by Stefan Mani
He could, of course, shoot at the boat but it could be hellishly difficult to hit a moving target from so far away – besides which, there’s not all that much ammunition.
The can lands in the sea in front of the boat. It washes back up on the weather deck on the next wave.
‘Here!’ Stoker hands Satan another can. ‘There’s just one more.’
‘Quick!’ says Satan with the cigarette hanging from his mouth. He takes the can and flings it with all his strength back along the ship. The can spins in the air and spits thinner in all directions, before landing on the weather deck behind the inflatable and at the feet of the black-clad man who’s lying face down by the railing.
One down – way to go!
‘This is the last one,’ says Stoker as he passes Satan an open can only half full of thinner.
‘Watch this,’ hisses Satan out of one side of his mouth. He waits a moment while the ship rights itself and then he throws the can high up into the sky, watching as it swings in a long arc out over the weather deck and directly over the unmanned inflatable, which lifts on a wave as if to receive the can.
‘Wow! That was really —’ Stoker stops when a light begins to blink in the sea of green light and a shower of lead bullets slams into the starboard side of the forecastle, the outside of the door and the forward hatch.
The sound of the pirates’ heavy machine guns carries to them shortly after the first bullets slam into the inch-thick steel, raising sparks.
Stoker grabs his head and throws himself to the side, while Satan jumps out of the door and disappears from sight.
‘Wait! Wait! WAIT FOR ME!’ cries Stoker, clambering over the sill and running barefoot over to the port side and from there back along the slanting weather deck. When Satan is halfway to the back of the ship he stops and sits down on the weather deck with his back to the hatch. He looks up to the sky, where the emergency flare is glowing, and curses the man who shot it up.
What halfwit lights up the field of battle when the enemy has come so close? The battlefield that, in this case, is the crew’s home ground! These guys are so stupid! In close combat, darkness is the best comrade in arms, any sensible man knows that – if he’s got any balls.
‘Now what?’ asks Stoker, red with cold, kneeling beside Satan.
‘Wait a second,’ says Satan and he sucks on his cigarette until it glows white, then stands up and throws the stub over the hatch cover.
‘I get it. You’re going to burn the dinghy so they can’t get back if —’
‘Take a look!’ says Satan, nudging Stoker with his elbow.
‘All right,’ mutters Stoker as he stands up and looks across the hatch cover.
The machine gun retorts and bullets slam into the hatch cover and fly with a loud whine into the night.
Stoker throws himself back on his knees and looks at Satan without saying anything. He doesn’t need to say anything.
Disappointment shines from his eyes.
‘Fire or no fire, doesn’t matter,’ says Satan under his breath. He gets to his feet without straightening his back. ‘Come on, let’s face these bandits!’
Stoker struggles to get up, then follows Satan over the weather deck.
‘How many did you say there were?’ Satan asks when they reach the stairs up to B-deck.
‘I have no idea. But that inflatable couldn’t carry more than six.’
‘One’s down already. So there are, at most, five left. Five men with machine guns. It’s not going to be any fucking child’s play getting bullets into all their guts.’
Satan runs over to the starboard side of the wheelhouse, sits on his haunches under the white-painted iron wall and pulls his hunting knife out of its holster on his left leg.
Inside the thick walls, the alarm bells are sounding.
‘What are you going to —’
‘Shut up!’ hisses Satan and gestures to Stoker to sit behind him. ‘Take this knife. If you unexpectedly find yourself in close combat, make eye contact with your enemy, get as close to him as you can and then push the knife into his stomach. It’s best to surprise them if you can.’
‘ Yeah, I …’ Stoker takes the heavy knife. ‘But where’s it best to —’
‘Stay here back of the wheelhouse,’ says Satan. He gets the sock with the shells out of his left trouser pocket. ‘If anyone comes out of the door or down the stairs, stab the guy in the gut.’
‘Okay.’ Stoker looks at his reflection in the broad knife blade.
‘And don’t think about death or anything like that,’ says Satan as he tips out the eight shells into the palm of his left hand and closes his fist over them. ‘While we’re alive we can kill others, and that’s the only thing that matters. A dead man is of no use, and that’s why it’s no use thinking about death – got it?’
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ mutters Stoker, clenching his ice-cold right hand around the haft of the knife.
‘May as well get on with it.’ Satan draws the handgun from its holster by his right ankle. ‘I’m going in!’
‘But what do I do if …’ Stoker begins, but he doesn’t get to finish his question before Satan jumps up and disappears around the corner.
Stoker gets hesitantly to his feet, grits his teeth and peers around the same corner. Behind the wheelhouse there is nothing to be seen. Nothing that shouldn’t be there. The stern is empty of people.
What should he do? Stand guard or …
Suddenly he hears a heavy blow and seawater splashes over the deck. Stoker cowers down, circles his head with his left arm and closes his eyes.
What was that? Has he been shot? Is he wounded? Is he …
He blinks, lets his left arm drop, turns around, sidles into the wheelhouse and braces his bare back up against the wall between the door to the wheelhouse and the stairs leading up the back of it.
The boat!
Behind the ship the lifeboat is rocking to and fro. It spins slowly counterclockwise as it drifts east away from the ship.
Who shot the boat overboard? And why doesn’t whoever it is start the engine? Who is on board the boat? Everyone? No one? Are they going to leave him behind?
‘HELP! HELP! HERE! TURN AROUND!’ screams Stoker, running back to the stern and waving his hands like a madman. ‘DON’T GO WITHOUT ME! TURN BACK! DON’T …’
The lifeboat drifts further and further from the ship until it’s lost in the darkness.
No, this can’t be happening!
‘Fucking traitors,’ Stoker says and walks back to the wheelhouse, trembling with cold.
What should he do? He can’t hang around out here – he’ll freeze to death. But what else can he do? Where can he go? Where is he safe? Nowhere?
Down to the engine room! He can go down to the engine room. It’s warm there, it’s dark there, it’s …
Stoker opens the door to the B-deck corridor and squeezes through.
The noise of the bells rages on.
He hurries over to the stairs that lead down to A-deck but then freezes in his tracks.
No!
On the floor at the bottom of the stairs lies the chief engineer in a pool of blood, already stiff with rigor mortis and blue around the mouth.
00:05:02
The bells peal through every deck and shut out all other sounds.
Satan runs up the stairs with the revolver gripped in his right hand and the eight shells in his left. He turns in a circle on each deck to be sure that no one will catch him unawares and points the gun alternately up and down the stairs.
If only those fucking bells would stop!
On C-deck he took a quick look at the corpses of the cook and the bosun before he carried on. It was neither the time nor the place for sentimentality. On D-deck there was nothing to be seen, nor on E-deck, but when he looks around on F-deck he hears for the first time something other than the bells.
He hears voices. Voices from above. Excited voices calling to each other in a strange language. Two men, one up on the bridge deck an
d the other high on the stairs that lead up to it.
Satan presses his back against the wall beside the stairwell, then turns to the right, points his gun upwards and fires three shots towards the black-clad legs at the top of the stairs.
Bam, bam, bam!
The first two shots miss, but he thinks the third one might have hit the pirate in the back of his left calf.
Somebody screams up on the bridge deck.
Satan takes a short break after shooting the gun, moves one step to the left and silently counts to two, then jumps sideways, stretches his right arm up, aims at the chest of the pirate standing at the top of the stairs who’s about to pull the trigger of his machine gun, and fires two more shots.
Bam, bam!
With that the gun is empty but another pirate has fallen, crumpling onto his knees and then tumbling forwards down the stairs, firing a few shots from the machine gun into in his own thigh as he falls.
Ratatata–
Satan steps to the side, opens his gun and empties out all the shells so they bounce, steaming, over the lino on F-deck. Then he loads the five compartments in the revolving cylinder of the gun with sweaty, shaking fingers: one shell, two, three …
The fourth shell slides on his palm, drops between his fingers and bounces along the floor.
Shit!
Four and five. He slides the cylinder into place, spins it and pulls back the hammer. The gun is loaded and there are two more shells resting in his palm. That makes a total of seven. That’ll have to do.
Satan squats to the side of the stairwell and aims his gun up towards the bridge deck.
Nothing is happening there: no movement, no voices. He looks at the pirate who lies on his belly in the stairs above him.
Does he have a wound in one calf? Yes, he is wounded on his upper left calf, which means that his mate up in the bridge deck is unhurt.
‘Fuck!’ mutters Satan, now and then aiming the gun down the stairs leading to E-deck. As far as he knows, one or more of the pirates might be below him in the ship.
Fuck it! How long should he wait for someone to attack? He could make a rush up to the bridge deck, but it’s not good tactics to attack up the way. And the fucker waiting up there knows it. He’s going to wait until Satan gets tired of waiting and storms up there to his death.
Unless he’s waiting for reinforcements from below … Fuck, fuck, fuck! Satan can’t wait here forever! Time is either running out or standing still – he can’t be sure, because the fucking bells are driving him mad.
‘Come on out, fucker!’ screams Satan up to the bridge while directing his eyes and the barrel of his gun down to E-deck. ‘COME OUT IF YOU DARE!’
No answer, no attack – nothing but the endless pealing of the bells.
DRRRHHHRrr…DRRRHHHRrr…DRHHRHHHRRRrrr…
He’s not waiting any longer. He can’t wait any longer. He’ll lose his mind if he …
‘Who’s there?’ someone shouts suddenly. Whoever’s calling is yelling with all his might, but it’s barely loud enough for the words to carry down to Satan.
Who’s that? Someone on the bridge? The captain himself?
‘Can you shut off the bells?’ Satan calls up through the stairwell.
No answer.
Sweat runs down Satan’s forehead and he blinks his eyes and aims the gun up and then down. His back and shoulders ache; he can’t stand there much longer.
‘CAN YOU HEAR ME?’ he shouts so loudly it stings his throat. ‘LET ME KNOW IF YOU —’
He stops shouting when the bells fall silent, all of them at once.
00:06:11
Guðmundur Berndsen is standing inside the bridge wing on the starboard side, hiding behind a tall cupboard and aiming his shotgun across the table in the chart room at the door leading to the corridor.
When one of the pirates had grabbed the doorknob and opened the door into the bridge, Guðmundur shot at the door and blew it in two lengthwise. Out in the corridor there are at least two pirates, waiting for the captain to give up or run out of ammunition.
He’s not about to give up, but his supply of shells is certainly dwindling. The pirates are shooting their machine guns through the door at regular intervals and then Guðmundur responds with a shot or two.
Dear Christ! How long can he hold out in this hell? Ten more minutes? Five? One? To make matters worse the ship’s dog is whining under the table in the chart room like an hysterical woman.
Where is the rest of the crew? Dead? Hiding? In the boat and …
The captain’s thoughts are interrupted by a volley of shots in the corridor.
Who is shooting?
He pricks up his ears but hears nothing except the ringing of the bells. If only he could …
‘Come on out, fucker!’ screams someone in the distance. ‘COME OUT IF YOU DARE!’
Who is shouting? Who is …
‘Who’s there?’ the captain shouts in the direction of the doorless doorway that opens onto the corridor.
‘Can you shut off the bells?’ someone shouts back.
Shut off the bells? Of course! He can shut off the bells.
Hunched over, the captain creeps further into the bridge. He aims his shotgun at the open door and walks sideways across to the middle of the bridge, where the red fire-alarm box is.
On the floor between the chart room and the door lie the bodies of Methúsalem and his killer, the former in a black pool of blood with a gaping neck wound, the latter with no face and his brain spread on the outside of his shattered skull.
The air smells of blood, gunpowder and insanity, and the silent presence of the bodies of the men cries out for attention, but the captain doesn’t let his gaze drop – he mustn’t let his gaze drop – he has to watch the door, he mustn’t look at the dead bodies, don’t look at the dead bodies …
‘Christ, have mercy on us,’ mutters the captain and mentally crosses himself.
He hopes that the pirates are not watching him, because the minute he steps to the middle of the bridge he’ll lose sight of the door, and if they see that he’s out of sight they’ll realise they can get to the bridge without his seeing them and then …
To hell with it! It’s no good thinking like that!
Guðmundur takes three steps to the side; the door disappears from sight, he is facing a grey wall and the red box is right in front of him.
Just press the switch …
‘CAN YOU HEAR ME?’ cries someone from below. ‘LET ME KNOW IF YOU —’
The captain presses the switch and releases it; there’s a click and the bells stop ringing.
‘Who’s down there?’ calls the captain and takes three steps to the left. He can see the door to the corridor, but he is utterly exposed if any enemy should come in. He has to get back under cover before someone shoots into the bridge.
‘How many black coats up there?’ comes the shouted response.
‘Two, I think!’ the captain calls back. Step by step he creeps back to the cupboard beside the door that leads out to the bridge wing. Two more steps, one, and he’s covered again.
‘I got one just now!’ A shout from below.
‘Then there’s just one more out here! If there are any at all. Is that Rúnar who’s – ’
The captain jumps and stops talking when a black-clad man shoots past the doorway and opens the door to the landing back of the wheelhouse.
Is that …? Was he …?
Guðmundur Berndsen squeezes the trigger of the shotgun but hears only a click. The gun is empty and anyway, he was far too late pulling the trigger.
‘He got out! He ran out! He’s gone!’ calls the captain, straightening up.
Someone is vaulting up the stairs to the bridge deck, and before Guðmundur can blink Satan appears in the doorway to the bridge, dressed in black like a pirate, a mad gleam in his eyes, beads of sweat on his forehead and a smoking revolver in his right hand.
Satan glances briefly and expressionlessly at the bodies on the floor, then looks up
and spies the captain, who is still half behind the cupboard.
‘You’ve done bloody well!’ says Satan, nodding to the captain. ‘I’m going to chase the one you missed and put a bullet in his neck, but you stay up here and guard the bridge.’
‘You’re the guy who was shut in the forecastle,’ says Guðmundur as he steps out of his hiding place, but Satan doesn’t hear a word he says. He’s gone from the doorway, has kicked open the door to the platform aft of the wheelhouse and is leaping down the steep iron stairs with Skuggi at his heels.
00:07:06
Stoker paces round and round on the metal floor at the back of the engine room, thinking about the chief engineer lying dead on the floor up on A-deck.
Poor Johnny …
The clatter of the generator manages to drown out the sound of the bells and that’s good, because the hum of the generator is a normal part of the engineers’ work environment, while the ringing of the bells is a noisy disturbance, a mechanical insanity, an ongoing warning, a herald of danger …
Stoker stops walking when he is notices a movement up on the narrow platform at the front of the engine room. He sees the shadow of a man go out the front of the control room and over to the port side towards the machine shop.
Who’s that?
‘JOHNNY?’ Stoker shouts and blinks his eyes, but when he sees that the shadow has both hands on a machine gun that’s hanging from a shoulder strap, he shuts his mouth and backs, barefoot, over to the darkness at the back of the engine room, where containers and cleaning fluid are kept under a dirty sink.
A pirate in the engine room! What should he do? Hide? Run? Face the bastard?
Stoker gnashes what’s left of his teeth, tightens his grip on the knife and creeps on dirty toes over to the open door behind the machine shop. There he stands still in the shadow behind a two-metre-tall gas canister and waits. And waits …
Stoker’s bony chest expands and contracts, his milk-white skin stretches over his ribs and his black chest hairs rise around his brown nipples. His staring eyes wait for a movement in the gloom; his nostrils flare, and dark yellow teeth and greyish gums gleam in the black beard.
This is the bastard who killed Johnny, the bastard who killed Johnny, the bastard …
