The Beast of Cretacea

by Todd Strasser

  Early the next morning, Glock opens the container door. Bleary-eyed, Ishmael and Queequeg prop themselves up on their elbows. A group of men, including the white-haired pirate, has clustered outside the container. With them is Pip.

  “Speak your piece, mollusk,” the white-haired pirate orders Pip, who squats down to be eye level with his crewmates. With a dismayed expression, he stares at their filthy uniforms, which stink from sweat and digging in the cave.

  “I’m leaving, but I didn’t want to go without saying good-bye,” he says, then leans close and whispers, “Tell them you’re of the Gilded, Ishmael. They’ll work you to death if you don’t. Believe me, before I came to Cretacea, I heard stories.”

  Ishmael shakes his head. Suddenly Pip turns to the white-haired pirate. “Suppose I told you how to get all the joy juice you’ll ever need?”

  The pirate leader eyes him suspiciously. “What manner of poppycock is this?”

  Pip points at Ishmael and Queequeg. “They have the means to acquire an unlimited supply of terrafin serum.”

  “Don’t accredit him, Kalashnikov,” Glock warns the white-haired pirate, and points at Pip. “He’sh imbued wish shyllogism.”

  Kalashnikov zeros in on Pip. “All the juice we’ll ever need? Under no circumstances could that be possible.”

  “It is, I swear,” Pip insists. “On Gilded honor.”

  “Explain,” Kalashnikov demands, narrowing his red eyes.

  Pip looks at Ishmael. “Tell them what Gwen said that foggy night on the Pequod.”

  With dawning horror, Ishmael realizes that Pip knows about the islanders’ terrafins. The night he spoke with Gwen on the ship’s deck, Pip must have been on the other side of the crane mast, listening the whole time!

  Inside the container, Ishmael rises to his feet. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  But Pip says to Kalashnikov, “You’re familiar with the islanders?”

  “Those rock-hurling tree dwellers?” Kalashnikov says. “What’ve they to do with this?”

  “Pip, don’t,” Ishmael warns.

  Pip ignores him. “They cultivate terrafins. It provides them with an endless supply of juice.”

  Ishmael’s insides knot. As much as he doesn’t want to die, he can’t bear the thought of what these barbarians will do to the peaceful islanders now that they’ve learned about the terrafins.

  “How do I know you haven’t concocted this confabulation merely to deter me from exterminating these two?” Kalashnikov indicates Queequeg and Ishmael with his gun.

  “They lived with the islanders for more than a month. Long enough to learn everything about them.”

  “Is that true?” Kalashnikov asks Ishmael.

  “No, sir,” Ishmael replies. “Like you said, he’s making that up to save our lives.”

  “For Earth’s sake!” Pip spouts with aggravation and points to the tiny skivers in Ishmael’s and Queequeg’s ears. “Where do you think they got those? They’re from baby terrafins. They came back from the island with them.”

  With his gun aimed carefully at Ishmael’s face, Kalashnikov steps close and inspects the skivers. Glock does the same to Queequeg and says, “Well, now, I’ll be atoned.”

  The pirate leader presses the cold metal barrel of the gun under Ishmael’s chin. “Unfortunately, those miniature skivers don’t necessarily alter your circumstances. At best, they merely illuminate the fact that someone here is misrepresenting the truth. If this terrafin story is indeed a figment of someone’s imagination, I promise you’ll be sorely regretting the day you left Earth.”

  Glock aims his gun at Queequeg and starts to squeeze the trigger. “Well, now, I shay why incubate, Kalashnikov? Let’s shnaffle them now. They’re not conforming, anyway.”

  “No!” Pip cries.

  Before Glock can fire, Kalashnikov elbows him in the stomach. The tall, toothless pirate grunts and doubles over.

  “I’ll decide who lives and dies around here,” the pirate leader growls, flicking the tiny skiver in Ishmael’s earlobe. “We’ll keep these two alive for now. It’s conceivable that they’ll be valuable should we need to convince the tree dwellers to drop their guard.” He presses his face close to Ishmael’s. “You had better pray that your Gilded colleague speaks the truth, poppet. Otherwise, I’ll relish executing you and every one of your tree-dwelling acquaintances.”

  “I don’t know how many more times I can stand having a gun shoved in my face,” Queequeg grumbles later when Blank walks him and Ishmael back up the trail to the cave for another day of digging.

  “Consider yaselves lucky,” the scrawny pirate says. “Most of the time these idiots don’t think twice about pullin’ a trigger.”

  This isn’t the first time Blank’s made it plain that he’s not happy being a pirate, and with the islanders’ lives now at stake, Ishmael feels he must take a chance. “Help us get back to the Pequod, Blank. We’ll tell them how you aided in our escape. They won’t care about the tattoos on your eyelids. Most of the crew’s covered in tattoos.”

  Blank’s eyes dart around fearfully before he whispers, “D’ya know what would happen if Kalashnikov caught me? I’d be skinned alive and tossed into the flames. I ain’t kiddin’. I seen it happen.”

  It’s a gruesome image, and Ishmael hasn’t forgotten the hominid-like bones he stepped on around the fire pit.

  “He won’t catch you,” Ishmael says. “We’ll wait until the middle of the night. You let us out of the container, then we’ll grab a boat and be gone before they know it.”

  Blank scuffs the ground with his boot. “Couldn’t happen even if I wanted it to. I ain’t got the key.”

  “Who does?” Ishmael asks.

  “Kalashnikov and Glock.”

  “Can you get it from one of them?” Queequeg asks.

  Blank chuckles bitterly. “Oh, sure. I’ll just stroll up an’ ask for it.”

  That evening, while the pirates are distracted by the fighting beside the fire pit, Queequeg squats and Ishmael climbs onto his shoulders. Grimacing, Queequeg rises to his feet.

  “You okay?” Ishmael whispers, feeling Queequeg struggle for balance beneath him.

  “For now,” his friend whispers.

  Ishmael runs his fingertip around the edge of one of the holes in the container’s ceiling. Just as he’d hoped, the rusty metal is so thin in some spots that it flakes off under his touch. He pushes one of the blunt sticks through the hole and starts to widen it. But in other places the ceiling is thicker, and he is forced to work the metal back and forth until it snaps.

  The work is slow, and he must frequently climb down to give Queequeg a chance to rest his shoulders. All through the evening, he bends, twists, and breaks off as much metal as he can. By the time the pirate camp starts to grow quiet for the night, the hole is broad enough that he and Queequeg can stand on the container floor and look up through it at the dark, starlit sky. The great orb is round and bright tonight.

  “Think we’ll fit?” Ishmael whispers.

  “You first,” Queequeg whispers back.

  With his friend buttressing from below, Ishmael grabs the rim of the hole and pulls himself up. It’s a tight shimmy and the rough metal edges scrape his skin, but he manages to squirm through and into the night above. The sky is the deepest purple imaginable and the jungle is alive with screeches and howls. He pauses a moment to drink in the fresh air, then reaches back down. “Your turn.”

  They grasp each other’s wrists, and Ishmael strains to pull Queequeg up to the rim. Queequeg grabs the metal edges, but even with Ishmael’s help, he can’t squeeze his broad shoulders through. He twists and wriggles until he’s too tired to hold on anymore.

  “Let’s rest and try again,” Ishmael whispers down. All he can see in the dark container are Queequeg’s eyes.

  “You’re gonna have to go without me, Ish. Better one gets away than none.”

  Ishmael won’t hear of it. “Not happening.”

  “If you don’t go, sooner
or later we’re both dead meat,” Queequeg insists. “You’re our only chance. Besides, you heard what Kalashnikov said. He’ll keep me alive to get to the islanders.”

  Maybe, Ishmael thinks. Or maybe the pirate leader will kill Queequeg in anger, then attack the islanders anyway. There’s only one thing to do. “I’m gonna find that key,” he whispers.

  “You’re crazy,” Queequeg whispers back. “Just go. You’ve got a brother you need to find.”

  “What about you?” Ishmael asks.

  “All I ever had was my father, and they took him away.” Now, when Ishmael looks down into the container, all he can see is darkness.

  “I’ll be back,” he promises, then crawls to the edge of the container roof and lowers himself to the ground. He tiptoes barefoot toward the burned-out fire pit in the middle of the camp, where coals still glow a faint red. In the orblight, he can see the dark dwellings. Is there a way to determine which is Glock’s or Kalashnikov’s?

  The door of one hut is slightly ajar. He doesn’t know whose hut it is, but maybe he’ll be lucky, or at least find a weapon. A second later he peeks through the open doorway at what looks like an empty, unmade cot. The dark hut reeks of body odor. He slips in and presses a palm against the bedding. It’s still warm. Bad news. Whoever left might return at any moment. He glances about quickly, searching for a gun or even a heavy stick — anything.

  The door creaks behind him. Ishmael whirls around — and comes face-to-face with the hulking, horribly scarred pirate named Winchester. The big man fills the entire doorway, his tattoos glowing eerily green in the dark.

  Ishmael lowers his head and charges, crashing into the man with more than enough force to send him flying backward out of the hut — but Winchester barely moves. His thick arms close around Ishmael and lift him off the ground.

  Ishmael punches the side of Winchester’s head as hard as he can. The pirate doesn’t even flinch, while Ishmael’s fist throbs painfully. He tries kicking, but he might as well be a small, wriggling rodent in Winchester’s massive hands. The big pirate slams him to the floor.

  “What’re ya doin’ in here?” he growls. “How’d ya get out of that container?”

  Woozy from being slammed so hard, Ishmael has trouble coming up with an answer. Winchester reaches down and with one hand lifts him off the ground until they’re face-to-face again. “Where’s yer friend?”

  Being this close to Winchester’s stinking breath snaps Ishmael out of his daze. “Back in the container. He couldn’t get out.”

  The pirate studies him with those eerie red eyes. He’s trying to decide which of a thousand ways to kill me, Ishmael thinks, his heart beating in his throat.

  Instead, Winchester tosses him into the corner like a rag. “It’s gonna take me a few minutes to get my stuff together. Don’t do nothin’ stupid. I’d hate to have to crush yer face.”

  Ishmael sits up and rubs his head, sure he’s misheard. “What?”

  “Yer my ticket outta this garbage pit.” Winchester shoves things into a sack. “We’re gonna take yer boat and go out into the ocean and find a ship, and you’re gonna tell ’em how I saved yer life and helped ya escape and yer convinced I don’t wanna be a pirate no more. If they don’t want me, they can send me back to Earth.”

  From under his cot Winchester slides a metal lockbox that Ishmael immediately recognizes as similar to the ones he saw in Starbuck’s and Ahab’s cabins. The pirate presses his huge thumb against the scanner and the top opens, releasing a small cloud of chilled vapor. Winchester removes a vial of chartreuse serum, which he carefully packs into a portable vacuum flask.

  “What about food and water?” Ishmael asks. “Might take a long time to find a ship.”

  “Think I’m stupid?” Winchester snarls, shoving him outside. He points at two large cans of water next to the hut and gestures for Ishmael to carry them.

  “What about food?” Ishmael whispers.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  A jarring thought comes to Ishmael. He’s seen this beast of a man eat a raw flyer. What if he’s the only meal Winchester plans on bringing along?

  Followed by the pirate and weighed down by the heavy cans, Ishmael trudges along the jungle path toward the beach, his mind searching for a way out of this.

  Suddenly, two loud thunks! and a thud! catch him by surprise. Dropping the water cans, he spins to find Winchester sprawled facedown on the ground. Behind him stands Blank, breathing hard and holding a club in his good hand.

  “Been waitin’ a long time to do that.” The scrawny pirate grins.

  Before Ishmael can ask him why he did it, sounds of approaching voices and rustling branches come through the dark.

  “Run!” Blank urges him, then disappears into the black jungle.

  There’s no time to go back for Queequeg. At this point, Ishmael’s best hope for saving his friend is to get help. He hustles down the dark trail to the beach. In the orblight he spots Chase Boat Four anchored half a dozen yards offshore and splashes through the shallows toward it.

  “Get him!” a voice shouts from behind. Looking back, Ishmael sees the silhouettes of half a dozen pirates on the beach — some kneeling and taking aim with their weapons.

  Ishmael climbs into the chase boat and presses start. Pfft. . . . The RTG cranks and quits.

  Bang! Plang! A bullet ricochets off the engine. Ishmael ducks and tries again.

  This time the RTG catches, and Chase Boat Four lurches forward.

  Bang! Zing!

  Bullets whistle past his ears while the boat gains speed and heads for the open ocean.

  With the chase boat racing over the sea, the wind in his face, and no pirates in sight, Ishmael feels the elation of escape and the wrenching agony of leaving Queequeg behind. The sky on the starboard side slowly brightens, red clouds appearing to the east. A crosswind is starting to blow, and soon the ocean swells begin building. Ishmael is forced to steer the chase boat up wave faces and down their backs, scaling liquid hills. Under thick gathering clouds, he keeps the boat going as fast as it can, hoping to outrun not only any pirates who might be pursuing him but the ominous weather as well.

  The winds grow stronger, and soon the churning gray seas have foamy white peaks. The boat bounces and slaps, jarring Ishmael’s tired muscles and jangled nerves.

  And still the swells increase in size.

  The wind is beginning to howl, and stinging salt spray hampers his vision. The chase boat is struggling up the face of a large swell when Ishmael feels the RTG hesitate, then sputter. The boat barely makes it over the crest. But halfway up the next wave, the RTG quits completely, and the chase boat slides back down into the trough.

  Ishmael tries to start it, but the engine doesn’t respond. Bracing himself in the turbulent seas, he lifts the top off the engine compartment. The RTG’s ribbed outer shell assembly is discolored and some of the fins look wavy — evidence that they’ve been heated beyond their tolerance. He remembers the pirates fooling around with the chase boat just after he and Queequeg were captured.

  He’s surrounded by whitecaps, the whistling wind blowing foam off the crests, making streaks across the gray waves. The sea comes heaving up, and the chase boat rocks violently. Ishmael has to grab the gunwale to keep from tumbling out. Each time a wave threatens to tip the boat, he must scramble to the high side to stabilize it.

  This goes on for hours, until Ishmael, exhausted and weak, gradually gives in to oblivion.

  For an instant, Ishmael thinks he’s back home under the Shroud — until he feels the boat rocking beneath him and remembers that even on Cretacea, there are nights made extra dark by thick cloud cover. Driving rain and sea spray pelt him. Soaked and shivering, he tries to get up, only to be held down by a rope lashed around his waist. He remembers that the last thing he did before he passed out was tie himself to a seat to keep from being tossed out by the riotous waves.

  The rain is welcome, and Ishmael catches what he can in his hands, funneling the fresh water in
to his mouth. But the shower passes before he’s had enough to quench his thirst. All that remains from the rain is dirty water covered with a patina of oil, sloshing around in the bottom of the chase boat. Ishmael knows what he has to do if he wants to survive. As sickening as the thought is, he lowers his face and drinks.

  The sun is hot and glaring; the ocean as smooth as a mirror. Ishmael lies with his head under a seat to shield his face from the scalding rays. Thirst, he’s learned, is a much harsher companion than hunger. Thirst demands; hunger merely bides its time. In the scant shadow, with his head against the floor, he listens to the never-ending slosh of sea against hull and wonders if he’ll ever be found.

  He has lost count of how long it’s been since he escaped the pirate camp, days and nights blurring together, but there have been many. Kept barely alive by the filthy water that collects from time to time in the bottom of the boat, he does not know how much longer he can survive without food. Everything feels illusory: He can no longer distinguish between wakefulness and dreaming.

  Something thumps the bottom of the chase boat. Dazed and nauseated, Ishmael drags himself to the gunwale and looks over. The sea beneath him has gone white, as though the boat is bobbing on an alabaster ocean. An enormous black eye rises out of the water a few feet away.

  In it Ishmael can see his thin, haggard reflection, but he realizes this must be a dream, for staring deeper into the black sphere, he also sees lush green jungles alive with brightly colored flyers, furry tree-dwelling quadrupeds, and all manner of slithering, crawling ground creatures. He sees oceans filled with glimmering schools of scurry, and larger predatory beasts. In this black globe is an entire world, untouched and unspoiled by human hand.

  As if the beast knows that she has shown him enough, she slowly slides back into the sea. Ishmael lowers himself to the floor and feels the chase boat rock when the colossal creature glides away.

  “Friend or foe?” a voice calls. On the floor of the chase boat, drifting in and out of consciousness, Ishmael assumes he’s dreaming again.