by Denis Hughes
Miles away, be saw the floating fuselages of several large aircraft, half submerged. Poor devils, he thought. He did not fly near them; there was nothing he could do for the crews. They had come down bewildered, and would die bewildered, without hope of succour.
*
Merrick stood squarely on the Cherokee’s bridge, his eyes hot with anger. The entire crew was ranged in a group on deck, and they stared at Merrick balefully, glancing from him to the body of their skipper.
Merrick held a gun in his hand, covering them with it, his gaze raking them in mingled fear and fury.
“I want this ship running again in an hour!” he shouted. “If any man turns mutinous I’ll shoot him myself. You saw what happened before.”
The chief engineer stepped forward. His jaw was working and he clenched his fists as he looked up at the owner.
“I’ve already made my report,” he said, curtly. “Nothing on board with the remotest connection with electrical power works. All gear is in perfect order, but it doesn’t work anymore.”
Merrick’s jowls quivered. “I don’t care what you say!” he bellowed, “I want this ship moving if you have to paddle it along!”
The men muttered among themselves. One shouldered forward, but Merrick’s instant reaction made him change his mind. Even the chief engineer gave a shrug and turned away. “If you ask me,” he said to another, “something damn’ funny’s gone wrong with the whole blinking set-up. Radio dead, video dead. Why, even my flashlamp doesn’t work! There’s a jinx on us, mate!”
They growled and grumbled, the second-in-command detailing two men to carry the skipper’s body to his cabin, It was a gloomy little procession. Merrick stood on deck and watched.
Viki ventured from the saloon to join Merrick. She was frightened and made no pretence at hiding the fact. But Merrick offered her very little comfort; he had enough worries on his mind as it was. For the first time he began to realise that the yacht was completely isolated, a drifting hulk as it rolled on the broad Atlantic.
“Could—could this be anything to do with Blake?” the woman asked nervously.
He swung on her. “Blake!” he shouted. “Be your age! How could a man do this?” he paused. “No, it’s just our luck, that’s all. These swine who call themselves sailors will put it right if I have to shoot ’em one by one till they do! Now get below and stay there!”
Sudden hate blazed in her eyes as she saw the vicious transformation of Merrick into what he really was. In a strained tone, she said, “You devil…You utter devil!” She sprang at him clawing wildly.
Merrick hit her with the barrel of his gun, in the mouth. She swayed, stumbled and fell heavily to the deck. Blood formed a little pool near her head. She twitched and after a while lay still. Her breathing was hard.
The big man, suddenly panic-stricken, dropped to his knees beside her, gabbling phrases and begging her to listen. She did not answer; he stared aghast at what he had done, then covered his face with his hands. Then something began to happen that chilled his blood. The pool of blood by Viki’s head suddenly had a stick thrust in it from nowhere; gruesome words began to appear on the deck floor as the stick scrawled on it.
Merrick backed away in fear, his eyes wide, all colour drained from his face, rigid in the grip of terror.
“Words!” he gasped. “Oh, no—not that…Not that!”
And the unseen Varden sniggered as he scrawled the stick along, forming the words in scarlet: “You’ve done it wrong, Merrick. Blake’s beaten you. You’re finished. So’s Viki by the look of it. Too rough in your passion, brother—too rough.”
Varden sat back on his heels cynically amused by Merrick’s terror. He wished he could drive this man mad—just to watch that would amuse him. There was no other reason. Merrick’s eyes were glassy now. Varden scratched his chin reflectively, then leant over, chuckling and touched the man on the face with the stick. Merrick recoiled as if he had been smitten with the very rod of the Devil himself. The big man lashed out wildly at his unseen antagonist, vainly, then screamed.
Viki had almost stopped bleeding.
Merrick staggered to the ship’s rail, leaned over it drunkenly, trying to keep his stomach still. And Varden Two sat by Viki’s still form, watching it, taking vindictive pleasure in the mental havoc he’d wrought.
The second officer came up from below and stared in amazement. His eyes went from Viki to Merrick, then back again. He coughed. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “There’s a plane coming up from the north-east…”
Merrick dragged himself erect, swaying, ashen. A jet helicopter was streaking in towards them, the whine of its engines mounting each second.
Varden One checked and circled the ship, verifying that it was his target. Then he landed on the aft deck, was surrounded at once by the crew as they yelled questions at him in their greed for news. Merrick, unsteady, forced a path through them as Varden clambered out of the plane. Close on Merrick’s heels came Varden Two, unholy glee lighting his eyes.
Varden One stood facing Merrick, and a sudden hush fell. The crew froze into immobility where they stood.
“You!” croaked Merrick hoarsely.
Varden nodded grimly, moving towards him. He had to get close because there was a mist across his eyes again, a thicker fog of blurring than before, closing in round him, localising his vision. He cursed it, knowing that only blindness could beat him.
“You should see what he’s done to little Viki,” said the other Varden. “This is good, brother; keep on coming!”
And Varden kept coming. Merrick fell back before his slow, relentless advance. The hand in which he gripped the gun was shaking. He was standing now against the wheel-house where Viki lay slumped, her blood-soaked torso ugly in dumb repose.
“What do you want?” stammered Merrick wildly. “Take him away,” he added in a scream to the men. They looked on with stolid curiosity, not moving to obey. “Take him away!”
“Take it easy with the gent, Bob.”
“You keep out of this!” snarled Varden. He glanced round, seeking a weapon, finding none. Merrick’s eyes were bulging in their sockets. Varden could barely see him now, a great black circle was tightening round the face of his enemy, slowly blotting it out.
He drew closer and closer, moving with a panther-like step. Merrick trod sideways, putting his foot in the pool of blood from Viki, smearing the message scrawled on the deck. His foot slipped as he trod. Varden did not see the blood or the body, he could only just see Merrick now. And Merrick turned to run, too terrified even to use his gun.
Varden leapt on him just as he turned. His other entity gave a howl of satisfaction, capering about like a madman. The watching crew sucked their breath in sharply as Varden’s fingers closed on Merrick’s arm and whirled him round. As if instilled with the strength of a giant, Varden gripped him and held him. Then he turned to face the crew.
“Because of this man the world was threatened by war,” he said quietly. “Thousands died in London and New York when he launched his bombs. I was there and I know! And because I was there I’ve come after him. I’ve come to kill him.”
He tried to shake the mist from his eyes but it refused to go. Darkness was closing in on him. A deeper darkness than ever. He could no longer see the faces of the men, the sun or the sea.
“You’re going to die, Merrick,” he continued. “And you’re going to know before you die that you’ve failed.”
Merrick seemed to pull himself together. As Varden felt for and found his throat he brought his gun up and pressed it against the body of his enemy. Varden’s fingers were tightening steel on his windpipe. He pressed the trigger so that Varden jerked to the blasting concussion of the shots. He felt the bullets tearing at his flesh, going through him like red hot wires. Merrick emptied the magazine, splitting Varden’s stomach across, killing him a dozen times over. And Varden went on choking the life from his body, killing him by slow degrees till he sagged to the deck, a lifeless, unbreathing corpse.
Varden straightened up and turned very slowly. He felt no pain, felt nothing but the closing in of the darkness on his eyes. It didn’t lift this time.
“Lord!” gasped one of the men. “Look! His guts are hanging out! Why ain’t he dead?” There was superstitious terror in his cry.
Varden grinned. “I can’t die,” he muttered. “Nothing can kill me. Nothing, you understand?”
He walked blindly towards the sound of the babbling voices that rose at his words. Men were fighting to get out of his way as he advanced. One fetched a light machine gun from the wheel-house, panic rising in his heart as he trained it on Varden. Varden kept walking, swaying a little. At his side walked the other Varden. They passed close to Viki. She opened her eyes and saw him, the visible one. From her shattered mouth came a frightful scream as she struggled up. Then the clatter of the gun began its mad tattoo. Bullets tore into Varden’s body, ripping the flesh from his frame, tearing at his skull and opening his throat. He walked blindly on, towards the stern of the Cherokee.
The men watched in horror. Behind the machine gun, the man who worked it went raving mad. He went on firing till the ammunition ran out. Varden’s body took and absorbed the repeated impact of the bullets, but he never stopped walking till he and the second Varden reached the stern rail. Then, as if bound together by invisible cords, they paused, hesitated, and finally felt their way over the rail. The final burst of gunfire sheered the top off Varden’s skull, sending fragments of hair and bloody tissue in a splatter to the water below. Varden turned and lifted his hand in salute to the men he could no longer see.
“They don’t like us,” muttered his companion. “We aren’t wanted anymore.”
Varden made no answer. His lower jaw had been cut away completely by the hail of bullets. From his throat there came a dreadful gurgling grunt. The blindness of death enveloped him.
Viki gave a scream that echoed to the very skies. As if trying to reach the stern, she staggered forward. There was one more cartridge in the gunbelt. She took it in the spine, flopping over the rail as Varden and his unseen companion dropped from sight. And the stillness of death was round them…
*
Varden felt delicate fingers moving against his skin. “You mustn’t expect too much at first,” someone told him quietly. Light seeped in through his closed eyelids, forcing him to open them. There was pain and dimness, the sickness and the smells and the fear of blindness all round him.
Pale green walls seen dimly; the dizzying face of someone bending over him; the crisp feel of linen and the even warmth of shadowed sunshine.
Someone said, “A success, I think. That grafting did the trick, but it was touch and go for a time.”
Varden said, “I am alone aren’t I?”
“Yes of course you are, old man. Did you think…?”
His lips moved cautiously. “It’s all right,” he said. “No one else in the bed…I—I thought there was at first.”
Two doctors and a nurse with a stiffly starched uniform exchanged glances. One of the doctors shrugged. “No,” he said. “You’re alone in bed, Varden.”
“Thank God for that! There was someone, but he’s gone”
“Yes, of course. You take it easy for a while now.”
“Thanks.” He remembered the cold water engulfing him: the indeterminate period during which he sank and sank and finally floated. There was darkness and light and darkness and noise. He didn’t remember anything more—
Time passed monotonously. The room was dim, with someone sitting in a far corner; he couldn’t see who it was, a nurse. She came and straightened his pillows, made the light even dimmer. He slept. He didn’t think about anything; there was nothing to think about now; he didn’t want to think. Then someone said: “You’ll remember, won’t you, that he mustn’t be disturbed too much at this stage?”
Another voice replied: “Of course, and thank you for letting me see him.”
“Hello,” someone said. “Hello, Bob. I thought you’d like someone to talk to.”
He turned his head a little, pushing aside the swimming feeling inside it, grasping at something solid and understandable.
“Who’s that?” he asked quietly. “It isn’t Viki, and it can’t be Merrick because you’re not a man. No one else would visit me. I’m not blind now, you know. I can see. They did an operation…Something to do with grafting.”
“No,” said the voice. “It isn’t Viki. Or Merrick. It’s Rhonna. I—I just thought…”
“Rhonna?” he echoed. “But you didn’t like me!” He could see her now, see the sleek auburn hair, the green coloured eyes, the little flecks of brown in their depths. “I don’t deserve this,” he muttered.
“Would you rather have Viki to see you?”
He considered that before answering. Then: “Not really,” he admitted. He peered at her in the dimness of the room.
“Rhonna,” he said. “Do you happen to have a mirror?”
“Afraid of what you look like?” She opened her handbag. “I suppose I shouldn’t do this really, but you’ll think all kinds of horrible things if I don’t.”
She held out a square of glass. His face was thin and gaunt, with one long burn scar down the line of his jaw. He handed the mirror back. “Better than I expected,” he murmured.
“You were lucky,” she said. “Lucky in more ways than one.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Something happened in New York,” she said. “I’m glad you wouldn’t rather have Viki here than me.”
Varden stiffened. “I meant that, Rhonna.”
“She’s dead, anyway. She and Merrick, too.”
Varden lay quiet for a moment. Then: “How?”
“The F.B.I. were after them for subversive activities likely to start a war,” she replied. “Merrick was fool enough to put up a fight. They were both shot dead in the battle.” She broke off. “That was the day after you crashed in the sea, Bob.”
“Then there isn’t any war, after all? I’m glad now. And your father…?”
She smiled. “He’s still working on preventive measures.”
A queer expression crossed his face. “At the farm in Scotland?” he queried.
She frowned. “How did you know? It’s supposed to be a secret. Bob, what do you know about it?”
“A lot of things I don’t want to think about. Forget it. But tell me this: What’s the date?”
“August the twenty-fourth,” she replied, bewildered.
“And the year?”
“Nineteen sixty-four, of course!”
Varden sighed gratefully and closed his eyes. “That’s fine,” he whispered. His hand crept out and closed on her fingers. A nurse and a little fat doctor with rimless glasses came in.
Varden said, “Hello, doc. You did a good job. How?”
The rimless glasses flashed. “A graft of the optic nerve, my boy. Delicate, but entirely successful. Luckily for you there was healthy material on hand.” He chuckled. “Some hours after they brought you in another patient died. We used what we needed from him.”
Varden nodded slowly. “Who was he, doc?”
“We don’t reveal names,” came the answer. “He was one of these professional clairvoyant people. An interesting case all round.”
“Very,” said Varden thoughtfully. “When do I get out of here, doc? I might want to fix up a wedding.”
The doctor grinned. “You relax for a time,” he said. “She’ll be waiting!”
BLUE PERIL
Denis Hughes
CHAPTER 1
MAN ON THE RUN
He moved like a ghost from shadow to shadow, dodging between the doorways, avoiding every patch of light that he could. It was one thing to escape from a police net, another to keep clear altogether. Half an hour ago he thought he’d made it, then the whistles had shrilled again. He felt like a man against the world, a hunted man, which was exactly what he was. And the hunt was not far behind. With any luck he might still reach Brooking’s p
lace. That was what he wanted more than anything else. Brooking had landed him in this position; the man could get him out of it. If he didn’t… But there were ways of making a man do something he didn’t want to do.
From somewhere behind him came the whine of a car engine. He ducked into a doorway, standing with his back to the door, holding his breath. They were closer than he’d thought. His legs ached with running, his nerves made him unsteady. Had there been sufficient light anyone could have seen the gleam of fear and desperation in his eyes. But there was not enough light and no one to see. Not yet…
The car, a black flying squad saloon, tore past. He caught a glimpse of the peaked caps inside, the tense features of the men who hunted him. Then the car was gone and the man in the doorway moved. He didn’t have far to go now. Surely they wouldn’t be watching the lab? Weeks had passed since the girl had died there. Weeks during which he had relied on Vivienne for concealment.
She’d been the only one who believed him innocent, bless her. But he couldn’t involve her any longer. It wasn’t fair, not with things as they were. No, Brooking was the man to deal with…
Panting for breath, he turned the corner. The pool of light from a street lamp fell full on his face for an instant. He was pale and drawn looking, distracted by the days and nights of suspense and incipient horror. Even the soft felt hat pulled right down over his forehead failed to hide the signs; they were deeply printed in his whole bearing, the hunch of his shoulders, the furtive glance backwards.
