Ship of the Damned

by James F. David

  “Smoke stacks,” Wes said.

  “One, I think,” she said. “Is that important?”

  Margi looked stricken, as if she had missed the one important part of her dream that was the key to saving herself.

  “No, it’s not important. I was just curious,” Wes said.

  “What do you see when you look over the side of the ship?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Desert.”

  “And when you look above?” Elizabeth went on.

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you ever tried jumping over the side of the ship?” Elizabeth asked. “You might get off that way.”

  “It’s too far,” Margi said. “It would break my legs.”

  “Does the ship have a name?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are there letters or a name painted on a wall anywhere?” Elizabeth said.

  “No. But I’m not sure I’ve seen all of the ship. Sometimes I still find a room I haven’t been in.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone else on the ship?” Wes asked.

  “Never.”

  “Is there a mirror? Can you see yourself?” he asked.

  “I don’t remember any mirrors.”

  “How long have you had this dream?” Monica asked.

  “Seven years last July,” Margi said, eyes tearing, hand shaking so hard now she had to put her glass down.

  “Margi, I can’t promise anything, but if there’s any way we can help, we will,” Elizabeth said.

  When they left, Margi was sitting in her kitchen weeping, hands trembling in her lap.

  Once back in the car Wes turned the air conditioner on full and then said, “That was odd about the airplanes. What she described wasn’t an aircraft carrier but she said it had airplanes. That’s the kind of confabulation you get in dreams—mixing details.”

  “It was odd,” Elizabeth agreed.

  “Wanda didn’t mention the airplanes,” Wes pointed out. “Maybe these aren’t exactly the same dreams.”

  Wes was driving, with Elizabeth next to him and Monica in the rear seat, and now both women glared at him.

  “Just because Wanda didn’t mention the airplanes, it doesn’t mean they weren’t in her dream,” Elizabeth said.

  Wes didn’t point out that the opposite was true also; instead, he quickly changed the subject.

  “Quite a different reaction than Wanda,” Wes said.

  “Interesting, isn’t it,” Elizabeth agreed. “Wanda treats the dream like an old friend and Margi is disturbed by it.”

  “Not just disturbed,” Monica said. “The dream is killing her.”

  “Lack of REM sleep?” Wes asked.

  “Yes.”

  REM stood for rapid eye movement and was associated with dreaming. Sleep studies had shown that rapid movement of the eyes under the eyelids was a reliable indicator of dreaming. As a graduate research assistant, Wes had worked on a dream deprivation study. College students recruited for the study slept in the lab and then Wes or another graduate student would monitor their eyelids through the night, waking them every time REM sleep appeared. The idea was to deprive them of dreaming and see the effects. Those college students they kept from dreaming quickly became irritable and anxious. Physiologically they showed signs of severe stress, and none of the students could stand more than a week of dream deprivation.

  “Margi sleeps, but she can’t dream normally so she doesn’t get the physical benefit,” Monica said. “No matter how long she sleeps, she never feels rested. She needs to dream about her life and her problems, so her mind can edit out the day’s worries just like an overworked muscle needs rest to cleanse itself of the lactic acid that builds up during exercise.”

  “Wanda has had the dream for fifty years—why is she thriving?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Wanda is one of those rare individuals who need very little sleep,” Monica said. “When she was young she averaged only five hours a night. Now she sleeps only three and a half.”

  “I had a professor like that,” Wes said. “He slept four hours a night and thought his graduate students were lazy if they slept any more. He didn’t seem to understand the concept of individual differences.”

  “Wanda’s mind handles wastes differently than most people’s,” Monica continued. “She would be a good subject for future research, Wes. At the other end of the spectrum are those that need ten or eleven hours of sleep a night. Margi is one of those. Her mind processes waste inefficiently so she needs more sleep—more dream sleep.”

  “Margi has lasted seven years with the dream,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully. “I wonder if there aren’t others who didn’t last that long?”

  “I know of two people who committed suicide that had complained of a persistent dream,” Monica said.

  “About a ship?” Wes asked.

  “About a ship,” Monica confirmed.

  They rode a few minutes in silence, Wes behind the wheel. Wes wasn’t convinced they weren’t dealing with coincidental dreaming, but he was intrigued with the difference in physiological response between the two women. There had to be a neurological basis for the difference, and his mind went to work on the problem.

  “Wes, are you listening to me?” Elizabeth said.

  “Sorry, I was thinking of something.”

  “Why did you ask if there was a mirror on the ship?” Elizabeth repeated.

  “I got to thinking about the similarity of the dreams—not that I’m convinced they’re the same dream, but if the dream is being forced on them from the outside, then they’re not the ones who are wandering the ship. It makes you wonder who they would see if they looked in a mirror.”

  “We should have asked Wanda if she had seen a mirror,” Monica said.

  “If she’d seen someone else in a mirror she would have mentioned it,” Elizabeth noted.

  “But she wouldn’t mention airplanes if she had seen those?” Wes said, pointing out the inconsistency in Elizabeth’s logic.

  Wes checked the rearview mirror. Elizabeth was glaring at him. Soon her green eyes were animated again, her cheeks flushed. She was a beautiful woman with high cheekbones and fine facial features, but all Wes could see was the look that told him she had plunged into the puzzle of the dream and wanted him to jump in with her.

  “If we routed Margi’s dream through your computer, Wes, could you insert a mirror with your program?” Elizabeth asked.

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Wes said. “We can intercept and transfer the brain’s signals at a multiplexed level, but we can’t generate our own.”

  Elizabeth and Monica looked disappointed, and they rode in silence, Wes still thinking about Elizabeth’s suggestion. He couldn’t program a mirror and insert it into a dream, since he couldn’t decode the multiplexed brain waves—only another brain could do that. Then he thought of another way to see into the mirror.

  “Wes, you just missed the exit,” Monica complained.

  He put his idea on the back burner while he looked for the next exit, but when he looked over at Elizabeth he could see she was reading his mind again.

  “By the way,” Monica said, “who is paying for this trip?”

  “I guess I will,” Wes said.

  “Convinced?” Elizabeth said.

  “Intrigued,” he replied. “Where to next?”

  “Home,” Monica said. “Our next dreamer lives three blocks from the campus.”

  MELEE

  A CIA Keyhole satellite detected magnetic field build-up, the early indicator of a pending breakout. After an escape the satellite could track the magnetically charged Special until the charge dissipated. At that point helicopter and ground units triangulated on residual energy clinging to to the escapee. The residual dissipated rapidly, so it was important to locate the Special within twenty-four hours. Linked by secure satellite phones, Jett and his team were directed to the Special. The Special was in an industrial area.

  Compton drove the car; Jett, with a computer in his lap, gave d
irections. The industrial park housed light industry and was a mix of large warehouses, manufacturing plants, and the few remaining houses of a once proud neighborhood. The homes were in disrepair, the paint scoured away by the one-two punch of the hot Oklahoma summers and the deep freeze of winter. Few of the homes were still occupied; an old washing machine lay in the yard of one, an old woman smoked on the front porch of another. Most were boarded up, ready to make room for the expanding industrial park.

  Jett studied the map on his screen, then contacted the tracking teams, confirming that the Special wasn’t moving. Once they had found two Specials dead, neck and legs broken as if they had fallen from a great height. He had mixed feelings about that possibility here. It meant containment would be easy, but it also eliminated the risk—he craved risk.

  “He hasn’t moved,” Jett said.

  Compton stopped for a light.

  “That’s too bad,” Pierce said.

  Jett could hear the relief in Pierce’s voice. Then Jett’s computer beeped and the computer map scrolled. The Special was on the move.

  Compton’s foot pressed the accelerator as soon as the light changed. Pierce and Sloan checked their weapons. The Special was moving slowly, clearly on foot; Compton expertly guided the car as Jett gave directions. They closed fast, quickly passing within the margin of error of the tracking system, which could only get them within a few blocks—then it was a matter of leg work. They began cruising, the other teams patrolling the perimeter to make sure the Special did not get past Jett’s team.

  “We’re looking for a sailor outfit, right?” Sloan asked.

  “He’ll look like one of the village people,” Pierce said.

  “They’re not all sailors,” Jett reminded them, “and they’re not all men.”

  Compton sighed, disgusted that Pierce and Sloan needed to be reminded of basic details. Pierce and Sloan were whispering now, but Compton and Jett ignored them, eyes drawn to a clump of people in a parking lot. Compton slowed in front of a plant called “Midwestern Wire.” Through the legs of the bystanders Jett could see a man dressed in white, sitting on the pavement, a sailor’s cap next to him.

  “That’s him,” Jett said, Compton accelerating without being told, stopping down the block.

  Jett called the other teams, assigning positions at nearby intersections. He and his team kept their eyes on the crowd, waiting for the others to get in position.

  “He looks injured,” Compton said.

  Jett could see a patch of red on the sailor’s forehead, and the man was rocking slightly, holding one arm.

  “They might have called an ambulance,” Compton said.

  Jett understood immediately and said, “Go find out.”

  Compton left, and Jett ordered Pierce into the driver’s seat. Compton walked to the edge of the crowd and talked to one of the men. Then she turned and nodded at Jett, staying with the crowd. Jett got back on the phone, giving orders to his perimeter teams. A minute later Compton strolled back to the car.

  “He’s talking,” Compton said. “The crowd thinks he’s out of his head.”

  Sirens sounded, coming closer, then stopped.

  “We’ve got to shut him up,” Pierce said. “Let’s go.”

  “Sit down,” Jett ordered as Pierce pulled on his door handle.

  Pierce hesitated, flushing from anger, but then sank back into his seat.

  Jett’s phone buzzed and he held it to his ear. Then he ordered Pierce to drive. Pierce started to protest, but Jett slapped the back of his head. They left the crowd and drove two blocks away to where one of their teams was holding the ambulance. The attendants had been taken away, uniforms left behind.

  “One was female,” Jett said, tossing a uniform to Compton.

  They changed in the ambulance, Compton wiping off her makeup and tying her hair back, effectively changing her looks so that those in the crowd wouldn’t recognize her from her first trip. When they were ready, Jett turned on the siren and drove to the wire factory, Pierce and Sloan following. Grabbing a medikit from the back of the van, Jett and Compton pushed through the crowd to the man who was still sitting on the ground, injured. He was wearing sailor dress whites, the pants bell-bottomed. The uniform was torn in places, but was in remarkably good condition for clothing as old as Jett knew it had to be. The man in the uniform was young, maybe twenty years old, with black hair and dark brown eyes. He wore dog tags, and there was a wedding band strung from his neck chain. The sailor had a head wound and held his left arm. Jett took charge, examining the wound, talking to the man.

  “Do you have any other wounds besides your head?”

  “My arm.”

  Compton touched the arm, feeling the length of it.

  “It hurts. I think it’s broken.”

  Compton felt the sailor’s legs and his other arm, then announced, “Nothing else is broken.”

  “Sir, can you stand?” Jett said. “We need to get you into the ambulance.”

  “I think so.”

  Jett and Compton helped him to his feet.

  “Shouldn’t you use a stretcher?” a woman said from the crowd.

  Now the Special looked at the woman and then at Jett.

  “You should have checked his blood pressure and heart rate,” the woman said, coming through the crowd. She was middle-aged, and studied them suspiciously.

  Now the Special looked frightened.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Let me go!”

  Jett tightened his grip, Compton speaking to calm the Special.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Compton said. “We’re going to treat you in the ambulance.”

  “He could have internal injuries,” the woman said.

  “Let me go,” the Special said.

  They were only a few steps from the ambulance when the Special began to struggle.

  “I’m not getting in there,” he said, pushing on Jett with his good arm.

  Jett held on, Compton tightening her grip on the other side, hurting the broken arm. Pushing with his legs, the Special slowed them, and now they were pulling him toward the ambulance. Then Pierce stepped around the ambulance, reaching into his coat and pulling his weapon. The Special reacted instantly, stiffening in Jett’s grasp. Suddenly, as if hit in the stomach by an invisible boulder, Pierce buckled in the middle, breath exploding from his body. As the Special turned toward Jett, Jett head-butted him, then shoved him toward Compton, the three of them falling in a tangle. It was a wrestling match now, the Special’s broken arm giving them the advantage; but as they struggled he seemed to feel his injury less. Just as they had him pinned face down, the crowd circled them, men in work clothes pulling on Jett and Compton.

  “Get off of him,” someone said.

  “You’re hurting him,” another said.

  “We’re federal agents,” Jett shouted, but still the men held him, pulling him away. The men were reluctant to handle Compton as roughly, and she made them pay, kicking one full in the groin. He collapsed, hands in his crotch. With an elbow she broke the nose of the man behind her, then turned and drove a fist into the solar plexus of another.

  The men holding Jett were distracted by Compton’s assault. Twisting, Jett broke the grip of one man, then shoved him back, getting space for his free arm. Swiftly he turned and smashed the nose of another—no fancy karate moves, just a rock-hard fist to the face. The man collapsed to his knees, hands to his face, the blood already flowing. Jett caught another man on the jaw, knocking him to the ground; the others backed away. A gunshot into the air ended the melee, Sloan advancing, ordering the crowd away. They had no time to leave before the Special struck again.

  A soundless hurricane blew through the crowd, bodies tumbling away from the Special. Pressed against the ambulance, Sloan tried in vain to aim his gun. Jett lay flat, his bulk giving him some resistance. The Special was moving again, slowly, still clutching his arm. The hurricane ended, leaving a confused mob scattering in all directions. Jett got up to follow the Special, not
looking for Compton, knowing she would be right behind.

  The Special crossed the road to a parked car, leaning against it and then turning back toward Jett. Jett dove behind the ambulance, Compton following him. An invisible blow from the escapee rocked the ambulance up onto two wheels; it briefly threatened to fall over on them before crashing back down. Jett counted to three, then popped himself up, risking a quick look. The Special was running; he was already halfway across the parking lot on the other side of the street. Jett trotted after him, Compton veering right so that they wouldn’t be a single target. Sloan came thumping up behind, running next to Jett, who shouted for him to spread out.

  When the Special rounded the corner of the next building, Jett sprinted to follow, Sloan pounding along behind. As he paused at the corner, a blast of air roared past, sending two men rolling out from behind the building. The workmen wore stained blue overalls; one lay still, the other grabbed his leg where a piece of steel protruded. Staring at the injured man, Jett shook his head.

  Containment’s going to be a bitch, he thought.

  Peeking around the corner he could see along the length of the warehouse to a storage yard behind. The Special was nowhere in sight. Cautiously, he jogged along the side of the building, trying to balance speed with caution. The Special was running, but once exhausted he would put his back to a wall and fight.

  Jett paused at the end of the building, Sloan still following. The storage yard was filled with stacks of pallets, fencing made of cement, and mounds of sand and gravel. A scoop loader was working the gravel pile, hauling it inside the building. No sign of the Special. An eight-foot chain link fence cut off escape to the left and ran the length of the property—no way out.

  “He’s gone,” Sloan said. “Just disappeared.”

  “Shut up,” Jett said.

  Jett studied the pallets and stacked fencing, looking for hiding places. There were nooks and crannies, but nothing that would immediately draw someone to it as a place to hide. Then he looked closely at the sand pile, seeing foot-sized depressions running to the top. Without a word he ran to the sand, following the trail to the top where the fence was only three feet high. Jett jumped the fence, Sloan landing right behind. Police sirens sounded in the distance—they would have to terminate the Special soon.