Monstrum

by Ann Christopher

  An has a point. It took the concerted efforts of all us kids to get her away from that tank and settled into a chair long enough for the ship’s doctor to inject her with a mild sedative. Then we had to walk her down to the cabin, which was no mean feat given her growing drowsiness and the ship’s tendency to impersonate a roller coaster now that the storm is kicking up.

  “I vote we let her sleep,” Maggie says. “Bria?”

  “I guess,” I say, but then my simmering anxiety gets the best of me for no real reason that I can detect. “I don’t know. I’m going to try again.

  “Espi?” I approach her bed quietly and study her still face. The nightstand lamp is just bright enough for me to appreciate how pale she is, and I’m reminded of Snow White, with her raven’s wing hair and white skin. Only Espi’s skin has always been a smooth olive. “Espi? You awake?”

  “Hmm?”

  I shoot the others a relieved smile and thumbs-up.

  “How’re you doing?” I ask.

  “Tired,” she murmurs without opening her eyes. “I’m so . . . so tired.”

  “I know,” I say. “You’ve had a rough day.”

  “Bria?” Her lids flutter open, revealing long-lashed brown eyes that seem unnaturally bright, and she holds her hand out to me. “I know . . . you don’t like me, but will you . . . sit with me?”

  I don’t move.

  “Ah,” I say weakly, struggling not to drown in my discomfort.

  First of all, why is she bringing up our past animosities now? Hasn’t the slate been washed clean by everything we’ve been through together since we got on that plane in the Bahamas? Second, why can’t I deflect her comment with a snappy comeback—I don’t think about you enough to dislike you, honey—or a quick lie—Espi! Of course I don’t hate you—why would you think that?—the way I normally would?

  Why does she look so pale? And should the sedative make her slur her words and speak so slowly like that?

  “I don’t not like you. . .” I try.

  She smiles, letting her lids drift closed. “You were . . . jealous of me because I’m prettier than you are. More . . . popular. Right?”

  I feel my lips twist up, and this galling truth tastes bitter on the back of my tongue.

  Her eyes open again. She nails me with a gaze that’s direct and honest. “And I was jealous of you because . . . you’re . . . you.”

  I wait with reluctant and unwilling interest, but she doesn’t offer anything else.

  “What does that mean?” I ask, cheeks burning and uncomfortably aware of Maggie and An hovering in the background.

  “Sit . . . with me and I’ll . . . tell . . . you.”

  Frowning, I sit on the edge of the bed, at her hip, hoping that will put an end to her demands for closeness, but no such luck. She reaches for me, encasing my hand in hers.

  Her hand is shockingly cold. It’s like plunging my fingers into an ice bucket.

  My concern turns to alarm. “Espi,” I say, “we really need to get you warmed up in the shower.”

  “It was because you’re . . . smarter. And . . . and . . . funnier. And . . . stronger.” Her eyes drift closed again and she sighs, long and deep. I’m torn between wanting her to rest and wondering if she’s going into shock or something, because I really don’t think she should be this cold. “But maybe . . . we can be . . . friends . . . now.”

  “Yeah, sure, of course we’re friends,” I say automatically, rubbing her hand between both of mine and trying to warm her up a little. “But the main thing right now is warming you up.”

  She exhales softly, not answering.

  “Espi?”

  No answer.

  “Hey, guys?” I twist at the waist to look at Maggie and An over my shoulder. “Doesn’t she look way too pale to you? Look at her. Her skin’s the same color as the pillow. That’s not normal, is it?”

  They hurry over to look just as Espi rouses herself. “Bree,” she breathes.

  Her voice is now so faint that I have to lean down close to her lips to hear what she’s saying. “Yeah? Do you need something?”

  “We’ll get to . . . Eleuthera . . . in the . . . morning . . . right?”

  “Yep.” I smooth her hair back from her face, and it’s as sleek and shiny black as a wet seal’s pelt. I’d kill for hair this beautiful. “We’ll be there when you wake up.”

  Opening her eyes, she looks to me, and then to something in the distance that only she can see. “Papi . . . will . . . be there. To . . .meet . . . us-sss.”

  There’s something about the long exhale and lingering hiss at the end of that last word that weighs me down with dread, and that’s before I notice that her eyes seem vacant now when they were so bright just a heartbeat ago.

  “Espi?” I ask, my voice quavery.

  No answer.

  “Espi?” I try to pull my hand free so I can touch her face, but her grip has locked tight, and it takes a fair chunk of my strength to pull it free. A terrible thought moves out of the shadows and into the spotlight, where I can no longer pretend not to see it.

  What if she’s . . . dead?

  “Espi!”

  I shake her shoulder. Her eyes don’t blink or otherwise move, but her head lolls to one side and her hair slides away from her neck.

  That’s when I see it: an inflamed pink circular mark on her neck, about the size of a quarter—or an octopus sucker—with a bright red drop of blood in the center.

  And that’s when I hear it: the squelchy sound—soft, but distinct—of something fleshy hitting the floor.

  “Bria?” someone asks. Footsteps come closer. “What’s going on?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t answer.

  Still uncomprehending, I blink, slowly bend my head to look at the floor, and discover the wet trail that begins at the head of Espi’s bed, snakes across the linoleum floor, and disappears beneath the closed cabin door.

  I blink again, and it all comes together.

  “Espi!”

  I flip her limp body onto her back and lace my fingers together so I can begin chest compressions even though I know it’s useless, because you can’t resuscitate a person who’s lost all their blood. But I have to do something to reverse what I think just happened.

  There’s no way I sat here and had no idea that that evil creature was drinking Espi’s blood.

  No way.

  “Espi-iii!” I scream.

  If anyone on the ship was asleep, my grief-stricken shrieks, which are quickly joined by wails from An and Maggie, wake them within seconds.

  “Bria!” The first person to bang through our door is Cortés, who takes in the whole scene with one sweeping glance and strides over to me before I can fully register his presence. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s not me.” I give up on the futile chest compressions and just sit there, leaned over Espi in a protective stance. “Espi’s dead,” I tell him. “That thing killed her.”

  Nodding sharply, he raises something long and thin that he brought with him—a baseball bat, I realize—and turns in a slow circle. “Where is it?”

  “It’s gone now—” I begin.

  “What the bloody hell’s happened?”

  A bleary-eyed Murphy, whose hair now surrounds his head in an electrified cotton fluff, bursts into the room with the boys hot on his heels. When they get a good look at me and Espi, though, they all stop dead. All except Gray, who steps around them, reaches out a hand to me, and tries to pull me up.

  “No.” Ducking my head to hide a new wave of sobs, I smooth her thick hair away from her empty face. “I don’t want to leave her.”

  “It’s okay,” Gray says gently. “She’s with God and her mom now. She doesn’t need us.”

  He’s right, of course. But I can’t let her go without pressing a kiss to her forehead, which is as icy as her hand was, I realize, choking off another sob.

  Taking Gray’s hand, I let him pull me up and into his hard embrace, where the infusion of his strength is almost magical. Gr
ay and I have always been there for each other, and we always will be—no stupid argument can change that. I linger against the warmth of his body, freshly scented with soap from his shower, for one weak second, and keep my eyes squeezed shut against the circle of devastated faces surrounding us.

  “Esperanza Torres is not . . .” Murphy’s voice is broken. Incredulous. I open my eyes to find him creeping toward the bed with an old man’s hesitant gait, one hand outstretched and the other massaging his chest. “She’s not—”

  “What seems to be the problem in this cabin?” Captain Romero, followed closely by one of his officers, storms through the door, bringing his anger, flashing eyes and clipped voice with him. The air around us changes immediately, turning hostile and unforgiving. It’s as though he’s embodied the hurricane, swallowed it whole and now radiates its negativity through his pores. “Did I not tell you, Murphy, to keep these children under control? I’m far too busy to deal with this!”

  This pompous speech is way more than I can take right now. Pushing myself away from Gray, and excruciatingly aware of Cortés’s unfathomable gaze leveled at the two of us, I wheel around and point an accusing finger at the captain.

  “It’s your fault that thing killed her! We told you not to bring it on the ship, and now it’s loose!”

  “Impossible,” Captain Romero says flatly, taking a closer look at Espi’s staring eyes. “How unfortunate. What’s happened to the girl?”

  “Her name is Espi!” I shout. “And I just told you! Your chimera killed her! And it’s probably loose right now, roaming around your ship and searching for someone else’s blood to suck!”

  The captain gives me a disdainful look. “The chimera is safely in the tank, where it has been all night. Dr. Baer is with it. And at any rate, it does not suck blood. It is not a vampire.”

  “We don’t know what that thing can do!” Rising desperation—I knew he’d never believe me—keeps me loud and shrill. “You admitted it yourselves!”

  “For God’s sake, man, check,” Murphy says, recovering from his momentary shock. His cheeks are bright red again, a sure sign that he’s regained his fighting spirit. “Until we figure out what’s happened to the lass, at least send someone to check on the beast’s whereabouts.”

  Captain Romero’s brows contract and his eyes narrow, but he waves a hand at his officer. The man nods and hurries out the door, which makes me feel better. Hopefully they’ll put out a ship-wide APB or some such on the chimera, and it’ll be recaptured before it can harm anyone else.

  “Now,” the captain says. “Tell me what happened.”

  I swipe at my wet eyes and struggle against my simmering emotions. “We got to the cabin. Espi complained about feeling tired. She was really cold and started slurring her words. Her breathing sounded terrible. Really labored. Right?”

  I turn to Maggie and An for support, and they both nod quickly. “And she was pale,” An adds.

  “There was no color in her face at all,” Maggie says.

  “So then her breathing stopped, and I was trying to help her, and that’s when I saw it,” I continue. “Her neck, I mean. Look.”

  I hate displaying Espi’s wound almost as much as I hate the way everyone crowds around and gawks at her, but there’s no way out of it. Nor is there any way around the fact that, a mere five minutes after her death, she’s been reduced to a scientific specimen, the same as a cadaver on a stainless steel table in any gross anatomy class.

  “Here it is,” I say, pointing.

  Captain Romero frowns down at the round mark, which is positioned exactly over her jugular vein like some obscene hickey.

  We wait anxiously.

  At last the captain looks up and shrugs. “It is a mark. So what? Any leech could have done it.”

  My jaw hits the floor just as a round of angry muttering ripples through my circle of friends. “A leech? And it just--what? Decided to climb up the ladder and onto the boat?”

  “It must have latched onto the girl when you went into the water,” the captain supplies easily. “It must have been there for hours.”

  Murphy steps forward and jabs the captain’s chest with a crinkled and arthritis-knotted index finger, to no discernible effect. “Now, listen, man,” he says. “I’ve coached Bria Hunter for years, and she’s no liar, nor is she a hysteric. If she says the chimera killed Esperanza Torres, then you can take that to the bank.”

  My gratitude for this fervent vote of confidence is short-lived.

  “Is that so?” Captain Romero asks. There’s a vague note of boredom in his voice now, and I find myself hating him harder than I’ve hated anything since the cancer that devoured Mona from the inside out. “And how can we be so sure? Did your precious Bria Hunter see the chimera prey on the poor girl? If so, she hasn’t mentioned it.”

  Everyone looks at me.

  “I . . . didn’t actually see it,” I confess reluctantly, my cheeks heating up. Several of my friends exchange uncertain glances, but I ignore any signs of doubt, including my own. “I heard it.”

  Captain Romero crams two tons of derision into one raised eyebrow. “You heard it? What does that mean, precisely?”

  I hitch up my chin and plow ahead, determined not to wither under this cross-examination. “I heard a wet, flopping sound, as though it had dropped off her bed after she was dead. And then I saw a trail of slime across the floor toward the door.”

  We all automatically look down at the floor, but there’s nothing to see. My heart sinks. “The trail probably got all messed up when everyone walked into the room. I know what I saw and heard, though.”

  “Indeed,” Captain Romero says. “And what did your friends see and hear, pray tell?”

  An ducks her head so she doesn’t have to meet my gaze and shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Nothing,” she admits.

  Maggie, whose ears are beet purple, is my last hope, but she also shakes her head. “I didn’t see or hear anything, either.” Sorry, she mouths to me.

  I nod at her, dejected.

  Captain Romero presses his index finger to his lips and makes a show of looking thoughtful. “And was the door open or closed at the time of the chimera’s alleged visit, I wonder?”

  I hesitate because I know where this is going. “Closed.”

  Captain Romero stares at me for several endless beats. I know better than to show him any weakness, but I have a hard time maintaining eye contact with him. His frigid stare is like an icicle stabbing me through the face, and it’s not a stretch to imagine him choking me the way he choked his own son earlier.

  “Of course,” he says finally, smirking, “we mustn’t forget that the creature has long tentacles. Perhaps it used one to turn the knob as it came and went? Oh, but you missed that, didn’t you, because you saw nothing at all.”

  My mouth opens to begin my scathing response, but the wall phone beeps before I can say anything.

  “One moment,” Captain Romero says, answering the phone with a sharp, “Yes,” and then listening for half a second.

  I hold my breath. We all go absolutely still, waiting. Maggie rests her hand on my arm, and the soft pressure is reassuring.

  Captain Romero hangs up and faces me again, his expression inscrutable. “Dr. Baer wants to see us. Immediately.”

  “I knew it!” I cry, triumph making me a little reckless.

  Without wondering whether the chimera might be waiting around the nearest corner to kill me in some gruesome new way, I wheel around and sprint for the tank cabin and Dr. Baer, who will surely believe my account of Espi’s death.

  A few muttered curses and thundering footsteps tell me that the group is bringing up the rear, but I focus on keeping my footing and gripping the waist-high rail as the ship’s rolling sends me careening from one wall to the other. By the time I barge through the door and into the dim tank cabin, my lungs are ready to burst.

  A couple of armed crewmen stand off to one side, forming an alert guard. Dr. Baer, who is sitting at a corner
desk and typing something into his laptop, looks up as we stream in, but all my attention is focused on the bubbling blue waters and swaying plants inside the tank.

  I stop short, panting and paralyzed with disbelief.

  The chimera is in plain view, lying on the rocks at the bottom with its black and white head resting on its crossed claws and its tentacles wrapped around its shell and body like some bastardized version of a cat’s tail. Its eyes are closed and it is, from all appearances, sleeping peacefully.

  The only things missing from this touching little nocturnal scene are a teddy bear, fuzzy blankie and night-light.

  “I don’t believe it,” I say weakly, pressing a hand to my churning belly. I search the tank’s glass with increasing desperation, looking for a crack, hole or other vulnerable area that could have allowed the thing to escape, but there’s nothing. “It’s not possible. It got out and then got back in again or something. It had to.”

  My friends crowd around me to show their silent support, and I focus on them rather than my own growing doubts. A persistent voice in my head is reminding me that, even though there was the mark on Espi’s neck, I never actually saw the chimera, after all, and hearing a funny noise isn’t exactly rock solid proof of anything.

  Dr. Baer rolls away from his computer, stands and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry about Espi. I don’t know what happened to her, but Mindy can’t escape,” he says.

  “Mindy?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Dr. Baer smiles sheepishly. “I’m calling the chimera after my mother. For now.”

  I catch Cortés’s eye across the sea of faces, and we exchange revolted looks.

  “Anyway,” Dr. Baer continues, “the tank is rock solid. We have two guards posted here at all times.” He gestures at the silent crewmen, who have rifles slung over their shoulders and pistols on their hips. “And I’ve been here all night—”

  “How can you be so sure?” I persist. “We know it can camouflage itself, right? And maybe it can squeeze through the top of the tank or something.”