Monstrum

by Ann Christopher

  I look at the chimera, which has become an even bigger and more grotesque version of itself. Now about ten or fifteen feet tall—God, how can anything grow that fast?—it’s got thicker tentacles and longer legs. A triangular-shaped head with a wider mouth that allows for what looks like twice as many teeth. Tangled teeth that flash white against the darkness and the rain, each one longer than my hand. The new shell is ridged and horned, spiking at the sides and as impregnable as the stone walls of some medieval castle.

  Rising up on its hind legs, it snaps its enormous claws and growls at Murphy.

  Murphy never flinches.

  The first rifle shot pierces the storm’s fury with a sharp crack, but the bullet seems to glance off the top of the chimera’s head without fazing it. The second shot hits its cheek, and I can just make out the shower of blood. The chimera writhes and squeals, making my heart soar. So it can be wounded! If Murphy can just hit it a couple more times. . .

  The chimera folds up its legs and falls to the deck with a crash that makes the ship shudder. Then it retracts into its shell until only its splayed tentacles, claws and gleaming eyes are visible.

  Murphy’s next two shots hit the shell and emit sparks before ricocheting harmlessly away. Cursing, he adjusts his aim and tries to nail it between the eyes with another shot, but the shell’s horny ridge forms a protective shelf.

  Murphy pauses, frowning, and I can tell he’s as stumped and desperate as I am.

  Where is the chimera’s weak spot? How can we kill it now?

  Using its powerful tentacles for traction against the deck, the chimera slowly turns its body toward the glass door. The three of us watch, disbelieving, as the thing slithers a few feet away. Murphy lowers the rifle just enough to exchange a wary glance with me and Cortés, and his expression slides into a smile as the chimera keeps going.

  It’s retreating!

  “Now’s your chance!” Murphy jerks his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing at the dinghy. “Get your asses outta here.”

  Lifting one of its tentacles high like a dog peeing on a hydrant, the chimera expels a dark liquid at Murphy, splashing him squarely across the top of his body.

  Is that . . . ink?

  The stench—a solid force of rotting decay and salt—hits me in a revolting wave.

  Then I see white tendrils of smoke as the ink, or whatever it is, sizzles on Murphy’s flesh.

  Then I hear Murphy’s shrill scream of pain as he recoils and slaps at his face, trying to wipe off the liquid.

  “Murphy!” Cortés shouts.

  The chimera emerges from its shell, stretches its spindly legs to their full height and rears up over Murphy. Its bottom jaw drops open, flashing the razor sharp forest of teeth.

  It leans down, clearly preparing to bite Murphy’s head off as effortlessly as it severed Maggie’s body a few minutes ago.

  “Nooo!” I scream.

  The chimera spews an endless stream of orange and purple flames at Murphy.

  I cover my eyes and back away from the blinding light and heat, but not before I see Murphy ignite.

  My elementary school training kicks in. I look wildly around for something to put the flames out with—extinguisher? Blanket?—but there’s no need. The fire consuming Murphy flares up and dies out as quickly as a short fuse on a stick of dynamite, and the driving rain has no effect on it whatsoever.

  The fire is gone, but the damage is done, and done well.

  Murphy drops, facedown, to the deck.

  The chimera looms, bellowing so loudly it feels as though someone is using a sword to slice through my eardrums. The excruciating noise cranks my agitation level higher, until finally the rage ballooning inside me explodes and shoots shrapnel in all directions.

  That evil monster just killed Murphy.

  And, I swear to God, the next thing to die on this ship will be the chimera.

  Because I’m going to kill it, and I don’t care if it’s the last thing I ever do.

  Raising the panga overhead, I go temporarily insane and sprint for the monster. I don’t know where the courage comes from, but I shriek out a war cry as I charge at it.

  “Bria, no!” Cortés shouts, trying to catch my arm.

  There’s no stopping me.

  My entire universe now consists of the chimera and making it squeal with pain the way Murphy is squealing with pain.

  The chimera hesitates and watches my approach, its ugly black and white head cocked with keen interest. It doesn’t run, and I don’t expect it to.

  This Goliath has already dismissed me as a threat, and that pisses me off even more.

  Too bad it doesn’t know that David won in the end.

  I think it through in the space between one blink and the next. I’ll never reach the head, much as I’d love to cut it off, and the claws and shell protect the body, which means that the only option available to me is–the tentacles.

  Employing strength I didn’t know I had, I swing the panga in a ruthless downward arc with all the brute force I can generate.

  It works.

  The chimera screams with pain. I hear an element of surprise, too, as though it can’t believe I’d actually hurt it after all we’ve been through together. It shrinks back. In the process, its many legs thrash and scramble in a panicked effort to get away from me. The tentacles I’ve severed—there are three of them—fall away from the rest of its body.

  The chimera roars at me, clearly furious.

  I advance on it, determined to go for its head this time.

  “What’re you? Stupid?” Cortés yells. He grabs my arm and gives it a brutal yank. I topple out of the way just as the chimera shoots another blast of fire right where I’d been standing. “Do you have a death wish?”

  “I want to kill it!”

  I struggle, but Cortés has me in an iron grip, locked down tight against his body.

  The chimera, meanwhile, watches us warily and issues another warning blast of fire as it retreats, leaving a bloody trail across the deck. With a final snarl in our direction, it disappears around a corner.

  As soon as it’s gone, Cortés lets me go.

  I drop the panga with a clatter and run for Murphy, whose moans are tattooing themselves inside my ears. He’s managed to roll himself over and is now on his back.

  I fall to my knees beside him, surveying the massive damage.

  The staring bright blue eyes are the only things about him that I can still recognize. Raindrops sizzle as they hit his skin. His hair is gone and his skull and face are charred. The outer shells of his ears are gone, and all that’s left are pitiful holes on the sides of his head. Most of his clothes are gone. His ruined skin hangs off him in blackened strips, leaving a glistening ooze of pink beneath. His arms are bent at the elbows and his fingers are spread wide, toward the sky.

  Maybe he’s reaching for God.

  The fact that he’ll be with Him soon is a foregone conclusion. Even if we sailed this ship right up to the doors of a level-one trauma center, there’d be nothing they could do for him. I don’t have to be a medical professional to know that.

  “Murphy!”

  I sob because this whole scene—watching the death of someone I love—is way too familiar, and I don’t know how many more times in my life I’ll be forced to relive it. I reach for him and catch myself, hovering in a protective crouch. I must touch him and I cannot touch him—I don’t want to add to his pain. I need something else to do with my hands, so I slam my palms on the deck once . . . twice . . . three times. And then once more, because the knifing pain feels so much better than the pain in my chest.

  “Don’t you die on me! You do not have my permission to die! It’s not that bad!”

  This is the worst lie I’ve ever told.

  He stares at me, silent and reproachful.

  “Murphy.” I can’t stop the tears from streaming down my face, but I can hide behind my anger. “You old fool. Why did you do that? Why didn’t you run?”

  Murphy slowly shake
s his head at me, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

  One tear tracks down his temple.

  Cortés stands over me, squeezing my shoulder for comfort.

  With great and protracted effort, Murphy’s mouth opens and the remnants of his voice inch out.

  “H-help . . . me.”

  His intent gaze holds mine.

  I don’t want to understand what he means, but I do.

  I reach for my aquamarine necklace—for some connection to Mona and her strength—but it’s gone and there’s just me, unadorned and scared.

  But I’ll get past it. I’m not going to sit here and let Murphy suffer.

  I take a deep breath and choke back my sobs, as though I’m way braver than I am.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, swiping at my eyes.

  His head moves fractionally in something that might be a nod.

  I take a second to remember the way Murphy rode my butt to make me a better fencer. The way he mercilessly demanded excellence from me in the classroom if I wanted to continue on the team. The way he was, in his gruff way, consistently there for me during Mona’s illness and after her death, even when I refused to admit how much I needed him.

  I open my mouth with no idea what will come out.

  “I love you, Murphy.”

  His eyes crinkle at the edges. The hand nearest me twitches, and, realizing that he wants to touch my cheek, I lower my face. He pats it awkwardly.

  His flesh is still hot.

  “S-sweet . . . l-lass,” he mouths.

  Our gazes hold for another second.

  Then I stand up.

  Cortés wordlessly hands me the panga.

  Moving with sure, efficient movements, I swing it around so the blade points down, twine my fingers around the grip, kneel and plunge the tip deep into the middle of Murphy’s chest.

  His body arches.

  There’s one final twitch, one serrated exhalation, and he leaves me the way Mona, my grandmother, and my mother left me before him.

  His empty eyes stare up at the sky. I throw myself over him, hugging as much of his ruined body as I can reach and hanging on because this will be the only time. I have to let it all out to make up for the time I foolishly wasted.

  “Murphy! Murphy! I told you not to die on me! I still need you! I still—”

  “Bria,” Cortés says quietly.

  “—Need you! I can’t do this without you, Murphy!”

  “Bria. We have to go.”

  Lunging to my feet, I drop the panga and look up, following the direction of Murphy’s frozen gaze. I raise my arms, letting the grief for both Murphy and Maggie come as the rain falls in my face and the wind whips my hair.

  “Why?” I pause for an answer, but if there’s anything up there in the sky or out there in the universe, it doesn’t bother responding. “Why?”

  “Bria.” Cortés is both strangely calm and fiercely intent, yanking my right arm down and giving me a shake. “We have to go. Now.”

  He’s right, I realize, lowering my other arm. We have to get off this ship.

  The chimera could be back any second with a whole new set of tentacles.

  I nod. We link hands, race to the railing, and peer into the thickening fog and unrelenting darkness. I blink, certain that my eyes are lying to me. My heart, meanwhile, judders . . . slows . . . stops.

  There’s no longer any sign of the escort ship.

  All we can see is the faint light of the dinghy as it disappears over the horizon.

  Part IV

  Macbeth: If we should fail?

  Lady Macbeth: We fail?

  But screw your courage to the sticking place,

  And we’ll not fail.

  Macbeth, I, vii, 59-61 (William Shakespeare)

  “At my signal, unleash hell.”

  —Maximus, Gladiator (2000)

  “We are so screwed,” I say dully.

  “Yeah.” Cortés’s voice is harsh with impatience as he moves through the cabin a few minutes later, searching for something. “We will be. With an attitude like that.”His tone pierces my mindless shock. I frown at his back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” he says, now wedging a thick blanket in the space under the closed door and eyeballing some sort of overhead duct system with concern, “that if you’d stop feeling sorry for yourself, look around and use the powerful analytical skills you have inside that brain of yours, you’ll see that we’re still alive. Which means we still have a chance.”

  I glance around for the first time and take a good look at the weapons cabin. If there’s any reason to get excited, I’m not seeing it. “We have weapons. Big whoop. All that means is we have plenty of ammo to off each other or commit suicide before the chimera regrows its tentacles and shows up to eat us.”

  Grimacing, he shakes his head, reaches past the shattered glass in the gun cabinet and extracts one of the hairier looking rifles. “Your plan sucks. My plan is for us to stay alive long enough to get rescued, so that’s the one we’re going with. Ever shot a rifle? It’s not that hard.”

  I gape at him. “‘Get rescued’? By who? The rescue fairy?”

  “No, genius.” He grabs a box of ammo. “If you’ll recall, Murphy radioed for help before . . .”

  “Before he was burned to a crispy critter?” I ask, choking on my grief. Cortés stares at me, his face tightening. “Well, that’s great, and all, but how do we know anyone’s really looking for us? In this storm? Please. And if they are looking for us, what’re the chances they’ll find us anytime soon? And even if they are on their way and get here in fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes is still plenty of time for that monster to—what?”

  I hold up my fingers and use them to tick off each option. “Strangle, bleed, dismember, disembowel or immolate us to death? Am I missing anything?”

  With a roar, Cortés throws the box to the floor, where the enormous bullets scatter and ricochet like popcorn. I jump and cry out, but he ignores it.

  “Well, what do you suggest?” he thunders. “You think your precious Murphy just got himself fried while trying to save our lives, only so we could give up without a fight? And what about your dead foster mother? You think she’d be proud of your sniveling right now?”

  “I’m not sniveling!” I shout. But he’s not listening.

  “Time for me to rescue your ass again.” Picking up several of the bullets, he shakes his head with unmistakable disgust and starts jamming them into a clip. “Typical.”

  I seethe, wanting to smash his head in, but that would probably end badly for me, and, even if it didn’t, the last thing I want is to be alone on the ship with the chimera. So instead, I snatch the rifle out of his hand—whoa, it’s pretty heavy—and give him a hard shove to the shoulder.

  “Gimme that. Where’s the trigger? This thingy here?”

  “Hey! It’s not a toy! Be careful!” He snatches the rifle back and holds it out of my reach.

  “I don’t want to be killed by you any more than I want to be killed by that fucking chimera!”

  “Well, I need a weapon, too!” I holler.

  “Over there,” he says indifferently. He points me to a nearby cabinet where the remaining blades gleam. Then he rests the rifle against his shoulder and goes back to work on the clip. “You’re good with sharps. We still have the panga, but you may need something else. For backup.”

  Still riled, I’m in no mood to be softened by a compliment. “Oh, I get it. Just because I’m a girl, you think I can’t—”

  His head comes up at that. “‘If only you had been born a man,’“ he recites, dark eyes flashing, “‘what a Caesar you would have made.’”

  My jaw drops, and all my anger whooshes away.

  He pauses, a dull flush creeping over his cheeks. “You need to shut up and choose a weapon.”

  “That’s from Gladiator,” I gasp. “The emperor says it to his daughter.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s one of my favorite movies.”


  Long pause.

  “Mine, too.”

  I hesitate. “Do you really think that? About me, I mean?”

  He hesitates. By now his entire face is a striking shade of red, as though a lobster had mated with a fire truck, but he holds my gaze. Looking into his eyes right now, there’s no way I can doubt his sincerity.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  A lightbulb goes off over my head just as a lump forms in my throat. “Hang on. You did all of that on purpose, didn’t you? Goaded me out of my fear just like you did when you wanted me to get into the dinghy?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You bastard!”

  He shrugs. “It worked, didn’t it? I had another quote about courage ready, just in case. From my favorite play. But it’s sexist and I didn’t think you’d appreciate the comparison to Lady Macbeth. We did a whole unit on it in English last fall.”

  Something inside me whirls dizzyingly. “Lady Macbeth?”

  Another, longer pause. A delicious pause.

  He steps closer, his voice dropping. “‘Bring forth men-children only;/For thy undaunted mettle should compose/Nothing but males.”

  I’m frozen for one arrested second, and then a wild recklessness washes over me. Reaching up, I palm his hard cheekbones and stand on tiptoe.

  With a low hum in his throat, he wraps his arms around my waist and effortlessly hefts me up to his level. I stare, unabashed, at his brilliant, long-lashed brown eyes, straight nose and lush lips, and he stares at me just as hungrily.

  And then we come together in a kiss that’s long, deep and as electrifying as a forked bolt of lightning directly to my brain. For this one second out of time, I let myself go and drown in him, surrendering to the firm pressure of his lips . . . the sweep of his tongue . . . the hard warmth of his body against mine . . . the exquisite feel of him, and the feeling of us, together.

  Finally he drops me back to my wobbly feet and stares at me again, his expression turbulent.

  “We don’t have time for this.” His voice is rough.

  “I know,” I say, touching my lips.

  “Don’t wipe it off,” he says urgently.

  “I was rubbing it in.”

  With a low curse, he grabs me and pulls me in for another frenzied kiss, his fingers stroking across my face and burrowing into my hair.