Demon (17 page)

He had found himself knee-deep in the craziness and had nothing to show for it other than surviving while a bunch of good men died or went home maimed. That and torturing and killing a mad Arab babbling about an escaped demon.

Mike sighed and shook his head and wished he could have a drink. As he reflected on his Iraq experience, he couldn't help but feel, well, low.

“You can't kill this one, Mike.”

Mike smirked, remembering Greg's words.
Not from Djibouti I can't,
Mike thought.
But I'm sure I'll be able to kill a few warlords in Somalia for Glenn.

It's the only reason Glenn would send him to Djibouti. Warlords. Maybe a few al Qaeda operatives based in Somalia or Sudan. Maybe pirates. Can't use Mike in Iraq, move him to a place where his skill can still be put to work.

“Time to stop feeling guilty, Mike. You can't judge yourself. But you will be judged.”
Lowe's words, again from the dream.
“You are what you are. There's a reason for that. Accept responsibility.”

Rubbing his forehead, Mike hummed the Rolling Stone's song “Paint It Black.” He hoped it would block out the voices. It didn't help.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Y
usuf sat in his chair, enjoying the seas as the ship cut through the storm. He smoked and sipped coffee and actually relaxed a little. Rain pelted the windows faster than the wipers could clear them. It brought a smile to his face.

On the other side of the wheelhouse, the phone over the messenger's table rang. Yusuf, hoping it was Alwad reporting he had found Sayid, heard the messenger answer it.

“I cannot understand you—slow down,” the messenger said.

Yusuf's eyebrows narrowed. He turned in his seat and saw the messenger had his finger in one ear and the phone pressed hard to the other.

“Screams?” the messenger said. “Did you say ‘screams'?”

Yusuf jumped out of his chair and walked over. “Who is that?”

The messenger shrugged. “Some engineer. I can barely understand him. He is having trouble breathing or something.”

“What was that about ‘screams'?”

“He said he heard screams on the port side, aft. That is all I could make out.”

Yusuf snatched the phone away. “This is the captain. Who is this?”

“Inhuman screams,” the engineer said through desperate gasps for air, not bothering to identify himself.

“Inhuman?” Yusuf said. “Did they sound like an animal?”

“They sounded like nothing I have ever heard before.”

The line went dead.

Yusuf hung it up. The phone rang immediately. He reached out and grabbed the messenger's wrist before he could answer it.

“I will take the call. Go and wake the second officer and get him up here right away.”

“Yes, sir.” The messenger left.

Yusuf answered the phone. “Wheelhouse.”

“There is blood everywhere!” a panicked voice yelled.

Yusuf had trouble holding the phone. “Who is this? Where is the blood? Are there bodies?”

“No bodies, just blood. Upper deck aft, port side.”

The messenger entered the wheelhouse with Feisal in tow.

“Captain?”

Yusuf held up a finger to give him a minute. He hung up the phone and grabbed a radio. “Ship's bosun, Captain.”

The radio crackled. “Bosun, sir.”

“Form a security detail. Arm them and meet me on the upper deck, port side forward.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it, Bosun. I will explain later.”

Yusuf set the radio down and turned to Feisal. “You have the deck. Maintain course and speed and stand by for further orders from me via radio.”

“What is happening, Captain?”

“I do not know.” Yusuf hesitated a moment, running through scenarios in his head. “Have medical prepare for multiple casualties.”

“Casualties?”

Yusuf saw the nervousness in Feisal's eyes. He reached out and grabbed his right bicep. “Keep it steady. This is all a precaution.”

“This is not like Basra, is it?”

“I do not know yet.”

Feisal mumbled a prayer.

“You have the deck, Feisal. Are you able to handle it?”

Feisal nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

“Very good.”

Yusuf turned to the messenger. “Sound the general alarm.”

“Yes, sir.”

The messenger passed the word throughout the ship and sounded the alarm, signaling the crew to report to their emergency stations.

As Yusuf grabbed his radio and headed for the door, Feisal said, “What about Alwad?”

Yusuf halted. “I do not know where he is. He has not reported.”

“I will radio you when he does.”

Yusuf nodded and left.

He descended ladder after ladder on the port side as fast as he could without falling. The
al-Phirosh
weathered the storm well, but the seas still tossed the ship enough to make running down ladders and passageways difficult. Normally, Yusuf would not condone such recklessness; but this was not a normal time.

Throughout the ship, crewmen ran to their damage control stations: manning up firefighting and dewatering equipment, preparing wooden and metal shoring for any hull damage, and breaking out pipe patches and welding equipment. Yusuf did not know what he was dealing with but wanted his crew prepared and alert. The general alarm was the quickest way to achieve both.

Yusuf jumped the last couple of steps to the deck. The metal surface had zero give and sent shocks of pain vibrating up his shins, through his knees, and into his thighs. Yusuf cursed and, pushing the discomfort aside, swam through several crewmen sprinting to their stations.

Over the ship's intercom rang the alarm in loud monotone bursts that reverberated off the steel bulkheads. The noise, along with the shouting of personnel, pierced his ears.

Everything happened fast, not in a blur but like a movie where frames have been removed, skipping a few seconds ahead over and over. Flashes of people in mad rushes. Images of equipment moving from hands to hands. Broken words spoken over each other. It was like this until Yusuf reached the upper deck port side.

Then time returned to normal and Yusuf caught up with himself. It was quiet. Nothing moved. There were no damage control stations on this deck. He had tuned out the general alarm and the pounding of feet above and listened and tried to make anything out in the dull light of the passageway beyond.

A few minutes later, Yusuf heard feet hammering down the ladder behind him. He turned and saw the ship's bosun and his makeshift security detachment of four personnel. Two carried the Kalashnikovs, and the others held Glock 22 pistols.

“Captain,” the bosun, a large man named Mahmoud, said, “what is going on?”

Yusuf still breathed fast from his hurried race down from the wheelhouse. “I do not know.”

Mahmoud stepped forward, away from the other men, and whispered, “Then why are we here? Why is the whole ship at their emergency stations?”

“There was a report of . . . violence at the aft end of this passageway.”

“Violence?”

Yusuf did not know how to explain the fear in the voices of those who had called the wheelhouse and made the reports. “I believe it may be something similar to what happened in Basra.”

“Why would you say that? Do you have proof?”

Yusuf wanted to avoid any mention of the other incidents. “I am just being cautious. If it is something similar, the crew will be better able to respond if they are at their stations.”

Mahmoud held up his Glock. “And these? What are the men at their stations going to do if they need one, too?”

Yusuf looked away. “I do not think we will need those. But having an armed security detachment is prudent in case of a riot.” He looked back to Mahmoud. “It is all just precautionary.”

Mahmoud took a deep breath and looked at the bulkhead. He seemed to be thinking, probably deciding if he should follow his captain. And Yusuf could not blame him. After all, the whole ship had been sent to their stations without any reason given. Usually by now, Yusuf would have gotten on the ship's intercom and given an explanation, whether it be fire, flooding, or just a drill. In this case, though, there was nothing to give other than the truth. Well, the truth as far as Yusuf knew it. But that would be more hazardous than what might lay at the end of the passageway. If he told anyone else what might really be happening, the control and discipline would break down into panic.

“All right, Captain,” Mahmoud said, “let us go down there and see what this violence is. But if it is anything like Basra, I would recommend leaving quickly and securing this part of the ship to all traffic.”

Yusuf nodded. It was a good idea. “Very well.”

“Anyone have a flashlight?” Mahmoud said to everyone. No one answered. “Wonderful.”

Mahmoud gestured for the two men with the Kalashnikovs to take position in front and lead the way. Yusuf walked behind them with Mahmoud. The other two men with Glocks took up the rear.

They moved slowly. The dim lighting did not reveal much, and they saw no more than a few feet in front of them at any given time. The general alarm had been silenced. The ship was dead quiet except for the creaking of the hull as it pitched and yawed in the stormy seas.

The sounds of footsteps on the decks above had ceased. Everyone had reached their stations except the security detail. Their footfalls down the passageway were light but still echoed off the rusted steel. Yusuf heard his heart beating.

A minute passed before they saw the first traces of blood. The two men in front halted and they spoke in loud, fearful voices. Mahmoud moved to them and exchanged words, ordering them to stay calm. Then he walked back to Yusuf.

“Blood,” Mahmoud said. “Droplets on the deck. Smears on the bulkheads. Not much but enough to scare the men.”

Yusuf wiped his mouth. Sweat had broken out all over his face. His lips were dry.

“Bodies?” Yusuf said as quietly as he could.

Mahmoud shook his head.

“Then we must press forward.”

“Captain?”

“What if someone is injured? We cannot just turn and leave because blood is on the walls. If someone is injured, we must investigate.”

Mahmoud nodded. “Of course.”

The party resumed its movement, careful not to step in the blood. Yusuf observed the droplets on the deck. The smears on the bulkhead looked like they'd come from a hand.

Perhaps the man is injured and holding his wound,
Yusuf thought.
He probably needed to place his hand on the bulkhead for balance, to keep from falling over in the rough seas.

They had advanced only a few more feet when one of the men in front screamed. This time Mahmoud ran forward, his Glock ready. Yusuf did not wait for him to walk back and report. Instead, he rushed ahead, too, and slipped and fell.

Yusuf's back and buttocks hit the deck at the same time. His head thunked a split second later. His teeth snapped together from the force of the impact. Green specks of light filled his vision. The wind in his lungs escaped and was hard to replace.

More screams echoed around him. Yusuf blinked away the green specks and sat up, his whole spinal column feeling as if it had been hit with a sledgehammer. In front of him, he saw Mahmoud squatting over a lake of blood and chunks of tissue. One of the men with the Kalashnikovs leaned against the bulkhead, crying. The other tried to calm him down. The two men with Glocks still stood behind him, unwilling to move forward.

Yusuf pushed up to his feet and walked forward to Mahmoud.

“We need to leave here and secure this deck,” Mahmoud said.

Yusuf's eyes moved over the gore around them. Blood and brain tissue covered the deck and bulkheads. “My God, what happened here?”

“I do not know and do not want to stay here and find out.”

“Where are the bodies?”

Before Mahmoud could respond, a scraping sound drifted up the passageway.

“What is that?” Mahmoud said, his Glock pointing down the passageway into the darkness.

Yusuf squinted, hoping it would help him see better in the dim light. It did. He saw something down there. Moving. Not one person, but a group. It looked like they took up the whole width of the passageway. The scraping sound grew louder as it approached.

Mahmoud stepped backward. Yusuf looked at him and then back to the mass coming toward them. Now, though, he could distinguish more. Arms and legs and torsos of three individuals walking shoulder to shoulder.

Yusuf felt the first waves of relief until the three passed under a florescent light. Blood covered their faces like masks. Their heads had been cracked open in places and flattened in others. Pieces of brain oozed out of the crevices.

He wanted to say something. His voice made noises. His throat contracted and narrowed. His lips formed the shape needed to utter a series of syllables. Yet the only thing that escaped Yusuf's mouth were a bunch of phonemes in no discernable order.

Gunfire erupted next to him and made Yusuf temporarily deaf in his left ear. Both of his hands shot up to cover his ears as he watched Mahmoud fire three rounds into the body farthest to the left. All three rounds hit the man, tearing through his chest. Pieces of skin and bone puffed out in a debris cloud. The man kept coming.

Now Yusuf took a step back. The man with the Kalashnikov who had been trying to calm his comrade down stepped forward and opened fire.

The thunder of gunfire was amplified by the steel passageway. The dull light was overtaken by the bright burst of flames erupting from barrels. The men with Glocks stepped forward and fired. Even with his hands covering his ears, Yusuf could barely take the noise.

The three men kept walking toward them, even as parts of their bodies were severed by bullets. Arms fell to the deck. Pieces of skull and torso disappeared in clouds of flesh. Legs got shot out from under two. They hit the ground but clawed forward, their hands pulling them through the lake of blood.