by Jase Kovacs
Wait a moment.
Wait a goddamned moment!
Like a flower opening, the seed of my idea germinates and bursts into life.
I have clean diesel. Fifty litres of it - less what I used last night - on Voodoo.
Okay, admits Katie. That's the beginning of a plan. But you still don't know-
Blah blah woof woof, I cut her off. Let's check out the next one.
I turn away from the skeletonised generator and the full force of his mind hits me.
MATAI.
Snap zoom, up to the bridge. He's looking at me. I can see him, no I can't see him, I can feel him, the empty windows of the bridge looking down at me, dark holes in white face, the empty sockets of a skull, a row of eye sockets like the face of a monstrous spider and he is looking at me, his baleful gaze burning me like a sunbeam.
WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING MATAI?
The fecund grasping fingers of his will caress me, reaching under my skull and running over the top of my brain, I feel them groping me, pressing into me. I slip, stagger and go to a knee.
He's been waiting for this moment. For a moment of distraction, when he could strike.
WHY DO YOU HURT ME SO? NOTHING IS SO POISONOUS AS AN UNGRATEFUL CHILD. WHO SPITS ON YOUR GIFTS AND REPAYS LOVE WITH HATE.
My head lowered, my vision filled with the cross metal grating of the deck.
No.
I punch my thigh. Muster my strength. Push out with my will, drive him away, forcing my walls up, I punch my thigh again and stand. I weigh a thousand tonnes but still I stand. I raise my head and force myself to look up at him. Hidden behind the empty eyes on the bridge, lurking in the darkness.
That's all he is. He's nothing but a lurker. Lingering, holding on, someone who has no place in a world of light. An aberration, an abomination.
I spit on the deck of Black Harvest.
SO BE IT MATAI. I'M WAITING FOR YOU. OUR DARK STAR IS WAITING FOR YOU MATAI. YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE A SECOND TIME. IF YOU DOUBT ME, LOOK TO THE SEAS. SEE THE RUIN OF THOSE WHO THOUGHT THEY COULD DEFY ME. YOU THINK YOU WILL PREVAIL BECAUSE YOU ARE A SURVIVOR? EVERYONE IS A SURVIVOR UNTIL DEATH FINDS THEM. UNTIL THEY ACCEPT THE DARK TRUTH OF THE UNIVERSE AND COME OVER TO ME. WE ALL DIE ALONE, MATAI. I OFFERED YOU THE GREATEST GIFT IN THE WORLD: A LIFE BEYOND DEATH. BUT NO MORE.
And like someone dropping of a HF radio net, he's gone. No transmission, no voice on this frequency, just the popping and fizzing of static, crazed noise filing my skull.
Katie.
I'm here.
You felt him. You know why he came?
Yes. She is grimly confident. He came now because you thought about the diesel. About getting the generators working.
I know then. He watched, wondering what my plan was. I provoked him with my presence. Tempting him, giving him the opportunity to make a mistake. And he did. He came and tried to dominate me again and that can only mean one thing.
He is afraid.
Chapter 25
I move with fresh purpose. The tiredness of my body background noise that I can ignore, like the sad lonely moan of the trade wind, like the rush and crash of the waves striking the starboard side. The cry of seabirds circling over the wreck, coming now it is morning, now it is safe, the sun already shockingly high in the sky, three, four hands above the horizon, time slipping away from me.
I run across the lateral walkway, crossing over between the great deck hatches. Each one split along the length of the boat, panels six metres by twelve meters, opening out to the sides. Sealed with great locks. Hinges with pins as thick as my wrist.
Forcing the issue through my mind as I go. I can't be coy about this. I can't refuse to consider all the issues in case the Captain can pick up my stray thoughts, like a spy bugging a radio transmitter. Screw that. I've got to give it my all, to make sure I miss nothing. As long as I stay outside he can't reach me - but that doesn't mean he won't try. And as I said, there are plenty of boltholes from where one of them could snatch me down into the dark depths. Be careful, be methodical, be sure.
So I think: Can I really do this? If I could get the generators running, if the electrical pumps can still provide hydraulic fluid to the pistons, if they hold pressure, if the cranes move, if they still work, if they can bear the load, if I can hook them up, have I even considered how heavy the cables are, how easy will they be to attach to the hatch covers? If all of this happens, could I use them to open the holds of the ship? To rob the Captain of his dark places? To limit his movement, remove his options, contain him to the rear of the ship?
Katie, as always, ready to play devil's advocate: Assuming you do this - how does this help our mission? He'll just flee to the stern. To the engine room or the bridge or his cabin and hold the boy there. You still will need to get through all the creatures to get to him.
I shake my head. Remember, they cluster where they died. Haunting their graves. Sleeping in torpor between feeds. They will be down in the holds, I know it. Sure, some, maybe twenty, thirty I guess could be hidden elsewhere in the ship. But if I do this right, then I'm going to take out the majority of them at once.
Then do it right. Say, best case scenario, you get one crane working. How long do you think it will take you to open a hold?
I don't know - fifteen minutes?
Ha. Right. Try an hour. That's one hold. What is to stop them moving out of the holds then? Or going to the holds you can't open?
I see her point. We need to isolate them.
What access points are there?
The main entry into the Hold Four with the stairs cut out, that Blong tricked me with. I remember them leaping at me as I climbed out. They can get up there.
So close it off.
Then there were two side hatches in Hold Three, port and starboard. They would be going into the an internal passageway.
Right. And you couldn't open them. Locked from the outside.
Locked or jammed. He could send down one of the outside marys, get them open.
Maybe. Put that on the to do list.
I see where this is going. We're going to have to go below decks.
I can't help shivering at the thought and she grins. You love it.
I shake my head, snort. Look over the side of the ship, forward, to where the bow rises and splits on rock. Looking here I can see - really, she's only hard aground from amidships forward. The first black rocks rise from about fifteen metres ahead of where the Malaysian fishing boat is moored. This is where the first tears in the hull are, where the first big open wounds score the side of the ship. But as I said, they open all the way, all the way down.
That's one bit of good news. The walkways down there are open - the marys can't get back and forth without exposing themselves to sunlight.
Katie is relentless. She's not letting up: And beneath the ship? They could get through there, swimming or crawling underwater or whatever they did to get across to Voodoo last night.
Okay. Stop. You're starting to overwhelm me. Too many negatives. Too many unknowns.
As always, at moments like this, we start to sound like Dad.
I know, says Katie. What's your abort criteria? If you ask me, this is when you should pull out.
I look back to the bridge. Maybe if I just charge in. Go in, guns blazing. How many marys could he pile on me? A wave attack, choking me with their bodies, until the gun goes dry and they can crawl up to me and pull me to pieces. How long could I stand in a pitched fight on their ground?
Not long indeed. I think of the third magazine I lost down in the hold, of the climbing rig fallen in a pile where Blong severed it. Of my second anchor, the CQR, cut and slipped when they climbed the chain. How much am I willing to lose for this ship? For this boy?
Not even a question worth considering.
By this stage I've reached the second crane. Looking up at it, I can tell it took some damage when the ship ran aground. It's right near a major buckling of the ship's hull. The gantry its mounted on is twisted and the crane i
tself is canted at an angle, the tower leaning dangerously aftwards. Its inspection hatch, however, is intact, undisturbed.
Hey, look at that, I say. Nothing wrong here.
Katie's getting pissed, which means I'm getting agitated. My good mood, my excitement at the crane idea ebbing away.
Don't change the subject. You still need to consider all these options.
You know the other good thing about modular design? I say. They come complete. That means not only are they a self contained unit, but they will have their tools and spares bundled up together.
Don't ignore me.
The inspection panel for the generator is secured with grubscrews inlaid with deep hex sockets. To the right is a padlocked locker. I drop my drybag, lay my rifle down carefully on the deck and open the bag to pull out my bolt cutters. Snip the padlock off the locker and open it to find a red vinyl toolbag and several plastic crates. Pull out these crates and rip the lids off and triumph floods me: the crates are filled with cardboard boxes marked GASKETS and FUEL FILTER and OIL FILTER and 3/8" FUEL LINE.
Tah-dah! Feel like doing some routine maintenance?
Don't even talk to me until you answer my questions, says Katie.
No. Not right now. This feels right. We're doing this.
Matty, I know we're doing this. But I'm asking if there is a way we can do it better.
Right now I have had enough. I'm starting to lose my temper. Getting angry at my imaginary friend. Guess that's what she's there for. A lightning rod so I don't turn on myself. But still. Not a good time. Look, Katie, we have a limited window. We have to get Blong out and then—
She has opened her mouth to shout me down but no sound comes out. We're both stilled, quietened by a new sound. A shuffle like dry papers rustling and then a scratch of something hard and chitinous across steel. I jump back when I realise it's coming from right under my feet.
Staring down, pointing the rifle down through the grid deck, the Surefire illuminating the crawl space beneath. Nothing, nothing down there, where is that noise coming from, where—
Uh, Matty.
Katie is pointing.
At the inspection hatch.
Another scratching, a dry clawing and that rustle again.
Coming from inside the generator compartment.
Behind the hatch I was about to open.
I've got the rifle pointed at the metal panel. It's not thick, the steel only two or three millimetres. Bullets could punch through it easily. And from there, into the generator which I am hoping is intact. The Surefire is still on and its dancing all over the place. I thumb it off, and work on calming myself. My hands take off shaking again, the sudden shock reminding me how tired and hurt I am. Christ, I can do this but I can't stand these manic ups and downs as the adrenaline rushes and fades.
Matty. Don't shoot. The generator.
Yeah, thanks for the advice. Shit. What do we do now?
Well. Let's see. You could write this one off.
I'm walking quickly around the gantry as she says this. A loop around the base of the crane. No other entry, no other hatches, just the ladder leading up the outside to the operator's cockpit at the top. No escape routes. How the hell did it get inside?
There must be a hatch in the bottom. Inside the crane. Leading into the ship.
Okay.
Okay, what?
Let's get the inspection hatch off.
Jesus Christ, says Katie. You know this shit affects me too? Like, when you go die, so do I.
Then give me a hand.
Katie claps, slowly.
Ha ha.
I unroll the vinyl tool kit and scan it quickly. A selection of spanners, hex keys, ratchet spanners and screw drivers, as well as some electrical tools like crimpers and butane soldering irons. The later are empty, of course, the gas bled away, but everything else gleams with a thin coat of oil. Thank god for German engineering, I mutter as I slot a hexkey gently into the grub screw. Slowly and carefully, trying not to make a sound.
There's silence in there now. I imagine the mary crouching. There is barely space in there for the generator. It must be lying on top, its legs against the far side of the compartment, coiled. Ready to spring out at me.
The first screw comes out, surprisingly easy. I murmur to Katie, You know, I always hated Jack-in-the-Boxes.
The second screw is tight. The hex key is a big one, about twelve inches long and I can put my weight on it to get things turning. I've taken out the top left one, now working on the bottom right. My plan: get out three and then try and bend it open with a prybar, keeping the lid on, so the thing inside can't just burst out at me. So, at best it can claw through the gap and give me time to react, try and get a oblique shot off so I don't damage the generator.
The second one comes free. Sweat streams off my brow, runs down my arms and soaks into Dad's gloves, into my bandages. I wipe my hands on the back of my pants before getting a length of rag from the stores locker, twisting it into a strip and wearing it as a headband.
Silence from within the locker. The third screw stuck, tight, rusted. I put weight on the key and press down and nothing. No movement, no shift. Okay. I could get a long pipe, slip it over the end, get more leverage. Give me a lever long enough etc and so forth.
Or just try the fourth screw, says Katie.
Thanks. It's stiff but it turns. Twisting it, my hands incredibly steady, my left hand turning the hexkey, my right already resting on the M4, ready to hurl myself back, to bring it up the moment there is movement, the moment the creature in there springs, bursts out to get at me, the moment–
Christ I hate Jack-in-the-Boxes. What sort of psycho came up with that? Turn the key, kid, happy music, then BAM surprise clown, what is wrong with people—
Focus, Matty.
The screw pops loose and I almost scream. I place it down carefully on the deck. The panel held in by only its last seized screw. The panel is on the shadowed side of the gantry. So, when I open it, the creature will not immediately explode in the morning sun. It will probably come out at me, and I can fall away into the sunlight and shoot it.
Okay. I slip the pry bar under the rim of the hatch. Slip it in slowly, the metal making a long scrape even as I try to be careful, Ah, fuck this, if you can't be quiet go loud, I jam it in and shove, pressing down, diving forward, it pops the hatch open as I lunge away from it and YES there is a flash of movement inside, a long snaking attack, I see a long claw lashing out at me, I jerk away and the claw rakes empty air and I fall back and align and I fire a single shot, aiming high as I come down on my back, the bullet cracking, a white shape lunging and pulling back and exploding in blood as the bullet finds its mark, exploding in blood and—
—and a drifting white snow and—
blood and feathers.
Oh.
Katie looks critically at the gannet, the large seabird I have just blown to pieces with a shot to base of its neck. The beak, which I thought was a claw, hanging limply. Well, she says. I guess I know what's for dinner.
Ahem. I stand, dusting myself off. The bird was nesting on top of the engine. The generator streaked white with guano. Well, I say, trying to gain back some dignity. I guess there are some places on the ship the marys can't reach. You have to admit. That was a good rehearsal for the real thing. And the shot was good.
Yes indeed, Matty, scourge of seagulls.
Oh shut up. I pick the dead bird up and toss it aside. My bullet passed through it and out the back of the gantry, a single hole letting in a pencil shaft of light. I didn't hit the generator, not that it matters. The machine is a rusted mess. The inside of the gantry is well illuminated and I peer up the tower. Long holes ripped in the side, where the crane leans, have been letting in birds and rain and the salt laden sea air. I look over the generator more closely. The fuelpump is a shell that crumbles when I touch it. The top end is pocked and rusted and I press my finger into a hole and feel the cams beneath and they feel knobbled and pitted with corrosion.
<
br /> Nuh. No way.
Two cranes left, says Katie. And Matty, we need those bullets. Try not to whack any more birdies.
Chapter 26
The worst of the damage is between the second and third sets of deck hatches, behind the second crane. There is a visible change in the deck's angle here, a bend in the steel, where the keel broke and the hull split. I step over the holes carefully, ready for a white hand to lunge from the dark pits. I walk carefully, slowly, slow is smooth, smooth is fast, not going to slip and fall here, forget about the marys, this is ankle breaking territory.
Two more cranes to check. Both of them behind the main damaged sections, so I'm optimistic that they won't be split and rusted open like the second. No birdies nesting, no corrosion, no rotted engines. But first, before I can check them, I've got to attend to something. Katie is right. There's no point opening these big deck hatches one by one. That'll just give him time to react, to shift his marys forward or aft, fleeing from the opening hatches as if they were running from the coming dawn.
I need to do something dramatic.
But before I do, I need to limit his options.
I need to go back below decks.
I try not to think about this as I move towards the stern. Who knows what he can pick up? How good his mental eavesdropping is. I keep repeating to myself, the cranes the cranes the cranes, god help me if the cranes don't work. Trying to jam him, trying to push out the wrong thoughts, to mislead him as to my intentions.
I reach the third crane, on the starboard side, its yellow paint sunflower vibrant in the morning sun. Gannets lining the ship's rails eye me suspiciously as I pass them, but don't move. They're not afraid of me, I'm alive, not dead, I'm not a monster, how could I be a threat. Haha, if only they knew, ask your friend in crane number two what I'm like.
The third crane's inspection hatch undisturbed. The metal is warm. I boltcut the padlock and I find the same red vinyl tool kit, crates all neat and undisturbed.