Dead Water Zone

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Really, I am.”

  But Armitage just glared ahead into the mist, steering them back to Watertown.

  “You’ll show us, won’t you, Decks?” Monica asked.

  “If that’s what it really takes to bury this, I’ll take you both in,” said Decks grimly. He turned to Paul. “You may find your brother, but I’m warning you—you won’t recognize what he’s become.”

  11

  WITH A RUSTY SHRIEK, the gate swung slowly back.

  Long strands of bulbous green weed trailed from the huge pilings, fanning out across the dark water. The jagged ends of dock spikes bristled from the cross timbers, impaling the gloom. Paul grimaced as the pungent smell of oil and rot wafted over him. There was about five feet of clearance, he guessed, between the water and the underside of the planking above. He looked dubiously at Monica and took a deep breath—so this was the way inside.

  Decks had guided them into the heart of Watertown through a maze of canals, some so narrow that the dinghy had caught against the sides. The mist had started to brighten as they’d glided into the moat, using the oars to skirt around the wood and metal ramparts of Rat Castle. When Decks brought the boat to a halt, he brushed his hands over a section of wall, scraping away debris with his fingernails until he’d exposed a keyhole.

  “Stay with the boat,” he told Armitage now, as he pushed a ring of keys back into a pocket. “Take it into one of the canals for shelter if need be, but for heaven’s sake, keep an eye out for us. Now, steady the boat for me.”

  The wiry man crouched in the dinghy, then stepped quickly into the opening. Paul followed, easing himself onto a narrow crossbeam, hunched over. The wood was slippery, carpeted with lake fungus, and his hands reached out for balance.

  “Hey,” he heard Armitage whisper behind him. “Hope you find your brother.”

  Paul looked awkwardly back over his shoulder.

  “Thanks.”

  Armitage’s gaze shifted uncertainly to his sister. It seemed to Paul that he was about to say something, but in the end, he only mumbled, “Be careful, okay?”

  Paul shuffled along the beam to make room for Monica.

  She stepped lightly from the boat, hardly rocking it at all. He extended his hand to her and was grateful that she took it, even though she didn’t need his help. She smiled at him, but it was forced, her eyes dark and secretive.

  Up ahead, Decks was gesturing to them to hurry up. Cautiously Paul moved forward. The timbers groaned ominously, only inches above the water.

  “There used to be houses lining this pier,” said Decks in a muted voice, jabbing a finger upward. “Not like the shacks you see most places in Watertown now. Some of these houses were quite grand. My family certainly had its day. But even when I was young, this place was well on its way to ruin. The last time I saw David, he’d left the family home altogether and moved back onto the ship.”

  “Ship?”

  “The last of the convict hulks.”

  “But I thought they’d all sunk!” said Monica. “Years ago!”

  Decks shook his head. “David had this one hauled out onto one of the docks. That must have been almost thirty years ago. He wanted it preserved, like a museum piece, so we wouldn’t forget our heritage. When I was last here though, part of the dock had collapsed, and the ship’s stern was slumped in the water. Could be that it’s slipped back completely by now. We’ll see.”

  Paul followed Decks through the decaying latticework of beams, trying to match the wiry man’s footsteps. But his feet slithered on the timbers, and twice he lost his balance and nearly plunged a flailing hand onto one of the spikes. His neck ached from hunching over and his hands throbbed hotly beneath the bandages he’d put on at Decks’s houseboat. He couldn’t give in to fatigue now; he couldn’t fail Sam. He needed to be strong.

  His thoughts raced ahead. He tried to plan out a confession, linking words and sentences like paper chains. But was an apology enough? And if he couldn’t even be sure that Sam would forgive him, how could he convince him to stop drinking the dead water? Stop, he told himself. Just get there.

  There was less space between the beams now, and at times he had to slip through sideways; but after a few more minutes, the timbers became even more tightly meshed into a narrow opening about two feet in diameter, close to the water’s surface.

  “It’s tight,” Decks said over his shoulder, “but I’ve done it before.”

  The wood was wet and unpleasantly spongy against Paul’s hands and knees. He tried to take shallow breaths; he didn’t even want to breathe a molecule of that water. He hunched his broad shoulders as he crawled into the opening. Splinters of metal tugged at his clothing. One shoulder lodged tight against a timber. His shoes skittered along the beam, hoping for traction. He was stuck.

  He’d never thought of himself as overweight before coming to Watertown. He felt ridiculous; he almost laughed. He tried to wriggle free, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He was suddenly short of breath, imagining himself bound by steel hoops, tightening, collapsing the life out of him.

  “Monica,” he whispered. “I can’t move.”

  “You’re all right,” she said behind him. “We’ve just got to ease you through.”

  A cool tongue lapped across his fingers, and he looked down with a start. The dark water was level with the beam.

  “Water,” he managed.

  “Tide’s coming up,” said Decks, in front. “I’m reaching back, Paul.”

  He watched for Decks’s hand and grabbed hold. He felt himself shift slightly, but he still wasn’t free.

  “Again,” said Decks, and Paul pulled with all his might.

  “No good,” he panted, looking at the water, only a few inches away. Would it lick against his chest, fill his mouth and nostrils? He felt Monica’s small, cool hands against his ankles and was reassured.

  “Once more,” she said.

  Paul took a deep breath and yanked hard on Decks’s arm, just as Monica shoved him from behind. He jerked out of the wooden stranglehold and had to cling to the beam to stop himself from going into the water. He scrambled out of the tunnel and pushed himself to his feet, his knees shaking.

  “Okay?” Monica asked, standing behind him.

  “Saved me again,” he said weakly. “Thanks.”

  “Can you hear it?” she asked abruptly. “It sounds so clear.” She cocked her head to one side. “The water.”

  Decks nodded dolefully. “Your mother could hear it, too.”

  “What’s it like?” asked Paul.

  “Mosquitoes, sort of. But higher.”

  There was a look of bewildered fascination on Monica’s face that made him nervous. He wanted to shake her. What if Decks was right about the lure of the water? They shouldn’t have let her come. It was too dangerous.

  “Come on,” said Decks, “it’s not far now.”

  In the distance, Paul could see pale light between the pilings. He picked out his footing with care as the water rose. Finally, he was at the far side, and he jumped from the timbers onto a landing platform floating at the pier’s base. They were on the edge of another canal.

  Through the ragged swaths of mist Paul made out the form of a ship across the canal. The dark bulk of it towered above him, the pockmarked hull stretched taut over wooden ribs, like mummified skin.

  As if stirring from sleep, the entire hulk shifted slightly, and a moan issued from the chains draped across its hull. Gooseflesh broke out across Paul’s forearms, even though he told himself it was just a dead ship, rolling with the tide.

  “Still afloat,” said Decks in a whisper. “It must be lashed tight to the wharf.”

  “There.” Monica pointed to the hulk. “The water. It’s coming from there.”

  For a moment, Paul thought he heard a shrill mosquito droning, but it quickly faded.

  “If your brother was looking for the source, that’s where he’d find it.”

  “Take the ladder to the pier,” said Deck
s, pointing. “There’s a bridge across to the other side.”

  Paul hurried up the ladder after Monica. But the third rung gave way beneath his foot, and he plunged back to the landing stage, knocking Decks in a heap.

  He helped Decks up. “I should have learned by now,” he said, mortified. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine, fine.”

  Paul was about to try the ladder again when he saw something lying on the ground at Decks’s feet. His heart raced. He heard Decks’s grunt of surprise and knew he was staring at it, too.

  “What’s the gun for, Decks?”

  “Just a precaution.”

  “Against what? Cityweb?”

  “That, too. Now listen, Paul. When I last saw David, he was violent, dangerous. He nearly killed me.”

  “You said he was dead.”

  “I believe he is.”

  “It’s for Sam, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t say that. But when you see him—if you see him—you might be glad I brought this.”

  “No,” said Paul, shaking his head dazedly. “No.” The idea that Decks had a gun and was willing to use it on Sam sparked a short circuit of pure panic through him. He kicked at the gun, hoping to knock it into the water, but it just skittered farther down the landing stage, and Decks ran after it. Paul heaved himself up the ladder, frantically smashing out the rungs behind him.

  “No one’s going to hurt him!” Paul yelled, kicking at the side struts.

  “Helicopter!”

  Paul stood still. Seconds later he heard the angry beat of rotor blades.

  “Come on,” Monica hissed, tugging at his arm.

  Up ahead, Paul could see the bridge spanning the canal. The helicopter’s pulse thumped through the mist, as if from all directions. He staggered up the steeply arched bridge, his feet slipping against the planks. It seemed the helicopter would break through right overhead. On the other side of the canal, he threw open the door of a derelict house. Pigeons panicked all around him, fluttering to sagging rafters, lifting through large gaps in the ceiling.

  Just inside, he sank to the floor, peering back out into the mist. “Can you see it?”

  The rhythm of the rotor blades was gradually slowing, the noise duller.

  “I think it’s landed,” she said. “On some other pier maybe.”

  Paul looked toward the hulk. “We can run for it.”

  “What about Decks?”

  “I don’t trust him. I’ve got to get there before he does, before anyone does.” He suddenly felt exhausted, but he had to get up, had to move. He would not let his body fail him.

  “Look,” Monica said in a whisper.

  He followed her gaze to the hulk’s deck. There was scarcely a silhouette against the bright mist: a thin figure standing near the prow, bony arms taut against the railing. A large head rested atop a spindly neck. The figure turned and moved across the deck, disappearing down a hatchway. It was a stick figure in the distance, but Paul couldn’t mistake it. Sam.

  Still no sign of him.

  The floor of the passageway was slanted slightly, and Paul kept his balance by pushing off the wall with his hand every few seconds. Beams of light shafted through the cracks. After the cool of the morning, the hulk was surprisingly hot and foul smelling. There was a faint but constant ring in his ears.

  “I can hear it,” he whispered. “The water.”

  Monica nodded. “We must be so close.”

  The corridor opened out into a deep chamber. Chains and iron manacles dangled from the walls. Bits of straw lay scattered about among tattered blankets and broken wooden spoons and plates. Something thick and fast brushed his ankle, and he looked down to see a rat scuttling into a hole.

  “This must be where they kept the convicts,” Monica whispered. She’d paused, her eyes lingering over every corner of the huge room.

  “There’s no one here,” he said impatiently. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m looking for someone, too, Paul,” she said with a new dangerous hardness in her voice.

  “I’m sorry.” He nodded. Of course he wasn’t the only one looking. But not ten minutes ago he’d seen his brother on the deck! How could she expect him to slow down now?

  “You think she’s still alive?”

  “Maybe. It’s not just that.”

  “What else?”

  “The water,” she said softly. “I want to know about the water.”

  He didn’t have time to reply. A shadow flickered across the doorway at the far end of the room, and he was already moving toward it.

  “Sam!” he hissed. “It’s me.”

  By the time he reached the doorway, the figure was slipping out of sight around a corner. He broke into a run, heedless of the weak planking that groaned beneath his feet. He turned down another passageway, and there was Sam again, closer this time, but still ahead of him, rushing weightlessly on.

  “It’s me—Paul!”

  It was just like the first night he’d arrived in Watertown, chasing Sam along the rooftops. Why didn’t he stop? Couldn’t he hear him? Didn’t he recognize his voice? Or maybe he just didn’t want to stop.

  As Sam disappeared past a doorway, Sked stepped out of the shadows right beside him. Paul flinched in surprise. He’d come so far! He wouldn’t be held back now, not by some safety-pinned punk! Had Sked seen Sam? Did he know he was on the hulk? Then Paul saw the long knife in Sked’s hand, and his frustration gave way to fear.

  “Have a nice swim?” asked Monica. “You’re back so soon.”

  Paul could hear the faint tremor in her voice.

  “Shut up,” said Sked, pushing her roughly against the wall. He took a few steps back, lazily swiping the blade of the knife from Paul to Monica, smiling. Paul felt every tendon and muscle in his body cranked tighter, second by second. So this is how it ends, he thought. Slaughtered against the wall of a half-sunken ship.

  “Nice try with the torched boat,” said Sked, “but you’re not dead yet. I’d do you both right now, but there’s some people who want to see you first.” He waved the knife down the passageway. “Walk. I’m right behind.”

  Paul fell into step beside Monica, all his senses drawn to the spot where the blade might enter his back. He thought of all the films he’d seen where the hero simply spun around and knocked the weapon out of the villain’s hand. What a load of crap.

  He wondered whether it was just his fear, or if it was getting hotter as they were marched down the passageway. The noise, he was sure, was louder than before—an annoying buzz, like an insect circling his head. They reached a door.

  “Open it,” Sked told him.

  Paul pushed the oak door wide open. A powerful wave of heat washed over him, and the buzzing doubled in intensity. Monica winced, shaking her head as if trying to dislodge the sound. His eyes were immediately pulled to the bright orange glow of flames in an iron furnace. To the left was a thick pipe of corrugated metal, which curved up from the floor and dribbled water into a vat. To the right of the furnace were wooden tables holding electronic equipment, pulsing faint red and green light. Two men were hunched over a table, studying something. They turned as Paul and Monica were ushered in.

  “Oh, good,” said one blandly.

  Paul could only stare. They looked so ordinary, these two Cityweb men. They could have been clerks, stamping documents, listlessly filling in forms. They could have been suburban fathers—maybe they were. One had a slight belly pushing against his shirt; the other wore cheap polyester pants bagging over white sneakers. They looked so harmless. Paul felt sick.

  “So this is Samuel’s brother.”

  The voice came from the shadows at the far end of the room. It sounded like cracking joints, a dry grating of bones. Paul squinted into the darkness but made out nothing except a faint smudge of movement.

  “There’s a certain likeness,” came the voice again. “If this one were to be stripped bare.” The pitch of the pervasive droning deepened, and a shape emerged into the light.


  Mosquito. That was the first thought that pierced the white noise in his head. The bone-pale arms and legs were little more than insect filaments, with elbows and knees that looked bulbous even though they couldn’t have been any bigger than golf balls. It was impossible to tell what sex it was; the body was so wizened, clothed only in a few tatters of cloth around its hips. Its skeletal torso throbbed rhythmically, as if in sync with a heartbeat, and Paul could clearly make out the tracery of blood vessels and veins beneath the skin. But there also seemed to be veins over the skin—bundles of thin, transparent tubing twined around the creature’s arms and legs, chest and neck, pricking into the flesh. A clear liquid oozed through the tubes, circulating and recirculating, and he knew there was not an ounce of blood in this thing’s body—only dead water. He looked up at its head and was momentarily transfixed by the milky-white eyes, which bounced back light so they seemed to focus on everything at once. Even though it was skull-like, fleshless, he could unmistakably see Decks in it.

  Where was Sam? What had they done to him? Everything was collapsing around him now. It was like one of his brother’s huge war games—if you looked away or didn’t keep up well enough, everything changed on you, the whole game board, all the rules. Decks had said David would have died months ago. And here he was with two very relaxed Cityweb men and a room full of lab equipment that could only be Sam’s. Nothing made any sense. He was surprised to feel an aching disappointment through his panic: this was not what he had expected. He had wanted to find Sam here, alone, to talk.

  David Sturm took three rapid steps toward Paul and then stood absolutely still.

  “Yes, he’s pure,” he told the two Cityweb men, “wonderfully pure. But the other one has water in her.” He flicked a skeletal hand in Monica’s direction. “You’re not a drinker, are you? No, the hum’s too faint. Your parents must have been Waterdrinkers, then, leaving their traces? That’s right, isn’t it?” Sturm paused, his head angled pensively. “I recognize you.”

  Monica’s body was rigid. “My mother’s here, isn’t she?”