Stranded (21 page)

“And as far as living things go, everyone has started getting sick in the last few days. I'm the only one with enough spunk in me to make the trip anymore. Most of my men are hoverin' about where
they
are,” he said, pointing at Henry and Michael. “Some're worse and can't get out of bed.”

Noah's stomach tightened at the mention of the other crew falling ill. It hadn't occurred to him that he'd been hoping isolation and starvation were the sum of their problems. Now he realized getting his own crew off the
Promise
wasn't going to be even a partial solution to any of their problems. “Your crew just started getting sick? How long ago?”

Connor tilted his head toward the ceiling, as if he was looking for the answer to come dropping down from it. “Don't know. Three, four days maybe. Started with headaches and bloody noses.”

“And then went from nosebleeds to a bad cough and lethargy,” Noah finished again. Before he could mention the shadows stalking about, Brewster interrupted them.

“How many people you have over there?”

“Just … our crew, like I said. Sixteen souls,” Connor said, his mouth stretching in an odd expression, more straight across than upturned, like he was half amused and half struggling to find the right words.

“Who's the ship's master? Do I know him?” Brewster asked.

Connor huffed and shook his head. “I don't even know how to respond to that. Maybe it's better if you see.”

“Is it too hard to say a god damned name? I'm not asking for his blood type.”

“It's you, William.
You're
the ship's master.”

Brewster rolled his eyes and sighed. “I don't know what your game is, but—”

“You're there, too, Serge. Mikey, the Twins … and Chris Holden are on the Niflheim along with Theo, Felix, Andrew, Henry—”

“Bullshit!” Henry said. “I'm right here. Ain't another me anywhere else.”

Boucher and Michael grunted in agreement with the senior deck hand as if his singularity was a fact that could be established by mutual assent. Whether or not Connor was telling the truth couldn't be determined by a vote. None of them knew firsthand if copies existed, but then, none of them had seen him alive in over a year, either. Some had actually seen the reason why that was so. That he might have somehow recovered was beyond the realm of imagining, let alone actual possibility. Yet, there he stood. Thinner and haggard-looking, but moving around and breathing and claiming that another one of each of them was waiting just a few miles away. Or one of nearly each of them.

Connor shrugged, showing a little of the man he'd been before. Easygoing and unargumentative. “Well, while you're not looking so hot, I'd say the Henry Gutierrez I shipped out with doesn't look as good as you. None of y'all … of them are doing good. That's why I'm here by myself. Like I said, I'm the only one up to making the trip these days.”

“He just named men we left behind,” Boucher said. “How would he know we shipped out with Theo or Felix? Nobody said anything about them.”

“Unless Noah told him,” Brewster said.

The other men in the cabin were becoming increasingly restless. Boucher had begun to pace while Jack and Kevin both stood slack-jawed and wide eyed. Kevin said, “I can't even deal with this shit right now. What the fuck is this supposed to mean? Him? This ship?”

“What do you mean, ‘this ship'?” Henry said.

“Look around, man!” Jack said. “Don't tell me you don't see it.”

Brewster held up his hands to quiet the room. It only half worked; the crewmen able to stay on their feet were agitated and half panicked, but they stopped shouting. “If this is the
Arctic Promise,
I'm the Queen of England.”

“This
is
the
Arctic Promise,
” Connor said. “And the … other you is, frankly, a much easier person to get along with.”

Brewster's face flushed. Leaning in, he shoved his finger in Connor's chest, not investigating this time but asserting. “Like I give a squirt of piss what you think of me. I don't know who you really are, but I'm not interested in whatever dogshit fable you're telling. The sun's going down and we need to see if there's anything aboard we can salvage. Ghost or no ghost, I'm going up to check the radio.” He turned and staggered across the angled floor toward the door.

“Electronics have all shit the bed, William. Go have a look if you want, though. You know the way.”

Noah felt deep in his gut that they were standing in the future of their own ship if they didn't get a handle on things soon. And although he hadn't seen anyone else but Connor, he knew how to get his father-in-law to pay attention. “Connor, you say there's a copy of everyone here on the Niflheim?”

“Nope. Not all of y'all.”

Brewster stopped, his head tilted down to glare at the men behind him. “What's that supposed to mean?” he said.

Noah frowned. “There isn't another one of me. In
his
reality, it happened just the way you wanted, William.”

Connor opened his mouth to interject, but Brewster let out an explosive single laugh. “Don't I wish!”

“It's true,” Connor said quietly. “He died a year ago. Fell overboard in a storm and—”

“Overboard?” Noah said.

Connor nodded. “Yep. You went out to check the lashing gear during a big wet one and got swept off the weather deck.” He screwed up his face. “You don't really want to hear this, do you?”

“
I
do,” Brewster said.

“Me too!” Boucher added. Noah scowled at the bosun. Boucher smiled, his teeth pink with blood and saliva.

“Coast Guard found your body washed up on shore a week or so later.” Connor put his hand on Noah's shoulder and squeezed. Noah didn't flinch this time. Although he looked exhausted, there was strength in his grip. Noah hadn't noticed how tense he'd become until his body relaxed a little and his muscles gave up the preparation to fight or flee. “I'm sorry. I truly am.”

“Don't be,” Brewster said. “As much as I'd love to keep reminiscing about what should have happened, I'm going to have a look in communications. And then we're going.” Brewster began checking the fittings on his clothes, making sure they were zipped up and cinched up for the weather outside.

Connor shook his head vigorously and pointed to the porthole window. The light had retreated more since they'd come aboard and the porthole was filled with a dull azure glow. “Take all the time you want. Since we been standing around talkin', we've just about run out of daylight. It's over an hour to the Niflheim from here by foot.” He pointed to Michael and Henry. “More, I'm guessing, since they don't look like they can move very fast.”

Henry replied with a raised middle finger.

“You thought it was cold on the way here. That's nothing compared to when the sun goes down. Temps drop down to minus forty, not counting the wind chill. Nope. We have to hunker down right here and wait out the night.”

“I'm not staying here,” Henry said, pushing himself out of his chair. He wobbled and staggered a step to the side before grabbing onto the edge of the table for balance. “It's too god damn cold in here. We'll freeze to death.”

“I've done it before. We can gather blankets and stuff from the other cabins.”

“I'd rather take my chances on the ice than spend a night spooning Cabot,” Boucher said.

“What about
him
?” Connor asked, indicating Michael Yeong. The deckhand could barely open his eyes, even when he heard his name. If he hadn't been shivering, it would have been difficult to tell if he was sleeping or dead. He rocked his head slowly back and forth, but didn't say anything.

Noah sighed. He crossed the room to the window and peered out into the gloaming. In the distance, he saw faint lights like stars hovering just above the icepack. He assumed it was the platform. “You have heat at the Niflheim?”

Connor nodded. “It's not the tropics, but it's warm enough.”

“There's lights,” Noah observed. “We can see it in the dark as long as it stays clear, I guess. But even with the headlamps, we won't be able to see the ice in front of us far enough ahead. If there's another fissure or a break in the ice, none of us will know until it's too late. I vote we stay here, do our best to keep warm with what's on the ship, and take our chances in the morning.”

“Vote all you want. I'm not waiting,” Brewster said. “I want proof. You can stay here if you want and freeze, but I want to meet this … other me. The ‘nice' one.” His tone was mocking and cruel. He shoved his way out of the compartment and stomped off down the passageway.

Noah didn't want to meet another Brewster, even if he was more agreeable. It would make his experience with the Brewster he had to tolerate all the more bitter. Still, the Old Man had a point. It was cold on this ship and they'd all be better off in a warm, safe, and level structure.
If
they made it there with no more casualties.

“We have the stretcher I used to pull Holden along,” he said. “If we take some blankets from this ship and wrap up, I imagine we can weather the wind chill okay.”

“You really think this is a good idea?” Connor asked.

“No. Not even a little bit,” Noah said. He rubbed at his eyes, remembering the painful frost that had built up on them during the day. He was afraid he'd go blind at night. “But neither is staying here. Plus, the Old Man is going no matter what we do. You want him to show up at the Niflheim without you to make the introduction?”

Connor's eyes widened. “What happened to him?”

Noah didn't answer. He pictured his wife, Abby, lying in bed. The tubes in her arms not feeding her chemo drugs anymore—just saline and the palliative dose of morphine a hospice nurse would inject into the line every few hours. Abby turned down half of what they brought, not wanting to sleep away the last hours of her life. The nurse argued, asking why she was torturing herself. She said she wanted to be able to see her husband. She wanted to hold his hand and hear him speak to her, tell her he'd be all right, that Ellie would be all right. The nurse laid a tender hand on Abby's wrist and gave a light squeeze, telling her not to wait too long. She explained there would come a point at which no nonlethal amount of morphine could get back on top of the pain. Abby smiled and blinked slowly, telling her she'd made her choice.

Abby had asked Noah to put on
Kind of Blue
and read from her favorite book. He wasn't good at reading aloud; he was monotone and missed inflection, but she seemed to like it anyway. Still, after a couple of chapters, she asked him to tell her about their daughter instead. She wanted to hear about all the things Ellie would do someday. Noah told her she'd grow up and go to college. She'd get a degree in biology and go to work … he wanted to say, “trying to cure cancer,” but instead he said, “helping people.” She'd meet a kind man who always smiled and they'd get married. They'd have kids and she'd be an important person who did great things, but still found time to spend with the people who loved her.
And she always remembered her mother, who loved her more than anyone in the world,
he said.

I love you more than anyone in the world,
Abby told him. Her voice cracked with the dryness in her throat and the cotton mouth the morphine gave her.
When she gets married … promise me you'll be good to the person she loves.

I promise.
He remembered getting up to call William again to tell him he didn't have much time left to say good-bye. His father-in-law never answered the phone.

Noah never told anyone any of that. They were his memories and no one else's. That they were his alone was part of the reason he imagined William Brewster hated him so much.

“Let's get everything we need together. We'll pull Michael along on my stretcher and the supplies on yours.”

“This is a bad idea,” Connor said.

Noah nodded in agreement. “There are no good ideas left.”

 

23

The sun was a pale yellow disk resting just above the horizon. In maybe thirty minutes it would be half obscured, and in forty-five, merely a burning sliver vanquished by night. Connor assured them that it wasn't much more than a ninety-minute walk to the Niflheim dragging the sled piled with food and extra blankets. Then again, he'd been making the trip by himself for the last day or two. Once his crew started getting sick, he started going with fewer hands until he was the only one and had to make two trips to bring everything they needed back.

Despite his initial objections, Michael had finally agreed to be strapped into the stretcher sled. Noah wasn't pulling him this time. Jack and Kevin volunteered, saying that two men pulling would be faster than one. Noah agreed and handed over the straps. Henry wasn't much better off than Michael, but he was putting up a brave front as he grabbed the loop between Boucher and Brewster's length of rope. Noah wished for a headlamp. Everyone else still had theirs, but somewhere between pulling Holden out of the fissure and running him to the ship, his had fallen off. There were the flares, but they seemed like things they should save. He didn't know exactly what for, but there was no telling what they'd need, or when, to make it through the coming days. Or weeks? It chilled him worse than the wind to think of it. He'd count on the light from the others' lamps to light his way. If it was similar to the trek they'd already made, there was nothing to trip over but his own feet.

Connor pointed to a faint glint in the distance, to the left of the sun, where a small array of lights shone. “That's the Niflheim. If we get separated or lost, follow those lights. It's overcast, like always, and a new moon, so they'll be the only ones you see as it gets darker. And darker it'll get, I assure you. Pitch black. So don't lose sight of 'em.” Without waiting for questions or argument, he struck out, bounding through the snow with a practiced gait, pulling his sled behind him.