I want to say something about what I’ve learned, but he’s all business.
“Let’s go,” he says, then steps out of the room.
Helena heads for the door and looks back at me.
“I’ll be right behind you,” I say.
She nods, offers a smile, and leaves.
Alone again, I turn to the ceiling and say, “One more favor. Don’t let him die. If he does, I’m coming for you when I’m done with the Draugar.”
Threatening God might not be the best idea, but Helena said honesty was good, and if God exists, he knows what I’m thinking anyway. “Amen,” I say and head for the door.
18
The mess hall, which is basically a large square room on the main deck with three long tables and an assortment of chairs that look like yard sale finds, is full of loud voices when I arrive. In attendance are Willem, Helena, Talbot, Nate, and Malik, who is laying plates of food on the table.
“You can’t really believe that,” Nate says as I take a seat next to Willem.
Willem smiles at me, and I don’t see any of the weirdness between us that I’d imagined before. He’s just happy to see me, so I return the smile.
“I do,” Talbot says. “And rightly so.”
I ignore them as Malik steps up beside me and puts a plate down. It’s covered in some kind of broiled fish—of course—carrots and some kind of mush that I can’t identify as anything other than maybe dog shit. My grumbling stomach sours.
“You don’t look pleased,” Malik says.
“That pretty much sums up every dining experience I’ve had in Greenland,” I say.
“We should have brought along some microwave diners,” Willem says with a chuckle that earns him a slug in the shoulder. The physical contact feels good. Well, for me, at least. Willem rubs his shoulder.
Malik produces a ladleful of creamy yellow liquid that glistens with flecks of oil and tiny green bits. He drizzles the sauce over the carrots and fish, but leaves the brown glob alone. “Try it,” he says.
I pick up my fork, scrape off a chunk of sauce-slathered fish, and pop it into my mouth. I’m not expecting much, but I have to eat. The flavor hits me two chews in. It might very well be the best food I’ve had in Greenland, which isn’t saying much, but this is good compared to anything in the wider world, too.
“Wow,” I say. Then again, “Wow.”
Malik smiles wide. “I like to cook.”
I now view my plate through different eyes, but I’m still suspicious of the brown slop. I point at it with my fork. “What’s this?”
He looks confused that I’m even asking. “Chocolate mousse.”
I take a quick forkful. The dark chocolate is like silk in my mouth. I close my eyes and savor it until—
“Raven, what’s your take?”
I’m not sure who’s even spoken until I see Talbot’s raised eyebrows wrinkling his forehead. “It’s good,” I say.
“Huh?” Talbot says. He twitches his mustache twice. “What’s good?”
“The food,” I say.
Talbot throws his head back like he’s been punched. “Dadgumit, girl, we’re not talkin’ ’bout the grub!” The Texan’s accent is thicker than usual. I knew a guy from Massachusetts like that. He was able to curb the accent most of the time, but when he was telling a story, it came out clear as day. “Snowblowers” became “snow blowahs,” “boys” became “bowies,” and “that stinks” became “wicked pissah.” It seemed some Texans undergo the same conversational transformation, though I reckon not many of them would believe they had much in common with a Yankee.
“He thinks they’re aliens,” Nate says, serious but also smiling. He’s already started to make himself part of the crew, helping when he can, taking part in conversations, and generally acting like he belongs. Kid adapts quickly, I think. He’s going to need to.
“Only thing that makes a lick of sense,” Talbot says.
Nate shakes his head. I watch in amusement while eating my food.
“Look, that these things, these parasites, came from outer space is essentially impossible. First, how’d they get here?”
“Asteroid,” Talbot says. “Maybe a spacecraft.”
“Spacecraft,” Nate says, his voice oozing disgust. “They’re what? Inch-long worms?”
I give a nod, confirming the face.
“Inch-long worms capable of controlling mammals,” Talbot says, thrusting his finger into the air. “And they’re intelligent.”
I nod again, shoveling in a mouthful.
“It’s far more likely that they evolved, on Earth, which is why they are perfectly adapted to warm-blooded hosts. There are parasites, just like them, all over the planet that can control the actions of fish, reptiles, and insects. That there is also a species that is capable of controlling mammals, even people, isn’t only possible, it’s plausible.”
“Actually,” I say, licking my fork clean of mousse, “the toxoplasma parasite alters the minds of mammals.” I take another lick. “Damn, this is good. It’s common in cats, and the rats and other animals they eat, but it’s equally common in people. Fifty percent of the world’s population is host to the parasite.”
Nate pumps his fist. “GreenpeaceNate FT-dubs!”
“Kid,” I say.
“For the win!” he says, defining his “FT-dubs” comment. I was referring to his entire display, fist pump and all, but decide to let it go. I’ve been thinking about this argument for a long time, weighing all possibilities, and am interested to hear Talbot’s and Nate’s diverging points of view.
“So what’s this toxojumbo do?” Talbot asks. “If it’s altering the human mind of half the world’s population, where’s the evidence?”
I lay my fork down beside my polished-off plate. “People with the highest concentrations of toxoplasma are schizophrenic. The parasite is doing something to people’s minds. We just don’t know what or why. Could even be a less evolved, or even more evolved, variant of what we’re dealing with.”
Willem is unfazed, but both Nate and Talbot look surprised. As do Malik and Helena. I’m momentarily stunned that the crew isn’t already educated on the subject, with the exception of Nate, of course. Still, it’s all guesswork. Everything we’ve come up with so far could be wrong.
“I still say it’s aliens,” Talbot says, crossing his arms. He looks like a gunslinger in a saloon who has just been accused of cheating at cards. In a flash, the man could produce a pair of pistols and clear the room of the living. I don’t think he’s used to being so wholeheartedly disagreed with.
“Actually,” I say, “I haven’t written that off yet, either.”
Talbot looks at me. He seems pleased but also wary, like I might be setting him up. He’s got a good sense of who I am, so he knows that’s a possibility, but it’s not actually what I’m doing. “Never mind how they got here,” I say. “If they’re from some other planet, we have to assume that we might not understand how they got here even if it were explained to us.”
Nate sighs. “Now you sound like him! Hashtag, crazytown.”
“How do you explain their ability to preserve flesh for thousands of years?” I ask.
Nate just stares at me. He can’t. I’ve been thinking about it for months and haven’t come up with anything.
“How do they communicate with each other?” I ask.
“Bees,” he says, but I cut him off before he can tell me about how bees shake their asses and transmit the location of a new pollen source.
“Bees can’t speak English. Or Old Norse. They can’t lay traps. Most bees live fifty days tops, not a thousand years. And they sure as shit can’t take the head of my friend, stick it on a mummified girl, and then fucking speak to me. Evolution falls short when you consider all that, especially if they were trapped on Greenland for thousands or even millions of years.”
“That happened?” Nate says, the wind taken out of his sails. “With your friend?”
Willem answers for me. “We left t
hat out of our reports. Didn’t think it would help anyone believe us.”
“Sure enough,” Talbot says, though it sounds more like “Shore ’nuff.”
“Jane, look,” Nate says. “Before you agree with everything the cowboy says, you should know who he is.” The kid lays his smartphone on the table, swipes the screen on, turns it around, and slides it across the table to me.
The screen shows a shrunk-down version of a website. But the image at the top of the screen is easy to see. It’s Talbot, wearing a cowboy hat and a cocky grin. But that’s not the weird part. What catches my eye is the hokey-looking alien head rising up behind him. It’s a crude CGI version of the little gray guys with big black eyes. Its little mouth is curled up in a smile, and it has a three-fingered hand resting on Talbot’s shoulder. A logo to the right reads “Space Cowboy.”
For shit’s sake.
I turn the screen to Talbot. “Thought you were a Ranger?”
“I was,” he says. “They fired me. Five years ago.”
I shove the phone at him. “Because of this?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Does Jakob know who you really are?” I ask.
To my surprise, Talbot nods. “Didn’t seem to mind one bit. Like you, he’s undecided on where they come from. S’pose he didn’t mind having someone knowledgeable about extraworldly things on board.”
I turn to Willem. “Did you know?”
He nods.
Helena leans forward so she can see me around Willem’s broad shoulders. “We all know.”
I let out a slow sigh. “Is there anything else I should know about our crew?”
The group looks at each other while searching their minds for an answer.
“I think Klein might be gay,” Helena says. When I give her an “Are you serious?” look, she adds, “He doesn’t look at me. Or you.”
“Honey,” I say, “that someone may or may not be gay is one of the most normal things anyone has said to me in the last three days.”
She sits back, deflated.
Nate giggles and shakes his head, and I swear he says something like “rawful.” I’m not sure what he’s saying, but I’m pretty sure it’s web speak. “Kid, you’re in the middle of the North Atlantic on board a ship running away from a pod of zombie-whales. There isn’t a Viking, cowboy, or me not capable of throwing your ass overboard. You’re smart. You made some good points. But by God start showing some respect.”
The kid shrinks but can’t keep his mouth shut. “But you—”
“Being a sarcastic bitch is my job.” I stand and push in my chair. “So is being the first mate. So right now, I need everyone who doesn’t already have orders from the captain to go to their quarters and sleep. You’re going to need your energy in the morning. Hell, you’re going to need more than that. So go. Now.”
I wait. One by one, they file from the room without another word to me or each other. When they’re gone, only Willem remains. He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I feel all the spitfire and hardness of my words melt away.
“You’re getting good at giving orders,” he says.
“I’ve always been good at giving orders,” I reply. “People just didn’t have a reason to listen to me before.”
He smiles but takes his hand off my shoulder. “You going to follow those orders, too?”
Before I can answer, he’s out the door. I stand alone in the mess hall, surrounded by dirty dishes and my own thoughts. “Damnit,” I say and start collecting dishes. Regardless of what I’ve just told everyone to do, I won’t be sleeping anytime soon.
19
Jane,” a voice says in the darkness. “We remember you. We remember everything.”
A tightness grips my arm. Half buried in the meat of my shoulder is a foot-long segmented white worm. The Queen! The skin of my shoulder bulges where the baseball-size head, which I know sports two beady black eyes and pin-like teeth, slides toward my torso. If it reaches my insides, it will control me. Turn me into Muninn, Odin’s raven who hungered for blood and brains. Queen of the parasites.
Maybe I never escaped the undead whale? Maybe everything that happened after I was swallowed was some kind of parasite-induced hallucination designed to educate them about who we are and what we’re up to.
I grip the tail end of the oversize maggot and pull. Pain lances through my shoulder, drawing a scream from my mouth.
“You can’t have me!” I scream.
“You promised,” the voice says, and I realize it’s not a sound at all. It’s in my head! “You offered yourself to us. We remember. We remember you, Jane!”
I scream and squeeze hard. Too hard. The crushed parasite body snaps in half, allowing the front portion to slip fully inside my body. The pain in my shoulder is intense. I clench my eyes shut, pushing tears over my cheeks.
I gasp, opening my eyes. Everything is different. It’s still dark, but I feel free. Then the tightness on my shoulder returns.
“Jane.”
I flinch away from the sound and slap at my shoulder. I strike warm flesh but quickly recognize the shape and feel of a human hand.
“Raven,” Jakob says. “You are safe.”
I sit up in bed. My confusion is fading with the dream. “Next time turn on the light.”
There’s a click, and the room fills with yellow light. I turn away from the lamp and cover my eyes. “Damnit.”
Jakob sits on the side of the bed. “I have nightmares almost every night. About Torstein. The Draugar. And Willem. Mostly Willem.”
“I feel left out,” I say, forcing a half smile.
“My dreams of you are rarely nightmares, Raven.”
I know Jakob is trying to have a Kodak moment here, but I can’t resist. I smack him on the shoulder and say, “You dirty old man.”
The captain chuckles. “It is good to be with you again, Jane. You lift my spirits.” His smile fades quickly. “We’ll face our nightmares soon enough. Then we will be free of them.”
“One way or another,” I say.
He nods. “One way or another.”
I rub the sleep from my eyes. “So, Dr. Phil. What brings you to my bedside?”
He straightens. “Duty. Yours. It’s three in the morning. Time for your shift on the bridge.”
“Wonderful,” I say, sliding to the edge of the bed beside Jakob. I’m still dressed from the day before, so I’m already good to go. Well, almost. I’ll have to grab about a pint of coffee on my way to the bridge.
“The whales,” he says. “They will reach us close to eight thirty. Wake me at seven thirty. Wake everyone.”
I nod but ask, “Is that enough sleep for you?”
“It’s more than I get most nights.”
His statement makes me notice the dark rings below his eyes. He looks tired. He looks beat.
I stand and do my best to look ready and competent. I’ve never been a captain, but I can imagine how much every detail and every life under Jakob’s care must weigh on his shoulders. I try to put him at ease. “Don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of the ship. Just get some sleep.”
He lies down on my bed. “I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.”
“Knock yourself out,” I say, heading for the door. I stop before leaving. “Who’s on the bridge with me?” I’m fairly competent with navigating a ship, but I’m far from an expert, and if things go wonky while I’m up there, I’ll need some help.
I see a slight smile form on Jakob’s lips as he closes his eyes.
“Who do you think, Raven?”
Willem. I know it’s Willem. There’s no doubt. Jakob would probably plan our wedding if he could.
I reach out to the lamp and shut it off. “Good night, Sleeping Beauty.”
A snore is his only reply.
I rush for the stairs, eager to see Willem again, but by the time I reach the top step I’m feeling tired again, not to mention annoyed with myself. I’ve had boyfriends before. Lovers, too. But I’ve never had that giddy kind of schoo
lgirl crush that makes my stomach flip-flop. Not even with Willem. So what’s different now? Maybe it’s because I’m fairly certain I’m going to die? Can certain death crumble emotional defenses? Probably. But maybe it’s just that I’ve spent so much time away from him when I really didn’t want to. Maybe this is the real deal?
“Ugh,” I say, a little disgusted with my thought process. I definitely need some caffeine, and not just to keep my inner monologue from sounding like an episode of Desperate Housewives; the countdown has begun. Five hours…
Five hours and then we’ll face Jakob’s and my mutual nightmare. Again. Maybe for the last time.
20
When I arrive on the bridge, it’s dark and quiet. Most of the interior lights have been turned off. Only a few small LED lights, part of larger systems on standby, remain lit. The green glow of the radar screen intermittently pulses slightly brighter, signifying that it’s still tracking the whales chasing us.
The sea is at that sweet spot between tides when the waves seem to just fade away. Without a breeze to speak of, the water is nearly placid. I step up to the front window and admire the moonlit scene. I used to love this view. The endlessness of it. The mystery. Say what you will about my lack of antiwhaling passion, I love the ocean. Always have.
Not so much anymore.
Even the world’s most gentle giants have been turned against us. When I look at the waves now, I see death, for hundreds of miles in every direction—death.
Fuck, I’m a buzzkill.
“Hey.”
The phrase is simple, nonthreatening, and from the one person I was hoping to see right now, but he’s caught me in the midst of a doom-and-gloom-a-thon. I flinch away from the window and let out a yelp. My fear turns to amusement when Willem steps out of the shadows. “Asshole.”
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, stepping closer.
“Yeah, well, I’m feeling a little more jumpy than us—”
He closes the distance between us with one long stride, wraps an arm around my back, and pulls me against him. His lips find mine a moment later. I resist for a moment—aren’t we supposed to have some kind of heart-to-heart first? Aren’t I supposed to say something like, “Sorry I screwed up our relationship,” “Sorry I drowned myself in booze while you plotted to save the world,” or even just a simple “Sorry for being a douche”?
The Raven (A Jane Harper Horror Novel) Page 10
