“You lyin! I know you killed him!”
Jericho spread his arms out protectively, like a kid playing Red Rover. “You ain’t doin any such t’ing. Cap’n don’t want dem hurt.”
“I don’t give a shit. In case you ain’t noticed, the Cap’n lost his stomach for doin what needs to be done.” Jorge held out the knife in a fencing stance. “Don’t get in my way, Jericho. I ain’t got no problem with you.”
“If you t’ink I’m gonna let you do dis…den yeah, you do, mon. And if you wanna see who’s got de biggest knife…” He reached for the machete strapped to his back.
Jorge took a swing without warning, slicing through the air with the knife. Jericho jumped back in the tight quarters, unable to get his own weapon, and bumped into Amber’s knees just before sprawling across her. He regained his balance in time to dodge a jab from the blade. As soon as he was clear, Amber kicked out, planting a foot in Jorge’s crotch and shoving. The skinny little guy screeched and fell back against the cabin wall, dropping the knife to clutch at his balls.
Jericho finally freed his machete and waded in. Jorge let go of his crushed testicles long enough to lay his hands on one of the boat paddles. He swung it up in a wide arc, smashing the mechanic across the face with the flat wooden spade. Jericho fell to the deck on his ass, dazed and bleeding from the forehead.
There were running footsteps just before Carlos and Cherrywine came around the corner of the cabin. Amber didn’t think the former looked very surprised, but the latter squealed, “What’s happening?”
Throughout the fight, Amber had remained on the bench. Now she scrambled to her feet just as Jorge got up and retrieved the knife. He came at her, the tip of the blade questing through the air toward her like the tongue of a snake, but he stopped when several quick, muffled pops rolled across the night. They all looked toward the bow of the wooden ship, looming over them.
Lito and Ray appeared at the bulwark, dangled their feet over the edge, and somehow managed to slide down the rope anchoring them to the sloop together. “Get the paddles, go, get us outta here!” Lito yelled, as he sawed at the bindings with his knife.
A chorus of miserable moans drifted down after them.
10
When the first figure appeared at the railing above them, Carlos pointed his flashlight beam at it.
A heavyset man in a loose-fitting white blouse and baggy leggings—pantaloons was actually the word his mind threw out—stood looking down at them. Carlos hadn’t seen the little girl that Jericho claimed had killed Mondo, but, based on the description, he figured this dude must have the same problem. His complexion was the consistency of Jello, like his skin was getting ready to ooze right off the bones. It reminded Carlos of the VHS box cover of an old, shitty superhero movie that his mom would never let him rent as a kid, a picture of some mutated, pop-eyed creature holding a janitor’s mop. The man standing at the edge of the pirate sloop took a few seconds to register their presence, blinking stupidly in the light, but then his eyes sharpened and his mouth stretched into a snarl.
“Puta de madre,” Jorge said in awe. They were all frozen, his switchblade still pointed at the girl. Carlos had pumped the Mexican up, convinced him this was his chance to deal with the white kids, hoping that him or someone else might get offed in the process. But of course, the idiota had fucked it up.
Lito ran by and slapped Carlos in the back of the head. “Stop starin and get us outta here!”
Carlos broke the trance and dove for the paddle that Jorge had dropped after smacking Jericho, but it was already too late.
The freak gave a wordless screech and flung himself over the side of the other ship like the setup for the world’s most painful belly flop. He smashed into their deck in a facedown heap, the impact on the rickety vessel hard enough to lift the starboard pontoon completely out of the water.
The world tilted violently. Everyone on the deck tumbled into one another, scrambled to grab hold of something. One of the girls shrieked just before she fell into the water with a splash; the blonde, he thought. Carlos leapt for the rack of jet skis and clung to a handle to keep from catapulting after her. For a second, they hung suspended before the pontoon crashed back down.
On the edge of the boat, Jorge waved his arms in circles to keep his balance.
Carlos kicked the back of his leg.
Jorge’s mouth was a round, shocked O as he fell backward into that ocean infested with moving, clutching seaweed.
11
Amber saw Cherrywine fall backward over the side of the raft, but was too busy clinging to the bench with one hand and holding on to the VHF scanner with the other to help. When the boat fell back onto the water, she ended up on her back, clutching the radio to her chest.
A few feet away, the thing that had landed in their midst—although perhaps ‘landed’ was too graceful a word—pulled itself upright. One of its arms dangled limply now, with a shard of bone jutting from the elbow, but it didn’t seem to notice. It glanced around, confusion in its eyes, then scuttled forward on its knees like some demented homeless person begging for spare change. A constant stream of gibberish ran from its mouth as it slashed at her with one deformed claw of a hand.
Amber scooted backward, still holding the scanner. There was nowhere to run on the tiny deck of the pontoon boat. The mutated creature—a guy that looked like a pudgy extra from an Errol Flynn pirate film after being dipped in sulfuric acid—crawled after her. He surged forward, grabbed hold of Amber’s throat, and pulled until she was inches away from the melted ruins of its face.
“Huuuuurtsssss…” it groaned, the single word of English interspersed in its nonsensical burbling.
In its eyes, anguish flashed brightly, as though it were pleading for help.
Then it was gone, replaced by mindless fury. The hand on her throat squeezed as the creature’s mouth darted forward to bite her with teeth stained the color of ripe blueberries.
Lito tackled the creature with one arm and threw it backwards onto the deck. He aimed his revolver and put three rounds into the thing’s chest. Blue flowers blossomed on the stained blouse it wore, then it shuddered and lay still. Lito put a boot on its shoulder and rolled it into the water, then yelled over his shoulder, “Paddle! Get us away from the ship!” It was an unnecessary command; Ray and Carlos already had oars in the water and were maneuvering them away.
“Wait, Cherrywine’s out there!” Amber put the scanner down and scrambled on hands and knees to the edge of the boat.
The blonde girl treaded water a few yards out, trying to catch up with them. Beyond her, Jorge sputtered and thrashed.
Amber held out a hand. “Swim! You gotta get out of the water!”
“I’m…trying!” Cherrywine sobbed. Her head slipped part of the way beneath the surface, and she flailed until she came back up. She kicked hard, as if she were fighting the water itself, but got nowhere. “I can’t swim, the seaweed’s dragging me down!”
“HELP!” Jorge squealed in absolute panic. He appeared to be having just as much trouble.
More growls came from above. Amber looked up. On the deck of the sloop, an entire horde of deformed men in pirate garb appeared at the bulwark, looking like the cast of some hellish play. They hissed and lurched against one another, then began tumbling over the side of the ship in a display of lemming single-mindedness. Their bodies plunged into the water with tremendous splashes, then they surfaced and dogpaddled awkwardly after the raft.
They reached Jorge first. Amber’s last glimpse of the Hispanic man was amid a knot of limbs and grasping hands that began tearing him apart just before their numbers shoved him beneath the water. She had to admit, she wasn’t sad to see him go.
Ray and Carlos paddled hard, trying to put some distance between them and the mob, but the boat seemed to barely be moving, like a car stuck in neutral. Even so, Cherrywine still trailed behind, her eyes huge as she tried to catch up. Amber stretched a hand out, but couldn’t reach her. The mutant pirates seemed to be
having no such trouble; they would be on her—and then them—in seconds.
“Here!” Lito snatched the oar from Ray’s hands, then crouched at the edge of the boat next to Amber and stuck out the paddle. Cherrywine latched on, and he dragged her back onto the raft just before the wave of pirates reached the side of their pontoon.
At least twenty of them clutched at the port side, trying to claw their way onto the deck. Their combined weight was enough to drag down an entire corner and start the boat tilting all over again.
“They’re swampin us!” Carlos pulled his oar out of the water and used it to beat at their attackers. The blows had little effect.
Jericho and Lito ran for their guns, grabbing the shotgun and Jorge’s huge military rifle. They fired down into the crowd as they had with the sharks, but Amber could see they were being overrun. Several of the creatures wriggled over the side on their bellies and jumped to their feet, ready to attack. She and Cherrywine scooted away as one of them grabbed Lito’s arm.
Blue light burst across the sky.
It was brighter than the lightning this time, as intense as a camera flashbulb, chasing away shadows as it painted the deck in harsh navy overtones. Static crackled all around them, visible as miniature arcs of electricity along the metal parts of the boat. Staring at the light made Amber dizzy and even sicker than last time, but it didn’t have that effect on the freaks. They all froze in place, their prey forgotten, and turned their faces up to it. Lito carefully stepped away from the one that had hold of him, bringing the shotgun up in case it should change its mind, but it paid no attention. The ones on the deck stumbled toward the light, arms upraised like ancient villagers worshipping the sun. When they reached the end of the deck, they fell right back into the water. The whole group began to swim west with those awkward, flailing strokes, in the direction of the stuttering lights.
“Get us outta here,” Lito repeated. “Before it stops.”
Carlos and Ray went back to paddling. This time, the boat moved easily, putting distance between them and the freakish pirates.
12
The speedboat coasted through the haphazard maze of ships, its engine no more than a quiet sputter. Eric sat in one of the vinyl chairs at the rear, bound to the seat by duct tape, while one of the thugs refilled the boat’s tanks with the extensive fuel reserves they’d brought. The renewed bondage should’ve had him fuming, but Eric found he hardly even cared as he gazed around in wonder at the silent, dark derelicts.
Of the ones that had their names displayed, perhaps one in ten he’d heard before, during his extensive reading on the subject. Some he actually recognized from their pictures, although a few of these were in such bad shape, he couldn’t be sure. But it all pointed to one inescapable conclusion.
The Bermuda Triangle was real.
He’d wanted to believe his whole life. Now here he was, in the middle of every ship that had ever disappeared in this revered section of the Caribbean, provided with absolute proof that it wasn’t all a hoax, wasn’t all exaggeration or legend. It felt like part of the Big Plan, his destiny at last coming to fruition.
Eric couldn’t remember feeling so giddy since the time when he was 12 and one of the girls who lived on his block—the daughter of some rich lawyer whose mansion put even the Renquist property to shame—had let him finger her down in the dry creek bed that ran behind their neighborhood.
Except she didn’t let you do squat, the friendly new voice sharing space in his head purred. It was getting louder and clearer all the time, keeping him honest. Remember? You held her down and almost jammed your whole fist up there. Made her squeal. Bitch probably didn’t walk right for a month.
He flinched as the new memory swam into focus to replace the old, like a blurry photograph overlaid by a fresher one, the sensations, the heat and violence of that moment, the excitement that had built in him as she screamed and pleaded. How could he ever have forgotten about that?
The Jamaican, who had introduced himself as ‘Vishon’ when he oversaw Eric’s binding, swiveled his chair around. “You know anyt’ing ‘bout all dis, bomba claat?”
Eric met his gaze with the straightest poker face he could manage. “No idea.”
The other man sucked at his gold teeth as he regarded Eric. “I t’ink dat’s a lie, li’l white boy. I t’ink you know quiiiiite a bit. You givin alla dese boats a myajor eye-fuckin.”
“Think what you want.” Eric shrugged. Or shrugged as much as he could while duct taped to a chair. “I can’t tell you what any of them are doing here, which is what you really wanna know.”
Vishon rocketed up from his chair and brought the heel of one booted foot up to smash the ball of Eric’s knee joint. Shockwaves of pain ripped through him, but he bit down on the scream that wanted to accompany them. He would never give this fucker the satisfaction.
But those pirates are starting to look like pretty gracious hosts, huh?
“I’ll be de judge of what I want to know, white boy. And if you don’t tell I, I gonna be your executionah, too. Now…where did dey come from?”
“It’s the fuckin Bermuda Triangle, dickhead!” Eric snarled. “Do I need to draw you a chart?”
Vishon took another look at the tombs around them. “No. Cyan’t be.”
“Oh really? Why not?”
“Because if alla dese ships had disappeared out here, da Triangle wouldn’t be just a story anymore.”
The response stopped Eric cold. Small pleasure crafts or old ships whose stories had been lost to history were one thing. But there were some seriously valuable freighters and commercial shippers out here that—no matter how old they looked—logic dictated couldn’t have been missing more than fifty years. Ships that wouldn’t have been written off as sunk or hijacked without an exhaustive and costly search by their owners. Their disappearances would’ve made national news, and yet he’d never heard of them.
The Jamaican was right; if this many boats had vanished in the Triangle, the Sargasso would’ve been abandoned as a naval pathway long ago, until someone could come up with an explanation.
Ahead of them, the sound of distant gunshots split the otherwise silent night.
Vishon grabbed Eric’s shoulders. “Why did Porto and his crew come out here?”
“I told you, they need parts!”
“Den why did dey leave dere ship abandoned, wit’out even a single guard? Why does it sound like dey brought enough weapons to wyage a war?”
“Ask them! I escaped, remember? Jesus, I don’t know why you’re taking this out on me, I hate them as much as you do!”
Over his shoulder, the sky filled up with that unearthly blue light. All the men on the boat stared up at it and then quickly looked away, a couple of them holding their stomachs. Eric understood; something about it was utterly repulsive. Vishon released him so he could swivel and stand up.
When it ended a few seconds later, he asked, “I s’pose you don’t know anyt’ing ‘bout dat, eithah, li’l white boy?” Eric didn’t answer, so he turned to the driver and said, “Run silent and find dem. I want to be up on dese punaanies before dey know what hit dem.”
13
After she was certain they’d escaped the group of deformed pirates, Amber hurried into the cabin to check on Justin and found him still asleep. The expired medication must’ve still had a little kick after all. If she’d put him in the opposite bed, he would’ve been pitched out when the boat tipped, but here the intersection of wall and bunk must’ve kept him in place. She decided not to wake him, but instead grabbed another of the old, smelly blankets and carried it back outside.
Cherrywine sat huddled on the bench, soaking wet again and shivering. The others had stopped rowing, and all four men were gathered around her. Amber wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “I couldn’t move,” she whimpered. “It was like the seaweed was trying to hold me back…”
Lito knelt and patted the knee of her baggy pants. “You okay?”
She surged forward and threw her ar
ms around his neck. “Thankyouthankyou, you saved me!”
“Uh…you’re welcome.”
He returned the hug, glancing over her shoulder at Amber and giving her a shrug. Seeing the two of them like that, with her massive stripper breasts pressed against his broad chest, gave Amber a sudden, sharp pinch.
My, my, Ms. Dunley, is that jealousy I detect?
“Jer, you’re bleedin, man,” Ray said.
Jericho gently touched the gash across his forehead. “Compliments of Jorge, dat son of a bitch. After you two left, he tried to turn dis one into filet of white girl.”
“Why?”
“Kept goin on ‘bout revenge for Rabid. Good riddance, I say.”
Amber stuck out her hand. “Thanks for helping me, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.”
He smiled sheepishly and accepted the handshake fast, like a young boy scared of cooties, then asked his captain, “What happened in dere?”
Lito finally managed to break free of Cherrywine’s embrace and dug through the gear bags they’d brought with them. He came up with a box of ammunition and began refilling the cylinder of his revolver. “We didn’t get very far. Those things just swarmed outta the lower decks when they heard us. Don’t know what they were doin down there.”
“They would’ve killed us all if not for that light,” Amber said. “It was like they were attracted to it.”
“Moths to a flame,” Lito agreed, looking down at the place on his arm where he’d been grabbed. The skin was smooth and unbroken. Amber reached up to feel her own neck, recalling the slimy touch of the thing’s palm.
“It made me feel like I was gonna barf,” Cherrywine sniffled.
“Me too,” Ray agreed. “Same thing last time.”
Lito asked, “How long’s it been since then? Couple of hours?”
“About that.”
“Start timing. I wanna know how long it takes for the next one.”
“You think there’ll be a next one?”
Sargasso Page 20
