Stefán Máni - The Ship

When one of the pirates had grabbed the doorknob and opened the door into the bridge, Guðmundur shot at the door and blew it in two lengthwise. Out in the corridor there are at least two pirates, waiting for the captain to give up or run out of ammunition.

He’s not about to give up, but his supply of shells is certainly dwindling. The pirates are shooting their machine guns through the door at regular intervals and then Guðmundur responds with a shot or two.

Dear Christ! How long can he hold out in this hell? Ten more minutes? Five? One? To make matters worse the ship’s dog is whining under the table in the chart room like an hysterical woman.

Where is the rest of the crew? Dead? Hiding? In the boat and…

The captain’s thoughts are interrupted by a volley of shots in the corridor.

Who is shooting?

He pricks up his ears but hears nothing except the ringing of the bells. If only he could…

‘ Come on out, fucker! ’ screams someone in the distance. ‘COME OUT IF YOU DARE!’

Who is shouting? Who is…

‘Who’s there?’ the captain shouts in the direction of the doorless doorway that opens onto the corridor.

‘Can you shut off the bells?’ someone shouts back.

Shut off the bells? Of course! He can shut off the bells.

Hunched over, the captain creeps further into the bridge. He aims his shotgun at the open door and walks sideways across to the middle of the bridge, where the red fire-alarm box is.

On the floor between the chart room and the door lie the bodies of Methúsalem and his killer, the former in a black pool of blood with a gaping neck wound, the latter with no face and his brain spread on the outside of his shattered skull.

The air smells of blood, gunpowder and insanity, and the silent presence of the bodies of the men cries out for attention, but the captain doesn’t let his gaze drop – he mustn’t let his gaze drop – he has to watch the door, he mustn’t look at the dead bodies, don’t look at the dead bodies…

‘Christ, have mercy on us,’ mutters the captain and mentally crosses himself.

He hopes that the pirates are not watching him, because the minute he steps to the middle of the bridge he’ll lose sight of the door, and if they see that he’s out of sight they’ll realise they can get to the bridge without his seeing them and then…

To hell with it! It’s no good thinking like that!

Guðmundur takes three steps to the side; the door disappears from sight, he is facing a grey wall and the red box is right in front of him.

Just press the switch…

‘CAN YOU HEAR ME?’ cries someone from below. ‘LET ME KNOW IF YOU—’

The captain presses the switch and releases it; there’s a click and the bells stop ringing.

‘Who’s down there?’ calls the captain and takes three steps to the left. He can see the door to the corridor, but he is utterly exposed if any enemy should come in. He has to get back under cover before someone shoots into the bridge.

‘How many black coats up there?’ comes the shouted response.

‘Two, I think!’ the captain calls back. Step by step he creeps back to the cupboard beside the door that leads out to the bridge wing. Two more steps, one, and he’s covered again.

‘I got one just now!’ A shout from below.

‘Then there’s just one more out here! If there are any at all. Is that Rúnar who’s – ’

The captain jumps and stops talking when a black-clad man shoots past the doorway and opens the door to the landing back of the wheelhouse.

Is that…? Was he…?

Guðmundur Berndsen squeezes the trigger of the shotgun but hears only a click. The gun is empty and anyway, he was far too late pulling the trigger.

‘ He got out! He ran out! He’s gone! ’ calls the captain, straightening up.

Someone is vaulting up the stairs to the bridge deck, and before Guðmundur can blink Satan appears in the doorway to the bridge, dressed in black like a pirate, a mad gleam in his eyes, beads of sweat on his forehead and a smoking revolver in his right hand.

Satan glances briefly and expressionlessly at the bodies on the floor, then looks up and spies the captain, who is still half behind the cupboard.

‘You’ve done bloody well!’ says Satan, nodding to the captain. ‘I’m going to chase the one you missed and put a bullet in his neck, but you stay up here and guard the bridge.’

‘You’re the guy who was shut in the forecastle,’ says Guðmundur as he steps out of his hiding place, but Satan doesn’t hear a word he says. He’s gone from the doorway, has kicked open the door to the platform aft of the wheelhouse and is leaping down the steep iron stairs with Skuggi at his heels.

00:07:06

Stoker paces round and round on the metal floor at the back of the engine room, thinking about the chief engineer lying dead on the floor up on A-deck.

Poor Johnny…

The clatter of the generator manages to drown out the sound of the bells and that’s good, because the hum of the generator is a normal part of the engineers’ work environment, while the ringing of the bells is a noisy disturbance, a mechanical insanity, an ongoing warning, a herald of danger…

Stoker stops walking when he is notices a movement up on the narrow platform at the front of the engine room. He sees the shadow of a man go out the front of the control room and over to the port side towards the machine shop.

Who’s that?

‘JOHNNY?’ Stoker shouts and blinks his eyes, but when he sees that the shadow has both hands on a machine gun that’s hanging from a shoulder strap, he shuts his mouth and backs, barefoot, over to the darkness at the back of the engine room, where containers and cleaning fluid are kept under a dirty sink.

A pirate in the engine room! What should he do? Hide? Run? Face the bastard?

Stoker gnashes what’s left of his teeth, tightens his grip on the knife and creeps on dirty toes over to the open door behind the machine shop. There he stands still in the shadow behind a two-metre-tall gas canister and waits. And waits…

Stoker’s bony chest expands and contracts, his milk-white skin stretches over his ribs and his black chest hairs rise around his brown nipples. His staring eyes wait for a movement in the gloom; his nostrils flare, and dark yellow teeth and greyish gums gleam in the black beard.

This is the bastard who killed Johnny, the bastard who killed Johnny, the bastard…

When the pirate finally appears behind the workshop, Stoker relaxes slightly. His chest eases, his eyes become narrow slits and his chapped lips close over his crooked teeth.

Stoker takes two steps forwards and turns left. He is standing opposite the pirate, who opens his slanting eyes wide and stares in wonder, and some horror, at this ghost of a man who’s staring back from a distance of just one metre.

Stoker takes care not to lose eye contact, and steps towards the man as he brings his right arm back, ready to stick the knife into the pirate’s abdomen.

By the time the bewildered pirate has recovered sufficient wit to pull the trigger of his machine gun, Stoker has moved inside the line of fire.

Ratatata!

The bullets slam into the engine-room walls, the gun goes quiet and the pirate stiffens as the sharp steel tears into his stomach, cuts apart his entrails and finally penetrates to the pirate’s spine. His mouth opens; life slowly drains from his eyes; his legs weaken and give way under the weight of his body.

‘This is for John,’ says Stoker, drawing the knife out of the wound and pushing the pirate onto his back on the floor. Then he kneels on top of the man’s bloody body and sinks the knife into the flaccid flesh, again and again.