Ship of the Damned

by James F. David

  “There are two more men, Wes,” Elizabeth said. “One is in the deck, the other is standing in the corridor at the far end.” Then, to Anita, she said, “Let me go first.”

  Taking Anita’s hand she led her toward the body in the deck, her eyes locked on the man, watching for movement. They passed the man, Anita staring in amazed horror, and then came to the standing man. This sailor was dressed in navy denims and stood perfectly still like a department store mannequin. Elizabeth scooted around him, her back to the wall, her eyes watching his face. His eyes were open, his face turned toward the corridor ahead. There was no fear in his eyes, nor any expression except a little weariness as if he was just up from a nap. He was a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen.

  “Let’s hurry,” Anita said.

  Anita opened the next hatch and stepped in, disappearing. Elizabeth followed, finding herself outside on the deck of the ship near the bow, under one of the big guns.

  “See, it changes,” Anita said, expecting to be in the bathroom. “We have to try again.”

  “Wait,” Elizabeth said, and walked to the rail. She looked out at the nothingness that had knocked her out. Before, it had no detail; and adding Margi and Wanda to the integration hadn’t changed that. Then Elizabeth leaned over the side and looked toward the bow. The anchor was still there, but this time it was hanging from a chain. Then she saw the number.

  “Wes, are you still there?”

  “Of course,” Wes said.

  “I’m looking at the bow of the ship. There’s a number painted there.”

  “You didn’t jump off, did you?”

  “I’m leaning over the rail. The number is CA137.”

  “I’ve got it,” Wes said. “That’s enough. I’m going to bring you out.”

  “Not until I look in that mirror.”

  “Let’s keep going, Elizabeth,” Anita said. “I’m scared.”

  “All right. Wes, we’re moving on to find the mirror.”

  Anita led Elizabeth to a hatch. Just before she followed Anita through, Elizabeth looked down the deck toward the stern and saw a shimmering green light. Wanting to investigate, she hesitated, but knew she had to keep up with Anita since the same hatches didn’t always lead to the same places. Then she stepped through the hatch.

  POT OF GOLD

  Jett stepped onto the deck of the USS Norfolk, walking forward to give the others room. Toward the bow he saw a man stepping through a hatch. Freezing, he held up his hand to warn the others of the danger.

  “Why is your hand up, Nate?” Ralph asked. “Do you have to go to the bathroom? When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

  “Shut up,” Evans hissed.

  Jett shot Ralph a stern look, making a zipping motion across his mouth.

  “Gotcha,” Ralph whispered at a volume greater than most people speak.

  Ralph pretended to take a key from his pocket and lock his lips, then with an exaggerated gesture he dropped the key back into his pocket.

  With a hand motion, Jett sent his team to take cover under the eight-inch gun turret mounted near the stern. Jett could see off the starboard side of the ship clear to the opaque edge of the world of Pot of Gold—there was no supercarrier.

  “Peters, Thompson, circle around the stern,” Jett ordered. “Check the port side for the Nimitz.”

  Peters and Thompson ducked under the catapults that held the biplanes, and using a see-saw maneuver, moved out of sight. Then Jett stepped close to Evans, whispering into his reconstructed ear.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Evans pulled a wooden block from his pocket and set it on the rail of the ship, then backed away and stared at the block. The block rocked, spun, and then shot off the rail into the desert.

  “I’m not at full strength yet,” Evans said.

  Jett nodded, then surveyed the ship. They were near the stern under a gun turret, the gun barrel pointed aft. There was a wide expanse of deck between the gun and a crane mounted on the stern, and on either side were the biplanes fitted with pontoons and mounted on the catapults. Forward of their position, the superstructure towered over the turret; the radio and radar masts were the highest points. Gun emplacements were mounted all along the superstructure, with a five-inch gun mounted just forward of the eight-inch and three forty-millimeter antiaircraft guns mounted behind those. A large funnel blocked his view forward. No one was in sight.

  Peters and Thompson returned, moving stealthily. Thompson shook his head as they arrived.

  “There’s nothing on the port side except more desert,” Thompson said. “The Nimitz isn’t here.”

  Jett’s orders were clear. If they did not find the Nimitz they were to report immediately. Jett had Peters turn and squat so he could remove the signal laser from his pack. The device was a tube laser attached to a large capacitor capable of powering a short series of bursts. There were only two settings on the device, one signalling presence of the Nimitz, the other its absence. Jett twisted the end of the laser to the negative setting, put it down so it was aimed vertically, and turned it on. The device hummed, emitting an invisible beam.

  “Let’s find the generators,” Evans said.

  Reading emotion through Evans’s scars was difficult, but the tone of his voice hinted that he was happy. Without the Nimitz, killing the Specials was now top priority.

  Jett led the way, the team spreading out behind him as best they could on the narrow deck. Peters hung back, covering the rear. Jett led them to the hatch through which the man had entered and opened it a crack, checking the corridor on the other side. It was clear, but as he opened the hatch wider and stepped in, he came face to face with a sailor. Instantly his gun was on the man’s forehead—the sailor didn’t move.

  “He’s frozen,” Evans said from behind. “There’s another one.”

  Jett looked down the corridor to see a sailor’s body sticking up through the deck—nothing but a head and shoulders. The sight would horrify most people, but Jett felt only a slight adrenaline surge.

  “Hihowyadoin?” Ralph said, hand outstretched to the first frozen man.

  “Shut up,” Evans hissed again.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Ralph said, puzzled.

  “It’s a statue,” Jett said. “Like a mannequin in a store window.”

  “Oh,” Ralph said, but stared at the man, not quite able to accept Jett’s explanation.

  With a sign from Jett, his team checked the compartments on either side of the corridor, working toward stairs where he heard movement. When his team signalled all clear he started down the stairs. At the bottom he signalled Evans forward.

  “Everything look the same to you?”

  “Yes. Of course, the last time I saw it there was a lot of smoke in my eyes.”

  Jett knew that the smoke had come from his own burning flesh.

  “If you see anything that looks different, you tell me,” Jett said.

  “The only thing that’s going to be different this time is a whole lot of bodies.”

  Jett ignored the threat, knowing that Evans was right. One way or another the Specials were going to be cleaned out of Pot of Gold and the easiest way was to find the power source; that’s where he was headed. If the Specials tried to stop them, he would take them out one at a time.

  Weapons ready, Jett’s team headed into the bowels of the ship, Ralph trudging along dutifully, lips locked in a fleshy pucker.

  Moving cautiously, they checked open hatches, someone always covering their rear. As well-trained professionals, they were light on their feet and moved with military crispness, covering every hatch, every intersection—except for Ralph, whose artless plodding gave away their position every step of the way. Peters, Thompson, Compton, and even Jett hushed him, urging him to walk softly, but he was incapable. Evans, however, glared malevolently with merciless eyes. Jett knew it wouldn’t take much more to set Evans off. What sanity he’d once had, had been baked out of him.

  They passed through the pilot hou
se, the chart room, the radio room, and the fire control center, following the sounds ahead. Three more times they came to sailors who were frozen—two embedded in bulkheads, the third frozen midstep on a ladder. Ralph stared at each one long and hard, not able to accept that these men were mere mannequins.

  Then Jett turned a corner and saw movement ahead. The man they had seen on the deck was there, turning into a compartment. A short distance behind him were three sailors and a woman. They were following the first man, unaware of Jett and his team. Jett signalled the others to stop, but Evans didn’t. He had seen the Specials, and there was murder in his eyes.

  FACES

  Elizabeth and Anita stepped into the bathroom—“head,” is what it would be called on a ship, Elizabeth realized—and it was much as she remembered it. The facilities were designed for men. A long trough was mounted against one bulkhead, serving as a urinal. Toilets were set along the other side, separated by low partitions. Down the middle was a double row of metal sinks. Each sink had a mirror mounted over it. There was more detail than before, with faucets and handles, spouts and drains. Elizabeth went directly to the same mirror as before.

  “Wes, are you there?”

  “What is it, Elizabeth?” Wes said.

  “We’re in the bathroom—the head—and I’m looking in a mirror.”

  “Lift me up, Elizabeth? I want to see too,” Anita said.

  “I’m looking in the mirror, but I don’t see myself. I see a man.”

  “Standing behind you?” Wes asked.

  “No, I’m looking at myself, but I’m a man.” Elizabeth said. “He’s young, maybe twenty-five, with short brown hair. It’s oiled and combed to the side. He’s got a blue shirt on and the sleeves have been cut off.”

  The hatch creaked and Elizabeth and Anita turned, startled to see four people step into the compartment. Three were dressed in the blue dungarees and work shirts of sailors. The fourth was a black woman wearing green bell-bottom pants and a yellow shirt covered with big orange flowers. Most striking was her hair, which looked like a perfectly shaped ball. Elizabeth remembered the style from the sixties and recognized it as an afro.

  “Have you got someone, Dawson?” the sailor in front asked.

  The group approached, crowding in. Elizabeth backed up, making room. There was a hatch on the other side, and she backed toward it instinctively, ready to run.

  “Elizabeth,” Wes said. “What is going on? Your vital signs—”

  “There are people here,” Elizabeth said.

  “Who are you talking to, Roger?” the sailor said. “You made contact, didn’t you?”

  “I’m scared,” Anita said.

  Then another man stepped into the room. His presence was nightmarish, making what had felt real seem like a dream again. His facial features were barely distinguishable behind thick scar tissue. Anita gasped and clutched Elizabeth’s leg. The others turned to face the newcomer, as shocked as Elizabeth by his sudden appearance.

  “We’re dissolving the integration!” Wes said.

  The disfigured man wore a silvery suit with a wide belt, and straps that held a backpack. In his hand was a gun, but he didn’t fire. Instead, he stared at the group in front of Elizabeth, and suddenly they were knocked aside, tumbling like tenpins, slamming into the bulkheads. Elizabeth had seen it before—the man was using psychokinetic power. When he turned on Elizabeth, she pulled Anita close. Before he could strike, another man in a similar suit stepped into the room, a gun in his hand. One step behind, walking with his long stride, his fleshy face shaped into a concerned look, was Ralph. Before she could speak she was hit in the chest with an invisible fist, which knocked her into the back bulkhead. Anita was pulled with her. Gasping for breath, Elizabeth collapsed, Anita kneeling with her, face buried in Elizabeth’s lap.

  “Ralph,” she said hoarsely as she felt the integration begin to dissolve. Details disappeared as the dream was deconstructed—seams, rivets, bolts, faucets and pipes vanished. She tried again to get enough breath to call Ralph’s name, but it was useless, she was losing the dream. As her vision faded to black, she saw Ralph reaching for the scarred man.

  SKIRMISH

  Evans killed the first two men with head shots. The Teflon slugs punctured their skulls but didn’t have the energy to blow out the other side; instead, the prefragmented bullets came apart, rattling around in their skulls, destroying soft neural tissue, pithing them like you would a frog in biology class.

  The third man threw himself in front of the woman, saving his own life. Evans’s shot passed just over his crew cut. Evans had another shot lined up when Ralph reached him, wrapping him in his meaty arms, pinning him. Jett covered the man and the woman Evans had targeted and ordered Compton to cover the remaining man. Peters and Thompson crowded in, fingers twitching on their triggers, wondering why there were still three Specials alive.

  “Let go of me?” Evans screamed.

  “You gots to calm down,” Ralph said, his voice even.

  “You’re dead, Ralph! You’re dead!”

  Jett turned from the Specials, pointing his gun at Evans.

  “Stop struggling!” Jett ordered.

  Evans’s face was impossible to read through the thick scar tissue, but he relaxed, ignoring the gun in his face.

  “No one touches Ralph,” Jett said.

  “I won’t kill him,” Evans said finally.

  Jett couldn’t trust Evans. Like Jett, his psychological profile made lying as easy as killing. Jett stepped aside, keeping his gun on Evans’s head.

  “Let him go, Ralph.”

  “I dunno, Nate, he did something real bad to those men.”

  “Let him go!” Jett repeated.

  “Okay, sure, Nate. If you say so.”

  Ralph released his grip, stepping back, staring at the two dead men with his face contorted into concern. Evans flexed his arms to restore circulation, then checked his weapon. Jett relaxed, turning to the man who they had first seen on the deck. He was slumped against the far bulkhead, just coming to. Glassy-eyed, he felt the back of his head, his fingertips coming away damp with blood. Suddenly Evans’s arm snapped toward the couple cowering on the floor, his gun firing twice. Both died instantly. Ralph immediately wrapped his arms around Evans again.

  Evans struggled briefly, then relaxed. Now Evans looked at Jett, smiling with the lips of a corpse.

  “I only promised not to kill Ralph.”

  “Thompson, take his weapon,” Jett ordered.

  It wasn’t as simple as taking the gun from his hand, since they had to disconnect the pressure hose from the gas canisters in his pack. Thompson disconnected the gun, storing the weapon in Compton’s pack. Then Jett ordered Ralph to release him again. Strangely, Evans didn’t protest. Jett knew it was because in Pot of Gold Evans was a Special and was never without a weapon.

  “It’s better that you don’t have a gun, Robin, even if it is just a BB gun,” Ralph said.

  Evans glared at Ralph, his eyes glistening with hate.

  With the other Specials dead, they turned to the lone survivor. Compton moved aside to let Jett get closer in the cramped head. The Special Evans had knocked against the back wall was fully conscious now.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he begged. His eyes were riveted on Evans, either horrified by the man’s appearance, or aware that it was Evans who had done the killing.

  “How many more of you are there?” Jett asked.

  “You came to kill us,” the man responded.

  “We only want to get to the generators,” Jett said. “We came to shut them down.”

  “We’re never going home,” the man said.

  Jett knew that much was certain. There was a way out for his team, but none for the Specials. The Specials were powerful and uncontrollable, and a threat to those on the outside.

  “We’ll find the generators with or without you,” Jett said. “If you help us we won’t kill you.”

  “We don’t need him,” Peters said with a wink, the
n squatted next to the man. “But I think I can get him to talk.”

  Peters put his gun on the sailor’s knee.

  “Whatcha doin?” Ralph said, trying to push through.

  Thompson gripped Ralph’s arm, holding him back.

  “Don’t hurt me,” the sailor said.

  Jett held up his hand, and Peters held his fire, giving Jett another wink.

  “This is your last chance,” Jett said. “Make yourself useful.”

  “They won’t let anyone get near those generators,” the man said, looking down at the gun still pressed against his knee.

  “Who won’t let us near them?” Jett asked.

  As if in answer, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Peters dragged the captive to his feet, using him as a shield. The others turned to face the door, taking cover behind sinks and toilet stalls—there was precious little cover. With all guns trained on the door, Jett dragged Ralph to the side, reminding him with a hand motion that his lips were locked, then pushed him behind. Just ahead of Jett, Compton whispered, “Shouldn’t Ralph be in front?”

  She was right. This was why they had brought Ralph. Then the footsteps stopped just outside the door. The tension grew as they waited for something to happen.

  “He’s reading us,” the sailor said. “I can feel him.”

  Jett took that to mean that someone outside was using a psi power.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” the sailor said.

  Jett motioned Peters to keep the sailor quiet.

  The hatch slammed shut. With the ringing still in their ears, the hatch opened and slammed again and again. The sound was deafening. Ralph put his hands over his ears as the door continued to pound. Suddenly it stopped; the hatch was open. Outside, the corridor began to glow, quickly growing brighter than day. Soon it was too bright for their eyes.