Ghost Writer(17)

Mary Lou and Mike looked for traces on the apparently bare surfaces of the table and benches that served as the dining area. I watched as she solemnly touched the bench where her father might have sat. Mike laid a hand on her lower back and she leaned against it. Turning away from the intimate moment, I saw that Parker was recording the scene. No doubt it would be a prized moment in the documentary. He caught my eye and gave me an oddly sentimental smile.

I looked back towards the table. This time I didn't see Mary Lou and Mike. I saw six men sitting around, playing poker. I couldn't hear them, but they seemed to be laughing at a shared joke while placing their bets. I blinked and saw Mary Lou sticking a swab in the crevice between the fixed bench and the wall.

This shook me up. It had been a long time since I’d seen ghosts, but not so long that I had forgotten what they looked like.

Not sure what else to do, I busied myself looking around the food prep areas. I found a duty rota for the galley. It was a neatly printed chart, using three coloured pens. The paper had yellowed; otherwise it was pristine, like the rest of the galley. I wondered what Dora would deduce from it and was about to draw her attention to it when our world was rocked and we were drenched in darkness and icy seawater.





Chapter Thirteen ~ Twist and Shout



The explosion knocked me off my feet. I knew people were yelling. They seemed muffled and far away. I felt, rather than heard, the metal squeal as it twisted and sheared. Yet, I could hear water rushing in. It was the most terrifying sound I ever experienced.

The lights flickered back on; a dull light, but better than nothing.

I rolled over to a sitting position and assessed. Despite the pain where I slammed down on one knee, my legs worked. My hearing loss was probably temporary.

Our Marine escort was hustling everyone out the door. Jamal and Tracey seemed to argue briefly about bringing the artifact chest. It was quickly settled when Madison scooped it up in one arm and pushed them out the hatch with the other. Mary Lou and Mike exited with no fuss. Reuben and Lil, were next. Dora must have hurt something, because Dippel was helping her up to the hatch.

I looked around. Parker, like me, was on the deck. I saw him. No one else would be able to, the food lockers blocked their view. He was on his hands and knees in the water. Something was sticking out of the back of his neck. For a moment our eyes met.

Scrabbling to my feet, I sloshed towards him, against the flow of incoming water. Grabbing him under the armpits, I tried to drag him towards the hatch. He slumped, pulling me down with him. I yelled for help. I couldn't tell if they responded. My own voice seemed distant to my ears.

Icy water flowed around me. Warm blood flowed over my hand, despite my efforts to staunch the wound. Then, suddenly, there was a clang.

Through the steady rush of water, and the dullness of my hearing, I heard the dogging of the hatch. The sound resonated. It was like a guillotine blade falling, or so it seemed to me at the time. Perhaps my memory is coloured by the fact that, at that same instant, I could feel Petty Officer Parker die in my arms, as though the sound cut the last thread of his life.

My first reaction was anger. How dare he die when I got trapped trying to save him? This was immediately followed by a sinking feeling.

The room was slowly filling up with water. That had to stop.

I had an idea and prayed it would work. Pulling myself free of Parker, I found a utility knife in the galley, opened up the storage compartments, and grabbed sacks. In a one-woman relay, I gathered and stuffed mouldy bags of flour and oatmeal into the hole in the inner hull, which spouted a steady stream of seawater. Any bag that didn’t split on its own, I stabbed with the knife.

Add water, grains expand. The rush slowed to a trickle.

I had no idea how long my doughy patch would last, but I'd bought myself some time.

Next, I checked the hatch. Maybe it was imagination when I heard it lock. Maybe I could open it and get out. No such luck. It was locked down from the outside. If there was a way of opening the hatch, I couldn't find it.

I felt a rumble like distant thunder.

The deck listed to one side with a jolt that knocked me off my feet, down the steps, and sent me skidding across the wet deck. I smashed my knee again. In agony, I screamed a long string of obscenities. Dora would have been proud. The thought pushed me through the pain.

Overhead lights flickered and went out. Red emergency lights cast an eerie glow over the galley. I rolled over and sat up, blinking back tears. Too much. Way too much to deal with.

A phone rang.

It was a high-pitched, penetrating sound that cut through the cotton wool that seemed to be stuffed into my ears. It took me a minute to realize the sound was coming from the body of Petty Officer Parker. Afraid of falling again, I crawled over to him, favouring my bad knee. On the way, the sloshing water found places to creep under my protective garments. Unable to see what I was looking for, I found the oversized cellphone-like unit by touch. I unclipped it from his belt, and answered with a breathless, hope-filled, “Hello?”

“Parker?”

I rolled to a sitting position and took a couple of deep breaths, fighting down the sobs that were working their way up my throat.

“Petty Officer Parker is dead. This is Jen Kirby. What happened?”

There was a long pause then another voice. Captain Tinsdale maybe?

“What happened?”

I had just asked that question. If I knew the answer, I wouldn't have asked. I waved my hand in front of the tactical recorder, still secured to Parker's shoulder.