Down the Psycho Path

by Dan Dillard

  “Ship,” Caleb said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a ship. Boats go underwater.”

  Gunderson frowned. “Look, boy, I been in this navy long enough I shit seaweed and wipe with barnacles. If I want to call this a boat, it’s a fucking boat.”

  Caleb straightened up at the scolding.

  “Yes sir…uh…STO.”

  “Relax kid. Now, where was I? Oh yeah. It was years ago when I was on a frigate… smaller than this.” He waved his hand around at the ship. “We were sailing across the Atlantic from Norfolk with the battle group and were in the first month of a six month cruise. There was a kid on board named Harker. He was a deck seaman, undesignated. Skinny thing…unfortunate looking.”

  He paused for a drag. Caleb snubbed out his cigarette but didn’t light a third one.

  Gunderson continued, “He was new onboard, so a couple of the boys—there weren’t any females on that crew—decided to welcome him aboard with a joke not unlike your little sea bat.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, they jacked him up something fierce.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Well, a pair of them pulled him aside knowing there was going to be a battle stations drill and went over the procedures for setting Zebra in his area—securing doors, setting valves and such—prepping for battle, but it was just a drill, you know?”

  Caleb nodded even though he was new to damage control.

  “They had him in one of the DC lockers and turned the lights out and told him the story about when Dracula knocks.”

  “Dracula?”

  “That’s right,” Gunderson said.

  “Like for real, Dracula?” Caleb said.

  “You have to understand, Harker wasn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. He was a bit superstitious as well. Besides, this is just a story, right?”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  The old Warrant sucked half of his cigarette down. “They told this kid, Harker, that on certain nights when the sky is just right, ghostly things can happen at sea…and that it was possible, when a ship was in distress, for terrible things—otherworldly things—to happen. There’s a rhyme about it, let me see if I can recall the thing.”

  Gunderson squinted and pursed his lips together, deep in thought for a moment. Then his eyes widened, his brows arched and in his best pirate voice, he began to recite.

  “On a night so dark, with a blood-red moon, if the seas be all a’boil,

  The swabbies standin’ topside claim to smell the rotten soil.

  For long ago, with deadly plans, they sailed the Demeter black.

  A crew of sailors left home port but not a soul went back.

  The wicked wind were howlin’, and the clouds were hangin’ low,

  The devil’s ship, she came ‘longside, a bringin’ death in tow.

  So batten down those hatches, men. Get on your knees to pray.

  For when Dracula comes a knockin’, ye won’t see the light of day.”

  Gunderson winked at him and took another pull from his cigarette.

  “That’s…creepy,” Caleb said.

  “Oh, that isn’t the end of the story. You asked for it, now you’re gonna listen to it.”

  Caleb grinned, glad for the distraction. Also glad he might have a tale to tell Beck and Lewis, or better yet, a virginal FNG.

  “Well, as you can imagine,” Gunderson continued, “There was a storm that evening and the ship started to rock-n-roll. Seaman Harker was on edge from the stories they were telling him and from that damned poem. They even left a wooden stake in his rack along with some cloves of garlic from the mess. There was a note wrapped around the stake that said, FOR WHEN DRACULA KNOCKS. They told him to keep a mirror handy because he might run into the vampire and not even know it. With the mirror, he could check for a reflection. Like I said, Harker was dumb, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. He didn’t believe in vampires. Funny thing what you don’t believe in—and how it can still scare the shit out of you. I mean there was something haunting about the tale. And there is a magical quality about being at sea. There’s nothing else like it in the world.”

  Caleb nodded, he agreed. There was nothing quite like it that he’d experienced.

  “So they fucked with that poor boy at every turn, and when the call for battle stations came over the 1MC, Harker’s heart about leapt from his chest. He was a good kid…a good sailor. And like a good sailor, he went right to work, donning his battle dress and pulling on his flash gear. He took his instructions and went to his section of the ship and began to set Zebra. He dropped hatches and twisted valve handles and closed doors. He worked himself into a sweat, but none of the others showed up. He waited for help, but none came. The ship rolled as the storm swells grew and while he waited for the call that zebra was set throughout the ship, it never came. No one came. In the back of his mind, he thought over and over FOR WHEN DRACULA KNOCKS. WHEN DRACULA KNOCKS. DRACULA KNOCKS.”

  Gunderson paused for a moment and sucked down the rest of his cigarette.

  “So he’s alone in the passageway with everything set? Shouldn’t he call it in or check in with someone?”

  “That’s why you’re a technician and he was undesignated, kid. Some folks wait to get to the ship to pick a rating…others just don’t know shit. Harker didn’t know shit. He forgot to report zebra was set. He just stood there in the passageway and waited. He waited for five minutes, then ten minutes, then fifteen. What the poor sap didn’t know was that he was the butt of an enormous joke—your sea bat times the entire crew. Shit like that sometimes happens on an all-male ship…especially on the smallboys.”

  “The whole crew was in on it?” Caleb said, laughing in disbelief.

  “Right up to the damned skipper,” Gunderson replied.

  “What happened next?”

  “Next was the kicker, son. Light up another.”

  Caleb already had his pack out and was shaking another cigarette free.

  “What happened next, kid, was the bells. Thirteen of them rang out over the 1MC just like when you’re in port and somebody important comes aboard.”

  “Who gets thirteen bells?”

  “Nobody kid, that’s the thing. Bad luck gets thirteen. Death gets thirteen. But they rang thirteen. They rang thirteen and Seaman Harker just stood there in that p-way dumbfounded. Then the voice on the 1MC said, ‘Demeter…arriving.’”

  “Demeter? From the poem.”

  “That’s right kid. The Russian ship that brought Count Dracula to Whitby.”

  “The captain of the Demeter was onboard?”

  “The only surviving member of that ship’s company was the monster himself,” Gunderson said.

  “That is fucked up,” Caleb said.

  “Yep. It sure is, but there’s more.”

  Caleb didn’t speak, just crossed his arms and let the Warrant finish.

  “Harker heard the airlock open at the end of the p-way and then he heard it close. He didn’t wait to see who it was. Instead, he ducked into the damage control locker and hid amongst the fire suits that smelled like sweat and rotten feet. He hid there and tried not to make a sound. The inner door on the airlock opened and slammed and he heard the squeak of the latch as the bar was torqued into place.”

  Gunderson lit another and dropped the old cigarette into the butt can before continuing. “Harker closed his eyes and wedged himself into the corner of that locker. He pulled the suits in front of him and hid from sight. The footsteps sounded down the hallway slowly. TAP…TAP…TAP…TAP…Then they stopped, right outside the door to that locker. Harker took a deep breath and held it in, but as he did, there were four thuds on the door. BANG BANG BANG BANG! He screamed and his heart gave way.”

  “Who was it?” Caleb said. “Who was at the door?”

  “Don’t know. I was only a second class at the time and didn’t have all the information. What I do know is when the crew found him, he was still in that locker. He was white as snow, li
ke there wasn't a drop of blood in his body, and his face was twisted into a hideous, but silent, scream.”

  “No shit?”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, kid. I just met you.”

  “Yeah,” Caleb said.

  “Well, time to call it a night, Petty Officer. See you around.”

  “Take it easy, STO.”

  The Warrant put out his smoke and walked away, nearly running into EW1 Beck. Caleb was spooked, but he didn’t buy the tale. Still, it had gotten under his skin a little just like Gunderson said. He nodded at Beck who nodded back.

  “How's the first underway goin’?” Beck said.

  Caleb heard him but ignored the question and asked, "That's all bullshit, right? Somethin’ you tell the new guys?"

  “What's all bullshit?” Beck said.

  “That story the Warrant just told me.”

  “Warrant?”

  “Yeah. The STO? Last name’s Gunderson? You just walked by him.”

  Beck took a long drag and shook his head. “Too soon, kid. You won’t catch me with something that lame.”

  “What? Lame? What do you mean?” Caleb said.

  “You talked to CWO Gunderson?” Beck said. “That’s the oldest bullshit story on this ship.”

  “He was right here. You just passed him on the ladder.”

  Caleb recounted as much of the poem as he could remember. He told the tale of Seaman Harker and setting Zebra for battle stations…about the Demeter. At first, Beck only grinned, but as the story went on, he began to frown.

  “That’s a lot of fucking detail, Morgan. You make that up?”

  “Hell no. I couldn’t make that up. I don’t even know what half of that shit means.”

  Beck nodded, but his face was blank—a startled expression.

  “What is it?” Caleb said.

  “Man, there ain't no CWO Gunderson. He's just a ghost story. Come with me.”

  Beck took him to talk to the division officer and told him the story. The three of them tracked down the ops chief and the Operations Officer who each told him the same thing: There was no Warrant Officer Gunderson. They took him to the Command Master Chief, and then to medical to see the doc. No one they met onboard knew the officer in question…and no one was laughing.

  FILTHY

  Randy was a portrait of self-control. He typed furiously to keep his mind off of his bursting bladder. His left leg quaked and sweat beaded on his brow. He brushed a damp clump of hair back into place and looked nervously out of his cubicle. He typed some more.

  It wasn’t a deadline he feared. It wasn’t a tyrannical boss with plans to keep him late or work him over the weekend. It wasn’t even the woman from that other department who bothered him, the one who might swing by to make his life miserable, the one who wanted to sleep with him and wasn’t shy about showing her desires. In his head, he called her the slut. Her name was Erin and she nauseated him with her touchy-feely ways. Randy swabbed the counter with a wet wipe and tossed it in the trash.

  “You okay, buddy?” a co-worker said. It wasn’t Erin the slut. It was Ben who was nice enough and kept his hands to himself. Randy looked into his joke rear-view mirror that he’d taped to the top of his monitor. Ben looked back with a worried grin. They had worked together for several years.

  PEOPLE IN THE MIRROR MAY BE MORE ANNOYING THAN THEY SEEM was printed along the bottom.

  “Fine, just busy,” Randy said.

  “You sure? You’re sweating, dude.”

  Randy checked his face in the little mirror and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. The pain in his full bladder twinged again. “Fine. Lots to do is all. You know how it is.”

  Ben shrugged and left him there. He said, “Lunch at twelve, don’t be late,” as he walked away.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there,” Randy muttered.

  He looked at the clock to see lunch was still two hours away. Then he looked at his coffee mug and regretted the second cup. He couldn’t stand it anymore. His chair rocked up on two wheels, almost falling over as he shot from his cube. Stray papers slid off the desk and floated, like autumn leaves, to the floor.

  Randy cringed, focusing all of his energy on the ice-pick in his crotch. He felt the moisture on his temples start to drip down the sides of his face. The noise of the office, droning on as usual with phone calls and clacking keys and Xerox machines seemed to grow in volume.

  “Morning, Randy,” a chipper voice said.

  A woman. Not Erin. Dodging a bullet. He didn’t compute who it did belong to, but nodded. He felt her eyes on his back, the concerned look on her face as he passed her by, sweating, walking in a stilted, gotta-go manner. Then he reached the break room ducking inside and feeling like he might explode. If he wet himself, he would be semi-alone and he could blame it on an errant drink of water from the sink. It might still be a moment of embarrassment he would never live down. For a split second, he considered the trash can or the sink. Then the thought of the sink made his bladder pulse, the tip of his penis burn. Randy was doomed.

  He stamped his feet as if they were asleep. It helped briefly with the pressure before making it worse. “Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered with each subsequent step until he reached the bathroom door. His hand reached but wouldn’t grab the handle. He stared at it, biting his lower lip and without realizing, grabbed his crotch with his other hand. The flow had released from his bladder, and was only damned up by a finger-and-thumb tourniquet.

  His eyes lingered on that brass knob, sparkling in the fluorescent light. He gritted his teeth. The knob pulsed along with the capillaries in his eyes. He saw things swimming on the handle, tiny things with legs. Globular things with cilia or flagella that slid across the metal as if they were taunting him. It was impossible to see bacteria, to see single-celled organisms, to see viruses with the naked eye, but there they were.

  Randy increased the grip on himself. His stomach turned at the thought of touching the handle, boiling bile to the top of his esophagus. He was going to vomit or he was going to piss himself. Either would be messy and embarrassing. Either would be dirty. He wished he was at home, safe and sound until the spell ran its course.

  Voices from around the corner distracted him from the handle. They grew in volume as their owners walked toward him. They would see him holding himself and perspiring like some schoolyard pervert. The footsteps tapped on the linoleum of the break room floor. In a moment they would hit the carpet and it would be too late. Randy grabbed the handle with a grunt. He choked back the urge to puke and burst into the bathroom, rushing to the closest of three stalls. The door swung mostly shut behind him.

  “Thank God,” he whispered. The bathroom was empty, but he didn’t notice. He was busy unzipping his fly around his gripping fingers, rolling his boxers down to reveal himself to the porcelain receptacle. “Thank God,” he repeated.

  Then he let loose, spraying urine on the wall and the toilet seat before gaining control and letting the painful relief consume him. His sweat-covered body shuddered in the air conditioning. When he was finished, finally empty, he leaned against the wall of the stall and closed his eyes. His accomplishment for the day: leaving one cubicle and surviving the trip to another.

  The creak of the self-closing arm on the door caught Randy’s ear as someone else entered the restroom. There were two voices and he recognized neither.

  “Catch the game?” one said.

  Dull banter, he thought. It relaxed him. They weren’t checking after him and that was all that mattered. That and the fact that his bladder was empty and he was no longer in agony. The lack of agony presented its own problem as he was no longer distracted and needed to plan his exit or as he called it, how not to touch anything before getting back to my desk.

  His mind cranked out ideas, but all of them stopped at the bathroom door. Others had touched that door. Even if they came in clean, they wiped. They touched their own naked pieces and then touched the door handle with the same fingers. Bacteria crawl
ed all over the door all over everything. He saw it on the floor, on the toilet seat, on the ceiling, on the flush handle. He didn’t have to flush, but he had leaned against the wall. They were on him, growing, dividing, eating.

  The sink was only a few feet beyond the stall door and there was hot water and soap there. The microscopic bastards couldn’t take much of a hold in those few steps. He could get out of the stall and wash his hands in the sink. He didn’t even have to touch the faucet levers after he washed, ensuring his hands stayed clean…but then what? The world was crawling with bugs.

  Randy could wait until one of the others—the bacteria infested—came in. The door would be open long enough for him to escape.

  He heard someone wash their hands. He knew they didn’t know, didn’t see what he saw. He knew they would leave without a care, but Randy knew better. When the door closer creaked again he slapped at the handle, sliding it to the open position, and then pulled the door in with his shoe.

  He scanned the room and found one of the stalls was still closed. He eyed the sink, but first he had to know if he was alone. Randy bent down, his face only a foot from the floor, but couldn’t see feet and dared not lean any further. The scent of stale urine was strong. Randy straightened, watching the floor crawl with life and gooseflesh raised on his arms.

  He rushed to the sink. Creatures swirled and rolled across the hot and cold handles, across the faucet. They boiled in and out of the sink’s drain. They covered the mirror so thick, his own reflection looked like a kaleidoscope version of what he actually looked like. Randy scowled at the mysterious, brownish drip marks in the sink, the wadded up paper towels on the counter and on the floor. Sickened, he took a deep breath and twisted the handle for the hot water and paused before putting his hands underneath it.

  The water wasn’t pure. Randy could sense it. The soap dispenser had a button to push, but it was caked with liquid soap, crawling with demonic, tiny death that was just waiting to engulf him and eat him molecule by molecule. They waited to get inside his body and rot him.

  He detected a hint of color to the water and his paranoid eyes grew wider as he stooped down for a closer look. They were there, little monsters, swimming in the stream amongst the aerated bubbles. That was when Randy lost his balance.