Monstrum

by Ann Christopher

  “—Ooo ake am deck. An eee can osition ith a—”

  Garbled. Garbled. Garbled.

  A wave of disappointment rolls over me, so powerful and sickening that my belly cramps with it. For one brief second, there was hope. Now it feels like we’re more alone and exposed than ever.

  Baer punches a couple of buttons, his voice rising with renewed frustration. “Come in, Proeliator. Proeliator, do you copy? Proeliator!”

  Cortés edges closer to me. “At least we know they’re coming soon. We just have to stay alive until they get here.”

  I take a deep breath and nod, determined not to give way to the clammy fear that wants to take over. “An hour. We can do that, right?”

  Before Cortés can answer, a new noise comes from the radio.

  A scream.

  A long, shrill, blood-freezing scream of endless agony that trails off into sobbing.

  We all jump, and I am catapulted back to that moment on the plane, when we were forced to listen to the murder of another human being, and there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it.

  “No!” Baer shouts, wild-eyed, as he hits more buttons. “Proeliator? Wilkinson? Come in!”

  Indecipherable moans from the radio.

  “Baer,” Cortés snaps. “Ease up on the radio, man. You keep punching the buttons like that, and you’re going to—Baer!”

  Cortés yanks Baer away from the radio, and they start arguing with each other.

  That’s when I hear another sound:

  Drip . . . drip . . . drip.

  I don’t know why I hear it, but I do.

  “Get off me!” Baer says, shoving at Cortés’s shoulders. “I need to see if I can get him back! Make sure they’re on their way!”

  Cortés is right there, in Baer’s red face. “The thing you need to do is calm down before you break the radio. Where would we be then, genius?”

  I turn, their angry voices and the radio’s crackle receding as I tune into this new sound and try to locate its source. It’s like it’s calling to me. I listen again, harder, and take an uncertain step away from the window and toward the cabin’s far corner.

  Drip . . . drip . . . drip.

  I take another step. Yes. It’s coming from the corner.

  The radio crackles again. Incoherent moaning comes over the speakers, reaching my ears, but only distantly, as though the sound is bent and warped as it comes to me. The other sound, however, is perfectly clear and as loud to me as pealing church bells on Sunday morning.

  Drip . . .

  There are more pipes in the corner, I realize. High overhead, at least twenty feet, and well away from the cabin’s electronics, thick white pipes crisscross the ceiling and stretch down the wall before disappearing into the floor.

  And there’s a shiny wet spot on the floor over there. A growing puddle that makes me wonder if we need to add sinking to our growing list of mortal fears.

  I don’t want to keep going. My heart is racing and my breath is shallow, and I have zero desire to investigate this dim corner of the cabin. But it’s like I’m enthralled, and my feet are slow but they’re still moving.

  Another step.

  “I don’t think that’s Wilkinson anymore,” Baer says slowly.

  “I don’t either,” Cortés says.

  The radio produces more sounds.

  Moaning. Sobbing. And then, horribly, Captain Romero’s broken voice coming from God knows where on the ship.

  “My son,” he says, ending on a whimper that’s nothing like the commanding voice he used to welcome us to his ship. “Cortés. Please. Please, my son. Cortés. You have to help me. Corteeeeeeees!” More ear-piercing screams followed by pleas in Spanish that I have no hope of understanding.

  Cortés goes wild. “It’s my father!” he yells, and I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know that Cortés is the one lunging for the radio now while Baer holds him back. “We have to help him! Let go of me, Baer! Ask him where he is! Ask him!”

  My mouth opens and out comes information I didn’t know I knew:

  “That’s not your father.”

  Cortés doesn’t seem to hear me. He rages at Baer, and I hear the sounds of a scuffle. “Get off me! You’re not going to keep me away from my father! Papi! We’re coming! Just tell us where you are, okay? Just tell us—”

  “Cortés—”

  “I’ll kill you, man! I’ll kill you! Get out of my way!”

  More screams from the radio. Shrill. Agonized. Animalistic.

  I stare at the slick pool on the floor, close enough now to see that the pipes aren’t leaking. And that sure as hell isn’t water.

  It’s blood. Dark red and foul, smelling like fish guts ripening in a tidal pool.

  “Get the rocket,” I say, backing up and raising the panga.

  I may as well be talking to myself. Cortés and Baer are still arguing. The screams from the radio taper off into broken murmurings, and only Cortés’s name is decipherable.

  Other than the shakes racking my body, I am frozen inside myself. Drawing on every molecule of courage I possess, I look up.

  And see nothing but pipes.

  It’s tempting to breathe easier, but I know better by now, and my lungs are incapable of cooperating anyway.

  “Get the rocket!” My shrieking cuts through the noise. “Now!”

  They abruptly stop shouting. At the same time, the voice on the radio fades into static, then the static crackles into nothing.

  For one excruciating second, the harsh rasp of our breath is the only thing I can hear.

  And then a sound rises up from everywhere —from the walls, the floor, the pipes, inside the cells of my body and the hollows of my ears. It’s as though the sounds of the plane crashing into the ocean, Maggie’s butchering and Murphy’s flaming agony have been blended, concentrated and congealed into the monster’s cry. Deafening. Guttural. Murderous. It goes on and on forever, ricocheting off the cabin’s hard surfaces and stabbing through our tender eardrums until all three of us are doubled over, agonized, with our palms pressed to our ears. The panga slips through my nerveless fingers and clatters to the floor, useless.

  I don’t know when it ends. All I know is that a point eventually comes when the mindless pain lessens, leaving only a throbbing inside my skull and a dread that’s worse than anything—anything—I’ve ever felt before.

  Two thoughts consume me as I drop my hands from my ears:

  I’m about to die.

  I don’t want to die.

  My will to live is stronger than my suffocating terror. I squat down and fumble for the panga. I hear the sharp metallic click of someone’s weapon behind me, and I pray that Baer is getting that rocket ready to fire. I’m pretty sure it’s our only real hope, but I plan to do my best with the blade anyway. When my fingers close around the panga’s hilt, a new infusion of courage gives me the strength to tip my face up and look at the pipes that aren’t pipes.

  The pipes pixelate, like a TV with a weak signal.

  As I straighten, widen my stance and raise the panga, the pipes flicker, then disappear altogether.

  I know that the pipes were only an illusion—no, a glamour—but I still whimper like a baby when speckles of black, gray and pink appear.

  I stare.

  The chimera takes up my entire line of sight.

  The door, I think numbly. It snuck in the door behind us. It was here the whole time.

  Not that the hows and whys matter now.

  For one frozen second, I can’t tell where the monster begins or ends—only that it’s everywhere. Those pulsating tentacles, including the stumps of the three that are still bleeding and account for the puddle on the floor, radiate out from some central point and stretch across the ceiling like grotesque spider legs. Hundreds of suckers grip and release, propelling the tentacles as they inch outward from one side of the cabin to the other. The spiked gray crab’s legs, which are folded and bent and remind me of the spindly underside of an umbrella, are perched in t
he far corner, at the exact juncture where wall meets ceiling. The misshapen black and white body gives way to the stocky neck and then, inevitably, to the triangular head and glinting black eyes.

  The thing is staring at me. Grinning. Probably feasting off the stench of our clammy sweat and terror.

  I stare back, riveted by the rows and rows of jagged white razor blades that are the thing’s teeth. I know they’d slice through me as cleanly as the oversized claw sliced through Maggie.

  A ropy trickle of saliva dangles from one corner of its mouth, inching toward the floor, as though it can taste us already.

  “Bria.” Cortés’s voice is calm. Soothing. “We need you to back up. Slowly. So we can get a clear shot at the chimera. Okay?”

  That’s fine by me.

  I never take my eyes off the chimera’s hideous face, so I can see the exact moment its attention diverts from me to Cortés, who is probably leveling his rifle at it. The white patches above its black eyes lower slightly, and its grin turns sour, becoming a leer. Its rumbled warning is a lion’s roar laced with a rampaging elephant’s cry layered with approaching thunder.

  I back up a step.

  The chimera’s gaze flicks back to me.

  My peripheral vision catches a movement beside me. It’s Cortés putting a hand on my arm.

  The chimera’s head juts out. This is all the warning we have before it opens its mouth and shrieks at us, spewing anger the way it spewed fire at Murphy. The pain of a thousand razors slices through my ears and embeds itself deep into my brain. Cortés yanks my arm, pulling me behind him.

  Suddenly the chimera’s legs unfold to their full length, and it scuttles down the wall. The tentacles detach themselves from the ceiling with a wet, suctioning sound. Lightning fast, they cut through the air, whistling like a whip. One of them connects with Baer’s cheek, sending him crashing to the floor. Another tentacle slashes straight down, breaking Cortés’s grip on my arm and making him yell with pain.

  The wriggling tip of a third tentacle, thin as a garter snake, slides down one side of my face, up the other and into my hair before I gather the presence of mind to swing the panga up to try to protect myself. I jerk at the tentacle with one hand and wield the panga with the other, desperate to break free any way I can, but the panga only connects with air. The tentacle is slimy and strong, and a hank of my hair is already wrapped up tight around it, keeping me from doing any real damage. I flail and writhe anyway, yelping as a big chunk of hair and scalp is violently separated from my head.

  With a shout, I swing the panga in a wide arc and connect with a fleshy part of the chimera. It screeches and lets me go. Momentum sends me crashing to my knees on the floor. Ignoring the pain shooting through my head and down to my feet, I rise up to all fours. But I’m quickly forced to cower on the floor again, covering my head as the tentacles spin over me and through the cabin like the blades of a giant blender. Something electronic crashes to the floor in a shower of sparks.

  “Bria!” Cortés scrambles to his feet, keeping his head low, and reaches for me again.

  The second we grab each other’s hands, there’s another flash of movement. The briefest glimmer of gold. And then one of the tentacles connects with Cortés’s face, opening up a long and bloody strip that begins on his neck and ends across his jaw. He screams in agony.

  “Cortés!” I cry, trying to shield him with my body.

  The chimera screeches and lashes again, harder and faster this time, and Cortés is suddenly doubled up with pain, his arms wrapped around his torso as he bleeds from his side.

  “No!” I shriek at the chimera, hot anger making me irrational. “You stop it! Leave Cortés alone!”

  I could swear the thing understands me. It hesitates, cocking its head like a hideous dog. But with a snarling snap of its teeth in my direction that feels like a decisive Screw you, it swipes at Cortés again.

  Cortés goes down, his feet knocked out from under him. His jeans are ripped all down the length of his left leg, revealing a livid red wound.

  “Bria!” Baer shouts. “Get down!”

  I hit the deck without thinking, landing on my belly and throwing my arms over my head as he fires a volley of shots over me. I’m guessing he decided trying to fire the rocket in this small space would destroy the electronics and probably kill us, too, in the process. The cabin seems to explode with showers of sparks as bullets ricochet off the chimera’s armored shell, and then, finally, the blessed, high-pitched wail of a wounded animal. Levering up on my elbows, I see that a shot has glanced off the side of the chimera’s face, missing its eye but opening up a vicious wound that drips with blood.

  Taking advantage of the chimera’s momentary weakness, I scramble to my feet, grab the panga and look around for Cortés.

  He’s three feet away, panting and grimacing, his face dark with determination. “Give me a hand,” he says, and I haul him up, grunting with the effort. He raises his rifle and takes aim.

  He and Baer fire another round of shots, but the chimera’s tentacles swirl faster than bullets fly. A single sweeping blow knocks all three of us off our feet. Winded, I barely keep my head down as that lethal tentacle arcs back the other way.

  “Hey!” Baer cries.

  I look up in time to see the tentacle’s thin tip yank Baer’s wire-rimmed glasses off the end of his nose.

  “Shit!” Baer rages, lurching to his feet and raising the rifle again. Cortés and I heave ourselves up as well. “I need my glasses to see, you piece of shit monster! I need my glasses!”

  The chimera hisses long and low—a warning.

  We freeze.

  The chimera raises that tentacle and waves it in our faces, clearly showing us something. I look carefully, gasping when I discover the trophies. Nested among the pulsating sphincters are Baer’s glasses . . . my necklace . . . Mrs. Torres’s Rolex . . . and Captain Romero’s hefty gold signet ring.

  Cortés’s breath hitches, the sound harsh in the relative silence.

  The chimera smiles crookedly, taunting us with the gleaming blades of its teeth, its power and, worst of all, its cleverness and delight in our vulnerability.

  “That’s my father’s!” Cortés roars. He sways dangerously, wincing against the pain. “What’d you do to him?”

  Another hiss.

  Stiffening with dread, we wait for the chimera’s next move.

  It always has a next move.

  Its smile slowly widening, the chimera turns its head toward the radio.

  “No!” I shout, comprehension dawning.

  With a last, calculating, sidelong glance at us, the chimera opens its mouth wide and spews purple fire that engulfs the radio and catches Baer all along the side of his body.

  Baer’s shrill scream fills the cabin.

  Cortés throws himself against Baer, tackling him to the ground and smothering the flames before they can reach his head. Then I grab Cortés’s hand and yank him up. He, in turn, yanks Baer up. Baer stands and sways, moaning weakly. The rocket launcher is, miraculously, still strapped to his back and hasn’t ignited and blown all of us to kingdom come. The side of Baer’s body is a charcoaled mess, but he’s alive and mobile.

  Cortés jerks his head at my feet. “Get the rifle!”

  Bending quickly, I grab the thing’s strap and sling it over my shoulder with the panga. Now is not the time for me to learn to shoot a rifle; we need to get out of here and regroup.

  Just then, flames hit one of the rifles on the floor. It shudders and pops, bursting with orange fire as the bullets explode from the clip and shoot in all directions.

  We turn and run, sprinting for the cabin door. But the fire has already spread everywhere, with no real rhyme or reason, and the only way out of here is through it.

  Without slowing, I blink the sweat and acrid smoke out of my eyes and shoot a last glance over my shoulder.

  The chimera finishes with another stream of fire, this one aimed at the ceiling. The cabin is an inferno of dancing purple flames
that spread wildly. I realize, with a sickening lurch in my stomach, that it’s only a matter of time—and very little time, at that—before the entire ship goes up in flames.

  Utterly unaffected by the inferno and keeping its triumphant gaze fixed on me, is the chimera.

  And I have the wild thought, just as I turn away and focus on making the leap through the ring of fire, that I can read the chimera’s thoughts . . . that the chimera’s thoughts are following me . . . that the chimera’s single, overriding thought is:

  How do you like me now, bitch?

  The three of us hit the column of fire together. I’d hoped to leap through it before the flames could do much damage, but Cortés and Baer are both badly injured, so that’s impossible. Our leap is more like a stumbling shuffle that gives our clothes and hair time to ignite, and we all scream with pain.

  Keep going, I tell myself, focusing on hanging onto Cortés’s crushing grip. Almost there.

  We hurtle through the cabin door and out into the corridor, but the fire comes with us. It sears up and down the front of my body and across my scalp. The smoke stings my eyes and scorches my lungs. I cough, smacking the purple flames that cling to me. My hands sizzle from the unrelenting heat, but I ignore the pain. Cortés smothers the top of my head with his hands, but I focus on Baer, who’s patting his torso and shoulders because he’s flaming too.

  “It’s okay.” Baer’s face is red and blistered, and his voice one huge croak. “We’ve got to get out of here. Let’s go.”

  It’s not like we have a choice. The flames have followed us out into the corridor and trail after us with the single-mindedness of a lit fuse trying to reach its bomb. They climb up the walls and ring around the ceiling above us until we’re engulfed in a flaming tunnel. We run and stumble, spurred by the massive explosions behind us that tell us that some of the fire has diverted into the weapons room and is destroying what’s left of the ammunition.

  My sole focus is the metal fire door at the end of the corridor. If we can make it through that door, we have a chance. Ten more steps, I think. Eight more steps . . . seven . . .

  I hang onto Cortés, half-dragging him as I sob with relief. I just have to get to the door. We’re almost there.