The Cold Beneath (23 page)
Lent snarled like a feral animal. “Come on, sir. Let me end this now!”
“No,” Lightbridge said. “We will deal with him in time. For now, get him to his feet and take him to the brig.” He turned away in disgust. “I can’t stomach the sight of him anymore.”
At this, the young man’s lips curved into a wicked grin. “With pleasure. Come on, you!” He once again snatched me by the hair, lifting me to my feet before he turned me about, grabbed my arms and twisted them behind my back. I moaned and winced as white bands of pain arced across my shoulder from my injured clavicle. Lent ignored my groan of pain, pushing me to the door as roughly as he could manage.
“But you don’t understand!” I shouted as he wrestled me to the door. “Gideon! Please let me tell you what’s happening! I must warn you! Gideon!” My calls for asylum fell upon deaf ears as I was ushered out of my berth and down the hall.
Lent manhandled me at every turn, making no pretense of concern for my safety. At the top of the stairs, he released his hold and shoved me hard. I stumbled several steps before I got my feet under me. Lent was on my heels, pressing his gun into my side, ordering me to keep moving. I did as instructed, lifting my hands as a show of good faith. At the bottom of the staircase, we passed the cargo bay, where the door stood open wide. The other four men of the party were gathered at the unit where I had stored the corpses.
Which explained everything.
As I slept off the exhausting effects of my attempted cleanup, Lightbridge and his party returned to discover a ship full of half-dried bloody trails, all of which led to the lower deck. There they found the bodies of their fellow crew members stacked like so much cordwood in the cargo bay. Some eviscerated, some dismembered, but every single corpse bearing nothing but a bloody stump from the neck up. And where was the only surviving member? Asleep in his bunk, covered in the sticky life fluids of those very same men.
The evidence was damning. My fate was sealed. As we tromped past the cargo doors, each man turned to look upon me with such anger and disgust that I was sure there would be no hope for me or my unbelievable story.
One man, overwhelmed by grief and hatred, darted across the space between us, lunging for me, screaming, “I’ll kill you! You son of a bitch! I’ll rip your coward’s heart out with my bare hands!”
Thankfully the other men were more levelheaded, and moved as one to stop their friend. They grabbed him by the arms, pulling him back, away from me as I cowered against the far wall. The man struggled at first, but soon buckled into the arms of his companions, weeping with as much abandon as any woman I’ve ever heard. And I didn’t begrudge him his tears, or his anger, misplaced as it was.
Lent took great pleasure in shoving me into the brig by the sole of his foot. There I collapsed on the floor, hitting my shoulder again, which elicited another loud cry of pain. The young man barked an angry laugh as he slammed the barred door closed behind me. I noticed the very key ring I had toted about for days was now in his possession. What a heavy sleep I must have been in, for I remember those keys as clipped upon my belt when I took to my bed.
Before he left me alone, Lent leaned against the bars to take one last look at me. His anger subsided for a moment as he drew a deep breath and asked, “Why did you do it? All those men … why?”
But I knew better than to reply. In my experience with Goode, in my struggle to expose the truth and subsequent failure to make people believe me, I learned a harsh lesson. Never confess to anything until all of your details are prepared. But more importantly, perhaps, than that? Never talk without the company of a witness. Instead of answering his question, I crawled to the bunk in the corner and made myself at home.
“Just tell me why,” Lent demanded. “What did they ever do to you?”
I rolled away from him. The sounds of rising phlegm met my ears, followed by the wet slop of his spittle running down my arm. Good thing I didn’t try to make a run for it; the lad was a good shot.
Lent’s voice returned to its previous angry timbre. “You better hope Lightbridge kills you himself. You better pray he doesn’t turn you over to us.” He rattled the door in its hinges before he shouted, “You better pray!”
Pray I did.
No sooner had his footsteps faded than I rolled off the small cot, took to my knees and lifted my face to the Lord in supplication. I prayed in the darkness, for they left me no lantern. I filled the hours they left me alone stewing upon my deeds with mumbled prayers. They brought me clean and warmer clothes, for the brig was as icy as the cargo bay, and as I pulled on the heavy jacket and pants atop my blood-caked body, I prayed. I listened to the men coming and going, shouting obscenities at me as they tended to the boiler down the hall, and I prayed. When they at last brought me a bucket of icy water and a sliver of soap, I washed my body in the dark while I prayed.
But I didn’t pray for forgiveness of my terrible actions, not yet. That would come later. For almost a full twenty-four hours or more, I prayed that someone among the crew would see fit to hear my tale, would take to heart what I knew to be the truth. That someone might champion my cause and lead me from this darkness into the light.
A soft voice came to answer my prayers.
“Philip?” Geraldine asked.
So involved was I in my discourse with God, I hadn’t heard her approach. Nor did I realize the lights were on. I lifted my weary frame from the floor, shielded my eyes and sat on the edge of the bed as I stared through the bars at her. I think it was hysteria that spoke for me when I said, “Geraldine. It’s good of you to come see me. I would invite you in for a spot of tea, but I’m afraid I don’t have any cups.” I paused for a brief giggle before I added, “Or tea.”
My attempt at cleverness only angered her. She frowned. “How can you make light of this? Philip, after what you did to those men …” her words faded into a choked gasp. She was weeping.
My heart ached at the knowledge that I was the cause of her pain. I stood to join her at the bars, but when I stepped forward, she shuffled back in an effort to remain out of my reach. I grabbed the bars to steady my weak knees. The steam of a prepared meal wafted to me from a tray on the floor, but I wasn’t hungry. How long had I gone without food now? Over a full day, to be sure. They had left me tray after tray, but I couldn’t eat. Though my stomach rumbled and growled, I wasn’t hungry. My belly was too full of sorrow and anger to leave any room for hunger.
I said, as soft as I could manage, “Geraldine, I’m sorry. I’m just half mad with grief and so weary.”
“You need to eat,” she whispered behind her tears.
“I will, later. But now let me assure you that I am no danger. Not to you or to the others. I know it looks like I am, I know I look like a monster but …” I stopped here, unsure of what to say.
She sniffled, then asked, “But?”
“You won’t believe me. I almost don’t believe me.”
“Philip, I don’t know what happened here, but I know you. I know you’re not the kind of man who would … do this. Just tell me what happened.”
I parted my lips to speak, but nothing issued. I found myself at a loss to explain. How could I relate the tale of walking corpses? Of the dead falling only to rise again? It sounded insane. It
was
insane! I decided to grasp at the common thread of our experience and weave the tapestry of my tale from there.
“Morrow,” I said.
Geraldine started as if shocked that I would mention the man’s name. “Morrow? What does this have to do with him?”
“I think it all started with Morrow. I know it sounds crazy, but what if he was dead? I mean the first time. What if you were right about his condition?”
“I don’t understand.” Yet as she spoke, I thought I saw a spark in her eyes, something that belied her words.
“I think he was dead the first time around. He was dead when we placed him in that larder. And he was still dead when he returned that night of the wreck.”
Geraldine gasped, and I heard a familiar tone. It wasn’t one of disgust, or shock. It was a gasp of revelation, a gasp of understanding. She knew what I was driving at. But instead of saying so, she denied it. “Philip, listen to you! Do you know how that sounds? The dead stay dead. They don’t get up and walk around.”
I returned to the bed, hanging my head low as I sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Those have been some mighty famous last words, son,” Lightbridge said.
I whipped about to see him standing beside Geraldine, lending her his arm in support. I ran to the bars again, grabbing them as I said, “Gideon, please. I beg of you to hear me out.”
Lightbridge patted Geraldine’s arm, “Go on, Doctor. I want a word with our friend here.”
She took one last look at me before she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving us men alone.
In Lightbridge’s other hand, he carried a small stool, which he lowered to the ground as he spoke. “Mr. Syntax, I have always considered myself a fair man. I believe that it is prudent to look before one leaps, as well as to listen to all parties before drawing conclusions.”
“You’ll listen?” I could hardly believe what I was hearing.
“Yes, but don’t expect much. I would like to think I haven’t made my mind up about you, yet I cannot bring myself to lie. Things seem rather grim here. I come back to find my crew slaughtered like cattle, corpses defiled in most unspeakable ways, then the whole lot stored like meat in a locker. And you? The only man alive in the shadow of this deed? Coated with gore and asleep as if nothing happened. How can I presume anything but your guilt?”
My heart sank. “But I didn’t kill those men.”
“Then suppose you tell me who, or what, did.” He sat on the stool, his metal legs squeaking from a much-needed oiling as the telltale grind of a cog out of sync set my teeth on edge.
“Your legs are in need of retuning.”
“They can wait. I’m listening to you now.”
“I see. Well, then …” I returned to the bed, looking to the floor as I searched for the words to describe what had transpired. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Might I suggest that you begin at the beginning?”
I looked up to him again with a weak smile. “Yes, sir.”
I detailed the horrific events in a flurry of passionate words and burning tears. From the moment I watched them disappear into the distance, right up to the moment I collapsed in my bed. Lightbridge sat through the bulk of my speech, the picture of patience, never interrupting, never correcting me on crossed details and never showing any emotion beyond keen interest. He let me let it all out, and never said a word in return. When I arrived at the worst of the tale, his stony expression faltered a bit. He cocked his head at the tale of the revenants rising from the cargo bay, furrowed his brow at the descriptions of their hideous cries, and even started at my choice to fire upon the already dead corpses.
When I reached the point where they discovered me, I fell quiet. No need to continue when he knew the rest of the details. I drew a much-needed deep breath and stared at him, awaiting his verdict. Lightbridge rubbed his bearded chin, as he eyed me through the bars in silence. After what seemed an eon of him weighing my words, he stood and came to the bars.
“Mr. Syntax?” he asked.
“Sir?” I replied.
“When was the last time you ate something?”
“Many hours. I took a small meal, as I described. But I … I’m not hungry. I don’t really want to eat. I don’t think I can.”
He then did something I didn’t expect. He grinned. It was a small smile, but it was there. “I see.” And with that he returned to his stool. There he sat and leaned over, clasping his hands as he rested his elbows on his metal knees. It was a posture I’d seen him adopt many times before. He often took it on when about to delve into a difficult discussion.
This did not bode well for me.
****
****
Lightbridge Spins a Tale
“Philip,” Lightbridge started. “As a man with a medical background, I am sure you are well aware of many conditions of the body, as well as the mind.”
I knew just what he was saying, even before he finished. “I’m not insane.”
Lightbridge raised his hand to me, his signal for silence, which I obeyed. “I listened to you, young man. Please allow me the same courtesy.”
I bit back a sharp retort. “Of course.”
“I am sure you are well aware of how the mind works, far better than an old war dog like me. But, that said, I have seen things in combat that would warp the psyche of the common man. Atrocities that have burned themselves into the very souls of me and my fellow soldiers. When we come home from battle, we carry these scars with us, and though we try our best to get on with our lives, things are never the same. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“I think so. But this isn’t combat. This is—”
He lifted his hand again, and I fell silent.
“Once,” he said, “when I was about your age, I was sent on a reconnaissance mission with a fellow I thought I knew very well. Jackie and I fought side by side for almost ten years. Had seen so much action. So much death. The Yank and the Cracker, that’s what they called us then. It was the War, you see. Though I was born and raised in Dixie, I sided with the Union when the fighting started.”