Borealis

  He heard it—the steady plick-plick-plick of dripping water. Charlie cast the beam of light onto the floor and found he was crouching in a puddle of filthy gray water. Rings expanded in the puddle as drops of water fell from above. He followed the droplets up to the overhead to discover that the drops were actually sloughing off the tips of icicles clinging to the underside of the entire system of pipes.

  It was ridiculous, he knew, but he stood and touched the pipes nonetheless. Cold as bone, powdered in frost. He traced the pipes with the flashlight back to the wall of generators. The pipes, he learned, led to the heating unit.

  “Goddamn it…”

  He approached the unit only to discover, with increasing horror, that it was dead. The dials all ran to zero; the archipelago of bulbs stood unlit. He pressed one hand against the heating unit to find it was still slightly warm but was quickly losing heat.

  Frustrated, he administered a swift kick to the side of the unit. The clang played off the metal pipes for an eternity. He didn’t want to think about what it would mean to be caught out here for an extended period without heat. Silently he prayed that Mike Fenty knew what the hell he was doing—that, in fact, he would find their way back to Saint Paul Island without the use of the GPS and the navigational system.

  Back on the quarterdeck, Charlie cracked open the door to Mike’s stateroom. The lamp on the nightstand was blinking sporadically. The girl was sitting up on the cot, staring at him through the crack in the door.

  “You ready to start talkin’ sense?” he said to her.

  That coy little smile…

  Without another word, he shut the door and proceeded to nail the section of cupboard across the stateroom door and the frame. The sound of the hammering was nearly deafening in these close quarters; still, he drove every nail home until he was left, exhausted and breathless, panting like a lion, outside the door. When the hammer slipped from his hand and dropped on his foot, he was brought back to reality. Shaken, tired, he crept down the corridor to his own room. Careful not to wake Joe, who was snoring wetly beneath a heap of blankets, Charlie peeled off his sweat-smelling clothes and, in nothing but long johns and wool socks, settled down on his own cot. The trawler rocking, the struts creaking and sighing and moaning all around him, he knew right away, despite his fatigue, he would not find sleep.

  Eventually Gabriel worked his way into his head—out in the yard, overburdened by a heavy winter coat and snowpants, scooping up handfuls of graying snow and throwing them over the fence at Dale Carver’s German shepherd. Johanna was there too, a wool cap on her head and a knit scarf around her neck. She looked fresh-faced and pure in the snow, her face barren of makeup. Calling to Gabriel as a gentle snow began falling in the yard. Dale Carver’s German shepherd yelped and bounded after the fistfuls of snow tossed over the fence, confounded by the fact that the mysterious white balls disappeared the second they touched the snowy ground.

  Charlie was there too, of course. In his bright red ski parka, his reddish beard neatly trimmed, he came out of the trailer and proceeded to chase Gabe around the yard. Giggling and wailing, his small legs pushing hard through the deep snow, Gabriel tore around the yard as Charlie pursued him, the German shepherd bounding after them from behind its fence. Barking.

  Charlie’s eyes flipped open. Not barking. Something struck the hull of the trawler. Maybe another iceberg.

  “Joe?” His voice was empty, void of substance. “You awake?”

  No answer. He could no longer hear Joe’s snoring, he realized.

  Sitting up on one elbow, he peered through the absolute darkness but could not see a thing. Fumbling on the floor for the flashlight, he located it and clicked it on. The dim, cataract light opened up on Joe’s empty cot. The mound of blankets were strewn on the floor.

  It wasn’t until he sat up and squeezed his feet into his boots did he realize he was still mumbling Joe’s name over and over.

  Yeah, he thought. Losing my mind like a regular champ.

  He dressed, the room bitter cold, and he could feel every muscle in his body wanting to cramp up. In the vague gloominess of the quarterdeck, he could see his breath, billowing out like tufts of cotton, nearly freezing to the bulkhead.

  He all but collapsed in the doorway of the galley. Breathing hard, sweat freezing to his temples, he struggled to catch his breath. McEwan, seated alone at the table, glared up at him. Both his big hands were hugging the bottle of vodka, which was now mostly empty. Dead eyes lifted to examine Charlie, partially slumped in the galley doorway.

  “Joe’s very sick,” he managed, realizing as he said it that it was probably the understatement of the year. “He’s not in his room. Have you seen him?”

  “This,” McEwan grumbled, his rheumy eyes moving wetly in their sockets, “is all your fault, Mears.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re always trying to be the hero,” McEwan said. “Always trying to save the world. Funny thing is, you can’t even take care of your own domestic problems.”

  “Man—”

  “We’re no different than the crabs,” McEwan went on. “You know it? We’re no goddamn different than the moon-bugs in the tank. Each of us, we’re all in our own tanks, all scuttlin’ and clackin’ and spittin’ bubbles. Sure.” He grunted in approval of himself. “Sure as shit.” Those sloppy eyes worked their way up to meet Charlie again. “You know what happens to the spiders if they stay in that tank too long, don’t you, Charlie?”

  Charlie exhaled slowly. “What’s that?”

  “One of two things happen. Neither’s very good.” A grimace. “One—they freeze in that tank. Ain’t enough to circulate the water so it gets icy, even colder’n where they come from on the sea floor. They freeze and then they start exploding, bits o’ shell and claws—pincers, clusters of spidery red legs—all of that, just poof! Like puttin’ an M-80 in a mailbox, way we all did when we was kids.

  “Then there’s the other way,” McEwan continued, not missing a beat, “an’ maybe you’d think this way is worse, mostly ’cause it ain’t as quick as explodin’ into pieces of spider-shell, but also ’cause what it means—what, see, it means—”

  “You’re drunk,” Charlie said flatly.

  “They eat each other.” Billy McEwan’s voice was equally as flat. “Cannibalism. They get to starvin’ in that tank, get to fightin’ and gettin’ on each other’s last nerve. Close quarters, scrabbling over each other, probably learn to hate every other space-spider in there with you. You start pulling off a leg here, a claw there. Pretty soon you can’t pull no more ’cause your own claws are filled with the claws and legs of others, and anyway it’s only a matter of time b’fore they start pulling you apart and eating out your guts while you’re still alive.”

  Grabbing the bottle by the neck, McEwan smashed it against the edge of the table. It broke into a crystal spray, pellets of broken glass scattering across the table and onto the floor. The liquor sprayed everywhere, darkening his chambray work-shirt.

  “We have to do something about our situation here b’fore we resort to eatin’ one another, Charlie,” said McEwan. A silvery threat of saliva drooled from his mouth. “Or before we start explodin’ like mailboxes full of firecrackers.” He was breathing heavy, practically panting. “You an’ me, Charlie. We have to do something.” He brought up his free hand and pressed an index finger to his left temple. “Before we start losin’ it in here.”

  “You’re drunk, man,” Charlie said.

  Those soul-piercing eyes—Charlie couldn’t shake them off him. Then, to his amazement, Billy McEwan’s ruinous lips splintered into a mock smile. His teeth were narrow, gray pickets protruding from purpling gums. “Oh, yeah,” he said, still smiling. “I’m drunk, all right. To hell and back. Right, Charlie?” The lip-splitting grin widened. “Right, homeboy?”

  “Joe’s—”

  “Haven’t fucking seen Joe.”

  “Where’s Bryan?”

  Angrily, he tossed the broken bott
leneck into the stainless steel sink. “Topside.”

  10

  Out on the deck, the air tore into his face, neck and hands. His cheeks tightened and the moisture around his eyes seemed to freeze instantly. Still, with Billy McEwan’s words still fresh in his ears, he was glad to be out here in the open and away from the increasing claustrophobia of the quarterdeck.

  Pulling his slicker tighter around his body, he spotted Bryan Falmouth standing at the end of the bow. Beyond, the sea was growing rough, a gray-black patchwork of ice fields miles in length drifting along the shimmering surface. Too much ice. The sun was still struggling to break free of the clouds.

  Suddenly, the boat rocked. A sound like tree limbs breaking sounded out over the bow. Steadying himself against the railing in case a second blow should accost the boat, he diligently maneuvered his way to the front of the trawler.

  “Hey,” he said, coming up behind Bryan. “The hell’s Mike doing? There’s too much ice out here.”

  Bryan spun around, instantly shocking Charlie with the emptiness that was so evident on his face. He brought his cigarette to his lips, his hand vibrating like a tuning fork, and displayed some difficulty actually getting it into his mouth. He sucked hard, his cheeks nearly touching, and blew a shaky pillar of smoke into the wind.

  “You fucking leave Mike alone,” Bryan uttered through chattering teeth.

  “What?”

  “Don’t think I’m not on to you, Charlie. Tryin’ to stir the fucking pot.”

  “Bryan, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He took a step forward, one hand outstretched—

  “Don’t come near me,” Bryan said.

  As if stung, Charlie quickly retracted his hand. “Bryan—what’s going on, man? What the hell’s happening?”

  “Don’t fucking play with me, Charlie. You just stay right where you are.”

  “Bry—”

  “I’m not fucking playing with you, Charlie, so don’t try to play with me!” Bryan screamed, spittle firing from his lips.

  Speechless, Charlie backpedaled with his hands up in surrender. Bryan watched his retreat, the cigarette stuttering between two mercurochrome-colored fingers. As Charlie watched, something poked briefly from Bryan’s right nostril. A second later it appeared again, more prominent this time, and Charlie realized, with a sinking sense of dread, that it was a bubble of dark blood.

  “Bryan, please—”

  “She’s drilling holes,” Bryan said. His teeth rattled in the cold. Charlie watched as the cigarette dropped to the foredeck and smoldered on the planking. “Holes everywhere.” In a terrifying mimicry of McEwan, he brought up a set of fingers and jabbed at his temple. “In here,” he said. “In the boat too.” Looking briefly out over the roiling sea, he added, “The goddamn world, Charlie.” He managed a half-curled lopsided grin—again, just like McEwan’s. “You get it, man? The whole goddamn world.”

  In a whisper, Charlie said, “What about the world, Bryan? What is it? Tell me.”

  Eyes wide and rimmed red with terror, Bryan Falmouth whispered back, “Infected.”

  “Infected by what?” When Bryan didn’t answer—he just stood there, his eyes afire, his entire frame quaking in his slicker—he said it again. “Infected by what, Bryan?”

  There came a sound similar to metal sheeting being crushed under a great weight, followed by a rumbling from beneath the boat. The whole trawler shook. Bryan lost his footing and slipped on the wet deck, his arms pinwheeling. Charlie ditched to the side and grabbed hold of the railing. Looking down over the side, he watched as a small drift of ice was sucked underneath the boat. He heard a snapping, recoiling sound and looked up in time to see the trawler mow through a second sheet of ice closer to the bow. The sheet literally split down the middle and parted in half by the cutting trawler.

  At the bow, Bryan had righted himself against the railing and was also leering over the side of the boat, although he seemed unimpressed by the fact that the Borealis was currently cutting through an ice field. As he looked, a length of salt-encrusted fiberglass siding, perhaps two feet long, snapped off the ship’s hull and flipped end over end in the air until it crashed onto—and slid along—a shelf of frazil ice.

  Charlie looked toward the darkened pilothouse. Sea salt had calcified on the paneled glass, making it impossible to see inside…and, he thought, impossible to see out. Nonetheless he began waving his arms high above his head, suddenly shouting Mike’s name.

  “No use, Charlie,” Bryan called to him. He was fumbling another cigarette from out of his slicker. “He’s locked on course now. You guys will be home soon.”

  He almost didn’t pick up on it. “What do you mean ‘you guys’, Bryan?” he asked. “What about you? You’ll be home too, Bryan. We’ll all be home.”

  Unable to light his fresh cigarette in the strong wind, Bryan flicked it over the bow. “No,” he said. “Not me. Ain’t supposed to be me.”

  “Bryan, please, what—”

  Bryan appeared to crouch, lowering his center of gravity. For one bone-chilling moment Charlie thought the man was preparing to rush him. And in fact Bryan did lower his head, ready to charge. Had it been his intention to execute a full-on rush into Charlie’s solar plexus, he would have accomplished just that, as Charlie Mears was too slow getting out of the way. But as it turned out, such was not Bryan’s intention. Head lowered, eyes ablaze, Bryan charged like a locomotive straight past Charlie, his all-weather boots slamming on the foredeck, his arms and legs pumping like machinery. He ran straight across the planking toward the stern where, in a bluish cloud of exhaust, Bryan Falmouth spread wide his arms and, without pause, launched himself over the side of the trawler.

  Charlie shrieked his name, already running in Bryan’s direction. But by the time he reached the stern, there was no sign of Bryan—not even the ripples in the ice-black water. Still, he kept screaming his name, as if mere recital would affect the man’s return, his own hands biting into the framework of the stern. As the trawler peeled away, carving a white-capped tract through the frozen sea, Charlie saw—or imagined he saw—one of Bryan’s boots briefly bob to the surface.

  Holes everywhere, Bryan’s voice echoed in his head. You get it, man? The whole goddamn world…

  He spun around and ran for the pilothouse, mounting the steps in just three giant strides. He slammed his considerable weight against the pilothouse door, which, once again, was bolted from the inside. Shouting Mike’s name, his breath blossoming on the filthy pane, he rattled the doorframe with his fists.

  Mike, stock-still behind the control panel, did not turn and look at him.

  “Goddamn it, Mike, open the fucking door!”

  “Mears!” The voice boomed over the snarling engine, just barely audible despite the urgency of tone. It was McEwan, his features muddied by the low-hanging thunderheads trembling with snow. He was wearing only an open chambray shirt and, beneath, an unwashed wife-beater—no coat. The bristling tufts of his hair, unraveling in every direction, rustled like oak leaves in the strong wind. In his hands he held an ice axe.

  Charlie took a step back, his blood freezing in his veins. “Bryan’s dead,” he heard himself say, his voice flimsy and paper thin. “Jumped off the stern.”

  “Come on down from there,” McEwan said. There was a calculated levelness to his voice, Charlie noticed—a noticeable restraint. Something was trembling just below the surface. “Leave Mike alone.”

  Another grinding, peeling sound as jagged fingers of ice cut into the hull—

  “He’s gonna sink us,” Charlie warned.

  McEwan placed one heavy boot on the first iron step. His eyes settled hard on Charlie, dull like the heads of iron spikes driven into his skull. “He’s a good, strong captain,” said McEwan. “Said it yourself. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Charlie shook his head. “No. She got to him.” He cleared his throat as McEwan mounted another step. “She got to you too, Mac.”

  “Ain’t nobody gettin’ to
me, Mears. Why don’t you come on down? We’ll talk it out.”

  Mike Fenty’s face suddenly appeared at the pane of glass in the pilothouse door—just inches, despite the shield of glass, from Charlie’s own. Charlie’s heart leapt in his chest. Mike’s eyes had soured, the sclera textured like curdled milk, and a network of whitish blisters had cropped up along the right corner of his mouth. As Charlie looked upon him, Mike Fenty grinned. His gums receded, his teeth looked wolfish.

  “Can’t have you messin’ with the captain,” McEwan said. He hefted the ice axe in his hands as he climbed yet another step. “We’re almost home, Charlie. Then we can go about our shit. Like you.” Just as the girl had done before him, McEwan cocked his head to one side like an inquisitive mutt. “Ain’t you got a kid out there you’re anxious to start lookin’ for, Mears? A little boy? Hell, man, once we get back to Saint Paul, you can do all the lookin’ you want. You can use my goddamn car. Got a brand new F-450, chains on the tires, the whole nine. All yours, amigo. Whatever you want.” McEwan paused, halfway up the stairs. “Just come on down with me, huh? What’d ya say?”

  Behind the glass, Mike Fenty’s face appeared to blur like someone moving too quickly just as a photo was being snapped.

  “Listen to me,” Charlie said, trying to watch both Mike and McEwan at the same time. “You guys ain’t thinkin’ right. Did you hear what I said about Bryan? He jumped over the side, Mac. He’s dead.”

  “Parasites,” McEwan said matter-of-factly. “In the head.”

  “I can’t let this boat reach Alaska. I think that’s what she wants.”

  “Talkin’ crazy now, Mears.”

  “Someone dumped her out here for a reason. We can’t let her get back.”

  “Hey, Mears—” he said, taking another step, “—you remember what I said ’bout them crabs? How we ain’t really no different so’s we gotta be careful, keep an eye out, make sure we don’t do what they do?”