Ship of the Damned

by James F. David

  Pushing with his feet, Jett tried to help, but his legs were still weak and his efforts only made the rescuers’ job harder. One of the life rafts lashed to a gun turret had burned and was smoldering. Through the smoke he saw movement and the long black hair of Cobb. The stream of metal fragments was sporadic and then stopped. The sailors pulling them dropped into a crouch, trying to hurry and knowing that they had lost their cover. Jett felt doubly exposed. He was physically weak, and his body was between the enemy and the sailors trying to rescue him. Then a Crazy leaned out of a hatch and held up a gloved fist full of bits of metal—they were about to get strafed. Warning shouts came from Kellum’s people, but there was no cover here, and the sailors were dragging them as fast as they could. Jett knew that if the situation were reversed, he would drop his man and sprint to safety; he was thankful the men trying to save him had higher M-scores than he did.

  They were moving too slowly to make it to cover, so Jett raised his numb arm until he could see his gun. Concentrating on his index finger, he told it to squeeze. His whole arm shook as his short-circuited efferent network carried the signal from his brain to his hand and then to his finger. The first of the metal fragments whistled past his head just as his finger twitched and pulled the trigger—the gun fired with a “sput” sound.

  His shot was wild, striking ten feet past the Special holding the metal fragments, but still he ducked. Jett’s second shot was five feet closer, but low, coming off the deck with a whine, the bullet coming apart in tiny fragments. Muscle control was returning rapidly now, and Jett fired a round into the smoke from the burning life raft, trying to keep Cobb out of the fight.

  “Here comes Rust,” one of Kellum’s people shouted.

  Jett knew what Rust could do—he was a fire thrower. Rust was farther down the deck, dressed in a brown polyester leisure suit. With a neatly trimmed Elizabethan beard and rows of new hair plugs, he looked like a man obsessed with his own appearance. He was staring at Jett.

  Jett willed his sluggish muscles to realign. Then, as if it had been conjured from hell, a fireball streaked toward them. Warnings were shouted; the sailors dropped Jett and lay down flat on the deck. Jett felt the heat as the fireball passed overhead. He had enough control to sit up now, and he came up firing, Rust ducking for cover. Then the hands were on him again and he was being pulled as he fired wildly. A few steps later many hands pulled him to safety, dropping him next to Ralph and Dr. Kellum.

  “I don’t feel so good,” Ralph said.

  “Yeah,” Jett said.

  Sailors helped Dr. Kellum to his feet. Hands took hold of Jett once again, helping him to stand up. Ralph was walking with only a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

  Dr. Kellum’s people were pulling out in waves. Two Specials hung back, providing cover with fireballs and metal fragments. Now they raced through compartments and between decks, working the combinations to new moments of time. The hangar, boiler rooms, chart room, and crew berths flew by in a blur; then they were on the deck and climbing to the conning tower and through the pilot house into the bowels of the ship again. On a pass through the chart room, Jett tripped, catching himself on a chart table. As he got up he saw that he had tripped over the shoulder of an ensign, most of whose body was buried in the deck and the base of the chart table. Ralph helped Jett to his feet.

  “Do you still gots that tingly feeling, Nate?”

  “Leave me alone,” Jett snapped.

  “You’re crabby, aren’t you, Nate? I can tell, but I don’t mind.”

  Jett kept quiet so that he wouldn’t trigger more verbal dribble from Ralph. Now there were more shouts from behind.

  “Those people are mad at us, aren’t they, Nate?”

  “Yes. Keep moving.”

  A short distance later they joined another group of Dr. Kellum’s people. The old black woman was in this group, and spoke to Dr. Kellum, who then turned to Jett.

  “The Crazies attacked your friends,” Dr. Kellum said. “My people had to pull out.”

  Jett’s mind went to work on scenarios for completing his mission without them, and for escape. He was relieved that he hadn’t left Ralph behind.

  “My people saved the map,” Dr. Kellum said as they started moving again. “We can use it to get us to levels McNab doesn’t know about.”

  Suddenly those in front stopped, crouching, and like railroad cars backing up behind a braking engine, those behind stopped abruptly. Ralph stood dumbly until Jett pulled him down. When all of them were still, they could hear sounds of battle behind, but also sounds coming from in front. They were trapped.

  Jett waited for Dr. Kellum to issue orders, but none came. Kellum was a benevolent dictator to his people, a brilliant man, an inventor, and Solomon-like in his judgment of disputes. But he was not a general. Precious seconds passed. Taking charge, Jett ordered those in front and behind to get into the compartments on either side of the corridor. They were crew berths, slung with hammocks. Jett remembered from the schematics he had studied that most of the crew berths were located toward the stern of the ship. The hatches of the berths were closed; Jett left his cracked so he could see down the corridor.

  A minute passed. Then he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Jett preferred to let the Crazies pass, but some of Kellum’s Specials could feel the minds around them. If there was one of those who could feel minds among the approaching Crazies, Jett would spring the ambush.

  A man came into view, dressed in Navy denims. It was Dawson. Right behind him in their silver suits were Compton and Peters. Suddenly Jett had an emotional surge—he was happy to see his team. When he pulled the door open, Compton reacted, her gun coming up and sputtering three times, but missing Jett’s head by inches.

  “Hold your fire!” Jett shouted, waving his silver-coated arm out the door.

  Compton was smiling when he stepped out.

  “Hi Karla, hi Jim,” Ralph said, coming out behind Jett.

  “Ralph!” Dawson suddenly shouted, trying to push through to Ralph.

  The corridor was filling with Kellum’s people, a strange mix of sailors and civilians from different eras.

  “Ralph, it’s me, Elizabeth!” Dawson shouted.

  Ralph just smiled and waved. Compton pushed through the crowd, coming to stand by Jett and Dawson.

  “He started doing this after you left,” Compton said. “He says his name is Elizabeth.”

  “It may be,” Kellum said.

  Dr. Kellum studied Dawson through his thick glasses.

  “Some of my people are telepathic. Dawson is the most powerful, and sometimes he links with people on the outside.”

  Jett had seen so many bizarre abilities in his years with the OSP, he considered anything possible.

  “Who are you?” Jett asked Dawson.

  Dawson looked past him toward Ralph.

  “Ralph, I need to talk with you,” Dawson shouted.

  Jett reached out and grabbed Dawson’s shirt in both fists, slamming him against the bulkhead, getting his attention.

  “I said, who are you?”

  “I’m Elizabeth Foxworth, and I’m a social worker.”

  Ralph was coming now in response to Dawson’s call, but he stopped to talk with another man, and then a woman, shaking their hands and going through his introduction routine.

  “A social worker?” Jett probed.

  Jett sifted through his memory, searching what he knew about Ralph. The reports about Ralph’s special ability spoke of an Elizabeth Foxworth who had been assigned to Dr. Martin’s mind melding experiments. If Dr. Martin had found a way to communicate through Dawson, Dawson was a link to the outside world.

  “Elizabeth Foxworth?” Jett said.

  “Yes,” Dawson said, surprised. “I need to talk with Ralph.”

  Ralph started forward again at the sound of his name. Jett kept Dawson pressed against the bulkhead, wondering how to use the connection to the outside.

  “Why do you want to speak to Ralph?” Jett asked.


  Dawson ignored him and tilted his head to talk to Ralph, who was close now.

  “Ralph, I have a message from Elizabeth and Wes,” Dawson said. “You need to go home, now.”

  “I thought you were Elizabeth,” Jett said.

  “I’m both. Ralph won’t understand if I tell him the truth.”

  “Understand what?” Ralph said.

  Jett released Dawson, letting him speak to Ralph.

  “You’ve been gone too long and everyone’s worried. Dr. Birnbaum doesn’t know where you are.”

  Ralph looked concerned and leaned back, arms folded on his chest, lips puckered and protruding. Then, after a long think, he turned to Jett.

  “Nate, I gots to go home now. I don’t like to make people worry.”

  Jett knew that if Ralph could find an exit, he could use it to extract his team. Even though a part of him wanted to face off with McNab and deal with the threat from the Nimitz’s nuclear weapons, he couldn’t pass up this chance.

  “I understand, Ralph,” Jett said. “When you gotta go …”

  Ralph joined him and they said together “ … you gotta go.”

  Ralph grinned from ear to ear, but his mouth quickly returned to a concerned pucker when there were more shouts from the end of the corridor. The bulkhead at the end of the corridor began to glow; Jett could feel the heat from thirty feet away. Those closest backed away. Men with crossbows moved closer, fitting bolts to their weapons, aiming them as you would a rifle. The bulkhead melted, rivulets of liquid metal running onto the deck, sizzling and smoking. Soon there was a hole which spewed crossbow bolts. The two men in front spun from the impact of the shafts, looking like human pincushions. They fell dead where they lay, and the panic was on.

  “Compton, you take the point. Peters, cover the rear,” Jett ordered.

  Peters pushed through the surging crowd like a salmon swimming upstream. As Compton turned, Jett realized that Evans was missing.

  “Where’s Evans?” he shouted above the growing din.

  “Either dead or killing Specials,” Compton said.

  Jett had never trusted Evans, but they could have used his ability and his weapon. Reaching for Ralph, Jett pushed him forward.

  “Lead us to the door, Ralph. The door you told me about, remember?”

  “Sure, Nate, I know.”

  “Good. Take us there.”

  Jett noticed that Dawson had Ralph’s arm and was pulling him along too.

  “Remember you promised to go home, Ralph,” Dawson shouted.

  “Sure, sure, I remember,” Ralph said, leading the party past the last crew berth and past the magazines for the stern eight-inch battery.

  “Remember to go home,” Dawson said again.

  Then Dawson released Ralph’s arm, letting him move ahead at his own speed. Jett heard Dawson say, “Wes, bring us out.”

  Suddenly they were sprayed with metal pieces, one burying in Dawson’s leg. Dawson fell, and the panicked crowd behind pressed past. Jett helped Dawson to one side, letting Kellum’s people pass.

  “We’ve got to keep moving,” Jett said to Dawson.

  “The integration is dissolving,” Dawson said, eyes glassy.

  Peters and the rear guard backed toward them. One of Kellum’s psychokinetics sprayed a handful of metal shards. Jett noticed that the man’s nose was bleeding.

  The Crazies were at the other end of the corridor, dashing from one crew-berth hatch to another, working forward. They were even wilder looking than Kellum’s people, being two rungs lower on the civilization scale. Most had facial tattoos, and many had crosses dangling from their necks or painted on their clothes. Their ears were pierced and they wore dangling copper earrings, many of them crosses hammered out of copper shell casings. They were a ragged bunch, and more reckless than Kellum’s people.

  When one of the Crazies sprinted for a hatchway, Jett picked him off, realizing as the man fell that he wasn’t tattooed and he wore a purple jersey. Jett knew the Nimitz flight deck crew wore colored jerseys so that they could be easily distinguished from flight control in the ship’s tower. Crew in purple jerseys were called “Grapes,” and were responsible for fueling the planes. Jett spotted another man in a green jersey—he would have been on the catapult or arresting wire crews. This was the first concrete evidence Jett had that the Nimitz was indeed in Pot of Gold.

  “We’re going home now, Anita,” Dawson said, looking to the side as if he was seeing someone.

  Jett pulled Dawson to his feet. The man was confused, his face blank.

  “Let’s go,” Jett ordered.

  “What’s going on?” Dawson said suddenly.

  “Are you Elizabeth, or Dawson?” Jett asked.

  “Dawson.”

  Supporting Dawson with one arm, Jett fired with the other as they backed down the corridor, fighting with the rear guard. The connection with Elizabeth Foxworth had been broken; Jett’s link with the outside world was gone. If Ralph didn’t find a way out, Jett would need Dawson to connect again. Dawson was limping, blood spreading down his leg. Jett let him move ahead, then dropped back, helping Peters pick off Crazies.

  EVANS

  Evans was hiding in a powder magazine. The heavily armored room was packed with shells for the six- and eight-inch guns, and ammunition for the forty-millimeter and twenty-millimeter guns. Evans had fought the Crazies using his gun and his power. There had been too many for him, and he had been forced back, retreating slowly, leaving dead bodies and wounded men behind. He knew Compton thought he was suicidal, but he wasn’t. A man can’t die twice, and he had died years ago when the Specials had burned away any chance he had of a normal life. Only fantasies of revenge had kept him alive.

  The red-hot fragment that pierced his suit had cauterized the wound, stopping the bleeding. It would scar, and Evans laughed at the thought. It must have been a ricochet—otherwise the fragment would have penetrated all the way to his lung. Instead, he dug the fragment from his chest. There was a wound on his neck, too, but the thick scar tissue absorbed the fragment. They had taken their best shot at him and he had survived, taking out four or five Specials. He could kill them a few at a time, but eventually they would get him. If Jett and Compton had stayed on task, he would have had allies, and the decks of the ship would be running with the blood of the Specials.

  Something was wrong with Jett. He had a reputation as a ruthless agent, but the Jett he had seen on this mission would never have been retained by the agency. Evans couldn’t count on Jett—he had a thing for the moron, Ralph. He had gone off with Ralph and was likely dead. If the Specials were going to die, he was going to have to do the killing, and the best way to do that was to destroy the generators.

  Standing, Evans noticed that his chest ached, but less than when he first hid in the magazine. He was healing at abnormal speed, since the efficiency of his body’s repair mechanisms was facilitated in Pot of Gold. Evans had no sense of which way to go, knowing only that the generators had been installed in one of Norfolk’s boiler rooms. He trudged up and down corridors, working his way to the lowest decks, checking the boiler rooms and finding them empty, then working higher into the ship, trying to find his way to what the captured sailor called “level one.” On his fifth trip through the ship he heard sounds.

  Cautious, Evans waited, listening, trying to identify the sound. After a minute his mind matched it with his past experience. It was a hacksaw cutting through metal. Evans advanced slowly along the corridor. The sound came from a compartment near where he had battled the Crazies. He paused by the hatch, his back to the bulkhead, and listened.

  The “stroop, stroop, stroop” sound of the saw stopped and there was the dull clink of a small piece of metal. He waited until the saw began again, then peeked into the compartment. There were two men inside. One wore the overalls of a farmer, his shoes still caked with dirt from the patch of ground he had worked. The other was a seaman dressed in work denims, white sailor cap on his head. The farmer was sawing through a pipe
locked in a pipe vise. The sailor stood next to him, holding the pipe unnecessarily. There was a bucket below, and after a dozen strokes a piece of the pipe fell into it. Evans waited until the farmer started another cut before he stepped into the room.

  Evans didn’t know if they were Crazies, and he didn’t care. It was more important to know if they were Specials. He doubted it. If they had significant talent they wouldn’t be given menial jobs.

  “Don’t move,” Evans said, menacing them with the gun.

  The farmer turned to face him, his chin covered with a day’s growth of beard. His face had the weathered look of a man who spent sixteen hours a day outside. He stared with dull eyes—no spark, no anger, no fear. The sailor’s eyes were bright with intelligence.

  “You got no business here,” the farmer said, taking a step toward Evans.

  Evans aimed for the farmer’s foot, but the shot caught him in the ankle and he went down with a yelp, both hands reaching for his wound. The sailor’s eyes never left Evans, who now wondered if he’d shot the wrong man. The sailor had nerve; he kept his head the way an agent would.

  The farmer was moaning, but both Evans and the sailor ignored him, eyes locked.

  “You’re going to lead me to the generators,” Evans said.

  The sailor shook his head no.

  “Turn around,” Evans ordered.

  Slowly the sailor turned, facing the workbench. There were tools and pieces of pipe on the bench, so Evans ordered the sailor to put his hands behind his head, fingers laced. Then he went to the pipe vise next to the moaning farmer. The pipe was held by a chain that looped it. The chain could be tightened with a ratchet until the pipe was held tight. Evans released the catch and loosened the chain, sliding the pipe out. It was a length about three feet long, one end cut at an angle where they had been working. The bucket was a quarter full of one-inch slivers of pipe.

  “Put your arm in!” Evans ordered the farmer, pointing at the loop of chain.