Borealis(19)
“Man—”
“We’re no different than the crabs,” McEwan went on. “You know it? We’re no goddamn different than the moon-bugs in the tank. Each of us, we’re all in our own tanks, all scuttlin’ and clackin’ and spittin’ bubbles. Sure.” He grunted in approval of himself. “Sure as shit.” Those sloppy eyes worked their way up to meet Charlie again. “You know what happens to the spiders if they stay in that tank too long, don’t you, Charlie?”
Charlie exhaled slowly. “What’s that?”
“One of two things happen. Neither’s very good.” A grimace. “One—they freeze in that tank. Ain’t enough to circulate the water so it gets icy, even colder’n where they come from on the sea floor. They freeze and then they start exploding, bits o’ shell and claws—pincers, clusters of spidery red legs—all of that, just poof! Like puttin’ an M-80 in a mailbox, way we all did when we was kids.
“Then there’s the other way,” McEwan continued, not missing a beat, “an’ maybe you’d think this way is worse, mostly ’cause it ain’t as quick as explodin’ into pieces of spider-shell, but also ’cause what it means—what, see, it means—”
“You’re drunk,” Charlie said flatly.
“They eat each other.” Billy McEwan’s voice was equally as flat. “Cannibalism. They get to starvin’ in that tank, get to fightin’ and gettin’ on each other’s last nerve. Close quarters, scrabbling over each other, probably learn to hate every other space-spider in there with you. You start pulling off a leg here, a claw there. Pretty soon you can’t pull no more ’cause your own claws are filled with the claws and legs of others, and anyway it’s only a matter of time b’fore they start pulling you apart and eating out your guts while you’re still alive.”
Grabbing the bottle by the neck, McEwan smashed it against the edge of the table. It broke into a crystal spray, pellets of broken glass scattering across the table and onto the floor. The liquor sprayed everywhere, darkening his chambray work-shirt.
“We have to do something about our situation here b’fore we resort to eatin’ one another, Charlie,” said McEwan. A silvery threat of saliva drooled from his mouth. “Or before we start explodin’ like mailboxes full of firecrackers.” He was breathing heavy, practically panting. “You an’ me, Charlie. We have to do something.” He brought up his free hand and pressed an index finger to his left temple. “Before we start losin’ it in here.”
“You’re drunk, man,” Charlie said.
Those soul-piercing eyes—Charlie couldn’t shake them off him. Then, to his amazement, Billy McEwan’s ruinous lips splintered into a mock smile. His teeth were narrow, gray pickets protruding from purpling gums. “Oh, yeah,” he said, still smiling. “I’m drunk, all right. To hell and back. Right, Charlie?” The lip-splitting grin widened. “Right, homeboy?”
“Joe’s—”
“Haven’t f*cking seen Joe.”
“Where’s Bryan?”
Angrily, he tossed the broken bottleneck into the stainless steel sink. “Topside.”
10
Out on the deck, the air tore into his face, neck and hands. His cheeks tightened and the moisture around his eyes seemed to freeze instantly. Still, with Billy McEwan’s words still fresh in his ears, he was glad to be out here in the open and away from the increasing claustrophobia of the quarterdeck.
Pulling his slicker tighter around his body, he spotted Bryan Falmouth standing at the end of the bow. Beyond, the sea was growing rough, a gray-black patchwork of ice fields miles in length drifting along the shimmering surface. Too much ice. The sun was still struggling to break free of the clouds.
Suddenly, the boat rocked. A sound like tree limbs breaking sounded out over the bow. Steadying himself against the railing in case a second blow should accost the boat, he diligently maneuvered his way to the front of the trawler.
“Hey,” he said, coming up behind Bryan. “The hell’s Mike doing? There’s too much ice out here.”
Bryan spun around, instantly shocking Charlie with the emptiness that was so evident on his face. He brought his cigarette to his lips, his hand vibrating like a tuning fork, and displayed some difficulty actually getting it into his mouth. He sucked hard, his cheeks nearly touching, and blew a shaky pillar of smoke into the wind.
“You f*cking leave Mike alone,” Bryan uttered through chattering teeth.
“What?”
“Don’t think I’m not on to you, Charlie. Tryin’ to stir the f*cking pot.”
“Bryan, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He took a step forward, one hand outstretched—
“Don’t come near me,” Bryan said.
As if stung, Charlie quickly retracted his hand. “Bryan—what’s going on, man? What the hell’s happening?”
“Don’t f*cking play with me, Charlie. You just stay right where you are.”
“Bry—”
“I’m not f*cking playing with you, Charlie, so don’t try to play with me!” Bryan screamed, spittle firing from his lips.
Speechless, Charlie backpedaled with his hands up in surrender. Bryan watched his retreat, the cigarette stuttering between two mercurochrome-colored fingers. As Charlie watched, something poked briefly from Bryan’s right nostril. A second later it appeared again, more prominent this time, and Charlie realized, with a sinking sense of dread, that it was a bubble of dark blood.