Stranded (28 page)

“It's not a bad idea. I think it's a start anyway. Better'n any of my guys have come up with.”

Noah cursed and drove his elbow into the medicine cabinet. The glass cracked and pieces tinkled on the floor between his feet, but it held together. Noah picked up his crowbar, looking like he wanted to tear the whole thing down. Instead he stood still as a shout that echoed in the hallway carried into the sick bay.

“What was
that
?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Connor said.

The men sprinted out of the room, their supply mission forgotten in the heat of a new urgency.

 

28

They shoved through the door. The cafeteria looked the same as it had when they'd left; the ships' crews remained divided on opposite sides of the room. But instead of quietly gathering in cliques, they stood assembled like soldiers mustering on a battle line. At one end, a table had been overturned, its crossed legs resembling an invasion obstacle on Normandy Beach. Smashed dishes and utensils littered the floor. In no-man's-land, Brewster stood holding a carving knife to his twin's neck. Connor's shipmates implored him to let their skipper go. He pressed the blade harder against his prisoner's white stubbled throat.

Taking advantage of the brief distraction Noah and Connor's return presented, Holden took a cautious step forward, his hands defensively held out in front of him even though he was far from Brewster's reach with the knife. “Calm down, William. No one needs to get hurt.”

“No?” Brewster said. He angled the knife back from his twin's windpipe toward his carotid. The third officer halted his advance. “Tell me the exact moment when
you
started to feel on the mend.”

“This isn't about me.”

“It goddamn well is. It's about you and Pereira and Cabot and MacAllister. They never got sick, and the two of you suddenly have full sails while the rest of us are still dragging ass. I know what happened to you, Holden, and we all know what the spring in Pereira's step over there means for our man.”

“So, you're going to murder someone to test a theory? For Christ's sake, William, he's not just anyone; he's
you
.”

“
I'm
the only me!” Spit flew from his lips as he sputtered his opposition. The mirror Brewster's hands floated up and down as if he wanted to pull the hand holding the knife to his throat away, but knew also
who
had him in his grip and how serious that person was. “It's self defense. I kill him and if I start feeling better, then we know.”

“This is beyond madness!”

Boucher spun and grabbed at John Boduf, who was creeping over the serving counter with his own knife in hand. Catching him by the collar, he punched the cook in the face and pulled him over onto the floor in the middle of the mess in a back flop that drove all the breath from his body in a loud cough and sent the blade sliding away. Henry snatched it up and pointed it at Holden. Boucher scrambled over the low wall into the kitchen. He slipped on the metal rail and nearly toppled over, but caught himself. The big man had never been agile and being sick only made him less so. He flopped over and pulled another knife off the magnetic strip on the wall before anyone could protest. He returned to the mess room, brandishing his serrated weapon in a clenched fist.

Jack and Kevin tried to crawl around to help Boduf, but Henry jabbed at them. “Leave him!” The pair shrank back to cover behind another table.

“What do you think you're doing?” Noah shouted. “Stop, before you do something you can't take back.”

Both Brewsters' heads turned. Instead of the resentful glare he'd given Noah before, Connor's Brewster regarded him with silent pleading. Noah's Brewster, however, had taken on the appearance of a Kabuki actor. His face was deep red, and his mouth contorted in a toothy grimace below wild, black-ringed eyes. “Shut your fuckin' mouth, Cabot! I know all about things you can't give or take back. So does he.” Brewster dug the knife into his twin's throat. “You really want to save him?”

His twin tried to say something, but Brewster shoved a fist into the small of his back, arching his spine and increasing the pressure on his throat. “You shut up, too. I heard everything I need to know from you.”

Connor stepped forward. “You don't have to do this, William. Noah and I think we might've come up with at least part of a solution. We have a way to get everyone back to their own worlds,” he lied. “Let him go and we'll discuss it like rational men.”

“I'm the only rational one here.”

“You're holding a knife to someone's throat, William,” Noah said.

“
My
throat. If he's me and I'm him then it isn't murder.”

“Don't be stupid,” Connor said, letting the crowbar in his hand swing around in front of his leg.

“What are you going to do with that?” Brewster's breathing quickened and he seemed to tighten up like a predator crouched in the brush. “Henry. Boucher. Get the door.” Boucher took a step to follow the order but stopped short when Noah tensed and raised his flat crowbar. The bosun's half grin said he was happy to have the chance to settle accounts with Noah. Noah tightened his grip on the tool. Boucher didn't move. His hesitation belied his concern about being outmatched, knife to long steel bar. He coughed and the smile died. His tongue worked behind his lips trying to refuse the metallic taste.

“Get the god damn door, I said.”

“I don't want to hurt you,” Connor said. “Everyone can live through this. We can all get back to our own—”

“I don't
want
to go back to my own anything. If my daughter's alive in your world, that's the reality I want. I figure I can't have that if he's standing in my way.” Noah screamed for him to stop as Brewster pulled the knife across his twin's neck. It didn't drag, but slid with cruel smoothness, an elegant tool honed for the job it was set to do. Blood splashed over Brewster's hand and down his arm. He let go of his captive, whipping his knife hand at the floor, splattering red on the tiles behind him. He absently wiped his other hand on his pants while the man on his knees in front of him retched.

The twin Brewster's eyes were wide with panic as he tried to draw in air, but inhaled his own blood instead. He choked and spit and lurched forward. The sound of William's blood pattering on the floor punctuated the moments in between wet gasps. Holden rushed to catch the man clawing at his slit throat before he hit the floor. Brewster lunged forward, jabbing his long knife deep into Holden's eye.

With a shrill scream, Holden fell back, clawing blindly at the handle sticking out of his face. He fumbled against the sharpened edge of the blade rather than the handle, slicing his fingers open trying to pull it out. He screamed and scuttered backward toward his shipmates. One tried to help him, but Holden shook his head, unable to control his panic, and the crewman couldn't get a grip on the blood-slicked handle.

The room devolved from stunned silence to roaring chaos like an explosion. The crewmen scattered in all directions, desperate for cover … for escape … for help. Noah backpedaled as Boucher lunged at him with his knife. Connor swung his crowbar at the back of the bosun's knee, connecting solidly. Noah heard a loud pop as Boucher's knee was whipped apart by the tool. The man crumpled. Connor kicked him in the side as he went down, sending the giant crashing into a table. Noah grabbed Connor before he could take another shot and backed them away toward the door, trying to find enough perspective to make sense of what was happening. The room was a mess of indiscernible movement. Men shoved at one another in the rush to leave, two men fleeing through the serving window pulled at each other, trying to be the first through, slowing both their escapes.

Henry drove his knife up under Andrew Puck's ribs. A long line of drool slipped from Puck's slack mouth as he slumped over the senior deckhand's arm. Henry, unable to handle the sudden dead weight, dropped him to the floor, his knife lost under the fresh corpse. Slipping in the blood spreading over the tile floor, he fell on his hands and knees. He shoved Puck's body over, snarling like an animal, and ripped the butcher knife free, slashing at anyone who moved close enough.

Brewster had his fingers wrapped around David Delgado's throat while Connor's Jack and Kevin tried to pry his hands away. Noah's Twins crawled for the door. Noah helped Jack to his feet while Connor caught Kevin. They shoved the men out into the hall. Connor shouted, “Get to your cabin! Lock the door!” He turned back to the room and yelled, “Felix, Theo, get out of there!” as he dove in after them.

Felix and Theo were trying to drag William's body from where Brewster had dropped it. They pulled him a couple of feet, but Henry came lurching at them. Felix ducked under the swinging knife and tried to run in a shambling crouch toward the exit. Henry body-checked him, sending them both crashing into a wall. Before Henry could stab him, the deckhand swung the heel of his palm up into his attacker's chin, rocking the man's head back. His neck cracked and popped loudly. Henry's eyes rolled as he swooned on weak knees. Theo drove his knee into the man's crotch and shoved him away as hard as he could. Henry collapsed to the floor, rolling in a pool of gore, cupping his aching balls in his hands and retching up gray oatmeal and bile.

Theo kept trying to drag his skipper's body toward the door, but his feet slipped and he lost his grip. Landing on his ass and elbows, he cried out in frustration. Connor and Noah grabbed him under his armpits and lifted. “Get out of here,” Connor shouted. Theo left red footprints as he fled. Felix trailed behind, clutching his midsection as he disappeared through the door in a loping, stooped run.

“Brewster!” Noah shouted. He grabbed a bowl off a table and flung it at the wall behind the Old Man. He wanted to wing it at his head or his feet, but was afraid of hitting one of the others struggling with him. Brewster took the bait and fixed his eyes on his son-in-law. The reflected Jack and Kevin took advantage of the momentary distraction and pried Delgado out of his grip. Kevin shoved Brewster deeper into the room and the trio hobbled toward the door, Connor lending them cover as he followed, backing out of the room.

Noah, transfixed by Brewster's glare, shuddered in the chill of the Old Man's unabashed hatred. The Old Man's face was wild, but his eyes were empty—windows to a soul long gone dark. Malice poured off him like the fog that had transported their ship. The weight of the crowbar in Noah's hands grew and his fingers loosened. He tried to move his legs, but his feet were rooted in place.

Brewster raised his knife and took a step. William wetly groaned as he reached to grab at his twin's leg. Brewster hesitated, looking at a version of himself, half slaughtered at his feet. Then he bent over to finish the job.

Hands clamped down on Noah's shoulders, yanking him out of the fog swirling through his head. “Help me,” Connor cried, dragging him toward the hallway. He let go of Noah and ducked under David Delgado's arm. His eyes widened with silent pleading for Noah to help take up the burden. Delgado was pale and choking, the red thumb marks where Brewster had been strangling him already purpling. His eyes rolled as he wheezed, desperate for breath. The man was checked out, focused solely on his throat. Noah slipped under his other arm and together they staggered out of the room. Connor pulled them to the left, toward the crew cabins. “This way.”

Halfway to the door at the end of the hall, they found Felix doubled over. He steadied himself against the wall with a glistening red hand, his other arm clutched tightly to his stomach. His back hitched as he gasped for air. Crimson prints on the wall showed where he'd first stumbled and reached out to keep from falling. Whatever burst of energy he'd had in the mess room had scattered like smoke.

“You got David?” Noah asked.

Connor wrapped his free arm around Delgado's waist and pulled him tighter. “Got him. You help Felix.”

Noah slipped out from under Delgado's arm to go help his shipmate. He grabbed Felix by the elbow and tried to pull him upright to get under an arm for support. Felix shrieked and pulled his arm away. The front of his jeans was soaked with blood. He kept his arm pressed tightly against his stomach. “Fucking hell!” Noah shouted. He took hold of Felix's free arm, being careful not to open up what the man was trying to hold closed. He guided Felix as fast as he could on the blood-slicked tile. Connor hadn't waited around for them to find their stride. They were only a few feet from danger and had a long way to go yet to find safety—if it was to be found at all. There was no waiting for others to catch up.

Their progress felt painfully slow and Noah waited for the feeling of something stabbing into his back or crashing over his skull as he attempted to make his escape.

Banging through the push bar door, Noah hazarded a glance over his shoulder. They'd left a trail of drizzled blood and smeared red footprints like a wretched Hansel and Gretel. There was no concealing where they fled.

Standing in the middle of the hall, Brewster watched them go with dead eyes. Noah saw him and despaired. He knew there would be no more reasoning with his father-in-law. The Old Man had broken in the worst way.

Connor dragged them through the opening and slammed the door closed behind them. He leaned Delgado against the wall and ducked into the first crew cabin he could find, reappearing a second later with a chair, jamming it up under the handle. It wouldn't hold for more than a few seconds. The chair was short and the legs wouldn't catch at the tile like they would on a carpet. Still, it was something. An extra second or two, maybe.

Through the slender window in the door, Noah saw Brewster walking toward them with a calmness that made his bladder want to loosen. The Old Man was in no hurry. There was nowhere they could run where he couldn't find them. Still, they ran.