by Pat Murphy
The Clamper who had been designated the drunken sailor seemed to be in danger of drowning when Tom stepped in.
Tom was explaining politely that the jacuzzis were closed which was why the heat was turned off and the water was cold. He was explaining that it was dangerous to be on deck during a lightning storm, which is why the area had been roped off. He was helping the men out of the water, when he heard a distant chorus of drunken voices singing the tune that had started all the trouble a few nights back.
“Hey, it’s that song again,” one of the drunks said, and started to sing along. “Your dreams, my schemes, dancing through the night.” Tom stepped away from the man and radioed the bridge immediately. “Three long blasts on the horn,” he said. “Right away.”
The officer on watch started to argue. “It’s kind of late for that, Tom, isn’t it’ Passengers are sleeping.
“It’s that damn song again,” Tom said. “Who knows how long it’s been going on. Sound the horn before the bridge is overrun by drunken Clampers.”
They sounded the horn.
When the ship’s horn blasted, cutting through the Trancer tune, Susan found herself standing on Cyclops’ Lookout, surrounded by other dancers. She was being pelted by rain. Her clothes and hair were already soaked, but she wasn’t cold—dancing had kept her warm.
She pushed her hair off her forehead and looked around, wondering whether Pat and Ian had been caught by the conga line. The wind sang in the lines over her head with a high whine, just at the edge of her hearing range. The sound set her nerves on edge. Lightning flickered, illuminating the sky for an instant. Thunder rumbled and the rain fell harder.
Around her, the Clampers were shouting. “Where’s the bar?” “Hey, I think we should get out of the rain.” “Look—some lunatics are on the sundeck. I thought that was closed off.”
With a sudden feeling of dread, Susan stepped to the railing and looked down at the sundeck. In the glow of the bow lights, she could see the maze of glass windscreens. Beyond the screens, at the very bow of the ship, she saw her friend Pat, face pale, hair a brilliant blue even in the dim light. Pat’s back was to the railing, and a man stood in front of her. Susan recognized him: Weldon Merrimax.
Susan gripped the railing, staring down at the pair, terrified for her friend. “Pat!” Susan shouted, but the thunder rumbled, drowning out her voice. As she watched, Weldon stepped forward, reaching out to grab Pat.
Pat braced herself on the railing and kicked at Weldon’s groin, but he turned and Pat’s foot did not connect with its intended target. “Never kick for the balls,” said a quiet voice beside Susan. “Men protect against that. Go for the knee instead. A much better target.” Susan stared at Mary, who leaned on the railing beside her. “We have to help her,” Susan said. “We have to …” She looked down at the sundeck just in time to see Weldon strike her friend in the face with the back of his hand, knocking her to the deck. Susan gasped, lifting her hand to touch her own face in an unconscious gesture of sympathetic pain.
“Help!” she shouted, but no one heard her. She looked around, frantic to find someone who could save Pat. She and Mary were alone by the railing. She could see crowds of passengers behind her, all intent on getting out of the rain, on getting back to the bar. Clampers blocked the narrow walkways that led around Penelope’s. There was no way to reach the companionways that connected the observation deck to the sundeck.
“Help is already on the way,” Mary said quietly.
Glancing down again, Susan saw Max, stepping around one of the windscreens. The wind tousled his gray hair and inflated his tweed sports coat, puffing out the sleeves and making the coattails flap. The pounding rain splashed when it hit the deck, sending sparkling drops arcing as high as Max’s knees.
In a flash of lightning, Susan saw Max’s reflection in the windscreens around him—a dozen versions of Max, all walking forward with grim determination. On the bow ahead of him, Pat had struggled to her feet. Weldon had a grip on her shoulder and was pushing her back against the railing.
Then the lights went out.
When Tom got the call on his radio, he was at the stern of the ship on the recreation deck, dealing with the group of wet and shivering Clampers that he had extracted from the jacuzzi. Bridge staff was calling to alert Tom: three people were on the sundeck, an area that had been closed to passengers since that afternoon, when the waves were at their worst. A high wave might still wash over the deck, carrying the fools with it.
Tom said he’d be right there. He pointed the Clampers toward the elevator and headed for the sundeck. Then the situation got worse.
Something happened down in engineering—something bad. At the time, Tom didn’t know just what had happened or how or why. All he knew was that alarms were sounding all over the ship; screaming sirens and ringing alarm bells drowned out the music and laughter.
The lights went out. The emergency generators came on, and the lights flickered for a moment. Then the generators died too, and the lights died with them.
Tom snatched the flashlight from his belt and headed for the bow of the ship.
In the sudden darkness, Susan stared in the direction of the bow, helpless. The railing was cold beneath her hand, a solid object to which she could cling in a dark and uncertain world. The ship shuddered beneath her feet and she heard a hollow booming as a wave struck the side of the ship. What was happening out there?
Lightning flashed, a brilliant bolt followed by an explosion of thunder. In the flash of dazzling blue-white light, Susan saw that Weldon had turned away from Pat to face Max. Susan saw the two men only for an instant in the lightning flash, but the image lingered in her vision after the darkness returned. Max’s fists were clenched. Through fogged and rain-spattered glasses, Max glared at Weldon. He looked ridiculous, Susan thought—a short, gray-haired, pudgy man facing a thug. He looked absurdly brave, ridiculously courageous. Thunder rolled overhead, a deafening rumble.
“Max doesn’t have a chance,” Susan said. “It’s impossible. If only there were some way to help him. If only …”
“Impossible?” Mary said. “Not at all. There are always possibilities.”
Again the lightning struck—a series of bolts this time, illuminating the deck with a flickering light. Susan saw movement among the windscreens. Wolves. Sarah’s pack of wolves. Their wet fur glistened as they ran toward the bow, circling around Max to attack Weldon from both sides. In the instant before the light died, Susan saw the wolves spring toward Weldon. Weldon grabbed Pat and threw her toward the animals, stepping away so that his back was against the railing.
“Possibilities,” Mary said. “So many possibilities. All occupying the same space and time. As quick as lightning, as fleeting as a thought, as powerful as imagination.”
Susan strained her eyes in the darkness, desperate to know what was happening. She could hear the hammering of the rain on the deck around her, the crashing of the waves, the rumble of the thunder. She was cold, so cold. The rain had soaked through her clothes and she was shivering.
“There are other possibilities,” Mary was musing. “Maybe an alien abduction.”
Through the downpour, Susan saw a distant light in the sky. Not the blue-white brilliance of lightning, but a warm golden glow. Just a pinprick of light at first, like a star gleaming through the clouds.
She had imagined this, she thought. The light grew larger—to the size of a grape, the size of her fist. Still it came closer—a glowing golden saucer, spinning over the sundeck. She could hear a high pitched humming sound.
Susan could see Max now, his face bathed in the golden light of the saucer. Though he was still short and still pudgy, still wet and windblown, he did not look quite so ridiculous now. He looked like a man who knew what he was doing. He was smiling, his arms open as if to greet a friend as the saucer came in for a landing. The wolves sat at his feet, gazing up at the glowing saucer.
“Nice saucer,” Mary said.
Susan stared at the saucer
as it came down, crushing three windscreens beneath it. The glass shattered, the metal frames crumpled.
The saucer rested on the deck, still humming. For a moment, nothing happened. Susan hadn’t imagined anything more. She tried to think of how this alien invasion could help her friends.
Pat lay on the deck where Weldon had thrown her. She had lifted herself up on one elbow and was struggling to her feet. Weldon stood at the railing, just a few feet away.
“What’s next?” Mary asked.
Weldon was moving again. In the golden light, Susan saw him step toward Pat. Her friend, who had always seemed so strong, now looked small. Susan watched, frozen in horror. What was next? She didn’t know.
A wave struck the side of the ship, sending up an arc of water that washed across the deck, drenching Weldon. Pat was standing now. She wasn’t looking at Weldon anymore; she wasn’t watching the golden saucer. She was looking past Weldon, looking over his shoulder out into the darkness where the ocean waves surged.
As Weldon stepped forward, a great tentacle—as thick around as a strong man’s leg—reached over the side of the ship and wrapped itself around the railing. Then another tentacle, a great suckered rope of flesh, wound itself around the post that supported the railing. And then a third tentacle reached high over the railing and wrapped itself around Weldon’s waist.
Susan couldn’t hear Weldon over the hum of the saucer and the crash of thunder, but she saw his eyes widen in terror and his mouth open in a scream. The tentacle dragged him to the railing.
Weldon grabbed the railing. For a moment, he clung there—his great, broken hands locked around the railing in a desperate grip. Then with a mighty tug, the tentacle wrenched him free and hoisted him over the railing. He disappeared from view.
“Lovely,” Mary said, clapping her hands together. “That was a possibility that hadn’t occurred to me.”
Susan stared toward the bow. The saucer was taking off again, leaving Max and Pat, alone in the rain. “We’ve won!” she said.
“Oh, but it isn’t about winning and losing,” Mary said mildly. “It’s about possibilities.”
Susan paid no attention. “Weldon’s gone. Pat and Max are safe.” She looked toward Penelope’s. The walkways were empty now; everyone had retreated indoors. “I’ve got to get down there.” She ran for the nearest companionway, not waiting for Mary to reply.
Susan yanked the heavy metal door open. It was dark in the service companionway. She fumbled in her pocket and found her penlight. It cast its beam on the painted metal walls—just enough light to show the way. She stepped inside, letting the door swing closed behind her, muffling the pounding of the rain and the rumble of the thunder. She headed down the stairs, hurrying to join Pat and Max.
Weldon was gone, but Pat and Max had to get in out of the rain. They were cold; they were wet. Pat was hurt. She had to help them.
Susan was halfway down to the next landing when she heard another sound, the ominous scrape of metal on metal. The stairs turned just ahead, and the sound came from around the corner. She stopped where she was. She could hear her own breathing, the soft dripping of water from her clothes. Then she heard another sound, the rattle of metal claws on the stairs. Her breath caught in her throat. The monster in the dark, she thought.
She could imagine the monster quite clearly now. Its body was the Rattler’s, a construction of discarded parts imperfectly joined, flesh and metal meeting in an unnatural union. Its mind was the broken mind of a serial killer. It hunted for women who were alone and unprotected. It wanted to take her apart.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Weldon was gone. Max and Pat had beaten him. She should be safe now. This wasn’t fair.
The air stank of rotting flesh. She heard the rasp of a knife scraping against a sharpening steel; she heard harsh, irregular breathing. “Is someone there?” she called, trying to keep her voice steady. “Where do you think you’re going?” a hoarse voice whispered in the darkness. “You can’t go there.”
She gripped the metal banister. The companionway had felt warm when she stepped into it, but she was shivering now. She had to keep going. “I am going to help my friends,” she said, but her voice was weak.
“You can’t go there,” the voice in the darkness repeated. “You can’t do that.”
She heard a creaking and a rattling as the monster shifted its position. It was, she thought, on the stairs directly below her. She could not keep going down.
She thought of Pat, slumped against the railing. She thought of Max, wet and shivering in the rain. She had to help them. “I am going to help my friends,” she repeated. Her voice was stronger.
“You can’t go,” said the monster. “Bad things will happen to you. I’ll take you apart. I’ll cut you into pieces.”
Bad things—she thought of the bad things that happened to bad girls. Bad girls were raped; they were tortured. Killers stalked them; monsters threatened them. Madmen cut them apart with chain saws, with hatchets, with knives. Good girls stayed home where they could be safe.
“Go back,” the voice said.
Go back? She couldn’t go back. She had thrown away her wedding ring, jumped into bed with a sailor, talked with people who weren’t there. She couldn’t go back.
She shivered in the darkness. She did not want to go back. She was a woman of startling talents and she would not go back.
Take a closer look, Max had told them. You need to look closely at the things that frighten you. Mary Maxwell had said that it was the imaginary monsters that kept people from living the lives they wanted to live. Was this an imaginary monster?
Stooping, she shone the penlight through the gap between the steps, sending the beam toward the monster. The beam flickered across corroding metal, rotting flesh.
“No,” the monster said. “Go back.” She heard claws rattling on the stairs as the monster moved away from the light.
“I won’t go back,” she said. Her voice was strong, though she was still shivering. I have to see it more clearly, she thought.
“Bad things,” the monster said. It seemed to Susan that its voice was softer.
Susan straightened and took three quick steps down the stairs, before she could hesitate. She turned on the small landing. The monster, she thought, was right below her, blocking the door to the sundeck.
She shone the light toward the monster. The beam flickered across a carapace of rusting metal that glistened with mucus from the flesh that had been joined to it. She caught a glimpse of a ravaged face: skin stretched taut over the bone of a skull; wisps of graying hair clinging to the pale scalp; broken teeth in a slit of a mouth; watery eyes glittering in the darkness. Then she heard claws scrabbling as the monster backed away from the light.
“You can’t go here,” the monster said. Its voice had a desperate edge. She took a step downward, shining the beam of light toward the monster. It retreated as she advanced.
She did not hesitate. The thin beam of the penlight before her, she rushed down the stairs and burst out the door, into the clean, rain-washed air, into the cold and the wet.
The deck was awash with rain. She made her way toward the bow through the darkness, clinging to the frames of the windscreens for support, lurching from one to the next. More than once, she slipped on the wet deck, thrown off balance by the ship’s unpredictable movements.
She was halfway to the bow when lightning flashed nearby, illuminating the deck with a sudden brilliant blue-white light. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass windscreens around her: dozens of images of herself, all of them drenched and wind blown, all of them grinning.
Grinning? Yes. She knew that she shouldn’t be so happy—this was a serious situation, a dangerous situation, a frightening place to be. But she couldn’t help it. This was an adventure. She had escaped the monster; she was going to rescue her friends. She was cold and wet and frightened—and she was right where she wanted to be.
She reached the bow of the ship. The flyi
ng saucer was gone. There were no wolves. Pat was slumped beside the broken frames of the windscreens that had been crushed beneath the saucer. Max stood beside her, feet braced against the movement of the ship. He was staring out over the bow. Rainwater dripped from his gray hair, his beard; his glasses were spattered with raindrops; his clothes were soaked. But his expression was ecstatic. Lightning flashed on the horizon, gleaming through his gray hair.
“What a wonderful ending!” he exclaimed when he saw her. “So unexpected! So powerful!”
“Pat! Are you all right?” Susan kneeled on the wet deck beside her friend. Pat looked up. A bruise was darkening around her left eye.
“Wasn’t that a fabulous squid?” she murmured.
“Come on,” Susan said. “We’ve got to get you out of here. Put your arm around my shoulders.”
Susan had helped Pat to her feet when Tom arrived, flashlight in hand, looking large and efficient in a bright yellow raincoat. “What the hell is going on?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He did the practical things. He put his raincoat around Pat, who was shivering in the cold. He helped them across the deck—past the signs that said the sundeck was off-limits, back onto Calypso Deck, down a service companionway in which Susan saw no monsters.
By the time they reached the ship’s infirmary, emergency power had been restored to the ship. The doctor was tending to an injured pirate—he had sprained his ankle while dancing in the conga line. Tom insisted that the doctor take a look at Pat and Max, though they both said it really wasn’t necessary.
The bruise around Pat’s eye was darkening. It looked like she would soon have a spectacular shiner, with colors that complemented her hair. “I slipped and fell,” Pat said. “It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have been out there anyway.” She glanced at Max. “Isn’t that so, Maxi” Max nodded, looking startled. “Yes, of course. Whatever you say.
But it was such a wonderful storm.”
“Let’s get some ice on that bruise,” the doctor said. He glanced at Max, who was still dripping rainwater. “And we’d best get you into something dry and warm.”
