Brian Keene - Deluge - The Conqueror Worms II

He puffed the cigar until the tip glowed orange. Then he touched it to the flamethrower’s nozzle. Gail opened the door and Novak stepped outside, his pace slow and measured. He stood with his feet at shoulder-width apart, raised the flamethrower, and unleashed its contents on the fish, all of which were soaring toward him. He swept the weapon back and forth, engulfing them all in a fiery arc. The creatures fell to the deck, flopping and thrashing as they burned. Novak hit them with another burst and they lay still. Then he stepped over their smoldering bodies and trained the flamethrower on Hansen’s grisly remains.

When he was finished, Novak turned off the flamethrower and strolled back to the door. He smiled at Gail, McCann and Morgan.

“Thought I told you to shut the hatch behind me?”

“I- I’m sorry,” Gail stammered. “I just…”

His grin grew wider. “You couldn’t resist the smell of fried fish, right?”

McCann frowned. “How can you joke around after that?”

“It’s not so bad.” Novak shrugged. “Everybody’s alive, right?”

“Everyone except Hansen,” Gail reminded him.

“Well, that’s okay. Nobody liked him anyway.”

The cigar jiggled as he laughed. A moment later, Gail and McCann laughed too. Morgan stared at the three of them and then joined in.

“It could have been worse,” Novak said as he stepped inside. “Much worse. And if things keep going the way they have been, it probably will be soon enough.”

They went back down the ladder. Gail felt the tension drain from her body as they rejoined the rest of the crew. She preferred being below decks rather than topside—not because of the protection the ship’s steel bulkheads offered, but because when she was inside, she couldn’t hear the incessant sound of the rain.

CHAPTER 29

They gathered in the galley. When they were all assembled, the small space soon stank of body odor and bad breath. They’d run out of toiletries weeks ago. Normally, Gail’s senses were dulled to the smell, but with everyone in a group like this, the stench became overpowering. Caterina cleared her throat, and Mylon cracked his knuckles, but no one spoke. The silence was disconcerting.

Gail glanced around at the group and saw the same expressions mirrored on each of their faces—exhaustion and a grim sense of hopelessness. She felt the same things. How much longer could they go on like this—traveling aimlessly, scrounging for increasingly dwindling supplies of food and fuel, and picking up the occasional survivor stranded amidst the flotsam of the civilized world? Indeed, could they even handle more castaways onboard? As Novak had explained to Gail when they’d first rescued her, the multi-hulled super catamaran was one-hundred and twenty five feet in length. While the large vessel looked imposing from the outside, the interior was actually cramped. Living space was limited, especially given the size of the group, and finding a quiet place to be alone was almost impossible.

Novak, McCann and Riffle had been among the original crew. There had been two other crew members, but both had been killed before Gail came aboard. In addition to Gail, there was Lynn, Caterina, Paris, Mylon, Morgan, Tatiana, Ben, and Warren. It was funny to think that only hours before, Hansen had also been a part of this group. Now he’d joined the ranks of those they’d lost.

There had been many more castaways at one point. Howard had suffered a massive heart attack. His death had been the only one from natural causes. Dickinson had been killed by a human-shark hybrid. Diane became infected by the white fuzz and had been immediately set adrift with enough food and water to last her seven days. She hadn’t been the only one to go into the water, either. Lieberman had jumped overboard one night, lured by the siren song of a vampiric mermaid.

The worst death, in Gail’s opinion, had been Andre’s. He’d bravely jumped into the ocean to retrieve a floating crate of produce after their efforts to snag it with poles, hooks and fishing rods had proven unsuccessful. Andre was a strong swimmer, and he’d reached the wooden crate and dragged it back to the boat without incident. It wasn’t until he was below deck and drying off that they noticed the leech on his thigh—a squat, bloated thing, the length of an index finger and the width of a quarter. Its skin was the color of liver. Novak had safely removed it and then they’d put antiseptic over the pinhole-sized bite. Everyone had assumed he’d be fine.

Andre began complaining of a stomachache a few hours later.

Two nights after that, he was dead, eaten from the inside out by a horde of tiny leeches. The creature had impregnated him with thousands of her young. Andre had remained alive through the entire grisly process, even as the spawn wriggled from his mouth and nose and ears and anus.

Shuddering at the memory, Gail studied the group again. Everyone was present, except for Riffle, who she assumed must be on the bridge, piloting the ship. She wondered what Novak was waiting for.

As if reading her mind, the makeshift captain cleared his throat. Immediately, all eyes turned to him.

“I guess you all know that Hansen’s dead.”

Some nodded. A few shrugged or looked away. Nobody spoke.

“Riffle’s piloting. I told him if that guy from Boston comes back on the radio, he’s supposed to patch it through the intercom immediately. Meanwhile, we’ve got some things to discuss.”

“Like what?” Mylon asked.

“Well,” Novak continued, “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

Lynn flipped her blond bangs from her face. “What kind of bad news?”

“The kind where, once I’ve told you what it is, you guys will have to decide if we want to continue on, or if we’d be better off forming some kind of suicide pact and just ending it all now.”

CHAPTER 30

Gail felt the boat rock beneath her feet as it encountered what must have been a particularly large swell. She wondered if she’d ever grow totally comfortable with being at sea—not that she’d have a choice anymore. At least the seasickness had passed after a few days. Now, the only time she got nauseous was during a bad storm, or if she drank a lot of fluids without eating first.

For a moment, nobody spoke. They all sat staring at Novak. Mylon cracked his knuckles again. Then Warren snickered, and everybody glanced in his direction. The young man smiled at them, clearly nervous with the sudden attention, and then shrugged.

“What’s with all the drama, Novak?”

“No drama.” Novak’s voice was low and steady. He stared at Warren without blinking. His expression was grim. “We’re in a world of shit, and things are about to get worse.”

“How so?” Ben asked.

Sighing, Novak leaned back against the bulkhead and raised one hand, counting off on his fingers.

“One, we’re almost out of fuel. Both of our engines are in good shape, which is sort of surprising, given all the debris in the water. McCann’s been doing a good job of keeping the intakes free of junk and making sure the engines are running.”

McCann nodded from his position by the hatch.

“It also doesn’t hurt that we’ve been sticking to a relatively slow speed,” Novak continued. “But even so, we’re running low on fuel. Only reason we’ve been able to conserve it is because in addition to our two engines, we’ve got a pump-jet engine hybrid. I know that doesn’t mean shit to the rest of you. This was an experimental super catamaran. We were supposed to be researching various methods of propulsion and fuel reduction.”

He paused, took a puff of his cigar, and blew a smoke ring in the air. Then he continued.

“Well, we’ve reduced the fucking fuel consumption, all right. We’ve got maybe enough gas to run for another four or five days. Then we’ll be drifting.”