Borealis(15)

“Hey, Charlie.”

“What’s wrong, Joe?”

“Sick.” And indeed he looked like death. In the bluish light of the tiny latrine, his skin had adopted a translucence that was almost corpselike. Dark rings encircled his eyes and his lips quivered, vibrating the trail of saliva that held him to the toilet. “Never been seasick b’fore. All my time on boats, ain’t never been seasick. Funny, huh?”

Charlie leaned in and pulled the flush chain. The commode growled and, with a whoosh, devoured the whole mess.

“Mike taking us home?”

“Think so, yeah.”

“I’m still seein’ him, Charlie. Every time I close my eyes, man, I see him—or what was left of him—in that holding tank. The water all pink, the space-spiders creepin’ and crawlin’ all over him. His flesh all white and hanging off in chunks like bits of uncooked chuh-chuh-chicken—” He leaned over the commode and retched.

“Go lie down, Joe.”

“Those crabs,” Joe said, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. “I mean, we can’t use ’em, right? We gotta let ’em back out into the sea. Christ, Charlie, they f*cking ate him.”

Uneasy, Charlie turned away and climbed the galley steps that led out into the milky haze of an overcast day. It felt like forty below, the wind practically searing the skin from his face. He chased the tip of a cigarette around with a lighter until he caught it. Sucked vehemently. It was all he could do not to stare at the hatch. How in the world had Sammy managed to open it on his own, let alone fall in there?

He glanced up at the pilothouse. Just barely did he make out the seemingly disembodied face of Mike Fenty, floating like a white moon behind the salt-streaked windows. Lungs tugging on the smoke, Charlie ascended the steps toward the control room, his muscles almost audibly creaking in the cold, running one numbing hand along the iron rail. Around them, the sea was growing rough. Behind a veil of cumuli, the sun had repositioned itself in the sky, burning silver threads through the clouds.

The control room door was locked.

“Hey, Mike.” Charlie knocked against the pane of glass. “Door’s locked.”

Mike did not turn to look at him; he merely stood behind the wheel facing straight out the windows.

Charlie knocked again, this time with more urgency. Through the pane, he could see that the control panel was unlit: still no power.

“Mike?”

Snapped from his daze, Mike craned his neck to stare at Charlie. With the dedication of a death-row inmate, Mike leaned over and flipped the latch on the door. Charlie stepped inside, expecting the usual blast of heat from the floor vents, but it was almost as cold in the pilothouse as it was out on the foredeck.

“You takin’ us back to Saint Paul?”

“Sure,” Mike said.

“Guess we’ll come back for the pots another time.”

“Sure will.”

“Figure we might not want to touch the reds in the holding tank,” he suggested. “In case, you know, Sheriff Lapatu wants to have first look. Scene of the crime and all that, I’m guessing.”

“What crime is that?” Mike said. He continued to stare out the grime-streaked, salted windows.

“I guess not a crime, per se, but…well, you know, we prob’ly shouldn’t go messin’ in that tank, is all.” He put a hand on Mike’s shoulder. Still, the captain would not look at him. “You all right?”

“Sure am.”

“Couldn’t get the power up?”

“Don’t need it. Been navigating these waters since I was a teenager.”

“Lights are blinking and the petrol stove is cold.” Charlie tapped one of the floor vents with his boot. “Feels like the heat ain’t makin’ it up through the vents anymore, either. Like she’s givin’ up on us.”

Mike swung his head around to face him, his eyes haunted and nearly fearful. “What do you mean ‘she’?”

“The boat. She. Listen, Mike, why don’t you head down, get something in your stomach. You’re burning yourself out, man.”

He returned his gaze to the sea. “Not hungry.”

“Then take a nap.”

“Not tired.”

Defeated, Charlie bent and rummaged through the underside of the console for the first-aid kit. Once he located it he stood, his spine cracking, and cast one final glance at Mike Fenty before taking the first aid back below the deck.

Joe was curled in a fetal position on his cot when Charlie entered the cabin. His eyes were closed but he spoke Charlie’s name when he entered. Charlie sat on his own cot and opened the kit in his lap. Bandages, adhesive strips, a needle and thread, a syringe, even a flare gun and two flare cartridges. Eventually he located some Dramamine. Joe dry swallowed two tablets without opening his eyes.

Charlie slid the first-aid kit beneath his cot and stood, unsure if the creaking sound he heard was from the cot’s struts or his own tired bones. He suddenly felt a million years old. For whatever reason, he thought once again of Gabriel. The last time he’d seen the kid had been six months ago, back at the trailer in Saint Paul Village. He’d been sitting on a telephone book at the kitchen table, shoveling spoonfuls of some sugary cereal into his mouth. Through the kitchen windows, the tawny lights of an Alaskan predawn bled up into the sky behind the black serration of distant firs. The boy was up early for school, dressed in oversized corduroys and a Batman sweatshirt. Though seated at the table, he already had his matching Batman backpack strapped to his back.