by Jase Kovacs
Back in the olden days, there was no sitting back with a gin and tonic, watching the autopilot steer along the red line on the computer screen. Before GPS it was dead reckoning and estimated positions and God help you if it was cloudy for days at a time, no Sun for a noonday observation, racing along with only the roughest of dead reckonings to imagine how close you were to a rocky leeshore.
We lost that art, discarded knowledge painstakingly gathered by centuries of sailors, the day civilian GPS came online. For mariners of old, the stars and sun were their lifelines. Knowledge of their movements, the significance of their arrival and departure, the times they rose above the horizon and the angle of their zenith were the secrets that allowed navigators to cross the world and come safely home.
But technology supplanted our need for guiding legends. The stars we used to navigate are manmade. The gods that kept us safe were GPS and PC, radio and radar, 4G and Wifi.
But then the world died.
The satellites lasted a while. Thirty one of them originally. Still whizzing around space while NASA and the USAF and whoever else went off line permanently. Following their arcs, their proscribed orbits through space, beeping away, talking to my Garmin, telling me: YOU ARE HERE.
You need four satellites for a fix. The more the better. Turn on the GPS and it beeps SEARCHING and then ACQUIRED and you can see which satellites the GPS has found. Mum, our navigator talking to the unit to entertain us kids. "Oh look, Mister 9, 4, 12, 18 and 21 are here today. And a weak fix on 22. He is a lazy fellow, isn't he?"
But machines need love - maintenance and updates and little course correcting nudges to keep them inline and online. Without Ground Control, one by one those stars began to fail and fall. Noticing it slowly: the Garmin flashing SEARCHING for a little longer, Mum wondering and starting to keep track of who came up. After a few months, no more Mister 13. Then a week later, Mister 17 gone as well. Things falling so much faster than anyone anticipated.
And so Dad dusted off the old books. Dug into the forepeak (the girls' room, he called it, cause its where we slept) and found his practice sextant, a plastic device, little more than a novelty that he learned to use because of course he did, there was no such thing as obsolete knowledge for Dad. A man who had spent his whole life unconsciously planning for the day everything went away.
Now. Thirteen years later. Just six satellites remain. 3, 8, 12, 19, 21 and 23. My faithful six. I need to have four in sight to get an fix accurate to a couple of metres - which happens maybe one day in ten. But the sun comes up every day and Dad taught me well. I take my noon day readings and work out my latitude and longitude the old fashioned way. The constellations still fill the night sky, as do the legends. I can still put a star against my forestay and follow it, use the old ways to bring me to a safe harbour.
I was on my way to the Solomon Islands when I found Black Harvest. Due east, three hundred eighty nautical miles from Madau. Planning to pick my way along the Guadalcanal coast, looking for logging camps I might have missed, chainsaws won't run of course but maybe they'd have a rusty shipping container full of tools. Wouldn't that be nice?
Except the seasonal south easterlies got a whole lot of east in them. I headed down, don't want to go north, don't like Bougainville, that place is overrun. Then a filthy headcurrent came in and I had to sail off the wind and long story short I ended up about off course, fifty miles south. That's okay, nothing between Madau and Guadalcanal but Pocklington Reef, a thumbnail of coral perched on the summit of an undersea mountain, and my last noonday before things went to custard showed the reef to be sixty miles to my south west.
So imagine my surprise when the storms cleared and there it was. A black lump. This island. Right in the middle of nowhere. My charts blank. I even risked firing up the laptop, every start another step before inevitable system death, plugged in the GPS and waited, five, ten minutes of NO SIGNAL before BLIP! up came 3 and 12, not good enough for an accurate fix but enough for me to know I was right, there should be nothing here but four hundred and seventy one metres of deep water. Certainly no island.
It was that curiosity that sent me into have a look. And then when I saw the ship piled onshore, there was no way I could pass by that potential bounty.
Well. Here I am. I don't need Katie to sarcastically ask if I'm satisfied. Remind me that curiosity killed the cat, so I could only retort with Mum's old reply: Yes, but satisfaction brought it back.
Still. I can't sit here all day. The purge has helped; my limbs aren't made of lead anymore. My mind's wanderings has brought it back to me reinvigorated. I can still feel the Captain's touch but it doesn't poison and paralyse me for now. I can move. Perhaps even, I might get out of this yet. I push myself away from my spilled vomit, nothing much there but bile and yellow gunk that trickles downhill to starboard.
Okay.
Reorg. Time to get back to work.
There has been no noise from Hold Three for a while. No scratching, no snuffling at the door or enraged slamming gongs as the Captain vents his rage at my escape. Not reassuring. They know this place. Been here for a while, I think. Probably got a way around. I consider the thought I have been avoiding:
I don't know how long I was with the Captain.
But the shafts of sunlight I can see in Hold Four are slanted alarmingly. I must have been in there for hours. It must be mid... maybe late afternoon.
What happens when it gets dark?
Well that's easy. They can run across the decks, come down through the holes in the roof of Hold Four, hell, probably Blong will be there, ready to hold open the hatch for them like a doorman at a fancy hotel. Come at me from all sides. I don't know how many creatures are left - but I know I don't have enough bullets for all of them.
I think, I say, it's time for us to go.
Yeah, replies Katie. Good idea.
I stand, my legs aching, my back a tight spring, and then freeze. Both of us, looking at each other, hear the noise. From this hold. A shuffle, a hollow metal scrape. And then a tearing, a soft ripping like the sound of a bag of sweets opening. I shoulder my rifle and scan the room. My Surefire spotting the cars. It must be birds, dammit, I cleared this room, I checked under the cars, in their cabs.
Oh. Shit. You've got to be kidding me.
The plastic wrapping of the nearest Hilux bulges and stretches as a long, clawed hand pushes out from inside. It rips through protective casing which covers the truck's tray. The hand pushes and widens the hole, and then rising from within, stretching as if from a nap, the mary sits up. Turns to look at me, blinking its red eyes as it wakes from its long slumber.
Wakes from its torpor.
And I swear to you, it sees me and it smiles. Its mouth opening, the jaw split and grown to accommodate all those teeth, its lips stretching back to its ears, it smiles at me as if to say good morning.
As, from all over the hold, I hear the tearing of plastic cocoons being ripped open. And a dozen clicking tongues tasting the air, wondering why they have been disturbed and then finding in the humid still miasma of the hold, a welcome scent.
Me.
Chapter 16
Eighteen rounds.
Little brass cases, stacked in their magazine, oh so snug and neat. Each one cleaned by hand, lightly oiled, gleaming little packages of death. My stalwart friends, ready to run just as fast as they can to keep me safe. Every three days, drills and routines, I slip them all from their home, pile the rounds in a cloth bag and let the magazines rest, their springs relax. Inspect the brass, look for corrosion or any signs they may not respond when the call comes. Load them up, sliding them into place with my thumb, each one slotting into place with a satisfying click that provokes feelings deep and profound.
I came here with sixty rounds. I have eighteen left.
Three bullets go before I think; wait. Three shots crack into that first grinning mary, taking it high in the head, a spray of wine coloured matter splattering, the creature twisting and thrashing as it loses control of it
s virus infested nervous system, spasming legs and fists drumming against the truck's metal tray. The staccato beat of the creature's death throes filling the hold as if the ship's massive heart was suffering an attack.
RUN, DAMMIT, yells Katie.
Fifteen rounds left.
I put my head down and I go. Force my exhausted legs to pump, my muscles screaming with lactic build up. My rifle held out, ready to shoot again. The beating of the dying creature's heels and fists against the truck's tray slows but it has done its work. The plastic on every truck is bulging, stretching. I see faces pressed up against membranes, horrific features smeared and distorted as they press and rip their way free. I have the sudden horrid impression that they are demented infants tearing their way out of amniotic sacks, each one birthing, their screaming mouths craving their first sweet taste of milk.
I don't have enough bullets for them all.
The door to Hold Four is thirty metres away. Dust in the air making the afternoon sunlight golden and sparkling, as if it was a magic portal. A mad screaming fills the air, insanity given voice and I realise it's me as I run, the air driven from my lungs is a mad affirmation, my scream that of a newborn: LIFE.
Twenty metres, I might have a chance. The marys seem confused, I see one's head swivelling, scanning the room. It's watching me, its elastic jaws yawning obscenely wide but then it turns, looks to the closed door barred with the fireaxe. As if listening.
Fifteen meters! On the left, one crouches on the roof of a truck. It was a slim young woman. Maybe my age. Long black hair, torn out in patches now. Her fingers tense, dimpling the sheet metal of the truck before idly tearing furrows as easily as I might crush an aluminium can. Then she's gone. Her legs fire like springs as she leaps and I aim, know it's too late, she's too close to get a shot in before she hits me.
But the blow never comes. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her come down on the bonnet of a truck back behind me. The force of her landing crunching the metal. The headlights explode in a shower of powdery glass.
They're not moving towards me. They're going to the closed door to Hold Two.
Ten meters, the last truck blurs past on my right.
COME ON COME ON Katie is chanting. Crouched in the doorway, her hands slapping on her knees, bent like a Mother encouraging her child in a Little Athletics race.
Five metres, oh god, I'm going to make it.
The frenzied pounding on the door to Two starts up again. Whatever waits on the other side is angry and wants to be released. If I can get to Four, I can-
Then I am flying sideways, a titanic weight crashing into me and sending me skidding on the floor. I smell fetid grave breath and I hit the deck hard. My left shoulder taking the impact. Pain flaring, but it doesn't stop me. I know death follows on its heels.
The creature is on top of me, straddling me like a lover. Its legs spread over my belly, pinning my rifle to my side. It stops and takes the time to look at me. This one is different from the usual creatures. There is a presence behind its bestial eyes. It glares at me, taking the time to savour my terror, my helplessness. Its weight impossible, easily resisting my attempts to buck it off. My rifle useless. It looks at me, smiling its obscene smile, wide mouth curling back, row after row of teeth stained black with ichor and corruption. The creature once was a Melanesian, his skin night black, his curly beard framing the rotting horror of its mouth, but in its eyes, I can see the Captain in its eyes, looking out at me, enjoying this moment.
Then it comes down, bending in, its mouth open wide and I bring my left hand up and shove the end of a flare in its mouth. The safety ring stays around my thumb as I push the tube in past teeth. It snaps down on instinct, teeth crunching the aluminium tube, which is fine by me because I hear the muffled pop as the ignitor fires and then its mouth bursts into crimson flame.
Its teeth silhouetted, filtering rays of light as a sun bursts in its mouth, burning its tongue and palette to ash in a second. It arcs back, rising up as it tries to spit the burning flare but all those nasty teeth hooking back in (like a shark, just like a shark) don't help.
It leaps up before falling back, smoke boiling out of its mouth. I kick it away as it thrashes and screams. Light is pouring from its burned cheeks, through the flesh on the bottom of its mouth as the flare burns back down its throat. Its feet pounding the floor as it falls.
I rise to a crouch.
Three of them face me. Snarling and spitting as they look from me to their dying gravemate on the floor, its face dissolving, the flare burning its way into its brain. Shuddering as it claws pointlessly at its face. Behind them, the others are gathered around the door, squabbling like hungry wolves as they compete to remove the axehandle securing the door.
The first to attack gets a three round burst in the face. Its head snaps back, thick liquid tracing a parabola. Its legs keep driving it forward and it falls feet first, sliding towards me.
I'm backing up, so close to the door, so close to its sanctuary.
Fifteen rounds left.
They rush me, god they're so fast. The first smothers my line of sight, blocking the second, so I can only fire at one. I hit it good and hard with five rounds before it goes down, but its sacrifice has let the last creature close.
It crashes into me, my rifle punching into its chest above the heart. Impaling itself on my weapon as if I was wielding a spear. It tries to pull itself up the rifle towards me, the barrel sinking deeper into its flesh. It swipes at me and I jerk my head back and fire. The flame bursts inside the creature and the bullet blasts out its back, nothing vital hit, the creature barely noticing as it swings at me again.
I fall, something has tripped me. I go backwards and it comes down, its red eyes gleaming with hunger and triumph as it comes down on me. My shoulders taking the impact, the metal crashing into my back. My rifle still buried in its chest and pivots under it as its weight forces itself down on me, swivelling as its jaw comes closer, rushing in on my face, on my neck and I see that this is how I die.
So no point counting rounds now.
I jerk the trigger. Who knows where I'm aiming. My hand, welded to the grip, forced out to the side as it drives down on me. The rifle's metal stock scraping on the deck as the creature bends down, almost gently now, its jaws open wide, its tongue coming out to taste my skin, my fear before it fastens onto me. The syncopated rifle shots strangely muffled by the creature's body. It jerks upright, looking at me, as if shocked I would refuse its embrace.
I fire again and again, the rifle twisting, each shot cutting a new channel in its flesh. Ribs shatter and bullets blast out its back, its side. It looks confused and reaches back behind itself, exploring the strange phenomena causing its skin to rupture in black bloody roses.
With a harsh click, the rifle's receiver locks WEAPON FIRES WEAPON STOPS. That's it, it's empty, my last round spent. The creature still feeling its back, looking at me with its head cocked to one side like a confused dog.
But then I realise it's not feeling its back anymore. Its arms aren't moving - they are slowly sliding. Slowly dropping. It screeches, outraged, bending towards me. No, it's not bending, its falling. I squirm out from under it as it comes down on me, its arms pinned behind it, not moving, not arresting its fall. Hitting the ground forehead first with a sick thud.
The last shot. The last lucky shot. Must have hit its spine or its neck. The creature snaps its jaws with sharp clacks that make me think of castanets. Its eyes roll in their sockets as they try to find me. But it can't move from the neck down. Tendrils of smoke begin to wisp up from its ears, the back of its head. It shrieks indignantly. Its skin gleaming like polished marble. I look up and see why.
I tripped on the bulkhead door, on the four inch lip of metal running across its base, and fallen into Hold Four. The mary came with me, as I blasted my last, desperate rounds into its body. It landed on top of me.
Right at the base of the shaft of afternoon sunlight painting the doorway with a reverent halo.
I
t stops twisting its head for a second, as if trying to understand what has happened. Why it can't move. Why its skin is starting to blacken and burn.
And then it begins to scream, in earnest. Over and over again. Its skin mottling and boiling in the solar radiation that is death to its kind. It screeches, thrashing its head back and forth as if it could crawl back into the shadows using just its chin.
It bursts into flames.
I look past it, past the rising smoke curling from its immolation and I see, through the curtain of flames, the Captain advancing, striding across Hold Three. No mad race, no animal charging. Walking as leisurely as if he was strolling in the park on a Sunday afternoon. Flanked and followed by his pack - dozens of them, held in check like hounds on the leash straining for release.
I step away from the burning creature, its skin gone, its flesh crumbling to nothing and I reach for the door. Can't help grinning at the Captain's arrogant strut. He will never make it in time.
Reach for the door, go to grasp the wheel to slam it shut. Sealing off the marys forever.
And my hands close on empty air.
The wheel is gone. I stare at the lock in disbelief. A naked steel shaft, its thread glistening with grease. Lying on the ground: a discarded nut and a cotter pin.
But no wheel to lock it. No way to secure the door.
Blong. You little bastard.
I check my weapon again. No rounds in the magazine. The elastic loops on my belt empty, all flares gone.
And he knows. The Captain knows all this. Because, of course he does, of course he knows. This is what he wanted. This is what he has engineered.
I back up away from the door as he walks forward, smiling, his eyes squinting against the light, looking almost human as he savours my helplessness.
Taking all the time in the world.
Chapter 17
"Why do you struggle so, Matai? You know you are mine. You know I am ready to forgive your trespasses and welcome you into our family."
He has been watching me from the doorway. Lingering on the threshold, his feet inches away from the square of light. The shaft slowly moving away from him as the sun falls. The creatures cower and scamper around him, scared of the light, flinching from its radiance. They would run and hide until it was dark, if they could, if his will did not bind them.
