Tim Curran - Dead Sea

They were all looking at him.

Gosling was shaking him.

And he realized his mouth was wide and his eyes bulging and he was screaming silently. But then it was gone and he was on the raft and there was nothing, nothing but a lot of derelict ships and a handful of men wanting to know what in the hell he was doing.

But he couldn’t tell them. He could just say, “I’m… fine.”

Nobody bought it, of course, and long after the other eyes had abandoned him, Pollard was watching him, knowing things he shouldn’t know, but that was just the way of this place. It was the amplitude or something. For sensitive minds could hear things they had no business hearing and maybe Pollard had heard that scream of his though no one else had.

And maybe they would have all questioned him over his little episode, but there were other and more important things to be considered.

“Look at that,” Marx said. “Did you see it? Just at the edge of the mist there.”

They saw it. Some huge, nebulous shape had passed beneath the weed or maybe through it, a colossal luminous form that dipped beneath the wreck of an old three-masted brig and vanished from site.

“What the hell was that?” Gosling said.

Maybe they wanted Cushing to give them some rational scientific explanation for it, but all he said was, “I don’t know… but I hope to hell it doesn’t come back.”

“Hungry,” Menhaus was saying. “I can’t seem to remember what it is not to be hungry.”

Saks thought that was funny. “Yeah, but look at yourself. You’ve already dropped pounds. You’re looking good. Just imagine how good you’re going to look after a month, two months, a year-”

“Okay, Saks,” Cook said. “Once again, quit trying to piss people off.”

“I’m kidding, for chrissake. In case you don’t know what that is, Big Chief, it’s also called a joke or a funny, a laugh. Boy, Cook, ever since you decided you were the big cheese, you’re a real fucking pain in the ass.”

Cook could only sigh.

In command? Oh Christ, of all things.

Command of what exactly? A lifeboat with four men who were ready to tear out each other’s throats at the drop of a hat? Even Fabrini wasn’t weathering any of it real good now. After what they’d seen and experienced on the Cyclops, something in him had shut down. What was left was irritable and angry and looking for something or someone to vent on. Cook had tried to draw him out more than once, but each time he did Saks was there, asking if he wanted to breastfeed Fabrini, too. Maybe wipe his ass and tuck him in to boot. And Cook had to wonder how long it was going to be before Saks and Fabrini really went at it, how long before their knives came out and blood was drawn. At least on the Cyclops, they’d settled down, had enough room to get away from each other.

Sure, Fabrini had been very good about it, when you considered things. Like the fact that Saks had cut off part of his ear with a knife. Most guys, they’d be wanting payback for that, but Fabrini let it go. That was big of him. But now? Well, Fabrini kept touching his bandaged ear and staring at Saks. It wasn’t too hard to imagine what he was thinking.

And Saks knew it, too.

Cook had to watch them all the time.

And he pretty much had to do it alone because Menhaus was pretty much whiny and pouty twenty-four/seven now, withdrawn really, talking from time to time, but more to himself than anyone else.

And Crycek? Well, Crycek had his moments.

So, essentially, Cook was wading these dark waters alone. He had to keep them from each other, offer them hope, squelch Saks, reassure them that they were not going to starve to death or get eaten by horrors out of the mist. Then, if that wasn’t enough, Cook had to keep directing them, giving them something to hold out for and this when he was dying inside, had considered more than once how easy it would have been to slit his own wrists.

“How do you like this fog, Crycek?” Saks said.

Saks had been asking him this question about every half an hour or so, needling him, trying to get under Crycek’s skin… and pretty much trying to get everyone riled up. Because Cook knew that’s what Saks was: a catalyst. That’s how he saw himself. The more disorder he could create, the sooner Menhaus and maybe even Fabrini – God forbid – would want him back in charge.

Crazy thing was, Cook had even considered handing back the reins to Saks. Wondering if maybe that arrogant, selfish piece of shit might have some ideas about what they should do that he would only share once he was firmly back in the driver’s seat. But, ultimately, Cook had weighed it out like a man deciding whether or not to emasculate himself with a paring knife… and decided it wasn’t exactly prudent.

“You hear me, you crazy shit?” Saks said. “How do you like this fog?”

Cook was ready to intercede, but Crycek turned and said, “Compared to what?”

Cook laughed.

Saks smiled, but he was seething beneath. Who was Crycek to smart off to him? To undermine the disorder he was sowing?

“Compared to Fabrini’s hot ass on a cold night, you freak.”

But that didn’t get him anything. And you could almost hear the reels spinning in Saks’s mind, hear him scratching that one off his big list of Things To Do. Hear his pencil scribbling up there: Note to self, Crycek is impervious to gay cracks. Try a new approach. Maybe insult his mother or father, talk about banging his kid sister.

Cook was watching the curtain of fog ringing them in. It was thick as woolpack now and you could barely see three feet to either side. For a while there, it had gotten dim and those mystic, eldritch moons had come out… Crycek nearly coming out of his skin at the sight of them. But then the fog had blown in or seeped in, and things had gotten lighter out again. Though it seemed like it was thinking about getting dark again, it just couldn’t make up its mind. Things were dimmer, yes, but they could still see each other fine and Cook was almost praying for darkness so he wouldn’t have to see their faces for awhile. The disappointment in them. The way they had been ravaged and lined by terror.

The weeds were very thick. Much thicker than earlier which told Cook they were getting closer to the heart of the seaweed sea. From time to time, he had his little crew row, but that never lasted because Menhaus would complain about his back and Saks would call him a pussy and Fabrini would tell them both to shut up and Crycek would start getting gloomy, asking Cook just what their hurry was. What was waiting out there for them was endlessly patient.

Damn. What a bunch.

“Hey, Crycek,” Saks said. “What’s your view on cannibalism?”

“Oh, knock it the hell off, Saks,” Fabrini said. “You’re really getting on my fucking nerves.”

Saks giggled. He looked satisfied. Well, maybe he couldn’t torment Crycek much, but he could still push Fabrini’s buttons just fine. He seemed happy with that.

“No, I’m serious, Fagbrini. I think we should all just sit down and discuss this. We may drift like this for weeks… in another month, we’ll be out of food and water. What then? I mean, we have to be practical, don’t you think? We have to decide who’s going on the spit. And when that times comes… what’re we gonna do? Flip a coin? Draw straws? Or just decide who’s most expendable?”

Fabrini was breathing real hard, veins pulsing at his temples. “I’m telling you, Cook, shut that prick up or I will.”

“Shit, Fabrini, settle down,” Saks chuckled. “You’re scaring the piss out of me over here.”

“Knock it off, Saks,” Cook said. “Or we’ll all throw your ass into the drink.”

“Yeah,” Menhaus piped in. “Quit being such an asshole.”