Jeremy Robinson - Island 731

They searched stern to stem once again. Not because it was more efficient or had some kind of strategic value, but because of what they might find in medical. Sanchez. Joliet hadn’t gotten a good look at his body, but she’d been positive the man was dead. Had there been any doubt, she would have been the first person back to check on him. So after checking the rest of the interior main deck and coming up empty, Hawkins and Bray slowly approached the door to medical.

The metal door lay open. Darkness concealed most of the room. The only light came from the open door, which created a cookie-cutter streak of light across the white tile floor. But it was enough. A pool of dark red lay at the end of the light’s reach. The scent of blood hit Hawkins so hard, he could taste it like a mouthful of pennies.

Hawkins covered his mouth with his arm, stifling the odor and a groan. He paused at the door. The dark room would be the perfect place for an ambush. But he had no choice. He stepped into the room, cutting the beam of light with his shadow, and reached for the light switch. He flipped the switch and nothing happened. “Lights aren’t working,” he said. “Must have broke the bulbs.”

“There’s a portable lamp to the left, I think,” Bray said. “The bright kind. For doing surgery or putting in stitches. That kind of thing.”

Made sense, but with Cahill dead, if anyone needed stitches, they’d be the messy kind that leave ugly scars. Hawkins could do the work in a pinch—he’d helped sew up a few wounded animals—but animals never complained about scars.

“If you cover me,” Bray said. “I’ll switch the light on.”

“I won’t be able to see you.”

“If something happens, I’ll fall to the ground and scream. Just keep your aim up.” Bray slipped past Hawkins. “Ready?”

Hawkins tried to think of another way to do this, but couldn’t. “Fine.”

Bray moved into the darkness slowly, hands extended to keep from walking into a wall. He disappeared from view a few feet from the doorway’s light.

Hawkins kept the rifle against his shoulder, but pointed away from Bray. He’d been taught to keep the safety on until he’d picked a target. Helped prevent hunters from accidentally shooting each other. But he ignored that rule now. Whatever they were looking for was strong enough to bend a metal door and fast enough to abduct a crewmember without being seen. If he had to fire, he suspected he wouldn’t have time to disengage the safety before pulling the trigger.

A loud crash of metal on tile floor spun him toward Bray. When the big man shouted, Hawkins’s finger went to the trigger.

“Fuck!” Bray shouted. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

Hawkins slowly took his finger off the trigger, which he’d begun to squeeze. That the weapon was far from sensitive had been a blessing twice now.

“Tripped over a chair,” Bray said. “Found the light, though.”

With a click, the floor around Bray lit up. He stood next to a lamp that looked like it could have been used on a film set. Bray loosened the joint, adjusted the lamp so that it faced the room, and retightened it.

“There,” he said, but Hawkins didn’t reply.

The bright lamp lit the horrible scene in stark detail. Sanchez lay in a cot across the room. The floor around the bed was covered in congealed blood and the once-white sheets were now dark red—brown where the blood had begun to dry.

Hawkins inched closer to the body, lowering the rifle as he stepped forward. Sanchez lay on the cot, but no longer in one piece. His body had been separated at the center, the two halves joined by drying entrails. His eyes were opened wide, turned to the ceiling, his face contorted in an expression of raw pain. He’d either regained consciousness before the attack, or the pain had woken him. Either way, he’d experienced the agony of being split in two.

Bray groaned and backed away, performing the sign of the cross and saying “Oh God,” again and again.

Hawkins forced himself closer, looking for details about how this had happened. When he found it, he backed away, too. A portion of the man’s right lower leg had been crushed, the flesh stretched and purple. The same mark had been left on his shoulder.

“He was pulled apart,” Hawkins said, his voice almost a whisper.

“What kind of person could do this?” Bray asked.

Hawkins wasn’t sure if Bray was referring to the brute strength it would take to rend a man in half at the waist or the mental state a person would have to be in to perform the task. He looked back at his friend, who did nothing to hide the fear and revulsion on his face. “Maybe ‘what kind of person ?’ is the wrong question.”

Hawkins forced himself back to the bedside. He took a blanket from a neighboring bed, opened it, and flung it over the body. He turned back to Bray. “Because I can’t even begin to imagine a human being capable of something like this.”

Drake’s face twitched as Hawkins gave his report, detailing the state in which they’d found Sanchez’s remains. The good news, however, was that he and Bray had searched every nook and cranny of the Magellan ’s interior and found nothing. Locked inside, they were safe. When Hawkins finished, the remaining crew—Blok, Bray, Joliet, Bennett, and Ray and Jim Clifton—sat silently, faces turned down to the blue rug beneath their feet.

Jones lay on the couch, conscious now, but silent, staring up at the ceiling. He’d regained consciousness just a few minutes after Hawkins and Bray had begun their search, but hadn’t said anything. Hawkins had seen the look once before, seven years ago, on the face of a man whose son had fallen over a cliff. It was the look of a man mourning the loss of a loved one.

Jones looked like he’d given up hope, which Hawkins resented. DeWinter might still be alive. Giving up on her now would be a mistake and would certainly seal her fate. They didn’t know why Kam or DeWinter had been taken. Both could be dead, or alive, but there was only one way to find out.

Bennett lowered his face into his hands and mumbled, “Why is this happening?”

Hawkins thought the question was rhetorical, but Joliet knelt down in front of him and pulled his hands away. “Phil, we’re safe now. You don’t need to be afraid.”

“But it took her,” he replied. “Jackie is gone.”

“Kam, too,” Bray muttered. “Thought you two were pals?”

“Eight,” Hawkins said, using Bray’s nickname. “Give him a break.”

Bray shrugged. “Just saying.”

Bennett wiped his arm across his nose and pulled away from Joliet. “I’m fine.”

Joliet stood and shot Bray a look.

He raised his hands in frustration. “What?”

Hawkins could feel the tension building in the room. If things weren’t worked out, and soon, they’d all be at each other’s throats. “Sir,” he said, his voice stopping Drake midpace. The man’s face burned red. His sharp blue eyes flicked to Hawkins. “I know it might make sense to cut our losses and leave, but—”

“The hell with that,” Drake said. He pointed to Jones. “That man is my oldest friend. I’m Jackie’s godfather, for shit’s sake. We’re not leaving.”

Hawkins held up his hands. “I don’t want to leave. I want to go look for her. And Kam. Bray, Joliet, and Blok will accompany me. We’ll take weapons and enough supplies for a week.”

“Not good enough,” Drake said.

“I don’t understand,” Hawkins replied.

Drake picked up the fire ax Bray had used. The muscles in his forearms twitched as he twisted the wooden handle. “I’m coming with you.”

The captain had at least fifty pounds on Hawkins and held that ax like he knew how to use it. He’d be good to have along, but given Drake’s previous reservations about leaving the ship, Hawkins felt he should play devil’s advocate, just in case the man wasn’t thinking straight. “What happened to staying with the ship? If something were to happen to you, would we be stuck here, working engines or not?”