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Authors: James F. David

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BOOK: Ship of the Damned
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Another rope snapped and half the fibers of the next gave way. Jett checked Ralph again, but he was still hanging on just below Dr. Kellum. One of the sailors below Ralph had his hand on Ralph’s back, steadying
him. Jett looked back over the railing, checking to see if it was still clear, then climbed over, squatting, gun covering the corridor. He felt for the pulse of the man on the deck, not because he cared, but because Dr. Kellum’s followers would see. There was no pulse. Jett was relieved. He had no intention of dragging a wounded man through a battle.
Movement down the corridor alerted him, and he dropped flat behind the body just as a cloud of metal shards rocketed by. Two impacted the man he hid behind; the rest ricocheted all around him. From behind him, one of Dr. Kellum’s Specials conjured up a fireball and it whistled past, Jett feeling the heat. On impact the fireball burst into a thousand candle flames and sprayed in all directions. A sailor ran from his hiding place, his hair on fire.
Now Jett could see why weapons development hadn’t proceeded much beyond simple crossbows. It wasn’t just that the close quarters limited the need; it was also that the the abilities of the Specials were more effective weapons.
Jett popped up, then reached over the rail, pulling Dr. Kellum over. Keeping his body between Kellum and the Crazies, he helped Ralph onto the deck.
“I told you I could do it,” Ralph said proudly.
Jett motioned Dr. Kellum and Ralph to move to the right, away from the Crazies. Before they could, another cloud of metal whistled down the corridor. Jett tackled Ralph and Dr. Kellum. Neither man had the reflexes to survive on a battlefield. One of Dr. Kellum’s sailors was caught with one leg over the rail. Jagged bits of metal ripped into his neck and chest, spraying bloody flesh and bone fragments. The impact carried him back over the rail, and he fell silently to the desert below, landing with a bone-breaking thud.
When the barrage stopped, Jett lifted his head to see a man standing in the corridor. He had wild, black eyes, and his black hair was long and matted. He was dressed in black biker boots, jeans, and a denim jacket. His hand was extended, and his face was nearly purple with exertion. There were sparks between his fingers, growing in length and intensity, and now they shot off his finger tips like tiny lightning bolts.
“It’s Cobb,” Dr. Kellum said.
Jett raised his gun to fire, but was struck, electricity arcing from his hands to his extended gun arm. Out of control, his arm tingled and twitched. The shock spread up his arm to his torso, his nervous system shorting out, neurons firing randomly, muscle groups working against each other. Then the electric charge increased in intensity and he felt as if his
whole body had been plugged into a light socket. Ralph and Dr. Kellum convulsed behind him. The intensity was building, and for the second time that day he was being electrocuted.
Suddenly, there was a whistling rush of wind as something flew over Jett. It was a steel hatch pulled from its hinges and launched by one of Dr. Kellum’s Specials. As the hatch passed them, the current was attracted to the steel door. Arcing light spread around its perimeter, looking like a grotesque fourth of July sparkler. Jett got relief from the shock as the door flew over, but still he couldn’t use his muscles. Then there was the deep sound of heavy impact as the hatch hit steel, and clanging and crashing as it came to rest on the deck.
Now a steady stream of metal fragments came from Dr. Kellum’s Specials. Even if Jett had had muscle control, he wouldn’t have been able to rise for fear of having the top of his head taken off. He knew the cover fire couldn’t last much longer, but he had the strength of a four-year-old, the coordination of a baby. Then there were hands on him, pulling him along the deck under the strafing fire. He saw Ralph and Dr. Kellum being dragged, too.
Pushing with his feet, Jett tried to help, but his legs were still weak and his efforts only made the rescuers’ job harder. One of the life rafts lashed to a gun turret had burned and was smoldering. Through the smoke he saw movement and the long black hair of Cobb. The stream of metal fragments was sporadic and then stopped. The sailors pulling them dropped into a crouch, trying to hurry and knowing that they had lost their cover. Jett felt doubly exposed. He was physically weak, and his body was between the enemy and the sailors trying to rescue him. Then a Crazy leaned out of a hatch and held up a gloved fist full of bits of metal—they were about to get strafed. Warning shouts came from Kellum’s people, but there was no cover here, and the sailors were dragging them as fast as they could. Jett knew that if the situation were reversed, he would drop his man and sprint to safety; he was thankful the men trying to save him had higher M-scores than he did.
They were moving too slowly to make it to cover, so Jett raised his numb arm until he could see his gun. Concentrating on his index finger, he told it to squeeze. His whole arm shook as his short-circuited efferent network carried the signal from his brain to his hand and then to his finger. The first of the metal fragments whistled past his head just as his finger twitched and pulled the trigger—the gun fired with a “sput” sound.
His shot was wild, striking ten feet past the Special holding the metal fragments, but still he ducked. Jett’s second shot was five feet closer, but
low, coming off the deck with a whine, the bullet coming apart in tiny fragments. Muscle control was returning rapidly now, and Jett fired a round into the smoke from the burning life raft, trying to keep Cobb out of the fight.
“Here comes Rust,” one of Kellum’s people shouted.
Jett knew what Rust could do—he was a fire thrower. Rust was farther down the deck, dressed in a brown polyester leisure suit. With a neatly trimmed Elizabethan beard and rows of new hair plugs, he looked like a man obsessed with his own appearance. He was staring at Jett.
Jett willed his sluggish muscles to realign. Then, as if it had been conjured from hell, a fireball streaked toward them. Warnings were shouted; the sailors dropped Jett and lay down flat on the deck. Jett felt the heat as the fireball passed overhead. He had enough control to sit up now, and he came up firing, Rust ducking for cover. Then the hands were on him again and he was being pulled as he fired wildly. A few steps later many hands pulled him to safety, dropping him next to Ralph and Dr. Kellum.
“I don’t feel so good,” Ralph said.
“Yeah,” Jett said.
Sailors helped Dr. Kellum to his feet. Hands took hold of Jett once again, helping him to stand up. Ralph was walking with only a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
Dr. Kellum’s people were pulling out in waves. Two Specials hung back, providing cover with fireballs and metal fragments. Now they raced through compartments and between decks, working the combinations to new moments of time. The hangar, boiler rooms, chart room, and crew berths flew by in a blur; then they were on the deck and climbing to the conning tower and through the pilot house into the bowels of the ship again. On a pass through the chart room, Jett tripped, catching himself on a chart table. As he got up he saw that he had tripped over the shoulder of an ensign, most of whose body was buried in the deck and the base of the chart table. Ralph helped Jett to his feet.
“Do you still gots that tingly feeling, Nate?”
“Leave me alone,” Jett snapped.
“You’re crabby, aren’t you, Nate? I can tell, but I don’t mind.”
Jett kept quiet so that he wouldn’t trigger more verbal dribble from Ralph. Now there were more shouts from behind.
“Those people are mad at us, aren’t they, Nate?”
“Yes. Keep moving.”
A short distance later they joined another group of Dr. Kellum’s people.
The old black woman was in this group, and spoke to Dr. Kellum, who then turned to Jett.
“The Crazies attacked your friends,” Dr. Kellum said. “My people had to pull out.”
Jett’s mind went to work on scenarios for completing his mission without them, and for escape. He was relieved that he hadn’t left Ralph behind.
“My people saved the map,” Dr. Kellum said as they started moving again. “We can use it to get us to levels McNab doesn’t know about.”
Suddenly those in front stopped, crouching, and like railroad cars backing up behind a braking engine, those behind stopped abruptly. Ralph stood dumbly until Jett pulled him down. When all of them were still, they could hear sounds of battle behind, but also sounds coming from in front. They were trapped.
Jett waited for Dr. Kellum to issue orders, but none came. Kellum was a benevolent dictator to his people, a brilliant man, an inventor, and Solomon-like in his judgment of disputes. But he was not a general. Precious seconds passed. Taking charge, Jett ordered those in front and behind to get into the compartments on either side of the corridor. They were crew berths, slung with hammocks. Jett remembered from the schematics he had studied that most of the crew berths were located toward the stern of the ship. The hatches of the berths were closed; Jett left his cracked so he could see down the corridor.
A minute passed. Then he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Jett preferred to let the Crazies pass, but some of Kellum’s Specials could feel the minds around them. If there was one of those who could feel minds among the approaching Crazies, Jett would spring the ambush.
A man came into view, dressed in Navy denims. It was Dawson. Right behind him in their silver suits were Compton and Peters. Suddenly Jett had an emotional surge—he was happy to see his team. When he pulled the door open, Compton reacted, her gun coming up and sputtering three times, but missing Jett’s head by inches.
“Hold your fire!” Jett shouted, waving his silver-coated arm out the door.
Compton was smiling when he stepped out.
“Hi Karla, hi Jim,” Ralph said, coming out behind Jett.
“Ralph!” Dawson suddenly shouted, trying to push through to Ralph.
The corridor was filling with Kellum’s people, a strange mix of sailors and civilians from different eras.
“Ralph, it’s me, Elizabeth!” Dawson shouted.
Ralph just smiled and waved. Compton pushed through the crowd, coming to stand by Jett and Dawson.
“He started doing this after you left,” Compton said. “He says his name is Elizabeth.”
“It may be,” Kellum said.
Dr. Kellum studied Dawson through his thick glasses.
“Some of my people are telepathic. Dawson is the most powerful, and sometimes he links with people on the outside.”
Jett had seen so many bizarre abilities in his years with the OSP, he considered anything possible.
“Who are you?” Jett asked Dawson.
Dawson looked past him toward Ralph.
“Ralph, I need to talk with you,” Dawson shouted.
Jett reached out and grabbed Dawson’s shirt in both fists, slamming him against the bulkhead, getting his attention.
“I said, who are you?”
“I’m Elizabeth Foxworth, and I’m a social worker.”
Ralph was coming now in response to Dawson’s call, but he stopped to talk with another man, and then a woman, shaking their hands and going through his introduction routine.
“A social worker?” Jett probed.
Jett sifted through his memory, searching what he knew about Ralph. The reports about Ralph’s special ability spoke of an Elizabeth Foxworth who had been assigned to Dr. Martin’s mind melding experiments. If Dr. Martin had found a way to communicate through Dawson, Dawson was a link to the outside world.
“Elizabeth Foxworth?” Jett said.
“Yes,” Dawson said, surprised. “I need to talk with Ralph.”
Ralph started forward again at the sound of his name. Jett kept Dawson pressed against the bulkhead, wondering how to use the connection to the outside.
“Why do you want to speak to Ralph?” Jett asked.
Dawson ignored him and tilted his head to talk to Ralph, who was close now.
“Ralph, I have a message from Elizabeth and Wes,” Dawson said. “You need to go home, now.”
“I thought you were Elizabeth,” Jett said.
“I’m both. Ralph won’t understand if I tell him the truth.”
“Understand what?” Ralph said.
Jett released Dawson, letting him speak to Ralph.
“You’ve been gone too long and everyone’s worried. Dr. Birnbaum doesn’t know where you are.”
Ralph looked concerned and leaned back, arms folded on his chest, lips puckered and protruding. Then, after a long think, he turned to Jett.
“Nate, I gots to go home now. I don’t like to make people worry.”
Jett knew that if Ralph could find an exit, he could use it to extract his team. Even though a part of him wanted to face off with McNab and deal with the threat from the Nimitz’s nuclear weapons, he couldn’t pass up this chance.
“I understand, Ralph,” Jett said. “When you gotta go …”
Ralph joined him and they said together “ … you gotta go.”
Ralph grinned from ear to ear, but his mouth quickly returned to a concerned pucker when there were more shouts from the end of the corridor. The bulkhead at the end of the corridor began to glow; Jett could feel the heat from thirty feet away. Those closest backed away. Men with crossbows moved closer, fitting bolts to their weapons, aiming them as you would a rifle. The bulkhead melted, rivulets of liquid metal running onto the deck, sizzling and smoking. Soon there was a hole which spewed crossbow bolts. The two men in front spun from the impact of the shafts, looking like human pincushions. They fell dead where they lay, and the panic was on.
BOOK: Ship of the Damned
8.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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