The Floating Zombie, page 8
This was the best time of the day; the sun up, but not yet at its fearful tropical power. He moved to an open window and took several deep breaths of the warm air. What a life! Beautiful calm sea, good chow, regular hours, money snowing into the bank, and Jane. Folks paid hundreds of dollars for cruises that gave nothing like the value of this one. Jane …
For a long time he strolled up and down, keeping an eye on the sea and the ship. Increasingly the stranger worried him. He took another long look, resting the binoculars on a window ledge; he straightened up, frowning.
Let it go another five minutes: he could be wrong.
The time passed very slowly. He spent it unnecessarily checking the empty ocean, not really worried, yet not absolutely happy. The fifth minute passed, and he concentrated once again on the strange ship; he had no desire to appear a fool. His scrutiny did nothing to allay his doubts; he reached for the phone.
“Is Bill there? Ask him to step up here, willya?”
“What’s up, Mark?” Bill soon arrived, alert, regimental; he followed the Texan’s pointing hand. “Yes, Colmar told me.”
“When I came on, it looked as if the guy would pass well behind us. I’ve been watching, and it kinda looks to me as if he keeps pointing at us. Could be a mite one way or the other, but sure as hell he ain’t heading the same way he was when I came on watch.”
Langley took the glasses, studied the oncoming vessel closely, then grabbed the phone. “Tell Phil I want him here at the double. No, nothing much, a ship.”
Phil bounded up the ladder. “You want me, Sarge?”
“What d’you make of that?” Langley handed him the binoculars.
“Well, she’s a tanker, that’s for sure,” said Phil at last. “I’d say she’s empty, small as tankers go these days, and pretty ancient. On her present course, she’ll pass astern of us. What’s the problem?”
“Mark says she seems to be always pointing at us, and getting closer.” Langley shrugged. “Could be she’s a blind bastard like the last one.”
“Let’s have another look,” said Phil, taking back the glasses. “Yes, she’s no chicken, but judging by the bow waves, she’s cracking on the revs.” He grinned. “If that’s a pirate, they’ve got …” He stopped, looking again at the stranger, then the sun, and back to the ship.
“Okay, Phil—what’s bugging you?”
“It’s a bit strange, like. I mean, where’s she going? We’re heading south; her course is nearer southwest. Naturally,” he added sarcastically, “since we’re not allowed to know where the bloody hell we are, I can’t be sure, but at a guess, I’d say she was going from nowhere to nowhere.”
Langley and Jacens absorbed that in silence. Langley wished he knew a good deal more about the sea.
“Maybe she’s going to South Africa,” he said.
“Maybe she is,” agreed Phil. “But why? She’s full of fuck-all!”
“Could be oil down there,” said Langley doubtfully.
“Oh, sure! So she tanks up and carts it off to the Persian Gulf?”
Langley didn’t answer that one, staring at the approaching ship. “What d’you reckon the range is?”
“Four, five miles.” He kept his gaze on the stranger. “Tell you this, Sarge, I think Mark’s right; the sod’s easing around toward us. I got a rough estimate of the distance between the foremast and the funnel, and I’d swear it hasn’t changed.”
That made up Langley’s mind. “Right. Nip down and shake Colmar, and tell Jane we’re going to action stations.”
Phil ran, and Langley turned to Mark. “Could be a load of cobblers.” He examined the ship again through binoculars, but saw nothing alarming—no guns, no activity. He turned to Jacens. “Maybe the bloke wants help, like a doctor or something.”
“He can’t have our Jane, that’s fer sure!”
“Too right! Anyway, if he keeps coming, we’ll bang off a couple of red rockets as soon as the warning lights start flashing. If that doesn’t convince him, Phil can put a burst over the bridge.”
“An’ jest supposin’ he keeps comin’?” said Jacens softly.
“We’ll let him in a bit closer, another warning shot. At a mile, we give him a burst in the bows. If that doesn’t work, that’s it—alarm, radio call, hose-pipe his bridge, and smack a couple of Blowpipes into him!”
Phil and Colmar clattered up the ladder, fully dressed. As they buckled on their gunbelts, Langley ordered Phil to man the port Aden, Colmar as loader, and outlined his plan of action.
As they hurried around, closing the armored window shields, the internal alarm sounded, quickly canceled by Langley. He rang Jane in the sick bay. “Remain closed up. We’ve got a ship acting suspiciously on the port quarter. I expect he’s hoping we’ve got a doctor. Don’t get excited if you hear us fire; it’ll be a warning burst.”
Phil had stripped off the gun cover, clipped in a magazine, fastened his back harness, and swung the Aden to face the stranger.
“The warning lights are flashing, Sarge!”
“Okay. Colmar, fire two rockets.”
The rockets screeched into the still air, trailing smoke, to burst in a scatter of red stars. The tanker was close enough to make out details of the bows, rust-streaked, the heat haze above her stumpy, blackened funnel, and her small navigational radar aerial, rotating steadily.
“Hey, she’s altering course!” Roscorla’s seaman’s eye spotted the movement first. “She’s coming around to port!”
Mark, calmly unstrapping his Blowpipe, paused and stared in concentration at the deckhead. Port—which way was that? He turned to look.
The tanker, fine off the port quarter, was swinging slowly onto a parallel course.
“Well, get that!” exclaimed Phil in disgust, leaning back in his harness. “That twit makes the other geezer look like a veteran motorist! Did you ever see such a performance! Bloody lights and rockets banging off—didn’t take a blind bit of notice. Reckon he stopped just in time, or this tub would have sheered away from him!” Neither he nor the rest realized the significance of what he had said.
The tension eased, but the team remained watchful. Jacens, cradling his Blowpipe, stood in the center of the citadel, ready to move to the best firing position. Colmar, a spare magazine at his feet, stood just in the citadel, his eyes wild with excitement, switching from Langley to the stranger and back. Langley remained stolidly by the control panel.
“Hang on,” cried Phil. “What’s that, right aft? Crikey, it’s a bloody chopper! Christ!”
Even as he spoke, the helo leaped into the air. Tension flooded back; Langley swung, stabbing the alarm button, then reached for the radiophone.
“Freeze!” screamed Colmar. “Drop it!”
Jacens moved with incredible speed, tossing the Blowpipe aside, turning, crouching, going for his gun.
The fastest man on earth couldn’t have made it.
Colmar fired three times, his face deadly white, lips drawn back in a silent snarl. Jacens staggered backward; the hammer blows hurled him, off-balance, down the companionway.
Colmar swung, fired again, once, smashing Langley’s shoulder. The senior guard slammed back against the bulkhead and collapsed, dropping the phone, hitting his head as he fell. Blood welled, darkening his shirt. Colmar sprang, grabbed the dangling handset, and tore it free. He paused, panting, his gun ready, swinging from Langley to the companionway, to Roscorla, trapped in his gun harness.
Even if he had been free, the sailor would have been incapable of action, fear, or thought. He stared stupidly at the killer.
“God,” he croaked, “what … what you … you done …”
Colmar glanced at him, his face still set in its hideous grin. He’d done it! Those lethal seconds had breached the dam of his long-pent-up hatred: frightened, aghast at his own action, he also felt good, ten feet tall, liberated.
Phil fumbled with his harness.
“You stay right there, buddy!” The strange, high-pitch parody of Colmar’s normal voice got through to Phil’s bemused brain; survival hung on obedience to that deadly, crouching figure. “Drop your gunbelt.”
As the sailor obeyed, Jane cried out; her distraught face appeared in the companionway. She stared wide-eyed, seeming not to take in the scene, even Colmar’s pointing gun.
“I need help! Mark—”
“Get back!” screamed Colmar. “Get back! Show your pan again, and I smash it for good!”
She could only look uncomprehendingly at him.
“Do as he says!” Roscorla called, risking his life. Instantly the gun was back pointing at him. Jane disappeared.
“Get outta that harness and on deck—clear the helo net, and be fast!”
Roscorla freed himself and stumbled on deck, Colmar following. He picked up Phil’s gunbelt and tossed it over the side, the radiotelephone handset with it.
Overhead, the pirate’s helicopter buzzed impatiently; the parent ship was dropping slowly astern, edging closer to AT1. Phil worked clumsily on the net, dazed. Colmar worked too, cursing the sailor for his slowness.
At the foot of the companionway Jane worked desperately, near-blinded with tears. From the moment she had cut his shirt off, she saw there was no hope. With two bullets in the chest, the third in his stomach, it was a tribute to his tough mind and body that Mark was yet alive. She plugged his wounds, made him as comfortable as she could where he lay, waiting, knowing it would not be long. She left him once to get the morphia ampuls, but doubted if he would ever come out of shock enough to need it.
Briefly he regained consciousness, his gray eyes, no longer keen, glazed, sightless. She held his hand. “Don’t try to move, Mark—don’t move.”
His lips moved; she bent very close. “Glad … we … we … met … beauti …” He did not finish the word, and fell silent, fighting for breath, drowning in his own blood. He gripped her hand, expending his last energy for her. “Gun … take it … guts.” Gasping, Mark Jacens died.
Numb with shock, she knelt beside him, living a nightmare. Mark … Colmar … Her mind refused to consider what had happened, taking refuge in practical, trivial detail. She couldn’t leave Mark there: people coming down the ladder would fall over him—it. …
She grasped his still-warm wrists and dragged him into the sick bay. The body was far too heavy to lift. Gently she straightened his limbs, lately so easy in movement, strong arms that had held her; the memory brought near physical pain. She noticed his gunbelt, the still-buttoned holster. He’d never had a chance. Anger struggled with fear as she remembered Mark’s last painful message.
Without thinking, she drew the gun, glanced over her shoulder, no plan in mind. From overhead came the tramp of feet, voices, and the roar of the departing helicopter.
She glanced frantically around, seeking a hiding place. Any moment Colmar would arrive; must hide the gun. She got up, ran to the galley; the voices were louder, in the citadel, strange voices. She thrust the Browning in a drawerful of kitchen equipment. That crisis past, her mind raced, thinking ahead.
Colmar would be bound to notice, certain to collect the gun; but if she gave him the belt, holster buttoned … She needed a weight, something small but heavy. Frantically she sought inspiration: something weighty … a weight! She grabbed a heavy one from the kitchen scales and ran.
The prospect of a chance, however slim, made her hand shake violently as she rammed the cast-iron weight into the holster, stuffing her handkerchief on top. Buttoning the holster, she heard feet on the companionway; she let go of the belt as if it was red-hot, but remained kneeling beside the body, shaking uncontrollably.
“Okay—get outta the way!”
Colmar’s voice, although less high-pitched, filled her with terror. Still kneeling, she straightened up, sitting back, her hands resting on her bloodstained thighs; she stared at the killer, his rising hate conquering fear. He stood, legs apart, in the doorway, gun in hand; briefly their eyes communicated.
Some of Colmar’s euphoria had worn off; he seemed hesitant. For one weird moment she thought he was going to apologize.
“Get outta the way,” he repeated. “I want that gun.”
“Don’t you touch him!” She hissed the words, half in earnest. Without waiting, she unbuckled the belt, keeping her hands well away from the holster, then hauled it clear from the dead man. She stood up, held the belt out.
“Don’t want me to touch the boyfriend, huh? Okay, so I’m a man of feeling.” He took the belt at arm’s length, glanced at the holster, and grinned. “Well, waddya know? The fastest gun in the West—and he didn’t even touch his shooter!”
“You … you bastard!” Jane spat at him, unable to stop herself; she thought that was the end. His grin froze, his eyes had a sightless look, then he blinked, and wiped his face with his hand, then the ever-ready clean tissue.
“Okay, lady. I’ll remember that, when we’ve got a li’l more time.” He slung the gunbelt over his shoulder. His grin returned. “Pity you didn’t get to taking this gun, a talented doll like you!”
Jane felt her heart would stop.
“Dangerous things like this are best over the side!” His tone changed, cold, venomous. “I’ll fix you before we’re through! Right now, you get back to the galley; fix coffee, lots of it!” He backed away from the door. “And don’t go having any fancy ideas about that—you taste it first.”
Overhead, the helo had returned; Colmar hurried for the ladder. “Bill—is he dead too?” Somehow she managed to say it.
He paused, holstering his gun. “Gee! I forgot—I surely did.” The fact that he could forget gave him pleasure: to shoot a man and forget it just went to show what sort of a guy he was. “No, I guess not.” This self-revelation made him almost genial. “He’s lying around. Come and fix him.”
Colmar ran up the companionway, his twisted ego bursting with exultant arrogance. Jesus, they’d learn what a real hard man was like; he’d show them, all of them.
Langley was sitting on the deck, propped up against the empty armory, his bloodless face lined, years older. One hand held a balled-up handkerchief to his right shoulder in a feeble attempt to stanch his wound, one side of his shirt soaked, black.
For Jane the sight piled shock on shock; she examined him quickly; to dress that wound before she got him below would be a waste of vital time. She broke out the first-aid box, noticing the empty carbine rack; Langley’s gunbelt had gone, too. Although her heart hammered, her fingers were steady as she tied his right hand firmly to the back of his neck, her professional mind thinking ahead to her next move; she did not like Langley’s wax-yellow, gray-tinged face; certainly he had lost a lot of blood and was barely conscious.
Outside the citadel she could hear voices. To ask for help would be useless. Where was Phil? She glanced around furtively, and gasped in sudden fear.
Colmar stood outside a window, watching her, grinning.
She hauled Langley to his feet, got his good arm around her neck. He tried to help, but the arm had no strength, and his legs were like rubber. “Come on, Bill—try! Soon have you fixed up.”
Somehow, half-carrying him, she got Langley down the companionway, into a sick-bay bunk. By then he was unconscious. The blue-ringed wound did not look too bad, blood still welled out, but she was relieved to see the bullet had gone right through, just above the collarbone. The wound cleaned, plugged, and dressed, she got his trousers and shoes off and tucked him in. There was nothing more she could do.
Automatically she washed her hands. Her mind, freed from its immediate task, whirled: Mark dead at her feet; Bill beside her, weak as a kitten and possibly near his end; Phil, Colmar, and God knew what going on above. …
Something heavy was being dragged on the deck; feet tramped. Not religious, Jane prayed fervently for Phil’s safety; if he was dead, all hope had gone. Covering Mark’s body with a blanket, she remembered the gun; at least Colmar had not discovered that it was missing—or had he? She couldn’t be sure; he was quite capable of playing games, cat-and-mouse games. Never had she imagined, let alone met, anyone so wicked, so malignant. No, that wasn’t true. Colmar wasn’t so much wicked as mad.
Then she knew real fear.
X
Leaving the sick bay, she noticed for the first time the blackening, slippery mess at the foot of the ladder. Once that had been Mark’s life-blood; she couldn’t, wouldn’t leave it there to be trampled by his crazy killer.
Cleaning the deck, she cried soundlessly, sorrow compounded with shock. She was kept on her emotional rails by the obscene practicality of her task. To clean a floor is one thing; to pour your lover’s blood down the lavatory—and flush it—something else.
Wearily she looked at the clean tiles. A man had died there, a real man, and now it was as if he had never been. She realized, with clinical detachment, that her shirt and slacks were stained with two men’s blood.
Staring at the clean deck, she resolved that, given a chance, she’d even the score. Her decision was not based on heroics, or anger, but fear. Not that she attempted to analyze her reasons: Colmar had to die if she hoped to live.
Making the coffee, she fought a desperate tiredness and tried to plan. She had to know what was going on, must speak with Phil—if he was still alive. It had to be a hijack, but what were they doing?
Working with the men flown in by helo, Phil had a better idea of the situation, but like an ordinary nightmare, it didn’t make much sense to him—at first.
Two fueling hoses were being rigged, and he was one of the rigging party. He worked because he had to; Colmar had merely jerked his head toward a fat, sea-booted sailor who came aboard on the first lift and said, “Do as he says,” and Phil had, his brain working on other things.
For a start, Colmar didn’t fit his idea of the dedicated killer: he was too much on edge, and it was that that really frightened the sailor. A pro killed when necessary; but Colmar, with his sudden temper, high state of emotional excitement, and marksmanship, was much more frightening. One cough in the wrong place could, literally, trigger him.
