Monstrum (27 page)

“Right,” Gray says. “So you could look at me the way you are right now? Fuck that.”

He stalks off. I helplessly turn to Cortés.

“I don't know what just happened,” I say, swiping a shaky hand over my hair.

Cortés's jaw tightens. He doesn't answer.

“I'm really sorry,” I tell him.

There's a long, painful pause.

Cortés stares at me, and stares hard. “Not your fault,” he says finally, his expression softening a little.

“I have to talk to him,” I say. “He's one of my best friends.”

No answer.

“Cortés,” I say, pleading.

“You want my blessing? Fine. You got it.” Cortés's face is tight, and his voice is brittle as kindling in the desert. “Go talk to him. Go do whatever you have to do. Bye.”

“Some blessing,” I mutter.

“It's the best I can do.”

Grim-faced, we square off on either side of the canyon that's opened between us.

“And think about this while you're talking,” he adds. “Do you want to be with a guy who knew you for years and never looked twice at you until some other guy wanted you, or a guy who knew how special you were the
second
he laid eyes on you?”

Without waiting for any response, he brushes past me and starts to leave, too. I stand there like an idiot, my head spinning.

But then he changes his mind and gestures for me to follow him.

“Come on,” he says sharply. “I'm not leaving you here by yourself.”

The ship's piercing siren screeches, making us jump.

He curses, looking around for the cause of the disturbance. “That can't be good.”

“Murphy.” I forget all about my unfolding personal drama for the moment, terrified that something's happened to Murphy. “You don't think they caught him . . . ?”

“Let's go find out,” he says, taking my hand.

We sprint around the corner at full speed and nearly run into our group, including Gray, who refuses to meet my gaze. I drop Cortés's hand, avoid the keen eyes of both Maggie and An and focus on Murphy.

“Thank God you're okay!” I tell him, squeezing his arm, just this once. “When we heard the alarm, I thought. . .”

Murphy shakes his head and scratches a hand over the grizzled new growth on his chin. “No, they didn't catch us, and Duke was still snoozing under his desk, last I saw him. We got our SOS out and the Coast Guard is tracking our location, although they can't say how long it'll be before they can get a cutter to us, what with the storm and all. No.” He shakes his head again. “Something else must've happened, and we're about to find out what it is.”

“How?” I ask.

Murphy gestures to several crewmen hurrying past us just then, shouting in Spanish as they go. “We're going to follow these fellows,” he tells us. “And you lot are going to keep your traps shut and stay out of harm's way. Understood?”

“Yeah,” we all say, nodding eagerly.

“I'd send you back to the cabin,” Murphy continues, “but I don't want us separated. I want you where I can see you and protect you.”

“We understand,” I assure him.

A group of crewmen are running out of the weapons cabin in a panicked wave. They slam into us and shove past, ignoring Murphy's warning shout and nearly knocking Sammy over in their haste. For one scary moment, the boys throw elbows and try to block them, and a couple of the crewmen respond with a wild-eyed anger that makes me wonder if we're about to be caught in a riot.

Then I hear the brutal shattering of glass and realize that someone's broken into the case and is distributing rifles.

“Monstruo!”
A crewman gets in my face and points in the direction of the tank cabin next door before crossing himself. There's no mistaking his warning.
“Monstruo! Corre!”

Another barrels past, clawing at the man in front of him as though he hopes to vault the guy on his way out of there.
“Corre! Mais rápido!”

The armed mob's fading footsteps echo down the corridor as they disappear out of sight.

The abrupt silence is chilling. My dread takes the form of clammy sweat, which trickles between my shoulder blades and down my sides. Murphy gathers us around him and keeps his craggy voice steady even though his face is white.

“I'm counting on you kids to keep your wits about you,” he murmurs, holding each of our gazes in turn. “No matter what happens. Understood? We stick together as a team. We look out for each other. If we do that and keep our heads low, then we've got no problems staying alive till the cutter gets here. Are you with me?”

We nod shakily.

“Carter Edwards, you're good with rifles, I believe?” he asks. “I saw you with your nose stuck in a copy of
Guns and Ammo
.”

Carter seems ready and resolute. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Cortés says, holding an arm wide to lead Carter into the weapons cabin. They speed off.

The others and I exchange disgruntled looks. “What're we?” I demand, as the rest of us hurry after them. “The sacrificial lambs?”

“Yeah!” An says. “We want weapons, too!”

Sammy nods.

“I don't want a weapon,” Maggie says fearfully.

“Freeze where you are!” Murphy commands. “I don't need you shooting each other up with rifles you don't know how to use. Like I don't have enough to worry about. Jesus, when will you kids start listening to me?”

I grab one of the machetes—the panga—and test its weight. As I expected, it's heavier than my saber. More substantial—probably because it's used for chopping plants and pathways through jungles and stuff. The slightly curved blade is wide and long—probably about a foot and a half or so, although it's much shorter than my saber—and it flares before turning up at the tip. But the short wooden grip is comforting in my hand, and I feel safer already. The other kids, minus Maggie, also arm up, grabbing knives and whatnot while Cortés and Carter load the rifles.

Then we're ready.

“Let's do it,” I say, slinging the panga's strap over my shoulder as I look to Murphy.

Muttering darkly, Murphy shakes his head, grabs a rifle and signals for us to follow him back out into the corridor.

“Let them go!” Captain Romero thunders from inside the tank room as someone else speaks to him in low tones I can't make out. “Cowards, all of them! They disgrace my ship with their presence! Let them go!”

Murphy signals for us to follow him inside.

We do, fanning out so we can see what's going on, our footsteps slow and cautious as the scene sharpens into focus.

Captain Romero and Dr. Baer face each other in the tank's blue glow.

The two crewmen who'd been guarding the chimera lie on their backs at their feet. Their rifles lie uselessly within inches of their fingertips.

Their arms and legs are splayed, and their eyes are frozen open in identical bemused expressions.

They're clearly dead, but I can't figure out how.

Until I see the red lines visible along the right side seam of their khaki uniform shirts and realize that they aren't lines at all—they're wounds made with surgical precision.

I look to the tank just as one of my friends screams and another cries out in shock.

The seaweed sways back and forth as usual, but something is different, I realize as I walk up to the glass for a better view and look up. Milky pink streamers have been woven in and out of the cage's grid top and strung among the greenery like decorations for an upcoming birthday party. I wonder for one bewildered second who would bother trying to beautify the chimera's tank.

But then I blink and realize that those ropy pink things aren't streamers at all.

They're the dead crewmen's intestines.

T
he scene's horror goes on forever, saturating the air I breathe. Bile, thick and nasty, collects on the back of my tongue. I sway on the spot, and the room spins around me. Cortés puts a steadying hand around my shoulder even though his nostrils are flaring and he's clearly making an effort not to vomit.

All around me, my friends make shocked sounds of distress. “Oh, God,” An wails. “We're never going to get out of here alive!
Oh, God.
” Gray gags.

We wait for Murphy to take action, but he's aged a thousand years in these few seconds and is stoop-shouldered and frail with a handkerchief pressed to his mouth.

Dr. Baer doesn't look much better. I can hear the shallow rasp of his breath, and his eyes are the size of baseballs, with the whites showing all around. Reaching up, he runs shaking hands through his curly hair, further ruffling it until it stands on end like a bright red shriek. His mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.

Captain Romero slowly turns to face us.

Though he'd just been shouting at Dr. Baer, his face is now empty of any expression. His dark eyes are similarly blank, and I have the strange idea that some internal slate has gone dark, if indeed he ever had any emotions to begin with. All that's left is a clever imitation of humanity that's no more real than the celebrity wax figures at Madame Tussaud's.

“My son,” he begins quietly, his gaze skimming over our group and falling on Cortés, who stands in the middle. His voice is conversational and yet vibrates with malice, as though his vocal cords have been replaced with rattlesnakes. “I see you have chosen your side.”

“Yep.” Cortés's arm is still around my shoulder, so I can feel his muscles tense. “I see your new pet killed more of your crew. Looks like it didn't bother returning to the tank this time.”

One corner of the captain's mouth edges up in a smile. “We will recapture the chimera. The guards were careless fools who fell asleep when they should have been watching the chimera.” He shrugs. “I am better off without them.”

Dr. Baer finds his tongue and reaches out a beseeching hand. “For God's sake, Diego—”

With no more provocation than that, Captain Romero's face contorts into a killing rage, all flashing eyes, a twisted mouth and gleaming white teeth. He lashes out with a backhand that catches Dr. Baer by surprise, and his heavy gold ring flays open Dr. Baer's freckled and splotchy cheek. Dr. Baer yelps with pain and crashes to the floor at the tank's base.

Maggie and An cry out and hurry over to help him up while the boys and Murphy assume wide-legged defensive stances, draw their weapons and try to block Dr. Baer from any further attack, which seems like a real possibility.

“I am your captain!” Captain Romero's fury reverberates off the walls and the tank and fills the cabin with his mania until there's no room for anything else. “You will refer to me as
Captain,
or I will personally gut you the way the chimera gutted these fools! Do you understand me?”

“You're not gutting anyone, man.” Murphy stares down the length of his rifle, which is directed at Captain Romero's chest, but the captain is focused exclusively on Dr. Baer.

Dr. Baer keeps a wary eye on the captain but doesn't answer.

We all wait on high alert for the tirade to continue, but it doesn't.

The captain's expression slides back into utter smoothness. Taking all the time in the world, he holds his hand up and checks his ring as though he wants to make sure there's no blood on it. Then he smoothes the front of his shirt and adjusts his collar.

“So, Mr. Murphy,” he says conversationally, as though Murphy isn't standing there itching for a reason to blow his head off. “I assume you're here because you and your charges wish to abandon ship like the rest of my crew? The crew who are too cowardly to remain on the
Venator,
embrace their duty and help me find the chimera? If so, you had better hurry, or you will miss them.”

Murphy lowers the rifle, looking surprised.

“Abandon ship? In the dinghy? In this storm? Are they mad?”