Stefán Máni - The Ship

He could do it. Or could he? Could he, physically? If he took enough painkillers he should be able to hop on one leg up the stairs, supporting himself with one hand on the railing.

Maybe not…

The pain is so hellish that he almost faints every time he coughs or gets a cramp.

And what about his shipmates? If he takes the lifeboat, their hopes of survival will be seriously reduced. But it wasn’t Jónas who killed the engine! Why should he accept the conditions that others have put him in? Why should he think about the survival of men who haven’t given a moment’s thought to his survival? Why should he, seriously injured as he was, be worried about his fully fit shipmates?

Those idiots have dug themselves a grave that Jónas has no desire to lie in.

And how does he know they don’t plan to leave him alone on the ship? How does he know they haven’t already abandoned this drifting heap of iron? How does he know he isn’t the only soul aboard this godless ghost ship?

No, that was too frightful to be true!

Or was it?

‘Hello!’ shouts Jónas, sitting up in the bed. ‘Is anybody awake? Hello! HELLO!’

I don’t believe this! Have they really…

Jónas gasps when the alarm bells start up.

What’s going on? Is there a fire? Is the ship sinking? Is…

‘ Help! Help! ÁSI! SOMEBODY!’ shouts Jónas, throwing the doona off . ‘DON’T FORGET ME! DON’T FORGET…’

Jónas shouts himself hoarse and then it dawns on him. Nobody will come to help him, whether he yells or not.

Nobody.

‘They’re going to let me die here,’ Jónas wails, wiping the sweat from his ruddy forehead as he moves his right leg carefully out of the bed.

He has to get up to the boat deck! He has to get in the boat with them!

He has to…

‘No sudden moves!’ shouts Methúsalem Sigurðsson as he opens the door and steps into the bridge.

The captain clenches his hands on the shotgun, looks to the right and slowly straightens up.

‘ Stay still! ’ commands Methúsalem, aiming at the captain from his waist. He steps into the bridge and checks that there are just the two of them.

‘Methúsalem!’ shouts the captain. ‘Don’t turn your back to the door! They’re on their way up.’ He beckons the first mate over to him, where he stands in the middle of the bridge, his back to the controls and the broken windows.

‘They don’t matter. Now it’s just you and me! ’ yells Methúsalem, grinning with the pleasure of power.

‘METHÚSALEM! BEHIND YOU!’

‘No such tricks, old man,’ Methúsalem growls, wiping the grin off his face as he grasps the rifle more firmly.

‘METHÚSALEM!’ shouts the captain again, as he lifts the shotgun and aims it in the direction of the first mate, who pulls the trigger of the rifle without hesitation.

Bam!

00:02:30

The bells are ringing throughout the ship. Guðmundur Berndsen glances at his watch as he sinks down, with his back to the wall and his shotgun in his arms, and sits on the floor in the middle of the mess, right under the red fire-alarm box.

‘Easy now. You’ve got to keep calm,’ the captain tells himself and takes a deep breath. Then he leans on the shotgun and stands up. He mustn’t let down his guard. He has to be prepared for everything. These devils might appear in the bridge at any moment!

When great danger is imminent, life suddenly becomes so very valuable but, at the same time, as delicate as a baby bird in a snowstorm. All you can do in such a situation is to blindly trust in the unlikely, while simultaneously closing your eyes to the obvious, and thus meet your fate armed only with absurdity.

Guðmundur takes a few steps across to the starboard side of the ship and looks out the door leading to the bridge wing. Green light shines over the black waters, while up in the darkly clouded sky, the red globe flares.

‘No sudden moves!’ shouts Methúsalem Sigurðsson as he steps into the bridge.

The captain clenches his hands around the shotgun, looks to the right and slowly straightens up. The bells are making so much noise that a herd of rhinos could have run into the bridge without his having been aware of it.

The door! Of course he should have watched the door. Goddammit! What if it had been the pirates and not…

‘ Stay still! ’ shouts Methúsalem and aims from his waist at the captain.

‘Methúsalem! Don’t turn your back to the door! They’re on their way up!’ shouts the captain, and he beckons the first mate to come over to him.

‘They don’t matter. Now it’s just you and me! ’ Methúsalem grins coldly with an insane gleam in his infected eyes.

Is he joking?

‘METHÚSALEM! BEHIND YOU!’ shouts the captain as a black shadow appears in the doorway behind the first mate.

‘No such tricks, old man!’ Methúsalem Sigurðsson wipes the grin off his face and grasps the rifle more firmly.

‘METHÚSALEM!’ the captain cries again as he lifts up the shotgun and aims it in the direction of the first mate, who pulls the trigger of the rifle without hesitation.

Bam!

The shot streaks by the captain’s left ear. Guðmundur blinks and hardly notices that blood is beginning to run down his neck. The only thing he sees is the look of astonishment on Methúsalem’s face as the pirate grapples him from behind and a sharp knife cuts his throat from below his left ear quickly down to his right collarbone.

Blood gushes in rhythmic pulses into the air and down to the first mate’s chest. Methúsalem collapses helplessly onto his knees and then right on his face. The pirate sheathes his knife in an instant, waves the machine gun around, puts his index finger on the trigger and finishes off the few rounds of shot left in the vertical chamber.

Ratata–

Click, click, click.

The captain is faster. He takes one step to the side as he aims the shotgun, and as the bullets from the machine gun slam into the ship’s controls. he takes a firm grip on the trigger and shoots the intruder straight in his staring face.

00:02:30

He’s standing on a curved balcony looking over a brightly lit assembly room the size of a ship’s hold. If this hall has a name it must be ‘The Golden Gallery’. The walls are covered with golden squares from floor to ceiling. In front of the squares are smaller squares and, between them, lights that flicker on the smooth gold like fire in a dream. From the ceiling hang cylindrical chandeliers the size of ships’ funnels, made up of crystal threads. The chandeliers are two-layered, the inner cylinders reaching below the outer ones. Inside them shines a light that refracts, creating thousands of lights that give the impression of stars in the sky or diamonds in water.

In the distance is the sound of old-fashioned jazz, though there is no band to be seen.

He walks down the broad, curved staircase to the assembly room. As he steps out on the polished wooden floor he sees a similar staircase on the port side. Above him is the balcony, but there’s no-one there now.

He walks through the middle of the room. There are formally decked tables to each side. First he passes tables set for two and four but then he comes to long tables for eight, sixteen and thirty-two. There are white tablecloths and heavy silver cutlery, linen napkins in silver napkin rings, handpainted porcelain dishes and cut-crystal glasses arranged on them.