by Joseph Rubas
Deeper in the ship. Art threw open random doors, searched under beds and in closets. Dracula was nowhere.
Sighing frustratedly, Art snapped off the light in the current room and went back into the hall. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe the fiend was on his way back to the boat deck to finish off John and Dr. Van Helsing.
Another door across the hall was shut, possibly hiding an un-dead horror. Art crept to that, reared back his leg, and with all the angry might he could muster, let fly. With a snap, the door cracked down the middle, and fell inward, landing on the carpet.
The room was dark, Art fumbled for the light, and found nothing, just emptiness.
“Damn it!” he growled, and unleashed another kick on the downed debris of the door.
Back in the hall, the clink of metal-on-metal once again made itself known; it was coming from the end of the corridor, which ended at another closed door.
Maybe Dracula was behind it, trying to lure him to his death; or maybe there was a dullard making an attempt at music, not knowing that the ship was slipping into the sea from below him. Either way, it warranted further investigation.
Okay, Art thought as he slowly moved toward the end of the corridor, gripping the gun tight in his sweaty hands, here I come, son-of-a-bitch.
From outside the door, the clink was louder and more urgent. Art looked to the brass knob, but decided against using it. Breathing heavily, heart still beating a bit faster than it did on most occasions, he stepped back, brought his foot to attention, and kicked the door in all in one fluid motion. This time the door didn’t shatter, but flew back and thumped against the wall with a report as loud as that of a revolver. The room was another berth, this one with two small cots along each side of the wall. One was empty, the other supported a man in his skivvies, his hands tied behind his back, a piece of cloth tied around his mouth. His face was red as if he were in danger of choking, and his eyes flew open in surprise and fear when Art stepped into the room, gun raised, a no doubt demonic looking sneer of hatred distorting his face.
His heart leapt when he saw him. Almost franticly, he shoved the gun into his pocket and knelt beside the man, who was large and red-headed. He looked a man from afar, but up close he had the face of a boy. The boy stiffened and let out a muffled cry when Art yanked the rope bounding his hands. With his hands, wrists an angry red, free, the boy hurriedly ripped the cloth from his mouth and began greedily sucking air into his lungs.
“Who did this to you?” Art grated.
The kid rolled his head and regarded Art with watery blue eyes which seemed not to comprehend.
“Who did this to you?” Art asked more roughly this time, already knowing damn good and well who.
The kid slowly shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said in a thick Irish accent. “He was a big man, had long hair, and a mustache. He stole my uniform, ripped it right off of me.”
“What are you?” Art asked.
“A steward,” replied the boy. “I was just walking in the hall, and this guy knocks me down and drags me in here, rips my clothes off, and puts ‘em on.”
Damn, Dracula was trying to disguise himself.
“Well…get on deck, we’re going down,” Art said and stood.