Devour (27 page)

T
aylor sat in the middle of the bed as it floated across the tiny cabin, her very own lifeboat. She was wet, the mattress soaked through but still buoyant. Water continued to come through the door, first just seeping under the sill, then starting to pour in around the edges as well. When the water was at the second hinge the bed tipped suddenly to the side, and she shifted her weight to keep from sliding off. The bed immediately tipped the other way, spilling her into three feet of icy water.

She hit the floor, trying to scream and only managing a few bubbles through the towel Kharkov had taped around her mouth. The mattress and box spring, suddenly free of her weight, drifted over her. She shoved it away and scooched along the floor, pushing her head above water as soon as she was clear of the mattress. The bed drifted away, coming to rest against the nightstand table.

She sucked in as much air as she could through her nose, then screamed, the sound only a muffled whine by the time it got through the towel. If someone had their ear pressed against the door they might have heard her, but nobody was out there. She didn’t think anybody was going to be out there, either, because in another few minutes D-deck was going to be completely underwater.

There’s no way they’ll forget about me
, she thought, trying to fight off the panic.
I’m missing and they
will
come looking for me
.

But the night before, she had also been missing. The only people looking for her at this point would be her parents, and she held out no great hope that they could track her down, that either one had the wits and resolve to find the hidden stairwell in C-85. And if they ran into Kharkov . . .

She didn’t want to think about it.

She started to hop toward the bed, half-swimming through the rising water. She reached the edge of the bed, thought about Kharkov’s warning, and went past it to the door. The water was above the second hinge now, halfway up to her chest. She turned around and held the doorknob between her tied hands and twisted it open. A small wave of water surged over her and into the room.

She continued hopping down the hallway, then paused to survey D-deck. Across the room, the water was up to the third stair, and everything that floated was pressed against the far wall—several bottles, two chairs, and a long shape that she knew had to be the body of the man who had tried to help her.

Kharkov’s words came to her again:
If you leave room, I will turn you inside out.

She moved cautiously into the main room. The deck was tilted toward the wall where the debris and the bartender’s body were floating, and as she hopped toward the stairwell she began slipping toward that end. She forced herself to slow down, fighting against the temptation to break for the stairs in a mad scramble. If she fell down, there was nothing to pull herself up with, and she would end up under the chairs. Under the dead body.

Her progress was agonizingly slow. At one point, footsteps pounded over her head and she stopped, rabbit-still; she was sure the heavy thuds were from Kharkov. But the footsteps kept on pounding, and after a moment she started toward the stairwell again. Her clothes were soaked through, further constricting her movements, and she could feel claustrophobia working its way inside of her.

Finally, she reached the stairs, narrow and steep. They looked impossible.

She turned around and sat down with a splash, her butt landing on the third tread. She brought her feet up onto the floor and pushed up, then slid her butt onto the fourth tread. From above her she heard faint screaming, the sound of gunfire. She put her feet on the next set of stairs and kept pushing.

B
rian tried to keep his eyes off the muzzle of the gun, instead focusing on Frankie’s forearm. He thought it might bunch a little before Frankie shot, just a twitch, and that was going to be his split-second chance to do something. Jump over the railing, he supposed. Or bum rush the little weasel.

As Christie escorted Cesar past Frankie, Cesar roared something in Spanish and lunged, breaking free of Christie’s grip and charging toward Frankie. Frankie swiveled as Cesar rammed into him, but his shoes slipped on the deck and Cesar rammed his shoulder into his midsection. Cesar’s feet kept driving, bending Frankie’s upper torso over the railing.

Brian charged forward, lowering his own shoulder like a linebacker. It would only take one good shove to finish the job Cesar had started and send Frankie tipping over the railing.

Then he slipped and sprawled onto the deck, flat on his stomach. Before he could pick himself up, Christie was on him, fingers digging at Brian’s neck. Brian rolled to the side, catching a light blow on the back of his neck, then another on his shoulder. The latter sent a sharp pain racing down his arm, as if he’d been stung by a hornet.

He got to his knees, parried another punch. Christie’s face was red, his eyes frantic. Brian brought his fist halfway back and jabbed it straight out, clipping Christie neatly on the jaw. He tried to stand and only made it halfway up before Brian hit him again and he fell back onto the deck, his eyelids quivering.

Cesar was losing his struggle with Frankie, his one good arm slowly being forced back, blood splattering on the deck from his wounded shoulder. Frankie’s Glock was coming around by degrees, almost to Cesar’s forehead, Frankie’s finger white on the trigger.

Brian got to his feet, and wobbled. He took a step forward and went back instead, his hands out for balance, and stumbled against the railing. The deck was giving way under his feet. He looked up at the two men locked together just ten feet in front of him. Cesar’s teeth were bared, trying to bite Frankie’s neck, a growl bubbling from his mouth.

Brian slid down to the deck and looked at Christie’s hands. Long and pale fingers, no wedding ring, no watch. There was a small syringe in his palm, the plunger was fully depressed, a drop of liquid at the end of the short needle.

He looked up. Frankie had worked a thumb into the gunshot wound in Cesar’s shoulder and was grinding it in. Cesar snarled something and disengaged, pushing Frankie’s gun hand back and retreating two steps. Frankie brought his gun around, hollering for Cesar to stop, but he was too late; Cesar was already charging him. Frankie stepped to the right and brought the gun around in a short arc as Cesar passed, hitting him just behind the ear. Cesar slumped over the top of the railing, arms hanging limply over the side.

“Gaa,” Brian said, trying to stand and only falling back onto his butt. “Gaadaa yoo.”

“Little bastard is strong,” Frankie said, breathing hard. He looked down at Brian. “What the hell did you do to him?”

“Just a little poke,” Christie said, and to Brian his voice sounded like it was coming from miles above. “A lot quieter than firing off that goddamned pistol. Jesus, they could probably hear you clear across the ship.”

Frankie peered down at Brian. “He’s absolutely stoned.”

Christie struggled to a standing position. “Let’s toss him over the side and get working.”

Brian listened, feeling concern trying to spike through the chemical stupor. Everything had taken on a dreamlike air, but once they dropped him over the side . . . twenty feet through the air, then six hundred feet of water . . . he’d probably wake up just in time to die. His face had slid down to the deck and his cheek was pressed against the cold wood, giving him a clear view of Cesar. The blood dripping from his shoulder seemed to be the brightest color in the world, the scarlet backset by the gray-blue of the rolling seas. Then his vision filled with the head of the kronosaur, the massive jaws clamping down on Cesar’s head and shoulders. Cesar’s feet jerked up and over the railing and his entire body disappeared.

Frankie rushed to the railing and emptied his pistol into the sea, screaming. The pistol clicked empty and he stood there, shoulders hunched, neck corded. Then he backed slowly away from the railing and joined Christie, who had pressed himself against the inside wall of the deck way.

“What?” Christie mumbled. “Jesus. That . . .”

Frankie turned around, his nostrils flared. “That fucker just ate a three-million-dollar meal.” He pressed a hand to his forehead, bringing it down slowly over his eyes. “Lord, oh, Lord, what a sense of humor you must have.”

After a little while Christie said, “Three—million—dollars?”

Frankie laughed. “Never knew how much money a healthy O-positive heart could bring, didja? Even with fifty-fifty odds of rejection, I had all kinds of buyers lined up.”

Christie rubbed at his temples. “A hundred grand for the surgeon, for the
skill
, and you’re a millionaire?”

“Not anymore,” Frankie said. “They’ll pull those reserve funds back the second they find out. Don’t look so cheated, doc. Any asshole with a scalpel can cut the thing out. They had a real doctor hired to put it in. Jesus, I don’t know if I should laugh or eat a goddamn bullet.”

“We did it over, would you go half and half?”

Frankie flapped his hand. “Let it go.”

Christie stepped closer. “You think you got everything figured out, huh? And the whole time the solution is right here, staring you in the face.” He moved forward and kicked Brian in the small of the back. Brian coughed, feeling the pain spike “You still got a donor, dummie.”

Frankie frowned. “The odds of him being O-positive are what, one in three? And all the other work with Cesar, mixing the blood together . . .”

“The antigens,” Christie said. “Tissue typing. The blood mixing, cross-matching. You’re right. The odds he’ll match up as well as our departed little Mexican are very, very low.”

Frankie started to speak, to object, and then fell silent.

“There you go,” Christie said. “It gets rejected, well, we already knew there was a fifty percent chance that would happen.” He stepped forward, stretched out his skinny arm. “Right, partner?”

* * *

Frankie opened the door to the room next to the day care. Thor was on one bed, Destiny on the other. She glanced up when he entered, then looked away. She was very still, her only movement her fingers, digging into her thighs. Frankie looked down, saw the blood streaks on his jacket and white shirt. He should change clothes.

“I need you to do a transport,” he said to Thor. “B-deck, back corner. I’m gonna take Destiny to the gaming room. They still playing?”

Thor nodded. “Latham came back, but is still down. Prower is playing poorly.”

“Because Prower’s an asshole,” Frankie said. “Both of them are, just like me.” He walked over to Destiny and waited until she looked up. Her upper lip was trembling, her face pale.

“What?” she said. “You waiting for me to disagree?”

“Just making sure you’re still okay with the plan.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she said.

“You’d be here,” he said slowly, “in this room, regardless. Understand? I been nice to you, I wanna keep being nice to you, but I’m not in the mood for attitude. Are you okay with the plan?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He turned to Thor, who was on his way out the door. “Any news on the rescue ships?”

“I heard nothing,” Thor said. “Graves said you were going to make a call, with the satellite phone.”

“Shit,” Frankie said. “That’s right, I got distracted.” He paused, thinking. “Go help Christie with that passenger transport, then meet us back in this room. Anyone asks about the passenger, he fell and hit his head.”

He took Destiny’s hand and followed Thor out the door, then knocked on the day-care room door. The door opened a crack, a bloodshot eye appeared, and then the door swung open. Kharkov ushered him inside, his large body giving off a smell of mildew and cabbage. Hornaday stood behind and slightly to the side of Prower, his face bruised and his ankle wrapped in a bloody towel. Prower looked up. His pile of chips was considerably diminished.

Frankie sighed. “The game’s over, gentlemen.”

Latham spoke in a low, unhurried voice. “We heard a lot of shooting.”

“Target practice,” Frankie said, directing Destiny into the small couch. There were two bottles of single-malt Scotch on the table next to the couch and he poured a healthy dollop into one of the glasses. He drank half, breathed, then finished the rest. “Call your transports. Prower, I need to borrow your phone when you’re done.”

Latham turned, his movement as measured as his voice. “I’m still in this game.”

“The ship is going down.” Frankie set the tumbler on the table. “The game is over.”

“We agreed it would continue,” Latham said, and beside him he felt Kharkov turn slightly. He breathed in through his nostrils, trying not to look at Kharkov. Thor wouldn’t return for several minutes, and for now it was just him and a room full of people who didn’t like him.

“The tug will be here in minutes,” Frankie said. “We need to get everybody off the ship before they arrive.”

“No.” Latham’s voice was mild, without anger.

Frankie took a deep breath. “We’re all going to end up—”

“Bet it all,” Prower said. “I haven’t looked at my cards. We play this out, no draw. Straight-up stud poker.”

Frankie considered, then nodded. He’d seen this done before, mostly in garage games, usually when everyone was too tired or too drunk to keep dragging the game out. Just shove your chips in, flip the cards over, and see what happened. At this point, he would have endorsed a game of slapjack just to get it over with.

“Okay,” he said. “We finish this out, but no more draws, no more bets. You each have five cards, just turn ’em over.”

Latham glanced at Kharkov, who shrugged, and then Latham turned back to his pile of chips. Sweat dripped down from his scalp to the collar of his shirt. He hesitated, and then pushed his chips into the middle with the side of his hand. Prower glanced at the pile, separated out an equivalent amount, and slid it next to Latham’s.

“Flip ’em,” Prower said.

Latham turned his cards over. A pair of sixes, with a king high.

Prower tilted his head to the side, squinting at Latham’s pair, then began to turn his cards over, one by one, slapping them on the wooden table. A four of clubs,
slap
. A five of hearts,
slap
. Then a seven of clubs, followed quickly by a six of diamonds.
Slap
,
slap
, and Prower was flirting with his inside straight. “An eight would be nice,” Prower smiled grimly. “Or a three. Or a seven. I’m not picky.”

“You looked,” Latham growled.

“No, boss,” Kharkov said. “I was watching him the whole time.”

Prower flipped over his final card and the room seemed to deflate. Jack of spades. A shit hand. Latham reached forward and started to pull in the stacks of chips.

Frankie stopped him. “No,” he said. “You guys are close to even. Leave them in. One last hand.” He put out a hand as the ship shuddered, a deep, ratcheting vibration running through the room. “Winner takes everything.”

Frankie watched closely as Latham shuffled, looking for any of the dozen ways to manipulate a deck. It looked clean, though, three shuffles and a split, followed by another shuffle. Latham held out the deck for Prower to cut. Prower tapped the top of the deck and said, “We’ll play these.”

Latham dealt the cards faceup, one at a time. Prower drew a four and a five, and Latham drew a king and a jack. On the third card Prower drew a queen, Latham a deuce.

“Want to trade those last cards?” Prower said. “No? Okay, king is boss.”

“King is boss,” Latham said, then flipped Prower’s fourth card on the table. It was a four of hearts. Prower pursed his lips, nodded slightly. He now had a pair of fours, with a queen high.

Latham dealt himself another king.

“Cowboys,” Prower said. “Son of a bitch.”

Latham flipped Prower his last card. He was already thumbing his own back when he realized what he had dealt Prower. The four of diamonds, Prower’s third four of the hand.

Latham’s final card dropped to the table. It was the ace of spades, the one-eyed snake. His pair of kings with an ace high had lost to a small three of a kind. His color began to build, working its way up from the neck. His hand was still clutched around the deck, his eyes still on the three fours he’d dealt Prower.

“You son of a bitch,” Latham said.

“Sorry about that,” Prower said. He pushed himself out of his chair, leaning heavily on his cane, and then walked around the table, his hand out. “Fine game, though. You certainly rallied.”

Latham, still seated, looked up at Prower. From somewhere above them they could hear an alarm sounding. “You wouldn’t be interested in selling the prize to me?” he said. “Cash, stocks, perhaps some property? Anything is possible.”

“No,” Prower said. “The cards have spoken, and rather clearly. I’m going to listen to them.”

“Yes, I guess they have.” Latham said. “Kharkov? Plan B.”

“Huh?” Prower said, and at the same time there was a soft whoosh, like a jet passing by very high and very fast, and a round hole appeared in the middle of Prower’s belly. The hole grew, darkening and spreading over Prower’s silk shirt. He took a step forward, his face still fixed in an expression of befuddlement, and the whooshing sound came again. Another hole appeared in Prower’s shirt, less than an inch from the first one. Prower stumbled, fell against the side of the makeshift card table, and dropped to the floor.

On the other side of the table Hornaday was leveling his pistol, trying to shift his weight on his good leg. Frankie started to duck when the noise came again, this time much louder, and Hornaday’s left eye imploded, a spray of pink emerging from the back of his head. He stood upright for a moment, his pistol still pointed in Frankie’s direction. His swollen lips opened a fraction of an inch as though he might say something, then he fell over backwards. Destiny screamed in the background, the noise barely registering. Frankie’s ears seemed to be suddenly full of cotton.