Dead Rage

by Nicholas Ryan

  “Something’s not right.”

  For twenty years Bannon’s first sight of Grey Stone had always been the same; the low dull grey blur of shape, away in the far distance, that gradually took on height and detail as the boat nudged her way closer to shore. But the dark smudge on the skyline he was gazing at was different.

  Bannon felt something cold and ominous uncoil in the pit of his gut: a sudden sense of foreboding.

  He snatched up the white phone and pressed it to his ear. The line was still dead. He turned to Peter.

  “Did Sully check the antenna and booster box?”

  Peter nodded. “He and Claude are still on deck. They’re just finishing up with the lines and gear. Everything is stowed ready for unloading when we reach the dock.”

  Bannon nodded, but he wasn’t listening. He frowned, and then tugged his cell phone from the clip on his belt. He held the phone up and saw the tiny screen light with strong reception. He grunted with relief.

  “Stay at the wheel, Peter,” Bannon said. “Push her up to nine knots.”

  The young crewman nodded and Bannon turned away and stabbed the quick-dial on his phone for Gino Ginopolous, owner of the ‘Mandrake’.

  Old Gino was a Greek immigrant who had come to America with his family as a young boy and who had worked the fishing fleets along the east coast until he had saved enough to buy his own boat and move to Grey Stone. That had been almost forty years ago, and for a decade the fishing industry from the little harbor flourished. In the 1980’s, Gino replaced his old boat with the ‘Mandrake’, and skippered the vessel himself for several years until his age eventually caught up with him. He was a big man with a big booming voice. He had skin the color of old leather, deeply lined with wrinkles, but his eyes were clear and sharp. Bannon heard the line connect and waited. The phone rang out. He stabbed at the buttons and dialed his wife’s cell phone, as the ominous sense of unease that had wrapped around him began to constrict like a python around his throat and squeeze his heart.

  He heard the line connect to his wife’s phone and then the echo of the ring tone.

  “Come on, Maddie. Pick up…” he muttered.

  There was no answer. He thumbed the buttons and dialed twice more, his concern turning cold and ominous.

  “Dammit!”

  Bannon snatched up the binoculars and slung them around his neck. He went out through the wheelhouse onto the stern deck. He saw Sully and Claude look up in surprise. The two men were gathered around the wire cage that held dozens of bright orange plastic bubbles. When the boat was working, the bubbles were marker buoys along the boat’s long line.

  “Skip?” Claude asked warily. “What’s up?”

  Bannon ignored the men and clambered up the narrow ladder to the flying bridge.

  The flying bridge was a wide open space forward of the boat’s mast, with a control console for steering as the boat was leaving and entering the harbor, and a stowage space for the twelve foot aluminum dinghy. Bannon strode forward and glanced down at the wide blunt bow cleaving through the water, then stared hard at the horizon line and pressed the powerful binoculars to his eyes.

  For long seconds the magnified image flicked and wavered, and then Bannon swung the glasses across the skyline until the black scar filled the lenses. Bannon blinked, then felt a sudden stab of ice-cold dread snap-freeze the blood in his veins.

  “Oh my God…” he said softly.

  Bannon dropped the binoculars and spun on his heel. He scrambled back down the ladder and burst into the wheelhouse.

  “Push her all the way!” he barked at Peter, his voice urgent. “Open the throttles and give her everything she’s got.”

  The young man looked confused. Then he saw Bannon’s terrible expression. His face was like a mirror breaking, twisted with anxiety and fear.

  “What?” Peter was seized by sudden dread. “What’s wrong?”

  Bannon stabbed his finger at the wheelhouse window. In the far distance, the black scar of smoke was spreading like a cancer across the skyline. “It’s Grey Stone,” Bannon said, his face the color of ash. “The whole town is on fire.”

  Chapter 4.

  The ‘Mandrake’ vibrated under the terrible strain of her engines so that she sounded like she might tear herself apart as the big screw beneath the boat’s hull thrashed out a wide trailing wake.

  Bannon was up on the flying bridge clutching tightly to the binoculars, Claude and Sully close beside him. They were all infected by the tense strain as the coastline became clear, and the high rocky cliffs that bordered Grey Stone’s southern break wall bared their jagged teeth.

  The boat bore down on the headland, running up from the south so that for long agonizing minutes there was only the smudge of oily black smoke to be seen.

  Bannon urged the boat on, seething with impatience and fear. The headland stood like a silent sentinel – a rocky hunched shoulder that stood over the sleepy little harbor and sheltered it from the great storms that swept up the coast. But now it masked his view of the little town, and he cursed with bitter frustration.

  He strained forward and ran the powerful lenses of the binoculars across the dark shape of the cliffs. At their base, white water was boiling as the swells from the ocean came sweeping towards the harbor mouth in rolling grey humps only to collapse into chaos as they rushed over the shallowing entrance and dashed against the outstretched arms of the break wall.

  Bannon lowered the binoculars and his expression was bleak. The men stared into the distance, silent and tense.

  “Claude, go down and tell Peter to come up. Let him know that I have the wheel.”

  Claude nodded and scurried down the ladder into the wheelhouse. Bannon reached for the control console built into the port side of the flying bridge and toggled the rudder control, turning ‘Mandrake’ slightly to bring her around the bulk of the headland. The boat ploughed on purposefully, but running at this new angle brought the trailing ocean swells hard under her stern so that she began to buck and wallow. Bannon’s mouth drew into a thin grim line, as he stared fixedly ahead.

  He heard scuffled heavy steps behind him, but did not turn. He sensed the rest of the crew gathered on the deck, subdued to silence as the scene began to unfold before them.

  ‘Mandrake’ reached the edge of the headland, still a mile beyond the foaming wake of the harbor bar, and as her heavy hull heaved and dipped on the rolling swell, the swirling veil of smoke opened like a theatre curtain, and Bannon got his first sight of Grey Stone.

  It came as a shocking, horrified fusion of sight and smell.

  The wind off the land was warm, hazed with smoke and made heavy by a cloying rancid stench that flared in Bannon’s nostrils. It was the putrid stink of corruption and rotting flesh, and it was thick in the air like a nauseous taste in the back of his throat. He gagged, and then spat over the side of the boat. He scraped the back of his hand across his mouth, and then his senses were overwhelmed by chaos and destruction as the fishing boat cleared the headland and lined up for the run into the harbor.

  “My God…” Bannon heard Claude breath, the young man’s voice appalled and shocked. “The whole town is burning.”

  Bannon narrowed his eyes. He turned to the others, white-faced with rising horror.

  “Peter, fetch the rifle.” He handed the young crewman a key from his pocket and pressed it into his palm. “Go, boy. Right now!”

  There was a .22 rifle aboard. The weapon was stored below, and the firing mechanism and ammunition locked away separately in an iron safety box beneath the bottom bunk in the skipper’s cabin. Some of the big fish hooked on the boat’s long line were the size and weight of a man, and it was common practice to have the weapon assembled and on hand when the catch was being reeled in. Such huge fish were impossible to haul on deck – often they were still alive and thrashing their mighty tails against the timber hull – and Bannon would lean out over the boat’s rail and fire into the fish’s head before the beast was hauled aboard.

&nb
sp; Bannon heard Peter’s heavy booted steps as he swarmed down the narrow ladder. He turned to the others. “On deck,” he said grimly, then stared back at the shoreline as the harbor entrance opened up before them.

  The line of rough water was drawn clearly across the ocean, the abraded deep sea scarred and furrowed by the talons of the wind while beyond the break wall the water within the harbor mouth had a calm oily gloss to it, like shimmering velvet.

  ‘Mandrake’ seemed to sense the refuge of still water and she bustled towards it.

  Bannon snatched up the binoculars again.

  Black smoke billowed across the harbor, swirling on the breeze and rising high above the burning buildings that lined the wharf. As Bannon watched, a sudden storm of sparks erupted and he heard the sound of a roof collapse. He swung the binoculars quickly, and each time he paused a new horror seemed to fill the lenses. Everything was veiled in smoke, but through it he caught horrific snatches of destruction. He saw a yacht at its moorings, burning fiercely as the flames licked up the mast and the fabric of the furled sails burst alight. He saw dark lumpen shapes floating in the water, and he saw the sky filled with raucous birds. He set the binoculars down and rubbed at his eyes. Everything was hazed and cast in an eerie orange glow as the smoke filtered the sun to the color of blood.

  Bannon heard Peter’s footsteps. He had assembled the boat’s rifle. He set it down beside the flying bridge console and stared aghast at the unfolding nightmare spreading across the harbor.

  “Is it loaded?” Bannon asked. Peter nodded numbly, gaping in horror, and then he flung up his arm and pointed, his voice suddenly rising with fresh alarm.

  “Look!” he gasped. “There’s a boat.”

  Bannon saw it. A gleaming white sailboat suddenly burst through the boiling mask of smoke, running out between the break walls towards the ‘Mandrake’. The boat was not in the deep water channel, and as it cleared the shelter of the headland, the wind came hunting through the rigging so that the boat’s sails collapsed and flapped in sudden chaos.

  “Jesus!” Peter whispered.

  Bannon felt himself suddenly tense. “Tack,” he muttered under his breath, somehow trying to will the boat to respond. Then he said louder, his voice somehow hollow and heavy with despair. “She’s not going to make it.”

  The boat lost its way and veered towards the massive boulders that formed the southern break wall, then at the last possible moment, she spun her nose away and the jib burst full and bulging with air. The boat careered across the mouth of the harbor and reached the open ocean. She met the first swell gamely, but then dug her shoulder into the cold grey water and as the next line of waves rushed down to meet her, the boat swung in a wild turn until she was broadside.

  The boat reeled as the green hissing wave exploded against the hull and swamped her. Bannon heard a sound like artillery fire and saw the mast ripped away in a tangle of sails and rigging.

  “Christ!” Bannon breathed. He watched in cold dread as the next wave raced down on the wallowing boat and drove her back onto the submerged teeth of the break wall. The rocks gouged at the boat, tearing a ragged hole in her bottom timbers, and then the sound of terrified panicked screams carried clearly to Bannon on the gusting wind.

  Bannon snatched the binoculars up to his eyes and trained the powerful lenses on the shattered boat. A woman was hunched down in the cockpit, clinging to the figure of a young girl. The woman’s face was a white mask of horror. As Bannon watched, another opaque wall of green water came sweeping over the sailboat’s deck with the crushing force of a hammer blow.

  Bannon swung the ‘Mandrake’ around, pushing her across the open mouth of the harbor.

  “Peter. Get the dinghy ready.”

  The fishing boat nosed onto her new course, taking the ocean swells under her stern quarter, her motion rolling and drunken, as Bannon raced down on the stranded boat and the ‘Mandrake’s’ big diesel engines growled.

  Over his shoulder, Bannon heard the grind of the winch as the aluminum dinghy was attached to the boat’s long boom arm. He turned his head, saw the little tender ready to be swung over the side. The tiny craft swayed like a pendulum, rocking on its cables, and Bannon cut the fishing boat’s speed so suddenly that the big boat plunged nose down in the water like a heavy stone, the energy and momentum gone from her in just a few brief moments.

  “Now!” Bannon cried out. He toggled the rudder control to swing ‘Mandrake’ broadside to the swells so that her broad bulk would shelter the tender as it was lowered into the choppy sea, and then he seized Peter’s arm in a fierce grip.

  “Take her,” he said urgently. “Get her in as close to the rocks as you can and hold her there.”

  Bannon swarmed down the ladder and raged across the fishing boat’s cluttered deck. There was a stowage locker hung with safety gear near the long-liner’s massive deck winch and he snatched up two safety vests.

  “Sully,” Bannon snapped. “You’re coming with me.”

  The two men scrambled down into the dingy and Sully unfastened the line to the boom. The outboard motor started the first time, and the big burly crewman swung the little boat around in a tight arc towards the dying sailboat and opened the throttle.

  There was just forty feet of heaving ocean between the tender and the sailboat. Bannon sat forward, straining with anxiety as the aluminum hull of the tender slapped and bashed across the hissing chaos. He felt each wave with a bone-jarring thump that vibrated all the way up his spine.

  The little tender dipped and bucked, and sea spray filled the air. The sailboat was twenty feet away. Bannon felt himself tensing. He glanced back at the ‘Mandrake’ and saw a dirty belch of smoke erupt from her exhaust stack, as Peter gunned the big diesels and turned the long-liner away.

  Bannon’s eyes flicked to Sully. The man’s face was drawn tight, his features frozen. “Get me alongside,” Bannon had to shout above the fierce roar of the outboard motor. “I’m going after the woman and the kid. As soon as I get on deck, bear away until I signal you.”

  Sully nodded. His eyes were narrow slits against the wind and the driving spray, but Bannon sensed the young man’s rising tension.

  The sailboat was in its final death throes. The ocean’s relentless pounding had shattered her hull below decks, grinding her timbers between the break wall’s jagged jaws until the wrecked hulk of her was impaled and being hammered to pieces. The boat’s broken deck was streaming with water, so heavily canted that the woman could no longer maintain her balance. She saw the dingy racing towards her, but as she got to her feet and frantically waved her arms, another great rush of grey water burst across the boat and she fell screaming to her knees. She was still clutching the girl’s hand, the child’s face contorted and crying out in terror. The woman heaved herself to the rail and took the child in her arms – then hurled the screaming girl over the side of the boat into the surging hissing maelstrom of angry surf.

  “Christ!” Bannon breathed. He turned back to Sully and saw his own horror reflected in the other man’s appalled face. “Get her!” Bannon cried. The girl’s body vanished below the hissing vortex of white water.

  Sully speared the dingy forward, waiting until the seething suck of the waves was on the ebb before committing the little tender to the narrow breach. The boat surged forward, the outboard motor roared, and then they were slammed hard against the boat’s hull with the impact of a colliding car. Bannon got to his feet and launched himself. He wrapped his hands around the boat’s stainless steel railing and heaved himself up onto the forward deck. Another wave came rushing in and he clung to the rail and bowed his head as the ocean heaved the aluminum tender high and then smashed hard against the crippled boat. The wave came aboard in a hissing bursting torrent that ripped at Bannon’s grip and tugged at his legs. It swept over him and the weight of it was crushing. He felt the wind driven from his lungs and the strain on his shoulders burned like fire, until at last the ocean’s energy was exhausted, and it began to suck and claw at
him as it receded. Bannon’s feet went from under him and he fell to the deck. He felt the solid crack of something smash into his ribs and he groaned aloud. Then, for brief precious seconds the deck was clear, and he raised his head and saw the woman’s horror-stricken face, staring at him, frozen with fear.

  Bannon crawled to the woman. She was young, her eyes huge and terrified. She was clinging to a tangle of the boat’s ruined rigging. There was blood on her hands and streaming down her arm.

  “My baby!” the woman screamed. “Save my baby!”

  Bannon stole a glance over his shoulder. Sully was hurling the dingy around in frantic tight turns, his body hunched, his head craned over the side of the tender, searching for the little girl. The surging ocean hissed and roared as it detonated against the break wall, and the air was filled with rain-like spray. The woman was hysterical, her eyes wild, gasping through ragged breaths and sobs of dread. She flailed her arms and clawed at him like a wild cat. Her nails raked livid welts of skin from his cheek and her face was savage and horribly haunted. “You must save him for me!” She pointed at the dark opening of the hatch. “He’s down there!”

  Bannon’s features collapsed with fresh horror. He stared down into the blackness. The hull was filled with black oily water. He could see debris being tossed about, as the ocean sucked and surged through the mortal rents in the boat’s hull.

  Bannon lunged towards the opening and then lost his footing. He went tumbling down into the ice-cold darkness and his head went under the water. He felt something graze his back and then he surfaced in the darkened hold, his hair streaming with water, slicked down over his face and into his eyes, and he gasped to fill his lungs. He scraped hair away from his face and reached out, groping blindly below the surface, feeling his desperate panic mount with every dangerous second he searched, trapped within the dark pit.

  The cabin was more than half-flooded. Bannon stared down into the oily blackness that sloshed and splashed as the boat was remorselessly pounded. Another wave struck the shattered hull and Bannon heard the terrible rending tear as the sailboat twisted and tore to pieces. The vibration of her agony shuddered the length of the boat’s fractured splintered spine. Bannon took a deep breath and slid beneath the water. His hands flailed. He felt more debris bash and graze against his knuckles, and the sound of the boat’s dying agony was magnified like an echo in his ears. He burst back up through the surface, coughing and gasping, his lungs on fire and the despair and helpless frustration was like a lead weight on his shoulders.