I don’t spare him the gory details; his horrified reactions to them is what gets me through the story without yawning, which probably says some awful things about me, but I also don’t give a shit, so I’m good. When I finish explaining their collective hive mind and its relationship to the Queen, I jump into the worst of it. “The worst part is that we think the host is at least partially aware of what’s happening but has no control over it. Imagine watching yourself slaughtering and eating people, but not being able to stop it. Killing a Draugr is a merciful end for the host.”

  “But—”

  “Just shut up for another minute, kid,” I say. “How’s your Greenlandic history? Spend much time there?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “About a year.”

  “Been to the Viking ruins?”

  He nods.

  “Remember what happened to them?”

  He thinks for a moment. “The colony disappeared. No one knows what happened to them.”

  “Really?” I ask. “When did the colony disappear?”

  “Umm, fourteen hundreds, I thi—” I can see the kid connecting the dots. “You think these Draugar wiped out the Norse colony?”

  “I know they did.” I give him the lowdown on Jakob’s great-times-ten-grandpappy, Torstein, and his history with the Draugr. I end my tale at the Arctic island. “Torstein and his men entombed themselves behind corpse doors and stayed there until—”

  “Three months ago,” he says. “I remember your story. You’re saying all that crazy stuff is true?”

  “Kid, even pissed-off whales don’t attack ships this big, definitely not after they’ve taken a harpoon to the head.”

  “I remember,” he says. “I remember the dead whale we found. It called out. It wasn’t dead at all.”

  “A Draugr.”

  “There were ten,” he says. “Whales. Including the bull, so maybe nine now.”

  “Too many,” I say to no one in particular. I turn to Jakob. “Where are we heading?”

  “West,” he says. “Then south. Our target remains the same, but we’ll avoid the whales.”

  “What if they chase us?” I ask.

  “They haven’t course-corrected yet,” Talbot says. “If we’re gone by the time they get here, I don’t think they’ll—”

  “If there are more sperm whales, they can echolocate us from eleven miles out,” I say.

  “Not to mention hear our engine from more than a hundred miles away,” Nate adds. Kid knows his stuff. “You can’t hide from them. This is their territory.”

  I sense that Nate is about to dump some antiwhaling propaganda and quickly whisper, “Not whales.”

  He pinches his lips together and takes a long, slow breath through his nose.

  “Assuming they course-correct, how long do we have?” I ask.

  Klein starts talking to himself, rattling off numbers. “They’re eleven miles out?”

  “Roughly,” Talbot says. “Moving at thirty knots.”

  “And we’re at twenty, tops,” Klein says. “They�
��ll catch up somewhere between seventeen and twenty hours, depending on when they course-correct.”

  “Is that before or after we reach our target destination?” I ask.

  “Before,” Jakob grumbles.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Then we have seventeen hours to eat, rest, and get ready for a hell of a fight.” I share a look with Jakob, and he grins.

  “Geez,” says Nate. “It’s like being on a Klingon Bird of Prey.”

  “Klingons don’t have anything on the Vikings, kid,” I say, putting a hand on his still-wet shoulder. “Let’s go find you some clothes. I think we have a red shirt around here somewhere…” The one thing you can count on in Star Trek is that the away-team crew member in the red shirt will bite the dust first. They have a nearly 100 percent mortality rate.

  “That’s not funny,” he says, understanding the reference. He looks at Talbot. “That’s not funny.”

  Talbot shrugs. “I can’t fathom why it would be, son.”

  My grin is hard to hide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Klein, you look about the same size. Can you find something for Nate?”

  “Nothing red,” Nate says.

  The Trekkie banter is a welcome change from the heated battle. A little calm before the storm is always a good thing. Of course, the coming storm is going to be unlike anything any of us have ever conceived of before. Seventeen hours. Until what? A fight for sure, but the outcome is anyone’s guess. The Raven is built for the fight, but nine whales? I’m not sure the ship’s hull can take that kind of pounding. But the hull isn’t the main concern. As a former antiwhaling crusader, I know that the weak spot on any vessel is the propeller. A suicidal Draugr might be able to gum it up with whale meat, or possibly even destroy it. If that happens, we’re dead in the water. And if we’re dead in the water, well, we’re just plain dead.

  17

  With time to kill and Nate’s needs being tended to by Klein, I retreat to my room to change the dressing on my wound. We’ve got about seventeen hours, give or take, before the fleet of whales—which did adjust course to pursue the Raven—catches up, right around sunrise. During that time, we’re supposed to eat, sleep, and prepare our souls, whatever that means. But it’s what Jakob requested, and no one argued; by this time tomorrow we might all be dead.

  So how does one prepare one’s soul? I doubt any two people on board would agree on how that’s done. Hell, I don’t even know what I believe. The Colonel was Catholic, born and raised, but I don’t know if he truly believed or if he was just going through the motions. I have no memory of him going to confession. If he did, I imagine he spent as much time doing Hail Marys as he did fighting wars. The man’s language alone was probably enough to earn him a cozy plot of beach beside the lake of fire.

  Maybe I should pray for him? Catholics do that, I think. Pray for the dead.

  I decide that wherever my father is now, the prayers of a nonbeliever for anything other than self-preservation won’t do him a hell of a lot of good. I consider praying for myself, but the same conundrum exists: To whom do I pray, and for what? Salvation? Protection? Forgiveness?

  I decide on protection simply because if it’s granted, I might have time to figure the rest out before I die. Or become a Draugr. “So,” I say to nobody in particular, “here’s the deal. I don’t know anything about you. I’ve never really cared. And if you’re real, you know all this. But this thing we’re trying to stop, it’s bad, right? You’re supposed to care about the people you made. And the animals. So I’m not just asking this for myself. I’m asking for everyone. Everywhere. Cut us some slack. Help us kill these things. Of course, I guess you technically created the parasites, too, which was a sucky thing to do, but still, you’re supposed to love us, right? We’re made in your image or something? So keep us safe. I’m not going to promise I’ll be a better person or that I’ll go to church. You know I won’t. But I’ll kill them all if you let me, and I’m pretty sure I’ll save a lot of people who do believe in you.”

  I stop, feeling uncomfortable, but knowing it’s unfinished. “Amen,” I say.

  “Amen,” repeats a voice from the doorway.

  I turn to find Helena standing there. She grins at me, blue eyes radiating kindness. Why’d she have to be nice?

  “So was that a blasphemous prayer or what?” I ask.

  She comes in, pulls up a chair in front of me, and motions for me to lift my leg. After a moment’s hesitation, I do. I have no reason not to trust her. Personal issues aside, she’s now my comrade in arms. If she’s anything like Jakob and Willem, she takes that stuff seriously.

  “Your words were honest.” She lifts my pant leg and starts unwrapping my bandage, which is wet with blood. “I think that’s what matters.”

  “Are you religious?” I ask.

  “My father was a Baptist minister,” she says.

  “I don’t think our fathers would have been friends,” I say with a grin, remembering how my father referred to all Protestants, regardless of denomination, as “Jesus freaks.” I always found that humorous, since they all believed the guy was the son of God.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Do you believe in God?”

  “Most of the time,” she replies.

  The Viking warrior-princess side of Helena fits Willem, but the conservative, wholesome side doesn’t. Willem likes his women a little rough around the edges. More like—well, more like me. Of course, her rockin’ body probably makes up for any personality issues. Still, I can’t help but dig for answers. While she finishes unwrapping my leg, I ask, “So how long have you known Willem?”

  “All my life,” she says. “Though we weren’t allowed to see each other for a long time.”

  Wha? I try to think of scenarios that fit, but nothing comes to mind. “He never told me about you,” I say.

  “Well, he spoke plenty about you,” she says with a smile.

  What. The. Hell. I’m so totally confused I don’t even notice she’s applied new antibiotic pads until she starts rewrapping my leg.

  “It will heal,” she says when she notes my attention. “Not nicely, but you’ll be fine. No signs of infection, yet.”

  “Are you a nurse, too?”

  Her smile fades. She heard the edge of annoyance in my voice. Not that I did much to hide it.

  “Have I done something to you? Offended you in some way?” Her questions are so innocent and tinged with hurt that my rising defenses are laid to waste. She’s just too fucking nice!

  I decide to be honest. If we’re going to be fighting side by side, there shouldn’t be anything left unsaid. “I guess I’m jealous,” I say.

  She looks stunned. “Of what?”

  “You and Willem.”

  She stares at me for a moment, then remembers my leg. She tapes the wrapped bandage and then meets my eyes again. “Jealous of what? I spent a lot of time with him and Jakob lately, but you could have, too. From what they said, you chose to drink away the past few months.”

  Okay, now she’s pissing me off. “How would that have worked? Unless you’re batting for both teams, I don’t—”

  “Batting for both teams?” She looks mystified.

  Right, I think. I’m arguing with a conservative Greenlandic blonde who spent a lot of her time at sea with her Baptist whaling father. I’m about to explain when she lets out a “pfft,” which becomes full-on laughter a moment later. I guess she figured it out, but her reaction confuses me. Rather than ask for an explanation, I wait for her laughter to subside.

  It takes nearly thirty seconds. Her face is flushed from laughing. Her perfect white teeth mock me as she tries to speak. “You—you think—” More laughter. “You think Willem and I—” And more laughter.

  “Spit it out,” I say, as serious as a warden asking a death row inmate “Any last words?”

  She puts a hand to her chest, like that’s going to help, and takes several deep breaths to control her laughter. “Ahh, ha, Willem.” Her smile widens, and she nearly breaks
into laughter again. “Willem is my half brother.”

  Say what now?

  “Jakob is my father,” she says. “He had an affair with my mother. That’s why I couldn’t see Willem. My father knew about the affair. He didn’t leave my mother, but he didn’t let me see my brother, either. I saw them occasionally. It’s a small country. An even smaller whaling community. But only in passing. It wasn’t until my father died that I really got to know Willem and Jakob.”

  “Well,” I say, “I’m the biggest idiot on the planet.”

  She pats my knee. “You are everything Jakob and Willem said you were.”

  “Short-tempered, foulmouthed, and impulsive?” I say.

  “Among other things,” she adds. She rolls down my pants. “That should be okay until tomorrow.”

  “Might not need to worry about it after tomorrow,” I say.

  She stands and throws my bloodied rags in the room’s small trash can. “My father and brother said you were brave, that you fought with ferocity and cunning, and that you come from a family of warriors, whose memory you not only respect but also draw upon for strength. Before you arrived, I saw…fear and uncertainty in their eyes. But the moment you stepped aboard, they have been at peace. Confident. Jakob named you Raven for a reason. The title might have been a superstitious response to your appearance”—she motions to my clothing and cloak—“but it is a title you have earned since. As for Willem, well, he’s just—”

  There’s a knock at the door.

  Just what? I want to know.

  But finishing the sentence is impossible. Willem appears in the doorway. He looks happy to see Helena and me together, which now makes sense. “Am I interrupting?” he asks.

  Both Helena and I both offer a too-quick “No.”

  He squints at us for a moment, then says, “Malik made dinner. It’s ready now.” He looks at me. “Going to be an early morning, so we should eat quickly and get some sleep.”