The other ship roared and began to move. Heinrich, who had been planted belly-first on the deck, jumped to his feet. “The ropes!” he yelled. “Throw the hooks out!”
He made to run but slipped on the blood next to Burke. The cook howled, still clutching at his guts.
“The gun!” Seiler yelled. “They are aiming it!”
Harald squinted through the smoke and saw a man climbing towards the Schwarzlose. He fired his pistol but heard only an empty click. He was out.
The ship lay in the grip of pandemonium. Men rushed in front of him, grabbing the wounded and putting out a fire by the mast. Heinrich regained his footing and busied himself tossing the hooks over the sides. Harald swiveled his head to search for a weapon, his eyes settling on the giant harpoon cannon at the bow.
Across the water, the man on the Schwarzlose pulled back the firing rod, and even through the chaos, Harald heard the clacking sound as it slid into place. Without thinking, he sprinted to the bow of The Adalgisa and dove behind the harpoon gun. Could it be loaded? Of course not; what kind of madman kept his harpoon loaded when he was not hunting? But it was loaded, the end of the giant hook poking straight out of the barrel. Harald aimed the weapon, pointing it straight to the white of his enemy's eyes.
When he pulled the trigger, the harpoon exploded from the barrel, finding its mark like a lightning bolt from the heavens. Harald blinked, and suddenly, the man behind the machine gun was no longer there. The man was pinned to the side of his own ship, the huge rod impaling him through the ribs. For a moment, Harald could do nothing but stare, his mouth agape. Then, he found himself grinning; the pirates were fleeing, their gunner dead. He looked back to the others to ask if they needed help, but he couldn't. He couldn't get the goddamned grin off his face.
“The rope!”
The captain was running towards him, his hand outstretched.
“Cut the rope! Hurry!”
His victory interrupted, Harald looked down. Something moved by his feet, and then, it dawned on him: the rope was still attached to the harpoon.
“It's sinking!” Heinrich yelled. “It'll drag us down!”
The pirate vessel was dropping like a great beast, taking water from an unseen wound. Seiler's grenade had missed the machine gun, but it had done terrible work just the same.
“Heinrich, I—”
And suddenly, the captain was screaming. The rope spun halfway around the mast and pinned his left arm between it and the wood. Until he had heard it, Harald would have never imagined a man like Heinrich would be capable of screaming. But here it was, like an animal crushed beneath a street car.
The lieutenant grabbed at the rope and felt the immense strength under it. He looked towards the crew, but they were struck dumb.
“What do I do?” he shouted.
“Cut… the… rope!” Heinrich cried, grunting each syllable through clenched teeth. “Cut it!”
Harald remembered the ax. The large red ax tucked under the rail, mounted to the spot for this exact purpose. He grinned madly. The night was his, and nothing could stop him. It was his.
As he turned and found the mounting hooks, however, the smile disappeared quite naturally from his face. The ax was gone.
Chapter 9: Carrion
1
Gideon awoke in darkness, the reports of gunfire fading from the edge of his senses. Gunshots. Gunshots meant people.
It took him a moment to remember where he was. The kitchen. He was still trapped in the kitchen. His hands traced along the side of his head and felt the lump, the spot where he had been hit with the rifle butt the day before. It still hurt like hell. Frantically, he got up and brushed himself off. He could hear voices now, people somewhere in the barracks. Or at least, what sounded like people.
He found a piece of dry cloth and ripped it in half, then tied the remainder around his head. It didn't look pretty, but he was well beyond the point of looking pretty. He could smell himself in the enclosed space, his clothes now… what? A week old? He counted the days off on his fingers and thought that was about right. He wondered what would happen when the Argentinian rescue unit was reported missing. Someone else would come. Eventually, the crazy Argentinians would be put down. And what then? They'd leave. They'd all leave, even him. The Carrion would make its way back to civilization, and it would spread. It would find that the world beyond the sea was vast indeed.
The sad thing was, he couldn't remember what life had been like outside these walls. He didn't have a wife, didn't have any pets, didn't have a three-story mansion in the suburbs. What he had was a string of experiences, the between, as he thought of it. The vacations, the club life, the girls, and the money… the privileges of being a well-paid specialist with no ties. But his real life was here. Now, his friends were dead. His coworkers were dead. His work — weeks worth of crude analysis and data planning — so much dust in the wind.
He clapped his hands to his head and rocked back forth, waiting for the door to burst open, waiting for gunfire to come blasting into the room and make the decision for him. That, at least, would be quick. It would be quicker than letting his wound fester, letting the stuff seep into it until he was driven mad like the rest. But he found he couldn't sit still. He went to the door and tried it. Still jammed. Looking sideways, he caught sight of himself in a mirror over one of the freezer units. His cheeks were sunken, but maybe the bandage on his head didn't look so bad after all.
“You're still you,” he said to his reflection. “You're still you, and you're still gorgeous, baby.” He smiled his winning smile, the one that had charmed so many young Rio girls out of their panties. All his teeth were still in his head, perfect and white.
No… he was getting distracted. A way out, that's what he needed.
Moving to the cabinets, he began to rummage for matches. He was about to give up when he spied something small and red in one corner. He grabbed it, slapping it like an ape until he found the power switch. The beam flickered to life, the batteries still good. “Yay and verily, the gods do smile upon this mortal.” Stop it, he thought. You're losing it. You're going nuts. He spied himself in the mirror again. “Bonkers!” he declared. “Off your rocker. Completely bat-shit. Totally Section Eight, Leonard!” He tittered, the sound coming from somewhere deep he couldn't control.
Dropping to his stomach, he shined the flashlight underneath the door, spying what looked like four thin columns. At first, he couldn't figure out what it meant, but then, he made the connection: it was a chair. Someone had placed a chair on the other side to block the door. If he had been asked a week ago, he would have thought that trick only worked in the movies, but he guessed now, that would have made him look like a horse's ass. It was blocking him in here as tight as a lock and key.
But maybe not that tight.
He went to the huge row of sinks, thankful he had ended up in a kitchen and not in a bedroom or bathroom. The kitchen was quite large, as it was on most of the newer rigs. It had a walk-in pantry, dishwashers, rows of sinks, shelves of plates… and utensils. Yes, utensils. He spied several massive cutting boards, and above them, a line of butcher's knives. He grabbed the largest handle and unsheathed an instrument fit to remove the head of a pig. Holding it made him wonder if he could bring himself to stick into one of the men who had put him here. He thought so, but he didn't know. Gideon had been in exactly one fight in his entire life, when he was ten, and he had lost. Little Jimmy Taggert had beaten the crap out of him in front of God and everyone, and he'd never had occasion to tangle since. Even so, he was smart, and he had managed to stay alive. Smart guys always won in the long run, didn't they? Shit, his take-home was twice what the drillers made, three times what the roughnecks pulled, and he wasn't afraid to tell anyone who would listen.