The Cold Beneath (19 page)
As we returned to the main level, each man set on fetching his weapon, a keen howling rose from the cargo bay beneath us, filling the ship with an eerie wind of mad screams.
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A Brief Respite
We spent the remainder of that day grouped in the infirmary, cowering like sheep to the tune of those wolf-wild bays. It was also a day spent in argument over our next course of action. There were five men besides myself, as well as the six injured still in their drug-induced catatonias.
“I say we go back,” Herron argued. “We have our weapons now. We should attack now, subdue them and try to find out what in damnation is going on.”
Most of the men agreed, but I wasn’t as confident and was unwilling to risk more men just to silence those ongoing shrieks. “No. We will remain here.”
Herron was infuriated by my orders. “But listen to them. They are calling for our blood!”
“And you would rush to give it to them?”
The man snarled at me, yet said nothing more.
I took his silence as a victory on my part, and drove my point further home. “Though maddening to be sure, those shrieks are just noise. Nothing worth risking our lives for. Those … things are well-kept under heavy lock and key. And they will stay that way, just as we will remain here until Lightbridge returns. Understood?” I am certain that more than one counted me a coward, but my word as acting captain was enough to still them.
At the time, at least.
All I wanted was for the Northern party to return. Lightbridge could deal with the trouble when he took command again. I had grown weary of my crown and wanted nothing more than to return to the simple position of extraneous bio-mechanic. I held on to the fact that the real leader would be back within two days’ time. There was nothing to do but wait.
The men and I spent the next few hours waiting and listening to those terrible screams. I allowed a few men to venture out only long enough to gather a few supplies, instructing them to return as fast as they could to the relative safety of the sickroom. We then took our meal in the infirmary, after which I provided the usual injections, as well as updated the morphine feeds for the injured. No need to shirk our good health in the face of madness.
The men took shifts tending the boilers, which required occasional feeding lest the power run down, leaving us in the cold. The engine room was situated on the same level as the cargo bay, which left me to admire those brave souls willing to go down there. Each shift headed down every three to four hours, fed the boilers and returned, giving us another round of heat and light. They passed the rest of the time by sharing stories and trivial games, but otherwise the morale was grim. The shrieking was wearing us down. I didn’t know how long our sanity, or my orders, would last.
After the first few hours, the noise doubled as more voices lifted into the air to join the cacophony. The men bristled at the additional cries, at the idea that even more of those creatures were on their feet, screaming to be released. Murmurs and hushed whispering rounded the room as the company discussed the possibilities of what was taking place. It didn’t take long for the questions to come to me, as if I had any more knowledge than the average crewmember.
“Mr. Syntax?” asked Parker. “What do you suppose is happening? We thought those men … well … passed on.”
“I thought as much too,” I said.
“Then are they? Dead, I mean?”
“I’m not sure. You saw them up and about. Walking. Talking. Attacking.”
“Dead men don’t talk, sir. And they certainly don’t scream.”
“That’s as may be, but you were there, just as I was. You hear them now. They might have been dead. Now …” I shrugged the rest of the idea away.
Parker paused in thought, and I could see him trying his best to reconcile the impossible facts. “But why? How?”
“I don’t know,” was all I could say.
The young man seemed unsatisfied by my response, yet it was the truth. I might have had more education under me than all of the remaining men combined, but even I had no idea what was taking place. None of it made sense. All the facts defied both logic and plain old common sense. The dead did not return to life. They did not get up and walk or talk. And the young man was right when he said the dead certainly didn’t scream. These revenants were beyond anything I had ever experienced. I was at an embarrassing loss of comprehension.
The day wore on, turning into night, and though we grew weary, those beneath us did not. The screaming never faltered. Somehow, in the midst of all of the insanity, I managed to find sleep, albeit fevered. I came to rest on the floor against the bunk of a terminal man, closed my eyes and drifted into a trancelike sleep. The constant screams of those below us played almost like a melody, shifting in and out of an unintentional chorus of ceaseless pain.
I fell into a delirious dream.
My beautiful Geraldine welcomed me once again into her arms, as well as her bed. We made love on the upper deck of the airship as the Fancy fell from the sky, taking our time to explore each other’s affections while the ship burned about us. When the moment of our mutual pleasure arrived, she screamed not in passion, but with a multitude of tortured voices, which I recognized as belonging to those in the bay. The dream shifted then, from erotic to frightful, but thankfully I did not remain asleep much longer. I awoke to a furious quaking, and at first I thought the ship was moving again.
“Sir!” a man shouted. I came to realize that it was Harris, the ship’s part-time barber. He held me by the shoulders, shaking me awake. “Sir! Herron is gone.”
Rubbing my stiff neck, I asked, “What?” I was sure I had misheard him in my half-awake state.
“It’s Herron, sir. He just got up and walked out without saying a word.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
I was furious. I had given the explicit instructions that no man was to leave the infirmary unless accompanied by another. Safety in numbers. I got to my feet, trying to shake off the last of that terrible dream. “Harris, you and Parker come with me. Bathos and Kidman, remain here. Protect the fallen.”
Each man grunted at the order. Bathos and Kidman, the older of the men, took up sentry positions on either side of the door as the younger men passed through into the hallway beyond. I should have stopped, just then, and warned Bathos to bar the door. I should have instructed him to keep it closed until Lightbridge returned. I should have, but I didn’t. As I have said before, I am not a very effective leader.
What transpired next should be proof enough of that.
Harris, Parker and I took off down the long hallway that led to the stairwell. As we approached the stairs, a steady banging rose from the lower deck just audible under the maddening shrieks. I knew at once it was Herron, trying to loosen the lock so he could get inside and deal with the problem.
“Herron!” I shouted as I raced down the stairs, taking two at a time in my effort to reach him before he reached
them
.
“Go away!” he yelled.
I rounded the last of the steps to find him doing just as I suspected. He wielded a large hammer, bringing it down in heavy blows against the already warped lock. It wouldn’t take many more strikes to free those held captive beyond the bay doors. “Stop it! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“No! It’s you who don’t know what you’re doing!” In his fit of rage, Herron threw the hammer at me.
I ducked, but not fast enough. The tool caught me just at the shoulder, clipping my clavicle in a fierce punch before it tumbled to the floor. As I grasped my shoulder, wincing at the deep pain that surely was a fresh blooming bruise or even a broken bone, Herron continued.
He lifted his finger, accusing me as he yelled, “You are the reason Michael and Conway are dead! Lightbridge told us to keep our weapons on us at all times, but you were too cowardly to let us.”
I was taken aback, shocked to learn he thought me so guilty. “That’s not true. I was thinking of your safety.”
“Our safety? Or your principles? You were the one who didn’t want us armed at all. If we’d had our weapons with us, none of this would have happened!”
He had a point. If the men had been armed from the onset, the few revenants in the bay might have been subdued. A quick glance among the men told me the others sided with Herron.
“So what now?” I asked. “Do you intend to break in and slay them? Your own kinsmen? Even in their lunacy, they are still human beings.”
“No,” Herron said. “By God’s mercy, I pray we won’t have to go that far. With a few well-placed shots, we can bring them to a stop.” He pulled his revolver from his belt, cocking it for emphasis. “Once they are down, we can bind them and try to sort out this madness.”
I turned to the others. “Are you sure this is our only course?”
Harris and Parker, who were now brandishing a revolver and a katana, respectively, nodded in agreement. I had a small dagger on my person and felt somewhat silly wielding it alongside the larger weapons. All three men deferred to me for a final judgment, and what could I do but agree? They had laid out what sounded like a reasonable suggestion, and the terrible shrieking had long since eroded my resolve. I might be damned for all eternity, but I gave in. I gave in and let them execute their ridiculous plan.
“Let’s get it over with,” I said.
Herron grinned, pleased to have won me over to his way of thinking. I stepped back, allowing him to take the lead since this was his idea. He instructed Harris and Parker to stand a few steps behind him, warning them to expect an onrush as soon as the door was opened. We agreed that there were, at the very least, three distinct voices, so each armed man would have to take on one of them. Herron reminded Harris to aim low, shooting to disable their fellow crewmembers, not kill them. Once again, in the face of crisis, I was extraneous, useless.
The lock was warped beyond the key’s fitting, which left Herron to return to hammering the thing free. After a few well-placed strikes, the lock broke apart and dropped to the ground. Its fall was but a muted thump under the ongoing torrent of sound, but on its heels came a moment of utter and total silence.
For the first time in almost twenty-four hours, the screaming stopped.
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Full-Scale Madness
The absence of noise should have been enough to send us back. The silence was a warning, a signal that we were about to embark upon the worst mistake of our lives. But we didn’t listen. We were all so relieved at the precious moment of peace that we never considered that the enemy on the other side of the door might be making its own preparations. They had stopped screaming because they knew we were about to breach the seal that held them, about to set them free.
“On my mark,” Herron said.
I nodded, as did Harris and Parker. One of the men in front of me swallowed hard enough for me to hear. I couldn’t blame him; I was just as afraid.
“Remember,” Herron added. “Aim low, drop them and move on. We aren’t out to kill, just disable.”
The three of us nodded again, in unison, anxious to get this over and done with. We adopted a fighting stance, feet spread, weapons trained, ready to face what waited for us beyond the doors. Herron lifted his revolver, grasped the handle, then flung the door aside.
“Now!” he shouted.
The door slid open just as Herron leveled his gun low. In a passing heartbeat, we saw that the revenants were waiting for us, arms outstretched, jaws gnashing. But the biggest surprise, what stayed our hands for a fleeting moment, was their numbers. There might have been three voices only moments ago, but there were five revenants at the wide bay door and three more milling about in the background, waiting their turn to attack. And to our great surprise, Shipman and Greenway were among the number set to pounce upon us the moment the door opened.
I realize I reported earlier that Shipman had died at the hands of those beasts, and I know this narrative makes me sound like a madman, but these words are the plain and terrible truth! There Shipman stood, much worse for wear than when we abandoned him to his awful fate. His throat was now a wide expanse of blackened blood, a dark slash that ran down his neck and across the length of his belly. The gut itself had been torn open, and half of his innards spilled to his knees. There they dangled, almost comically, as he swayed in his stance, his unsteady legs eager to propel him forward. He stared at us with lifeless eyes, an ice-coated glare that chilled me to the marrow.
Greenway had fared no better in his fight. He was missing his left arm from the elbow down, the stump of which dripped a black gooey slop of half-coagulated blood. His face was covered in bite marks; sizable chunks of flesh were missing from what was left of his arms and legs and torso. His right ear was gone, and his eyes were just like those of the others: a milky pair of frost-coated orbs, unseeing yet somehow sensing everything in their path.
In that frozen space of time, I also spotted a reason for the lack of additional voices. Some of the creatures, Shipman included, were without throats, and hence lacking vocal cords. They might have been screaming all along, in protracted groans, low gurgles that were swallowed by the earsplitting shrieks of their brethren. There was also another fact worthy of note. While all of us, the living as it were, stood facing the dead, our collective panting breaths curled away from our mouths in warm tracts of heated air. The creatures’ breaths were not noticeable. Either their breath was the same temperature as the cold around them, or they didn’t need to breathe at all.