Stefán Máni - The Ship

Rúnar is half sitting in his bed reading The Good Soldier Svejk . It’s dark in the cabin, except for the reading lamp that shines above the bosun’s head. He’s supposed to have reported to the bridge but he only has a page and a half of the thirteenth chapter to go and he might as well just finish it, rather than leave this little bit unread.

Always best to begin a new chapter each time a book is opened.

I think it must be wonderful to be run through with a polished bayonet , says Svejk in the book, and the bosun laughs aloud. He knows the story almost by heart, having read it on more or less every tour he’s been on for the last three years, but the matchless nonsense spoken by that idiot Svejk never stops being funny.

And it’s pretty decent to get a bullet in the stomach. But the most wonderful…

The bosun stops reading when the page takes on a green tinge.

‘What?’ he says and looks up. Then he sees that this mysterious light is coming from outside and filtering into the cabin through the light-brown curtains. He sits up in the bed, pushes the curtains to the side and looks out through the clouded glass of his window.

A sea of green light?

‘Is that a ship?’ the bosun mutters and shades his eyes in order to see out more clearly.

Yes, it must be a ship. But green lights! Who uses green lights?

‘What the fuck!’ says the bosun, eyes wide. Is he seeing things? No: there are men boarding the ship’s weather deck from an inflatable. They’re on board! Somebody heard the emergency signal after all!

We’re safe!

‘I knew it!’ says Rúnar, his face pressed to the glass. ‘I knew it all the…’ But he goes silent and stiffens when he hears shots fired in the distance and see the first of the five rescuers collapsing on the weather deck.

What?

The other four act as if nothing has happened. They run, stooped over, stepping over their comrade, heading for the stairs that lead up to B-deck on the starboard side. There’s a glint of light out on the black sea and a split second later the noisy bark of the machine gun reaches the bosun’s ears. He throws himself on the bed when lead bullets slam onto the bridge, ripping up iron, wood and glass.

Silence.

Why can’t I open my eyes?

‘Damn,’ murmurs Methúsalem as he claws at the caked pus that’s stuck to his eyelashes, gluing his eyes shut.

After about a minute he manages to open one eye and then the other. He is lying on his back in bed and looking up into the damp darkness.

What day is it? What time?

He hears a shot.

Silence.

And then a large machine gun barks in the distance and shots rain on the starboard side of the ship.

‘What’s going on?’ wonders Methúsalem as he gets out of bed and tears the sodden blanket from the window.

A cold and refreshing wind hits the pale face of the chief mate, which takes on a green tinge from the strange light north of the ship.

Green light?

Methúsalem Sigurðsson sticks his head out the window and sees men in black with machine guns run, bent over, behind the wheelhouse and up to B-deck.

‘Fuckers!’

Methúsalem jumps out of bed, naked. He steps on myriad glass shards that cut the soles of his feet and stick into flesh and bones, but he is too angry to feel pain.

He goes into the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face and looks at his eyes in the mirror. They are fiery red, swollen and sore, and full of yellow clots of pus.

Infection!

He had told the captain that he was getting an eye infection and now he’s got an eye infection.

What’s happening?

Methúsalem slathers soap on the mirror and spits at the distorted reflection in it, then he puts on some trousers and gets his rifle from the wardrobe.

‘I’ll kill those fuckers,’ says the first mate as he releases the safety and wraps the shoulder strap loosely over his right arm. ‘Kill the damn boss-men… Those treacherous vermin. That brute of a captain!’

Brute of a captain? Yes! Who else is behind it all? Who else was needing reinforcements?

The captain, that’s who.

‘That he should dare!’ grumbles Methúsalem. Salt wind comes in the broken window, bringing up goose bumps on the corpse-white body of the first mate, who’s breathing hard through flared nostrils and gnashing his teeth in fury.

Seawater is as salty as blood and…

Suddenly the alarm bells resound throughout the ship and a second later a red light flares outside the window.

That’s the sign!

Sign? What sign?

‘Doesn’t matter!’ Methúsalem mutters, opens the door and steps out of his cabin dressed only in beige trousers. Holding the rifle in both hands, he runs up the stairs, leaving bloody footprints on every second step.

He’s going to capture the captain before these black-clad henchmen of the shipping company get control of the bridge.

No! He’s not going to capture that fucking pig! He’s going to shoot him in the head and watch him die!

Wow! It’s come to that.

A cold current runs up the first mate’s spine and he weaves up the last steps as if in a dream, stopping in front of the door leading to the bridge.

Rúnar is sitting on the side of his bed, rocking back and forth like an old man.

What’s going on? Who are they? What should he do? Stay still? Go up to the bridge?

Suddenly the alarm bells clamour in every cabin, in every corridor, on every single deck at the same time.

The bosun stands up and clenches his fists. Is there a fire? Or is the captain warning the crew of danger? When the bells stop they’re supposed to meet out on the boat deck. If the ship is in serious danger, the crew’s supposed to abandon ship.

I’ve got to…

Rúnar walks towards the door but stops in the middle of the floor and looks at the closed door in bewilderment.

What if those men have boarded the ship? What if one of them is waiting on the other side of the closed door?

What if…

The bosun jumps and gasps as someone grabs the handle and opens the door of his cabin, then he takes two steps backwards as a black-clad man appears in the doorway.

‘DON’T! DON’T! DON—’ shouts Rúnar Hallgrímsson, covering his eyes with both hands as the stranger opens his own eyes wide and pulls the trigger of his machine gun.

Ratatatata!

The rapid-fire bullets tear asunder clothes, skin, flesh and blood vessels; they blow up entrails, cartilage and bones, before drilling their way through the bosun’s back, slamming into the wall behind him and ricocheting, sticky with blood, along the rug.

Jónas is lying awake in the sick bay with a sweaty pillow under his head, staring at the closed door.

He can’t stay any longer on this cursed ship that’s floating dead in the water, en route to disaster. He just can’t! But what can he do?

What?

He could sneak up to the boat deck, crawl on board the lifeboat and shoot it overboard. Then he could sail to land. If anybody asks, he can say that the ship sank and he survived. But with any luck he’d come ashore without anyone noticing.