The Night Boat

by Robert R. McCammon

  Kip stood motionless, feeling that chill creeping around him. Shadows flickered huge and monstrous across the walls, diminished, and leaped again.

  “When I came to Coquina in 1937,” Boniface said, “there was no constable, no officials of the law. This church was a dilapidated ruin; the Catholic priest had caught the fever and died some months before. So I set myself up as a minister; it was a logical way to gain some measure of power over the people, and to hide from my Haitian enemies. The priest hadn’t understood their voodoo beliefs, and I found it easy to gain a following. The people looked to me for guidance, to act as both their houngan and their legal guardian; the law I enforced was stern, harsh perhaps, and I punished evil by the only means I knew: an eye for an eye.

  “And then came that war. The British brought their men and their ships; they assigned a constable to look after the island. And though he was a good and fair man, like you, I was still Coquina’s real law. I had the power, and with it the responsibility. When that damned iron monster came up from the depths, when it rained fire on the island and killed those I loved, I knew I must take a hand against it.

  “I saw the bodies after they had been blown to bloody bits; the sight haunted my nightmares. The dead reached from their graves, calling me, whispering in the still darkness, until I could take no more; I had the power, the spells taught me by the zobop, the master magicians, and that power was greater than any weapon on earth.”

  Boniface was silent for a moment, staring at his wrinkled hands. “I knew the monster would return; in a drug-induced vision, through the sweat and pain, I saw the Night Boat nearing Coquina, saw a burning freighter and death floating on the sea. That terrible thing was returning, and I knew I must await it.

  “And on that night when the sky was filled with red streaks and flame, when the battle raged over the Abyss and we could see the ships circling their prey, I built a fire on the beach and began my work. I asked help from Damballah, to entrap the thing in the sea, and from Baron Samedi, to withhold his mercy. It was difficult…it took many hours, and I prayed that the thing would not escape before I was finished.

  “In a trance I could see the boat hidden there in the Abyss, in the midst of black, churning currents; I saw the sand fall over it, crushing it under. They were trapped, they would never return to hurt my people again. They would starve for air, they would decay…but their deaths would be withheld. I could see through the sand and the iron, as if my eyes were everywhere, and I saw them there…huddled together, their air slowly giving out, their lungs heaving. In my mind I saw a black, gnarled hand reach out to touch them; they trembled, as if they had been touched by the Devil. A voice reached me—soft, of velvet and steel, whether male or female I did not know—whispering: It has begun. I don’t know when I awoke from the trance, but I was sitting before a cold fire and all the British ships had gone. It had taken two days.

  “Now those things exist on the border between life and death. But I can’t hurry the process, Kip, and now they possess a power that I hadn’t foreseen. Hate—because of their agony, because we are human and they…no longer are. To them we are still the enemy, and the year is still 1942. And so you understand now why I wanted you to sink it…”

  “No…” Kip whispered. He shook his head. “No!”

  “I created them, and there is nothing any man can do.”

  “THERE HAS TO BE!” Kip said, his voice echoing throughout the church. “YOU MUST KNOW WHAT TO DO!”

  “I’ve been trying, again and again, to quicken the process toward their death, but the spell is too strong, and I don’t know what…”

  Kip grasped the man’s shirt and pulled him around. “YOU’VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING!” he said hoarsely. “For God’s sake, you’re the only one who can help us now!”

  “I…can’t,” Boniface said wearily. “But you…you might do something. Oui, oui, you. Your uncle was one of the greatest houngans in all the islands!” Boniface gripped the constable’s sleeve. “He taught you the art…you were his young apprentice…now you can help me…!”

  “NO!” Kip shook his head. “I shut it out of my mind; I’ve forgotten everything that man tried to teach me!”

  “But you must possess a power of your own,” Boniface insisted, “or he would not have chosen you as his successor! It’s inside you, if you allow it to come out, if you allow yourself to take control of it!”

  Kip pulled away and stepped back. His mind was filled with conflicting emotions. He turned toward the altar, staring at the voodoo implements there, and in a sudden burst of rage he lunged at them, kicking away the bottles and pots.

  “It’s junk, all of it!” he said tersely. “It’s goddamned junk!” He reached down for a bottle and smashed it against the far wall, splattering clear liquid; he kicked a pot that clattered away across the floor. Then he stood panting, furious, and listened to the sound of his own ragged breath. “It’s madness,” he said finally. “What do they…want with us?”

  “We have their boat,” the other man said. “And they want it back.”

  Kip looked over at him; the supplies missing from the yard—the oil, diesel fuel, cables, and rope. My God, is it possible? The timbers piled on the U-boat’s deck, as if they were being used to shore up bulkheads below. He shuddered; he could imagine the things working within the U-boat, hour after hour, never resting nor stopping. No, no; their batteries would be long dead and corroded with salt. But then he remembered the marine batteries Langstree said had been stolen. If enough power could be coaxed from them, if the diesels could be brought up even to a fraction of power…The images ate at him. If the U-boat ever reached the sea lanes between Coquina and Jamaica…

  “First they’ve tried to quench their thirsts for the fluids of life,” Boniface said. “But they have failed, and now their fury will be uncontrollable. They will try to kill as many as they can.”

  “I saw one today—dead—in a house a mile or so from the village.”

  Boniface nodded. “The air is taking its toll on them, but very slowly. Too slowly to save us.” He stared at the constable, his expression clouded and distant.

  “I will not last this night,” he whispered. “I close my eyes—like this—and I see the moment of my death fast approaching. It is taking shape now, grasping for me…” He turned his head and peered through the shutter slats. Then he garnered his strength again. “The fire is dying. They fear the flames; I’ve got to build it back.” He took a few pieces of shattered wood, opened the door, and went outside. The fire had burned down dangerously low.

  Kip was transfixed, unable to think clearly. There were Myra and Mindy…He had to get them off the island somehow, get them to safety. But what about all the others, the people who looked to him for protection? How to save their lives? How to shield them from the onrushing evil?

  Outside, Boniface bent down and threw the wood into the smoldering red and orange ashes. Build it back, he told himself. Build it huge and roaring, hot and vivid in the night! The flames began to grow back, licking at the new timbers.

  Boniface stepped away from the circle; the eye hanging on his neck flared blood scarlet, cooled to a violet, darker, darker, to a deep gray, and finally to ebony.

  And he felt the coarse, ancient hand of Death on him; it touched his neck very lightly, but it was enough to send an electric chill of warning through him. He twisted around, looking toward the jungle, and as the shadows fell upon him he knew the moment had finally come. And though he saw his fate clearly he would not give himself up to them.

  “KIP!” he shouted, his voice breaking. He turned toward the open church door.

  Before he had taken more than a step he tripped over an exposed root and fell to the ground, the glass eye shattering to bits beneath him. “KIP!” he screamed, feeling the shadows reach him.

  Boniface’s glasses had fallen off; almost blind, he crawled away from the things, his mouth trying, but unable now, to make a sound, his fingers gripping into sand and earth. And then one of them place
d a booted foot on the old man’s throat and crunched down. Boniface tried to fight back, but his strength was rapidly fading; he was choking on his own blood. The living corpses hissed all around him, illuminated by the building fire, and their claws flashed down to rend him apart.

  When Kip reached the door, he stood paralyzed with shock at what he saw. The things turned their heads toward him, the fiery caverns of their eyes seeking fresh blood.

  Kip saw the faces of Hell’s warriors, things that had crewed a boat through the dark currents of the underworld. There were five, and more coming through the jungle. The one that had crushed the reverend’s throat had a face half covered with a yellowish fungus; white tufts of hair clung to the head, and the sunken remains of its eyes burned into Kip with a searing hatred. When the thing’s tight gray lips parted in a death’s-head grin, Kip heard it hiss. A ring emblazoned with a swastika on its right hand caught the firelight.

  And then they came for Kip, their talons groping for his throat, teeth bared.

  Kip steeled himself. When they were almost upon him he raised the ax he’d taken from the corner of the church and brought it smashing down onto a grisly skull of a head.

  The thing shrieked, a high rattle of reed-dry cords, and fell backward. The others were coming for him, moving so fast he had no time to think, no time to step back, slam and bolt the door to gain a few extra minutes. He clenched his teeth, smelling their dead reek, and swung back and forth with the ax, wading into their midst as they grasped at his chest and arms and legs, tearing at his clothing and then his skin. The ones he struck down dragged themselves back to grasp at his legs; he kicked at them, staggering and almost falling. A hideous face streaked with fungus hissed at him; he chopped at it with the ax and it smashed into fragments. Something caught at his knees and he almost fell forward into their midst. He knew that if he fell he was dead.

  He fought for balance, swinging wildly, listening to their evil rattles and high, eerie moans. A claw emerged from the mass of bodies, probing for his eyes; he ducked his head, began to fight with fists, feet, elbows, and knees, kicking them back, hammering at them, crushing their skulls with the gleaming blade. One of them leaped forward, seizing him around the throat; another grasped his back and began to chew at his exposed shoulder, making hungry grunting noises. Powerful fingers caught at the ax, trying to wrench it away from him. They closed in on all sides, flinging themselves at him, trying to tear through his throat with teeth and nails. A wrench glittered in the light, coming straight at him, but he caught the shock of the blow with the ax handle and then slammed the blade into an arm socket.

  Panic choked him; there were too many. TOO MANY! he shrieked. The ones with crushed faces and broken bones would not give up, they still struggled to devour him. He fought away from the thing on his back, and another took its place, sucking at the blood that trickled from his shoulder gash. THE JEEP! he heard himself cry out. The jeep! Get to the jeep! He caught on to the side of his vehicle for support, holding his arms over his face to ward off the claws, then battering with the blade left and right. He fought away, dragging himself into the back of the jeep, feeling the things grasping at his legs to pull him into their ravenous midst. Kicking at them, wrenching his legs free, Kip watched them ring the jeep to prevent his escape, saw the terrible fury in their mad eyes.

  A thing with a remnant of a red beard started to climb up after him, but Kip brought the ax down with all his strength. The head was almost torn from the body; the mummy fell backward, yellow bone glinting in the gaping wound. More claws reached for him; the dead eyes were cunning and desperate.

  Kip backed away, his muscles throbbing, sweat streaming from his body and the blood dripping from his fingertips.

  And then his foot bumped the gas can he’d brought along.

  He slammed the ax into it, ripping it open; he lifted it, splattering gasoline over the things and throwing the rest of it into the fire just behind them.

  The explosion threw him over the front seat against the windshield. The flames roared into the sky, embers swirling in a whirlwind. Several of the things burst into flame; the fire caused a panic among the others. They fought away from each other and began to run toward the green wall of the jungle, flaking into ashes with each step. They crawled across the ground like maddened animals, screaming and moaning under the fire’s blazing touch. A few of them reached the jungle and crashed through into the foliage; the others lay where they had fallen, melting like waxwork figures.

  Kip threw himself behind the wheel and roared away from the church, feeling that in another moment he might go totally mad; his entire body shook, his heart pounded, and cold sweat dripped from every pore.

  The village lay ahead, dark and quiet, peaceful and unaware in the night.

  And a long time yet before morning.

  Twenty-one

  DAVID MOORE THREW the sodden sheet off and leaped from his bed; he was awake as soon as his feet hit the floor. He stood in the hot darkness, his mind a nightmare landscape, trying to pinpoint what it was that had filled him with terrible alarm.

  Moore opened the terrace doors and stepped out, gripping the railing. On the horizon there was a brief flash of lightning, followed by the hollow, still-distant rumbling of thunder. The ocean was churned high and white, and somewhere the storm was building. Moore stood where he was a moment longer, listening, wondering if it was the thunder that had awakened him; he went back into the room, switched on a lamp, and hurriedly dressed in a cotton shirt and jeans.

  There was an insistent knock at his door. “Who is it?” he said.

  “Jana. Let me in, please.”

  He opened the door. She came in, wearing the same clothes she’d fallen asleep in; her eyes were red-rimmed, and beneath them there were dark hollows.

  “I heard something,” she said. “I know I heard something.” She had rested for only moments at a time, and in her nightmares were things that watched her from thick shadows, licking their lips with bloated tongues.

  “Thunder,” he said quickly. “It woke me too…”

  “No!” She shook her head and moved past him to the terrace, where she peered down into the darkness. “I thought I heard a woman’s scream.”

  Lightning flashed, making Jana wince. Moore came up beside her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I think so. I don’t know. I tell you, I heard a woman’s scream!” She rubbed her arms, as if to get the circulation going.

  “The man who was here…when we came in,” Jana went on. “Who is he?”

  “His name is Schiller; he was on the U-boat when it went down.”

  “Then…he knows? About what’s happened?”

  Moore shook his head. “No, I didn’t tell him.”

  In the darkness there was a sharp, distant sound of breaking glass. Moore grasped the railing, straining to see. The next streak of lightning cast strange, long shadows across the streets of the village; there were no lights on, and nothing moved.

  “What is it?” Jana was tense beside him, her voice a taut whisper.

  “I don’t know…” Thunder boomed across the sea, but behind it Moore thought he heard the sudden splitting of timber. A light switched on, almost at the farthest fringe of the village, and he could hear someone—a man’s voice—shouting in a high, frantic pitch. A noise like a pistol shot echoed across the roofs, and there was the sound of more glass cracking; another square of yellow light appeared, nearer to them, and Moore saw a shadow dart by the window. In a blue lightning flash he thought he could make out figures in the streets, but then the darkness claimed the earth again. A coil was winding within him, tightening his muscles. He turned from the railing, went inside to the dresser drawer, and withdrew the automatic.

  “What are you going to do?” Jana asked him, framed on the terrace, the fear creeping across her face.

  “I’m going downstairs to check the doors and windows.” He put the automatic on safety and stuck it into his waistband. “I want you to stay in your room
and be sure the terrace doors are bolted.”

  “They’re coming, aren’t they?” It was more of a statement than a question, the voice cold behind it.

  “Go on.”

  “No. I’m staying with you.”

  “You’ll be safer up here.”

  “No,” she repeated, holding his eyes with her own.

  He shrugged; there was no time for argument. Moore and Jana went into the hallway and were about to descend the stairs when Moore saw a sliver of light beneath the German’s door.

  He knocked, waited, heard movement inside, knocked again. Schiller opened the door and stood bleary-eyed, his tie loosened and the top buttons of his shirt undone. A chair had been positioned before the open terrace doors, and the bed was still made. Schiller rubbed his eyes and yawned. “I fell asleep,” he said. “I was listening to the thunder.” Then he noticed the pistol at Moore’s waistband, and he was instantly alert. “What…is going on?” he asked, looking quizzically into their faces.

  Moore stalked past the man, grasping the terrace doors; he was shutting them when another streak of lightning cut the sky in half, and the thunder echoed. He saw that a few more lights had come on, a scattering of fireflies across Coquina village.

  “The gun,” the German was saying behind him. “What is it for?” He took a step toward the other man. “I don’t understand.”

  And before Moore could reply there was a crack! near Front Street, from the fishermen’s shanties. Whether it was a gunshot or the noise of glass being broken he couldn’t tell, but then there came an eerie, ragged wail, one of terrified desperation. Moore’s mouth was dry, his mind racing. The lightning flashed again and in that brief light he saw figures…the things…moving through the streets below. The scream ceased abruptly, then came a man’s voice, shouting, and a woman’s shrill and hysterical. Moore threw the bolt on the doors and, turning away, saw Schiller’s face a drawn, pale mask.