Monstrum

by Ann Christopher

  Then he lets me go.

  Breathless, we stare at each other.

  “I’m going to want more of that,” he tells me. “A lot more. So make sure you stay alive. Got it?”

  I nod.

  He doesn’t look convinced. “Bria. Promise you’ll be careful.”

  “I promise. Now you.”

  “If you’re my reward? You got it.” He gives me a tiny shove toward the blades, dissipating the prickly heat that’s running up and down my limbs. “Go on. For all we know, the chimera’s camouflaged and in the room with us right now.”

  I flinch and nervously look around for signs of the thing. “Thanks for the reminder. So our plan is to stay in here, weapon up and hope for a quick rescue?”

  “No,” he says grimly. “Our plan is to weapon up and get to the communications cabin, where we send another SOS, just to be sure.”

  “Get to the communications cabin,” I echo, my hand stilling just as I reach the cabinet. I try to act like it’s no big deal, but this of course means leaving the relative safety of where we are now and heading into the great unknown with no idea where the chimera is lurking. Anxiety grabs me again, making my hands shake. I clasp my hands together and remind myself that the communications cabin is right next door. “Right. Okay.”

  Cortés glances at me over his shoulder and notices, of course.

  “What?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s nothing. If I tell you, you’ll call me a coward again.”

  “You’re not a coward,” he says flatly. “Tell me.”

  My fingers go to my throat, to the spot where my necklace no longer hangs, and I miss Mona all the more.

  “When Mona got sick?” I begin slowly. “She was in a lot of pain. They thought it was an ulcer at first and sent us home with, I don’t know, some prescription antacids. And then they got a bunch more tests back, read the scans, and told us to get back to the hospital now.” I shrug helplessly. “That was scary.”

  Cortés keeps quiet, watching me.

  “And then they told us she had two weeks to live, and that was scary.”

  He makes an indistinct, pained noise.

  “And then she lived eight weeks, getting worse the whole time, and that was scary. Then she died, and now I’m all alone in the world, and that’s scary.”

  Cortés waits.

  “So,” I say, only now realizing where I was going with this, “I guess I’d thought I’d already lived through the scariest time in my life.” I try to smile and fail miserably. “Guess I was wrong, huh?”

  “You’re wrong about two things,” he says quietly, “because you’re not alone in the world.”

  That does make me smile.

  After a minute, we go back to our weapons collection process.

  “I know my friends are flipping out right now, about the dinghy leaving us and all.”

  “I’m sure Gray is flipping out,” he mutters.

  I ignore that the way I ignore how my chest aches at the mention of Gray’s name.

  “I just wish they were back with us. Then we’d have help and we wouldn’t be so outmatched—”

  There’s a thundering knock on the door.

  My entire body jerks. “Oh, my God.”

  We scramble to get ready for an attack. I grab the panga again and Cortés backs up a step and aims his rifle at the door.

  “What if it’s the chimera?” I ask.

  “The chimera doesn’t knock.”

  “How do we know?”

  His face darkens. “Who is it?” he shouts.

  “Dr. Baer,” comes the muffled answer. “Let me in! Hurry!”

  Cortés and I gape at each other.

  Cortés recovers first, moving for the door.

  “Wait!” I screech, hurrying to intercept him. “Don’t just open it! What if it’s a trap?”

  “It’s not a trap,” Dr. Baer answers wearily.

  After a brief hesitation, Cortés pushes me behind him and out of the way. He unlocks the door and yanks it open, grabs a spluttering and surprised Dr. Baer by the collar, drags him inside, and thrusts him against the wall, pinning him there by the throat.

  I quickly glance up and down the corridor, see nothing and slam and relock the door.

  “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t strangle you now for not destroying that thing when you had the chance,” Cortés snarls in the doctor’s reddening face. I notice that Dr. Baer’s got a nasty and oozing gash on his temple, probably from when the captain hit him earlier.

  He takes a deep breath and uses an index finger to shove his wire glasses farther up his nose.

  “Because I have an idea how I can kill the bitch now,” he tells us.

  Cortés turns Dr. Baer loose with a rough shove that shows he’s in no mood for forgiveness just yet. “What happened to you, anyway? We saw you hit the deck and slide out of sight.”

  Dr. Baer gingerly touches his wound. “Yeah. I blacked out for a minute, I think. When I came to, the chimera was running off somewhere. It looked funny.”

  “Bria wounded it.” There’s an unmistakable note of pride in Cortés’s voice and expression as he glances at me. “Sliced off three of its tentacles.”

  “Nice work, Bria.” Dr. Baer quickly turns to look at me, then winces, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping the nearest table for support. “Whoa.”

  My stomach drops with alarm. “What is it? Your head?”

  Dr. Baer waves a hand. “It’s no big deal. I probably have a concussion. How do my pupils look?”

  Cortés leans in to check. “Dilated. You need some . . . I don’t know, pain meds, or something?”

  Dr. Baer almost smiles. “Yeah. Because a head injury is the biggest threat to my health and well-being right now.” He straightens his collar and takes a good look around the cabin. A worried shadow moves over his face. “Hang on. Where’s everyone else?”

  “The others bailed with the crew,” I tell him.

  Dr. Baer brightens. “Good.” He thinks for a second, then frowns. “Wait. Murphy left you two behind?”

  “Murphy couldn’t do anything once the chimera breathed purple fire on him and turned him into a fireball.” I pause, enjoying the slow drain of color from Dr. Baer’s face. I want him to wallow in his guilt until it drowns him. “Murphy’s dead. He had a horrible death. I had to—”

  I trail off, shaking my head because I’m not ready to confess that I had to put Murphy out of his misery.

  Dr. Baer looks stricken.

  “Cat got your tongue?” I say, running on adrenaline and righteous anger. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes or something for your scientific paper on the chimera? ‘Specimen can breathe fire,’ right? ‘Specimen can regenerate lost limbs and grow to a height of fifteen feet in fifteen minutes.’ How’s that sound? I think I’m getting the hang of it, don’t you? I think I’d make a pretty good marine biologist, too, Doc.”

  Silence from Dr. Baer, who hangs his head and swipes his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Say something!” I screech. Cortés moves closer to me, but I edge away. All of my attention is riveted on Dr. Baer. “Your precious creature killed someone else I love! First Maggie, one of my best friends, and now Murphy! So you need to say something!”

  Dr. Baer raises his head, stares at me with watery blue eyes and shrugs helplessly.

  “I’m sorry,” he says in a small, sad voice. “I liked him. He was a good man from what I saw.”

  “He was a good man!” I shout, incensed by this display of emotion, which is too little and way too late. “Did you know your precious Mindy could do that? Make like a dragon?”

  “No,” Dr. Baer admits slowly, running a hand over his nape. “I’d feared, but . . . No.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Cortés asks, sneering. “And you’re the guy who’s going to kill the thing? Yeah. Good luck with that.”

  “Look, Cortés, I’m no kamikaze.” Dr. Baer’s voice hardens with determination. “But it’s my responsibil
ity to kill the chimera or die trying. I’m not going to be the guy who unleashes that thing on the world.”

  I stare at Dr. Baer with unwilling fascination. Angry red blotches mingle with his freckles, his jaw is tight and a five o’clock shadow is creeping over his chin. He looks older, as though he’s gained a lifetime’s worth of wisdom and enlightenment in the last several hours. I find myself softening a little.

  Respecting him a little.

  I shift on my feet. Cortés and I exchange ambivalent glances.

  “Look,” Cortés says finally. “It’s too late for us to be worried about killing the thing. We don’t know what it can do, and even if we did, we don’t have the manpower. And you can’t take that thing on by yourself, Doc. At this point, we just need to stay alive long enough to get rescued.”

  Something comes over me. Cortés is right. I know that. But Dr. Baer is also right—someone’s got to kill the chimera. I may not be Dr. Baer’s biggest fan but, if he’s on the same page about offing the chimera, then he’s our new BFF as far as I’m concerned.

  “I don’t know,” I tell Cortés. “I mean, why can’t we do both? The chimera’s already wounded, right? Maybe this is our one big chance to do humanity a favor and wipe the thing off the earth.”

  Cortés looks at me as though I’ve shown up wearing a Santa Claus suit. “We’re kids, Bria. Not Superman and Wonder Woman.”

  “I know that,” I say impatiently.

  “Apparently you don’t!” Cortés roars. “How are we supposed to off the chimera without getting sliced and diced? Not to mention the fact that the ship is piloting itself right now. For all we know, we’re about to run aground on some reef and drown before the chimera can kill us.”

  “I have no idea. He’s the one with all the answers,” I say, pointing to Dr. Baer.

  “I think we should hear him out.”

  “Yeah? Well, here’s my first question,” Cortés says. “Have you seen my father?”

  “He was on his way to the bridge,” Dr. Baer says. “A couple of the crew stayed with him. They’re trying to stick to the original plan and get the ship down to Rio. I came to find you.”

  Cortés doesn’t say anything, but I know him well enough now to see the telltale flicker of relief in his eyes. He looks a little shaky, so I speak for both of us.

  “Murphy was able to put out an SOS before all hell broke loose,” I tell Dr. Baer. “We want to get to the communications cabin. Make sure someone’s on the way.”

  “I’ll help you,” Dr. Baer says. He pauses, scrunching up his face as another wave of pain hits him. He takes a deep breath. “And then I’m going after the chimera.”

  “You can’t go after anything!” I cry. Common sense—and fear—have won the day with me. “I mean, I want to kill the chimera as much as anyone, but I’m a kid and you’re hurt!”

  “I’m not—”

  “Get real!” I say. “Look at you! You’ve got a concussion, and you can barely even stand up straight. You probably can’t count the number of fingers I’m holding up, much less try to find the chimera on this big ship.”

  “I know where she is,” Dr. Baer says. “She’s holed up behind the drum winches on the deck. That’s where she went to lick her wounds. Hopefully she’s still there.”

  This is not what I wanted to hear. I think fast, certain that Dr. Baer will be committing suicide if he goes after the monster.

  “Great. Let’s say she’s still there,” I say reasonably. “There’s no way you can kill her by yourself in your condition.”

  Dr. Baer stares at me. “See that?”

  And he points to a rocket launcher sitting in the far corner.

  “Ready?” Baer asks me and Cortés.

  “Yeah,” Cortés answers.

  I nod shakily, which is quite the accomplishment because I’m choked with fear. A scream of terror is wedged in my tight throat, locked, loaded and ready for just the right moment, and only my determination not to be the weak link in this small chain is keeping me calm.

  We’ve weaponed up. I’ve got the panga gripped in my hand and a couple of other machetes strapped to my back, just in case. Plus, Cortés produced a fanny pack from one of the cabinets and strapped it to my waist. Inside are three hand grenades. Yes, hand grenades. They look like gray metal apples with ugly hardware attached to the top. According to Cortés, only a quick pull of the pin, three seconds and thirty meters—as if I can accurately convert meters to feet while under extreme stress—separate me from death by explosion rather than by chimera. He’s sworn to me that I won’t blow myself up by, say, tripping and falling on them, but I’m not feeling particularly reassured.

  The rocket launcher strapped to Baer’s back also adds to my general feeling of panic. For one thing, Cortés has explained that all you need to do to use the rocket, which looks like a three-foot-long gray metal tube with ridges on the ends, is to pull the pin, settle it on your shoulder, aim, and fire. That’s it. And then a projectile intended to blow up armored vehicles is on its way, creating a blast radius behind it strong enough to take out all three of us if we’re not careful.

  And Baer, who has no weapons training that I know of, is in charge of it.

  Behind me, Cortés is checking his assault rifle.

  I have the wild thought that it might be more entertaining for the chimera to hang back for a bit, cook up a bag or two of popcorn and watch us accidentally take each other out with weapons we aren’t qualified to use. A burst of semi-hysterical laughter lodges in my throat next to the silent scream, but I manage to overcome both.

  “Let’s rock,” Baer says grimly, nodding at me.

  I dart past him, unlock the cabin door and swing it open, then resume my place in our back-to-back triangular formation. We want to be able to see whatever might be coming at us from any angle. Baer, staring down the sights of his assault rifle, leads us in our noiseless creep down the corridor as we do our best impersonations of SEALs sweeping the area for terrorists.

  There’s nothing out here.

  Overhead lights show no sign of life in either direction, other than the slick streaks of water the crew left on the floor during the chaos of the evacuation, and the only sound is the ship’s eerie creak as it rises and falls with the waves. It takes us ten seconds, tops, to ease down to the huge communications cabin and through its open door, and then we’re inside. A quick search under the tables and chairs reveals nothing. I spare a quick thought for Duke and assume he woke up in time to escape with the rest of the crew. I find myself breathing a partial sigh of relief even though I can’t get rid of the eerie prickle of nerves up the back of my neck.

  At Baer’s signal, I turn to lock the door behind us—hang on. The door is still open, swaying back and forth with the ship’s motion. Didn’t I shut it when we came in? Or . . . no. I guess I didn’t. Just in case, I do another sweep, looking in all directions— up and down the corridor again, the walls, the pipes across the ceiling, under the table . . . there’s nothing.

  I swing the door shut and lock it. Some of the tension eases from my muscles.

  “That was too easy,” Cortés mutters, echoing my thoughts exactly.

  “We’ve earned some easy.” Baer slings his rifle over his shoulder and heads straight for the computer system, which looks as though a 747’s cockpit has mated with an Apple store. I wouldn’t know what to make of it, but he seems to know what he’s doing. “Bria, keep your eye on the window. Let us know if anything moves.”

  “Got it,” I say, taking a wide-legged stance in front of the plate glass window. I slowly turn my head back and forth, watching both ends of the corridor, but there’s no sign of life.

  That’s when we hear it:

  The jarring crackle of static and then a garbled male voice coming over the radio’s speakers. “. . . Ooo you oppee?”

  The three of us exchange excited glances before Baer hits a button and speaks.

  “Mayday. Mayday. This is the Venator, do you copy? Over.”

  We
wait, breathless.

  More static, then, “Iss is protor.” Static. Static. Static. “Ooo ear me?”

  “Say again.” Baer frowns, leans closer to the speaker and cocks his head, listening hard. “I repeat: say again.”

  “Well, it’s about bloody time, Venator!” An English-accented voice, clipped but relieved, fills the cabin. Baer, Cortés and I grin and high-five each other. I’m dizzy with relief. “This is the Proeliator, and we were about to give you up for lost. What’s your status? Over.”

  “Proeliator?” Baer’s smile widens even further, even as he sags against the table with obvious relief. “Is that you, Wilkinson?”

  A pause.

  “Never say it’s Eli Baer, you incompetent prat!”

  “I’ve missed you, too, Wilkie,” Baer replies. To Cortés and me he adds, in an undertone, “We worked together. Long story. Now’s not the time.” Then he turns back to the radio. “We’re in deep shit, Wilkie. We need you to swing by and pick us up.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing we’ve been tracking your coordinates and are in the neighborhood, then, isn’t it?” Wilkinson asks.

  “You have no idea,” Baer mutters. “What’s your ETA? We’re operating with less than a skeleton crew, if that, and the storm’s knocking the ship around. And we’ve got even bigger problems than that.”

  I’d wondered what, if anything, Baer would tell the outside world about the chimera. The whole story would be about as believable as announcing that a mermaid riding a golden unicorn had hang-glided onto the deck.

  After a silence that’s so long and heavy that I’m beginning to wonder if we’re having radio problems again, we hear Wilkinson.

  “You . . . didn’t get one, did you, Baer?”

  “We got one,” Baer says grimly.

  Cortés and I exchange looks of drop-jawed astonishment. Wilkinson knows about chimeras? How can that be?

  “I told you—long story,” Baer tells us.

  “It’ll be an hour or more before we can get there,” Wilkinson says. “It’s not exactly great weather for—”

  Static. Static. Static.