Monstrum

by Ann Christopher

  “If you are not man enough to control a few unruly teenagers,” Captain Romero continues, “then I shall have to send all of you to your quarters, where you shall remain, under guard, for the duration of our journey together.” He looks to me. “Are we understood, Señorita Hunter?”

  I glare at him, furious but not daring to say anything.

  “As for you, my son,” Captain Romero says to Cortés, “if you speak like that to me again, you and I will have serious problems indeed.” He pauses long enough to let this threat sink in, but Cortés doesn’t back down. “And now I must see to my men.”

  The captain begins to stride off.

  “You and I won’t have any problems at all,” Cortés says to his father’s departing figure, “as long as you’re kind to our guests.”

  This defiance doesn’t go over well. Captain Romero wheels back around. His mouth twists into something feral and dangerous—a close cousin to a snarl—and he makes a sound that’s almost like a hiss.

  I shrink deeper into my skin as I realize, with a nauseating swoop in my belly, that all our fates are in the hands of a man I suddenly don’t like and don’t trust.

  But Cortés doesn’t flinch before his father’s displeasure, and I feel a reluctant swell of admiration for him.

  The standoff between the Romero men might have continued forever, but things are suddenly escalating among the crew. I hear the jolting clang of metal on metal, and discover that the men are trying to reel in something that looks like a giant shark cage or lobster pot rather than the creature itself. I can only see the top bars of the cage over the side of the ship, but judging from its wild swinging back and forth and the warning creak of weakening equipment, the whole thing is about to break apart.

  “You can’t do that!” Dr. Baer arrives on deck and races over to the rails, where he tries to push a couple of the men out of the way. A chorus of protests rises up, and the men lapse into Portuguese and Spanish as they argue and, I suspect, curse at Dr. Baer.

  This is more than Captain Romero can take, and he mutters a string of Spanish profanities that I have no trouble translating. Wheeling away from Cortés, his face contorting with rage, arms gesticulating in slashing movements, he bears down on the men.

  “Idiots!” he roars, switching back to English. “You cannot handle the swing-arm like that unless you want to break it! Listen to Dr. Baer! What are you doing?”

  Murphy takes this opportunity to shoo us kids back several feet and out of the way of any wayward overhead equipment. We watch—with the same sort of frozen fascination that makes people collect around a building to see if a threatened jumper becomes an actual jumper—as the man with the red bandana climbs onto the rail and swings one leg over, leaning onto the jostling cage as he tries to do something with the pulley.

  And then comes the sharp crack of something breaking with awful finality.

  “Juan!” someone shouts. “Get down! ¡Baja!”

  For one suspended second, everything stops, and I catch a glimpse of Juan’s wild-eyed face, livid with horror.

  And then the action resumes in double-time.

  The ship hits a trough, making all of us wobble.

  One of the cables twangs and unravels, its frayed wire whipping everything within its radius. The men shout and scatter, but they can’t all move fast enough to escape this lethal metal lash that splits clothing open and slashes skin. A couple of them are flayed. Their high-pitched shrieks and showering blood fill the air.

  Juan scrambles to disentangle himself from the cable and climb down from the top of the cage.

  The cage, still tethered to the ship by one insufficient cable, drops out of sight, taking a screaming Juan with it.

  Forever passes as Juan screams, the men shout instructions and the rest of us sprint to the rails in time to see Juan and the cage hit the water with an explosive splash.

  Juan flails one arm and is swallowed by the wave that silences his scream.

  Captain Romero shouts orders. Blinding spotlights are trained on the spot where Juan went in. Ropes and lifejackets are thrown.

  Choked with terror, the other kids and I stand there and cling to the rail with white-knuckled grips.

  We see the precise moment when the water settles, becoming eerily still, because the thing in the cage has stopped thrashing.

  The water burbles. The life jackets bob uselessly because there’s no Juan to reach for them. I turn to Mike, who’s standing on my left, and he’s panting and whiter than winter’s first snow.

  “What’s happening?” I whisper.

  “Nothing good,” he tells me, shaking his head.

  We turn back to the water.

  Another endless beat passes.

  The creature emits its monstrous shriek, a sound so piercingly murderous and triumphant that I almost fear it more than I fear the creature itself.

  The end of the shriek is punctuated by the explosion of several projectiles out of the water and up into the black sky. Because the ship is so brightly lit, I can glimpse what they are before their trajectories send them back into the sea.

  I can see what they are, even though I don’t want to.

  An arm. A leg. A torso.

  A head.

  As they fly to their final resting place in the deep, I am able to see that they are not gnawed or torn the way, say, a Great White shark might approach a dismembering.

  No.

  These body parts have been removed with surgical precision, leaving the edges neat and clean.

  Someone screams. Someone slumps to the deck in a dead faint. Someone coughs over the railing, and the foul scent of vomit commingles with the creature’s stench of decay. Murphy shouts.

  And I struggle for every choked breath, hyperventilating and fighting for consciousness as I watch in utter disbelief as the captain directs the remaining crew to use a crane to hook the top of the cage.

  “Oh, my God,” I whimper to myself. Shaking, I press my hands to my cheeks and try to process what’s happened. I watch the captain supervise the action from his perch atop some tank or other that allows him to see over the heads of his men. His features are harsh with a manic intensity, as though Juan’s death has only sharpened his determination to catch the creature, no matter the cost.

  “W-why is he still doing this?” I ask no one in particular. “What good can come of this? W-why does he want this thing on his ship?”

  “I don’t know,” someone answers.

  I turn my head, moving slowly in my dazed state, and discover that Cortés is on my right, looking gaunt and damaged. Like me, he can’t seem to get his breath, and his mouth is slightly open in a shallow pant. White shows all around his eyes, and fear has tightened down his face, shaping his cheeks into bony cliffs.

  With what seems like great effort, he lifts one shoulder in half a shrug and manages a head shake. “I don’t know,” he repeats. His gaze finds mine and locks in. “Sorry I didn’t listen.”

  Under normal circumstances, I’m not above a good I told you so, but now I can only nod.

  “I don’t think anything could have stopped him anyway,” I say.

  Cortés, who, after all, knows his father way better than I ever will, gets this closed-off look that twists his mouth into a grimace as he turns away.

  And then the worst possible thing happens, just as the ship dips into another trough and an icy, driving rain begins to fall.

  A roar of triumph rises up from the crew.

  The crane slowly lifts the cage and creates a waterfall as it swings it over the deck and above our heads before depositing it on a half-deck that’s at the tail end of the ship, opposite the wheelhouse. A smaller group of men up there converge on the cage, draping it with something that looks like a protective tarp, and Dr. Baer, whooping with triumph, races up the nearest staircase to direct them.

  Backing away from the rail, I turn to face my friends, taking the time to swipe my windswept hair out of my face and blink away some of the rain. All of us, including M
urphy, stare at each other, and I see my shell-shocked question reflected back in all their faces.

  What happens now?

  “You see?” Captain Romero, grinning broadly and looking like a proud new father, strides over to us with buoyant steps. “What did I tell you? No problems at all! Now we will tuck our new guest into his tank, and he will be safe and sound.”

  Murphy’s mouth opens and closes, and thick cords work in his neck, creating the effect that he’s about to convulse with rage. His cheeks are hollow and his rain-slicked hair is plastered to his skull, making him look older and frailer than ever, and the wild light in his eyes seems quite deranged next to Captain Romero’s joyous calm.

  “Your crewman is dead, man!” he shouts. “Did you not see that poor Juan went like a cow to slaughter?”

  “Ah, Juan,” says Captain Romero, dousing his smile long enough to incline his head in a show of grief that fools no one. “He was a good man. A family man with a wife and two young sons. We will mourn for him, of course.”

  “A widow and young sons?” Murphy rages. “And who will call them and tell them their father is dead, eh? Who’s to put food on their table and shoes on their feet now?”

  Captain Romero hesitates, shrugging. “We will . . . give them a generous pension. Of course.”

  Cortés has been standing next to me, his breath growing steadily harsher, and now he explodes. “You don’t get it!” he yells at his father. “What is wrong with you? Do you not get that Juan didn’t have to die? If we’d just listened to the warnings from Murphy and Bria—”

  A puzzled frown grooves down Captain Romero’s forehead. “But why don’t you get it, I wonder? Why don’t you see that Juan knew there would be risks? Why don’t you see that he’s gone to glory, a hero? Any man would wish the same. I would wish the same. Juan is a hero.”

  Cortés makes a strangled sound, as though this explanation makes him gag. He paces a few steps away and then comes right back to roar in his father’s face. “A hero? Well, I’m betting his kids would be happier with a live average dad who’s there for them than a dead hero dad! I know I would!”

  Captain Romero shakes his head sadly and reaches out to cup Cortés’s pulsing jaw in his hand, but Cortés brushes him off. “Cortés. You are too young to see that sacrifices must be made in the name of progress and science. For the greater good.” He sighs. “I can only hope you’ll understand one day.”

  Cortés stares at his father with the kind of revulsion he might show if he stepped on an engorged leech with his new sneakers. “The only thing I understand is that I don’t understand the first damn thing about you.”

  Captain Romero shrugs again and turns back to Murphy, who’s wearing a similar expression of disgust. “What can I do?” the captain asks.

  Murphy and the rest of us look away.

  After a beat or two, the captain recovers from whatever grief about Juan or heartache about Cortés he was pretending to feel. Clapping his hands together, he rubs them with anticipation.

  “And now, my friends,” he crows, “we will meet the Venator’s latest guest.”

  An hour later, we’ve all followed the captain’s instructions and reconvened in a cabin next to where the tank is contained. I think it must be used for storage, because it’s mostly empty, except for some bins and equipment stacked around the periphery. Once again, we’re all shivering miserably beneath our blankets and a crew member offers us tea laced with brandy for a quick warm-up. This time, I only take a half-sip. I’d rather freeze my butt off than risk the remotest chance of being fuzzy-headed while that thing is on the ship with us.

  Maggie, An and I form a hand-holding unit with Espi, whose shock seems to have swallowed her whole and spit her back out again as a sleepwalker. We are all protective of her now, which is bizarre. If I had the time and inclination to laugh, it’d be pretty funny to remember that a day or so ago, we all hated her guts.

  The guys hover around us, and Murphy keeps a watchful eye on our group.

  Cortés, looking dazed and unmoored, stands by himself.

  At last, a beaming Captain Romero strides in, holds his hands up for silence and waits till he has our attention. “Please forgive the delay. I had to make sure everything went smoothly with getting our new guest into his tank. But now he’s settled, and all is good.”

  We stand there like statues, no one saying anything.

  Captain Romero doesn’t seem to notice our lack of enthusiasm. “And I’ve reported our success to my company. Needless to say, they are very pleased with our work.”

  If he’d been expecting a rousing round of applause, he’s sadly disappointed, because we just stare at him.

  He pauses, his smile slipping fractionally. “So, I see you are all drying off and warming up. But you’re hungry, no? I’m starving myself. I ordered a little supper for us. Chili, I think, to fill our bellies. And hot bread, and of course, champagne. We’re at sea and I am in charge, so we can bend the rules a bit for the minors. It’s Cristal, of course. Nothing but the best for such an occasion.”

  We gape at him. We are all so exhausted, and there are so many things wrong with his thought processes that it would be easier to swim from here to Hawaii than reason with him. But Axel, speaking for the first time in hours, gives it a shot.

  “People are dead. I’m not sure anyone’s in the mood for champagne,” he says quietly, swaying on his feet and making me wonder how much longer he can stand upright. The pale skin beneath his eyes is puffy and so blue-smudged with fatigue that it looks like he’s been beaten. I wonder how his conversation with his mother went, and how she handled the news of her husband’s death.

  The captain looks surprised, as though he’s already forgotten about that small and nasty fact. But it doesn’t take him long to fish something out of his everlasting bag of sweet words.

  “But our dead are heroes. They would want us to honor them by living our lives to the fullest and celebrating this new scientific discovery that will change the world.”

  We exchange disbelieving sidelong glances and shake our heads. No one bothers to correct him this time, not even Axel.

  Captain Romero’s brows quirk with obvious bewilderment.

  The door leading to the tank area swings open, and Dr. Baer strides in. His eyes are bright and his color is high, and I imagine he’s already mentally outlining his scientific paper and trying to decide if something like, say, Baerensis Terrificus is a good name for his precious new species.

  “Have you told them?” he asks Captain Romero without preamble.

  “It’s your discovery.” Captain Romero, beaming with pride, inclines his head. “Be my guest. And I hope that you children realize what a privilege it is for you, that I have decided to share this experience with you rather than keep it for myself. You are grateful, no?”

  “Just tell us about the bleedin’ whale so we can get into dry clothes before we all perish from frostbite,” Murphy says. “Enough with the buildup.”

  “It’s not a whale.” Dr. Baer’s grin is blinding, and he’s aglow with so much excitement that I expect him to do a victory lap around the cabin. “Well, it’s not entirely a whale.”

  “Are we supposed to know what that means, man?” Murphy asks.

  “No.” Dr. Baer’s enthusiasm flickers, but he still manages to eject his words at fifty miles an hour. “I suppose not. I’d better just tell you, not that there’s any easy way to explain. And I want to warn you. When I take you next door to see it—”

  Murphy loses it. “Spit it out!”

  Dr. Baer hesitates before plowing ahead. “It’s a chimera. The one that caused your plane to crash. We’ve been tracking it for days. Which is why we were in the area when your plane went down.”

  Murphy’s face goes slack. The others and I blink at each other. Cortés stills.

  Dr. Baer doesn’t seem to know what to make of this lack of reaction. “A chimera,” he repeats, his smile fading.

  “A chimera is a mythical creature,” S
ammy says dully.

  “True,” Dr. Baer begins. “But in fact—”

  “We read about them in mythology,” Sammy continues. “They have the head of a lion, the body of a goat and the tail of a snake.”

  “A serpent,” Maggie corrects.

  “It’s a female. Don’t forget that,” An adds. “And it breathes fire.”

  “Wow,” Dr. Baer says. “You kids know your stuff—”

  “Dude,” Carter says. “They’re mythological. Which means they don’t really exist.”

  “They exist in the very next room, Carter,” Dr. Baer says with serene triumph. “I’ll show her to you.”

  Maggie cocks her head, considering. “One animal. With the characteristics of three.”

  “That’s correct,” Dr. Baer says.

  “Hang on,” interjects Gray. “How can some lion-headed thing be swimming around in the ocean?”

  Dr. Baer and Captain Romero exchange repressed grins. “This is a salt-water chimera,” Dr. Baer says.

  Espi rouses herself. “A who?”

  “It has features of killer whales, crabs and octopi,” Dr. Baer explains.

  There’s a long pause.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Sammy says flatly. “I thought you were a legit marine biologist.”

  Dr. Baer laughs. “I am. I have the PhD and the six-figure debt from Woods Hole to prove it.” Then his smile slips away and he hesitates. “I’m actually a cryptozoologist.”

  There’s a puzzled silence, probably because no one knows what that is.

  “Oh, come on,” Sammy says, looking disgusted now. “That’s not a real thing.”

  “A what, man?” Murphy asks.

  Dr. Baer opens his mouth, but Sammy speaks first. “A cryptozoologist, which is not a real degree or career. It’s like he’s a professional mythical creature hunter. He looks for things that probably don’t exist. Cryptids. Right, Doc?”

  “Up until the middle of the nineteenth century, people also thought gorillas didn’t exist,” replies Dr. Baer, unfazed.

  “We’ve had enough of your yammering and nonsense theories.” Murphy crosses his arms over his chest and glowers at everyone. “You’re obviously a quack. And if you expect us to believe—”