The Grey Pilgrim

by J. M. Hayes

  The girl wanted to believe him. Parker was too tired, too hurt, to care much, until Sasaki stuffed five $100 bills into his pocket. It would buy a brief return of hope and make his final collapse into despair so much more satisfying. If Sasaki had to kill them himself, he planned to enjoy it.

  “Your money, Counselor,” he said with a gentle smile. I promised you’d have it when we parted company.

  They stumbled down to the boats and found their places. The captain, aloof, outwardly untouched by Sasaki’s intentions, put himself in one boat with four sailors to row. Sasaki and his prisoners took the other, more crowded with its own four oarsmen.

  They dragged the boats into the lazy surf and began to pull for the long dark shadow of the submarine. They were only a few yards from shore when Sasaki heard someone shout from back above the beach. The sound froze him. The voice shouted in English.

  Threads That Frayed

  There was enough light from the fires for the shot. It was a long one, and J.D.’s target rocked with the gentle surge of the gulf. It was especially tough because Sasaki sat between his prisoners. A sudden wave, a miss—he could destroy what he’d come to save.

  He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make himself squeeze the trigger. He should have test fired the borrowed Remington, made sure it was sighted in before its accuracy became such an urgent concern. Would it shoot true? He didn’t know and he was afraid. While he lay indecisive on the sand behind a tumble of time worn boulders, his target gradually drew away. The shot became increasingly difficult. If he didn’t make it, didn’t take the chance, she’d be gone, torn out of his life forever. He didn’t think his life could stand another gap of such magnitude.

  He made a conscious effort to relax. He closed his eyes for a moment and wiped away the sweat that threatened to blind him. He settled himself more comfortably and tried it again. The rubber raft bounced and swayed, and his target bobbed and weaved with it. He let his body feel for the rhythm, become one with the global forces that caused it. The sight began to stay on Sasaki. His finger began to tighten. And suddenly the target had half jumped to his feet, staring back toward the beach. The sailors stopped rowing. It was Mary in his sight and not her captor.

  Larry’s voice came to him, loud, clear, completely nonsensical. “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” he cried

  Larry couldn’t be there. The impossibility of his presence, shouting the opening lines from a radio drama contributed to J.D.’s increasing sense of unreality. He wormed around the boulders until he could see Larry coming down the slope, dragging the shotgun beside him. He was walking, a funny, mincing walk—a Charlie Chaplin I-just-sat-in-the-glue walk. No more time, no more surprise. Now or never.

  J.D. rolled back behind the rocks, raised the Remington and found Sasaki. The man had a pistol. It was pointed in Larry’s direction. In his half-standing position, Sasaki swayed even more wildly than before. At least he was clear of Mary. J.D. squeezed. There was an explosion that didn’t come from the Remington and he jumped, involuntarily. Sasaki was gone from his sights again. Larry must have fired the shotgun. J.D. didn’t let himself think about alternatives. He found Sasaki again, steadier now, both arms raised and extended, taking aim. J.D. caressed the trigger until the Remington kicked him solidly in the shoulder just as another gun, very close, also erupted. It spoiled his concentration. When he looked back at the boat he saw that Sasaki was down, but whether it was because he’d been accurate or because the man was taking cover from a near miss, he couldn’t tell. Everyone in the boat seemed to be ducking. A jumble of anxious faces peered back toward the fires. Weapons began appearing where moments before there were only oars. The night came alive with the reports of all manner of small arms.

  Sink the raft, he thought. That’s the answer. Sink them both. He could put bullets into a portion of the craft away from Mary, keep her relatively safe, and dump all of them and all those guns in the water. Make them swim for it while he went after Mary and pulled her out. Surely she could stay afloat long enough for him to get to her, even though her hands were tied.

  New target, easier this time, less worry over the rhythm. Squeeze again. A little geyser appeared just short of the raft. He worked the bolt, sliding another round into the breach while the hot brass rang as it followed its predecessor into the rocks.

  And then he couldn’t move. The cry that had haunted him, stalked his dreams and threatened his sanity since Spain, howled maniacally, victoriously, in his ears. screaming!

  “Questas?” he whispered.

  More shots, more cries and shouts, but J.D. only heard one voice, one sound. screaming! He lost his grip on the gun. His hands were numb, sweating. He slowly curled up behind the rocks, drawing knees to chest. His hand went into his mouth and he bit down on it. He tasted something warm and salty that flowed down his wrist. Blood. There was blood in his mouth. He didn’t care what was there so long as it wasn’t the scream.

  He bit harder, teeth clamping down on the last threads of sanity, threads that frayed and unraveled as the scream claimed him, grabbed him up and carried him with it, plunging into a bottomless void of foul, obscene corruption and eternal, hopeless horror.

  An Awful Intimacy With Mortality

  It was like a nightmare, crazy, impossible, insane. They were in the raft, the Japanese sailors rowing toward the submarine, and Mary was wishing for a miracle but expecting to be dead in a few minutes. Then, there was Larry. Larry, of all people, shouting nonsense, strolling down toward the beach waving a gun. And then there were shots. Larry’s, and lots of others.

  Sasaki jumped up and drew a pistol. He tried to balance himself in the rocking boat and aim toward where Larry was standing. The officer from the submarine was roaring orders from the adjacent raft. He had also unholstered a pistol. His men, in both boats, dropped their oars and produced machine pistols. The officer had already begun shooting, adding the flat crack of his revolver to the volleys to be heard from the beach and above, then the machine pistols joined the explosive chorus. Muzzle flashes blossomed on the terrace above the beach as an unknown enemy returned a smaller barrage. The results whined and splashed around them.

  Sasaki had squeezed off several rounds. He had the pistol up, aiming it and then he was in her lap, looking dazed, his left elbow shattered, dripping blood down her leg into the shallow sea water that lapped at her feet. There was something sticky on her face and salty in her mouth and she realized it must be part of what had been his elbow. She thought she would gag.

  Everyone was ducking and the sailors were firing frantically. Larry began screaming, a terrible, agonized wail that ripped at her heart. Sasaki tried to claw his way back upright, using her as a means of leverage and covering her with fresh gore. There was more shooting. The shrill staccato cries of the machine pistols dominated the pandemonium until the boat exploded under them in a geyser of spray and torn rubber and they were all in the sea.

  She surfaced only a few yards from the other raft. She heard a sound like an express train and one of the sailors slammed back into his officer. Where the man’s right shoulder had been, there was only a crimson ruin that spattered his commander’s crisp uniform. The sailor kicked spasmodically, his eyes rolled, and he was still, dead from the shock of whatever had struck him, not from the damage it had done, though that might have killed him eventually. Another gunner emptied his clip in the direction of that bright flash and thunder clap. It came again and she never knew just where the second sailor was hit because he somersaulted out of the raft, fountaining blood as he went. The bullet that killed him must have grazed the officer’s thigh because she saw him drop his revolver and grab himself there. It also tore through the side of the raft. There was a sharp hiss as the air bladder emptied and then everyone from that boat was also in the water.

  Her hands were still tied in front of her but her legs had been freed to make her easier to transport. She could kick well enough to stay up and breathe. Parker breached beside her, sputtering sea water and
clawing at the air with his bound hands. She realized he couldn’t swim, at least not well enough to do it with his hands tied. She caught him as he came up the second time, grabbing his hair from behind. She kicked out with a steady rhythm that kept them up and took them away from the bobbing Japanese heads. He fought her until he realized he could get the air he needed again, then he calmed down and even tried to help.

  It was quiet for a moment. The force on shore couldn’t be sure who anyone was in the water, and they had stopped shooting as a result. The sailors had stopped firing too, their guns abandoned in favor of the practical need to swim for their lives.

  A new, bigger gun opened up from the submarine, covering the Japanese sailors’ slow, soaked retreat. She listened to the slugs tear through the air and thought they sounded remarkably like the ones that had killed the two men in the raft, only these flowed steadily, one so quickly after the next that they blended into a continuous roar. She followed the arc of the tracers and watched them tear into the rocks from which the flashes had come. Even in the dim light she could see the clouds of dust and debris they raised. Another brilliant flash from the middle of that inferno answered and the machine gun ceased its angry howl. When she looked back at the sub, the gun was rotating crazily on its pivot. There was fresh blood on the tower near it. The gunner wasn’t there anymore. No one rushed to take his place. No one went to man the deck gun. The crew took aboard survivors and disappeared from the submarine’s hull as its engines roared to life. Its nose turned to point out of the bay, its tanks blew, and it began to sink. The boxes still on its foredeck shifted and fell aside as the water closed over them. When there was nothing left to see out there she started paying attention to which way the shore lay and aimed for it.

  The waves gave her a direction. So did the fires, now well down the beach. Larry’s cries still carried to her, quieter now, more infre-quent, but no less terrible. She concentrated on kicking and pulling and keeping her head above water. When they hit the surf and the first wave broke over them she thought they might be in trouble. Parker panicked again and fought her and she breathed in a lot more water than is good for someone without gills, but as she tried to find the surface she discovered the water was only waist deep. She stood and dragged Parker erect and they waded wearily onto the beach.

  All the shooting had stopped. The fires were smaller, dying, starving for lack of fuel. No one was visible near them. She couldn’t hear Larry anymore, just Parker gasping as he knelt in the sand, just herself quietly sobbing, uncontrollably, now that they were safe.

  She wondered if she should try to do something for Parker, then decided she didn’t know what would help. He would probably be OK anyway. It was Larry who was hurt and needed her. She started along the beach. She would have run, but she didn’t have the strength. She might have called out to him, but there weren’t any words. Her mind was a confused jumble of emotions—relief, fear, gratitude, and maybe even love.

  She almost stepped on Sasaki before she saw him. What remained of the fires had blinded her as she tried to look behind them for the spot where she’d last seen Larry. She jumped back but his hand snaked out and caught her heel and she went down hard.

  She screamed. She had thought she was safe, thought he was dead and it was over, but he was still there, still between her and safety, haunting her, offering an awful intimacy with mortality.

  His left arm dragged in the sand at an unnatural angle as he pulled himself to his knees. He looked at her and smiled. There was madness in his eyes.

  She tried to crawl away from him but she was too terrified, too tired, too slow. He was on his feet beside her, above her.

  “Get up,” he commanded.

  She screamed again. He kicked her in the face, opening wounds where her cheek slammed against teeth, flooding her mouth with enough blood to choke off the scream.

  “Get up,” he said again. She spat blood on the sand and tried to obey.

  Parker came out of the dark. He had found a piece of driftwood somewhere. It was clasped in his bound hands and raised over his head. He slashed it at Sasaki with enough force to turn the man’s brains to jelly, but Sasaki slipped aside and Parker fell, carried off balance by his momentum. Sasaki kicked him, much harder than he’d kicked Mary. Parker’s head shot up spraying blood and saliva. Sasaki stepped behind him and drove his good hand into the back of Parker’s neck. There was a sickening snap and Parker slammed face first into the beach, his body slowly following, unaware that it was already dead.

  Another figure rushed him. Sasaki must have half seen it. He nearly pivoted out of its way but it struck him a glancing blow and they both fell. Sasaki hissed with pain as his left arm hit the sand, but he rolled out from under the larger figure, and the two of them scrambled to their feet and faced each other. Mary turned to flee, her limbs possessed of a sudden ability to run she hadn’t believed possible. She would have stayed to help but Sasaki had become a personal demon. She was as overwhelmed by her own terror as Fitzpatrick had been only moments before. Her mind would no longer accept any option other than escape. And so she ran.

  Three paces. And then Sasaki whirled and turned and lashed out with his foot and she felt something give and she was falling, her arms and legs wouldn’t obey her anymore and the world was getting darker. She never felt herself land.

  Not With Terror, With Rage

  Screams took J.D. to hell. Screams brought him back. Mary’s screams. She was in trouble, she needed him. Nothing else mattered, not even Questas.

  J.D. ached. He felt like he’d been sick for a long time and was just beginning to recover. He was weak and his head reeled as he climbed to his feet.

  The cries came from behind him. He turned toward them as they were choked off. He felt himself wanting to scream again but this time, not with terror, with rage. He wanted to feel his hands on the man who was hurting Mary. He wanted to take him apart.

  J.D. ran. Somewhere, deep inside, he found a well of strength and tapped it. His long, quiet strides ate up the darkened beach. He saw the foreigner, saw the crumpled form at his feet and thought it was Mary. He threw himself at the man. No plan, no what ifs, nothing but a need to kill.

  Sasaki must have heard him at the last moment, caught sight of him out of the corner of an eye. Sasaki started to turn and throw himself aside, raising an arm to ward J.D. off, but it was the wrong one. The arm that might have saved him hung limply at his side and seeped down his fingers to drip on the pristine sand. Only the sand was already spoiled by the dead thing at his feet.

  J.D. hit Sasaki a glancing blow, his shoulder rammed ribs. He clutched at the man but couldn’t hold on. His momentum, more that Sasaki’s efforts, tore them apart. They both hit the sand and J.D. rolled and came up, ready. Sasaki was up almost as fast, mouth wide in grin or grimace. Air hissed between his lips. J.D. could see the man’s left arm was useless, shattered at the elbow. Sand stuck to the wound. Sasaki had fallen on it and J.D. could tell he’d hurt him.

  The corpse on the beach wasn’t Mary. Mary’s face was bleeding, but she was on her feet nearby. She looked at the Japanese with such horror that J.D. knew just killing him wouldn’t be enough. He would have to make him suffer. His death would need to be slow, prolonged, demeaning.

  Mary dashed up the beach toward safety, and J.D. started to relax a little. She would be OK now, even if J.D. somehow failed, but he wouldn’t. He had a ravenous hate to help him, inhuman in its intensity. Surely nothing could stand before it—especially not a little man with only one good arm.

  Sasaki bounced back, whirled, kicked, and J.D. saw Mary fall. He didn’t give the Oriental time to strike her again. He bored in, but Sasaki spun and kicked him in the chest and he couldn’t breathe. Sasaki danced across the sand toward where the American fell, but J.D. rolled just in time to avoid another kick and somehow, this time, got hold of the man’s foot. Sasaki lost his balance and went down, close enough for J.D. to grab one of his legs. He fought the paralysis in his chest and scrambled toward
the Japanese, determined to get a firm enough grasp on the leg to break it. Sasaki’s other foot slammed off the side of his face as J.D. pulled his head back at the last moment, but the sky erupted in iridescent glows that were behind J.D.’s eyes instead of in front and he lost his grip.

  J.D. rolled blindly, looking for distance, listening to his opponent’s frenzied movements. He stopped when he could see again. The Japanese was on his feet, but he was pale and he paused long enough to touch his damaged elbow with his good hand.

  J.D. got to his feet, expecting Sasaki to try something while he was still down, but the man only waited, watched. When J.D. was back up Sasaki gave him a small formal bow. “You are an unexpected pleasure,” he said. J.D. didn’t understand, didn’t care, and it didn’t matter because Sasaki was coming at him again and Mary wasn’t moving and he had to finish this and get to her, see just how seriously she was hurt.

  J.D. expected another kick, but Sasaki only feinted this time and slammed an open hand at his throat. J.D. blocked it with his left forearm and heard something snap. His arm went numb. No pain yet, but there would be, later, if there was a later. J.D. countered with a hard right uppercut that caught Sasaki just under the ribs. The Oriental began to double over, but as he did he charged and butted J.D. in the stomach. Both men went down in a confused pile. J.D. couldn’t get a good hold on him because his bad arm was in the way, but Sasaki’s hindered him as well. They rolled free of each other, but not before J.D. bit off part of Sasaki’s ear.

  They were on their feet again. J.D. could move his left arm a little, but not enough to be useful. He could feel something dripping down his cheek from where he’d been kicked and his right eye was narrowing, swelling shut. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to see out of it. He went for Sasaki again, and this time tried using his feet. It must have surprised Sasaki. The Japanese tried to block it reflexively with his left arm, but the arm didn’t work and J.D. caught him, not in the crotch as he’d intended, but on the hip as the man rolled away. Sasaki’s right hand went for J.D.’s eyes but missed and took away a hand full of hair. J.D. slipped in another hard right to the rib cage and avoided the counter, this time bringing up a knee into Sasaki’s face. He heard Sasaki’s nose go against his knee. Sasaki straightened up, his face a bloody, misshapen mask, and faked with his hand again and J.D. walked into the foot that followed it and cracked his ribs and drove a small, jagged splinter into his lung. Breathing became agony. Scarlet froth accompanied each exhalation, but he’d got hold of Sasaki’s foot and he held on with a strength born of desperation. Sasaki lost his balance and fell, and J.D. twisted the captive leg as he followed and felt it snap as he landed on it.