Evil Eye

by Michael Slade

  As if reading his mind, the Black opened fire. Two shots whined by both Zinc's ears, stereo whistles, one a second delayed. The next shot blew splinters from the paddle blade, almost wrenching the oar from his hands. Around the island bow a screen of reeds knifed from the water, so Zinc cut close to the bulge for cover. Beyond the curve the back channel deepened into a pool, before narrowing where the forks joined at the island's tail. Standing resolute against the blue sky, feathered palms to the right backed the glassy depths.

  The White poled around the island into the narrows ahead.

  The Black behind fired shots through the screen of reeds.

  Beach on the island and Zinc was trapped.

  Cornered, he paddled right to traverse the pool, a spread of open water where the guns could pick him off, knowing the odds were slim he'd make it to the far side without taking lead, then . . .

  I'm dead, he thought, oaring in reverse.

  Directly ahead, the glass of the pool rippled and broke, two nostrils and a pair of ears rising from the depths like a sub's periscope. Both ears began to flutter,

  a sign of trouble indeed, then a fierce whooosh of breath expelled from the nostrils, water swirling about the cavernous yawn that bellowed at Zinc, a gaping pink maw with jutting ivory teeth, before the pool erupted with balloonlike girth, and the angry larded gray hippo attacked.

  TITANIC

  Georgia Strait

  Gill Macbeth was below deck fetching Gravol from her cabin when the ship hit. The force of the collision threw her across the stateroom where she struck her head. Blood oozing down her temple, she passed out between the beds flanking the porthole.

  Of all navigation hazards in Georgia Strait, none sinks more ships than Neptune's Trident. The West Coast of British Columbia is nature's most rugged: thousands of islands, inlets, straits, sounds, capes, and hull-tearing reefs along hundreds of miles. Submerged midchannel in Georgia Strait, Neptune's Trident has three rocky tines around which the sea glows with eerie phosphorescence. Sailors say this glow's the ghosts of all the lives claimed, and charts warn captains to give the Trident a wide berth.

  Rudder jammed at twenty knots from Tarr exploding, the bow of the Good Luck City swung two points (twenty-two degrees) to starboard. The ship sheered the savage sea with misguided momentum, veering uncontrollably toward the barbed tines. Faced with such an obstacle, a vessel should present her stem, not her broadside. Unfortunately Tarr not the captain set this course, so underwater a spear of rock jabbed the hull behind the reinforced collision bulkhead of the bow, gouging, then piercing, then crumpling the weaker broadside plates like tin foil. In ten seconds, the jagged spar ripped a 300-foot gash along the belly, crunching it

  like chains being jangled down the side, peeling the starboard open with a tortured squeal, gutting that flank before it disappeared astern.

  No need to sound the ship.

  Nothing could save her soul.

  Already listing, the wounded Good Luck City was going down.

  Nick was in the men's room when the ship hit. The force of the collision hurled him from the sink. Those at the urinals spun like whirling sprinklers spraying a summer lawn. Cubicles popped to eject the bewildered with pants around their ankles. Heavy vibrations shook the boat: the grating of a giant steel knife against a grindstone.

  Amidships, down below, the engine room made water fast from the tear in the hull. Foaming green sea spray exploded through the hole a few feet above the floor plates where the starboard flank was sheared the full length of the room. Spewing in as geysers to hiss like serpents, it splashed the hot machinery and turned to steam, while ruptured pipes and exhaust ducts filled the cavern with oil and poisonous black fumes. Big-jointed connecting rods jerking like skeletal limbs, colossal pumping engines throbbed menacingly. Insistent alarm bells rang above watertight doors that closed in a futile attempt at sea containment. The fore-and-aft transverse bulkheads were torn where the breach extended into the abutting compartments. Rushing or seeping, attacking or exploring, water invaded the forepeak and water besieged the stern. Lights flashed as sparks flew and oil spills ignited jooml fooml foom! In a desperate attempt to reach escape ladders, terrified men waded waist-deep through the fiery lake churning around the power plant. Burning engineers wailed like wicker men, until the ocean claimed the room and rose to the deck above.

  Alex Hunt was thrown from her chair when the ship hit. Her good ankle sprained. The ashtray on the table crashed to the deck and smashed. Those who were dancing sprawled left and right. Masked by the band playing "In the Mood," Tarr exploding was a muffled whuuu-ump! from the stern, raising eyebrows but not concern. Veering to starboard was common enough, and hardly noticed in the rough sea. But like the din of a thousand

  men hammering on sheet iron, the shriek of steel against rock booming in from outside as sparks shot skyward like fireworks, and the clatter within akin to trash cans rolling down stairs seized attention. Instruments tumbling, the band was replaced by the cymbal crash of trays, pots, pans, plates, knives, forks, and glasses. Service doors from the kitchen swung open to belch a cacophony of toppling cauldrons and boilers, then the high-pitched scream of a chef scalded by slop from the Mounties' traditional steamed pudding. Portholes and windows vomited glass. Every nail and rivet squeaked from strain. Chandeliers overhead swung like hypnotists' watches. Tables overturned, breaking bones. The buffalo head fell from the wall to gore Chan's back. Brit's spaghetti straps snapped, freeing her breasts. The ballroom smell of tobacco smoke, whisky, leather, and salt air was overpowered by the sour sweat of fear.

  The Mad Dog was almost tossed overboard when the ship hit. Only powerful muscles kept him clinging to the rail. Pandemonium was rife when he forced his way back into the ballroom, swimming against the human tide wanting out. The Force was trained for military order. but not its dates.

  Bare-breasted Brit had looped her arm about Hunt's waist, supporting crippled Alex as her other hand held the ripped bodice to her bountiful chest. A scene off the cover of a cheap romance, the Mad Dog tore the Red Serge from his beefcake torso and gallantly draped it over Brit's shoulders to hide her modesty. If they survived, it would be an earthshaking fuck.

  "Where's Gill?" Nick asked, grabbing Hunt's arm. He'd searched in vain for her since leaving the men's room. Worry etched his face.

  "Down below!" Alex said, realization dawning. "She felt queasy and went for Gravol in her cabin."

  "Christ!" cursed Nick. "That's two decks down."

  As he angled upslope toward the amidships stairs, the list of the ship chaotically tumbled a set of drums with cymbals clanging across the room. A table had tipped onto the head of a steward thrown to the floor, who thrashed convulsively, then was still. The ballroom was a shambles, debris an obstacle course: smashed bottles, lumps of food, guttering candles, broken chairs, aban-

  doned handbags, dropped cigars. Dangling from a wire, a chandelier tore loose, crashing to scatter prisms like sledgehammered ice. "We're going down! Going down!" freaked a woman whose panicked face was pale as a death mask. Nick descended the stairs as she was slapped to shut her up.

  "Ed," DeClercq shouted, collaring the Mad Dog. "We may have trouble with the port-side boats. Take charge starboard and see that order's maintained. Any problem, do what's necessary."

  There was panic when the Titanic sank. Same with the Lusitania and Andrea Doria. Every saga of sinking has more tales of feet in faces than of heroics. Ideally, the line would hold, but Mounted recruits are now college grads who fill out too many forms. Only a few will ever draw their guns. The test of backbone is to stare death in the face. Allocating lifeboats was too important for ordeal by water. Caution urged DeClercq to police the police. Rank is for peacetime. Muscle quells panic. Unleashed, the Mad Dog yanked Brit and Alex toward the door.

  "Ahhh!" Hunt cried, leg buckling beneath her.

  "What's wrong?" Ed snapped.

  "I hurt my good ankle."

  "Then hang on," he growled, heaving Alex over hi
s broad shoulder like a sailor's duffel bag. "Guard her cast, Brit."

  The horned bison head was a mammoth trophy dating from the days of the North-West Mounted Police. That it had gored Chan's lung was ironic indeed. Comforted by Sally as Corrine bandaged him, slashing the tablecloth with a knife for dressings, Eric wheezed shallowly as blood bubbled in his chest. Man and ship were metaphors for each other.

  "Kathy," called DeClercq, summoning Spann as he assumed command. "Find a stretcher, or make one, and carry him outside."

  The ship was heeling quickly—no less than twenty degrees—by the time DeClercq clambered up to the port-side doors. The peril was as he foresaw. Suspended from davits and lowered by winches, lifeboats operate with gravity. Standard procedure is winch the boats to deck level so castaways can board before sending them down

  to the sea. Here the ship's tilt made that impossible. The severe cant angled the davits up, wedging the boats in over the deck. Cranking the winches wouldn't slide them down, and manpower was too weak to shoulder them uphill. Did the starboard boats have enough room for everyone aboard?

  DeClercq traversed the ship to find the reverse of the problem. Here the boats swung too far out from the deck, with manpower too weak to reel them in with ropes so castaways could board. First the boats had to be lowered to the sea, then passengers had to descend by ropes or ladders, and cross a watery gap to reach the further-out boats. And no, there wasn't enough room for everyone aboard.

  Far below, whitecaps slapped the rent hull, undercurrents surging in through the submerged gash. As the weight of floodwaters filled her bowels, the Good Luck City listed more with every wave . . . twenty-two . . . twenty-three . . . twenty-four degrees. Bustling about the davits, crewmen launched the lifeboats with canvas tarpaulins in place so the heaving sea wouldn't swamp the unmanned shells. The Mad Dog kept the crowd back from the rail, enforcing the no-man's-land with his raised fist. Blood on his knuckles showed he had decked a queue-jumper or two. Some of the davit pulleys were sticky with fresh paint, so those boats went down jerkily, first the bow, then the stern. Cranks turning and ropes creaking from strain, one by one the lifeboats were lowered away, the last about to pass below deck.

  Suddenly the ship's whistle let out a shriek, then shrieked and shrieked and shrieked and shrieked, shredding human nerves. Lights still on meant the generator room was watertight, but somewhere the sea was cross-circuiting wires.

  High overhead, red flares sizzled.

  As suddenly as the whistle, a civilian snapped. He broke from the crowd and dashed screaming for the rail. Scaling it, black tux against black horizon, he tried to swan dive across to the last boat, hands clawing the canvas-covered gunnel before he plunged to the waiting sea.

  DeClercq joined the Mad Dog, backing muscle with rank. "Members of the ERT team, step forward," he

  said. "One to a rope, rappel down and prepare the boats. Any trouble loading, do what's necessary."

  With not enough boats to save everyone aboard, it fell to DeClercq as Acting CO to choose who lived and who died.

  He would face death.

  That he knew.

  He'd made the first choice.

  Crewmen threw ropes, ladders, and inflated rubber rafts over the side. Others fetched the protective net that covered the swimming pool, lashing it to the starboard rail to form a descending web. It fell short of the ocean, but closed the leaping distance.

  Twenty-five . . . twenty-six degrees . . .

  For most women, staying in place on the upslant of the deck was a herculean task. As they kicked off high heels, nylons slipped on oil slicks. Those gowned in silk and satin slid if they sat down. First Brit, then others pulled off panty hose, hiking up their skirts oblivious to what they flashed. When that didn't work, most removed their panties and tossed them aside. Only those who sat bare-bottomed defeated the tilt.

  Funny the things that pass through your mind at a time like this. In days gone by, the rule was Women and children first. Now the rule is Treat women equally. Given the choice between death or recanting what's been gained, how many avowed feminists would die for that principle?

  "Male and female civilians first," said DeClercq.

  Twenty-seven . . . twenty-eight degrees . . .

  Down human chains formed to cope with the slanted deck, an orderly stampede to the rail ensued: faces contorted, fearful, and confused. Dread filled the eyes of those without life jackets, jealousy in the looks cast at those who'd found and strapped themselves into bright orange life preservers. Wave after human wave crawled over the rail, women ripping formal gowns to free their legs, men shedding jackets, bow ties, and shoes. Spi-dermen all, down they went, as portholes rose like ascending balloons.

  Through one, Tarr's Scotch bottle rolled about.

  Through another, Gill lay unconscious between two beds.

  Without warning, the chain locker released, hurling the starboard anchor into the sea. A man on a rope above the foremost boat got caught up in the huge links that twisted around his body like an iron python, yanking him, crying for help, down into the dark depths of Davy Jones's locker. Cleaved by the anchor, the boat blew apart, tossing those scrambling aboard back into the brine.

  DeClercq peered over the rail at the chaos below. The last civilians were halfway down, burning the flesh of their palms as ropes slid awkwardly through clenched hands. Frantic swimmers thrashed the sea beneath them, struggling to reach the lifeboats tethered to the ship by snarled umbilical cords, one motionless woman tugged through the water by her hair. Wind and waves chucked the boats about as ERT team Members hauled half-drowned bodies out of the drink. A drunk descending a ladder, life jacket on backward, lost his grip and tumbled into the sea. Kept afloat by the Mae West while wailing he couldn't swim, waves propelled him into the darkness beyond the stern.

  "Members aiding the injured, help, carry, or sling them down/* said DeClercq.

  As the lifeboats filled, the ship's crew panicked. Seized by herd instinct, over they went, those behind diving past those on the ropes and net, devil take the hindmost, survival of the fittest. Lifeboats oared away to keep from being swamped.

  Twenty-nine . . . thirty degrees . . .

  Funny the things that pass through your mind at a time like this. Those left on deck all wore Red Serge. With 16,000 Members, promotion is slow. Many constables retire with that rank. After tonight, the thin red line would be much thinner. Would the consequent chances for promotion galvanize the Force?

  "We're all in the same boat. Literally." said DeClercq. "It's every Member against the sea. Uphold our tradition. Maintiens le Droit. Strong swimmers help the injured and weak. Constables first, over the rail. Then corporals and higher ranks inversed up to me. Swim 300 yards out or risk being sucked down with the ship. Okay, let's go."

  Thirty-one . . . thirty-two degrees . . .

  . . . going down! Going down!" freaked a woman whose panicked face was pale as a death mask. Nick descended the stairs as she was slapped to shut her up.

  The amidships stairs from the ballroom to the deck below faced the stern. The Chrysanthemum Deck housed a pizzeria, wine and caviar bar, patisserie, beauty center, health club, and ritzy shops. An anorexic mannequin had crashed through the window of Chic & Fancy at the foot of the stairs. Broken glass crackled under Nick's boots as he reversed direction to descend lower. Activated by the shock of hitting the spar, fire sprinklers showered the bowels of the ship. The odd angle of the list threw him off balance. Down one flight of steps he leaned forward and right; down the next back and left. Behind him someone shouted, "All up on deck, unless you want to drown."

  The lower Nick descended, the more surreal it got. Gill's stateroom was on the Willow Deck. Here damage to the infrastructure pulled walls out of line and jammed cabin doors. Nick was Conrad Veidt in The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari. Spray from the sprinklers slicked the floor. Smoke seeping from below watered his eyes. Fire alarms shrilled along the hall. Nick lost equilibrium, stumbling to the deck, and slid to the low sid
e of the corridor. Runoff from the sprinklers guttered under his knees. A metal door marked crew only burst open ahead. Gagging smoke billowed into the hall, followed by four oil, brine, and blood-soaked men. A voice trailing them beseeched, "Don't leave me!" Footsteps echoed down the hall as the fugitives climbed the amidships stairs. The tinkle of glass breaking sounded below. "No!" the voice implored. "Not my hand!" The clang! of an ax head striking metal made Nick wince. A shriek of pain howled from below. 445. 447. 449. Cabin numbers passed as he groped along the hall toward the door belching smoke above the wailing man. Boots scaled a ladder. The howl ascended. Then a bloody stump lunged from the smoke, jabbing at Nick like a hookless Captain Hook. Tourniquet cinched around his arm, the groaning wretch appeared, face and clothes sprayed with gore from his hand being chopped off. Someone behind—the ax man?—propelled him into the hall. 451. 453. 455 .

  The door to Stateroom 457 was locked, blocked, or jammed.

  Nick struggled frantically with the brass knob but it wouldn't give.

  Again and again like a battering ram, he threw his shoulder against the wood.

  The door held fast.

  The ax, he thought.

  Smoke so thick he couldn't see three feet in front of his eyes, hacking like a consumptive coughing up his lungs, Nick clawed his way back to the crew only door. Unable to breathe, he slumped to the floor and tugged off his boots, wrenching the box spurs from both heels. Then he removed his socks, soaked them in the gutter, and pulled his boots back on.

  One sock in his pocket, the other masking his nose and mouth and gripped in his teeth, Nick slid down the crew ladder hand under hand. Here above the engine room was a hell of a frightful noise, metal banging metal amid shrill shouts of steam from punctured pipes, sucking, grinding, rumbling, and the distant poom-boom of a giant war drum. His boots hit plating hot beneath their soles. Smoke-blind, he lurched his way along the slant, toe poking here and there hunting for the ax. Spasmodic shudders shook the hull. The starboard tilt increased with each convulsive heave. Ballast pumps below fought a lost battle. The sea surged in faster than they could pump it out. Brine slopped over the bulkheads yet to be breached, sloshing in like an overflowing bathtub. On hands and knees, Nick crawled along the V where the slope met the lower wall. Fingers searching instead of his toe, he touched something wedged in the crack of an almost shut watertight door. Squinting, his eyes caught the raw stump and white bones of a severed hand. By the hacked wrist lay a bloody fire ax.