Authors: Erik Williams
“I will take it.”
Alwad shook his head. “Captain, you need sleep.”
“We all need sleep. But Feisal needs it more than I. Besides, I love sailing in this kind of weather. So goâsleep.”
“Yes, Captain.” Feisal turned and left the wheelhouse.
“Are you sure you wish to take my watch?” Alwad said. “I can have the bosun take over the search.”
“The bosun needs to keep his people busy. It will not kill me to spend a few more hours up here.”
“Very well. I will continue the search.” Alwad walked away.
Yusuf watched him leave and then turned back to the horizon. The cobalt sea rose higher and the gray sky grew darker in the distance. He considered sailing around the storm but decided not to. The more direct course through the inclement weather was a better option than avoiding it and adding more time to the voyage.
Besides, according to the radar, it was a small storm. The seas would be more of a problem than the wind and rain. The
al-Phirosh
had a full load of oil. As a result, it sailed squat and heavy and would not roll as it would if empty.
Yusuf would plow through the storm. It brought a smile to his face.
T
he flesh had completely fallen from Semyaza's fingers. He had stunted the decomposition as much as he could, but like Uriel had predicted, he could not find a way stop it. The skin on his arms and neck had also flaked away, and now the muscle tissue crumbled in small chunks.
He did not quit, however. Semyaza sat cross-legged, his eyes closed, his mind focused on slowing the decay of his vessel. He was convinced he could eventually master the flesh enough to maintain it longer than a few days. Beyond that, he accepted he might never control it completely.
This is no way to exist,
he thought. Yet it was still better than living in a box under the desert. At least here he could maintain his freedom even though he had to constantly change vessels. It was a better existence than the cold loneliness of his prison.
“Except I am in a prison,” Semyaza said and looked at the bones of his hands. Then he glanced around at the dark, box-like fan room. “Just a different form.”
Uriel's words haunted him and Semyaza's anger stirred. None of this was fair. None of it was just.
Semyaza shifted from his sitting position to his knees and bowed his head. “Please end this. I beg you to judge me, to rid me of this curse and let me return to your grace or toss me in the wasteland of Sheol. Give me the Firmament or the Abyss. Whatever your judgment, I will accept it. Just let this futile existence end.”
Nothing happened.
“Please, I beg you. End me.”
Nothing.
“I do not deserve this suffering!” Semyaza clenched boney fists. “Judge me now!”
Nothing.
Semyaza rocked back and arched his spine and lifted his head toward the ceiling and roared.
A
lwad led the three other members of his search party down a ladder onto the upper deck just above the portside engineering spaces. This part of the ship had already been searched once by Feisal earlier, but Alwad wanted to investigate the fan rooms again. There were many small places to hide in them, especially around motor controllers and pumps. If someone had not shone a light in the right place, Sayid could have been easily missed.
As they walked down the port passageway toward the aft of the ship, Alwad heard what sounded like a cocooned lion roar. He froze, as did the other three.
“Did you hear that?” Alwad looked at all of their faces. Their eyes were focused down the passageway, where the sound had originated. They nodded but did not say anything. Alwad watched as thin beads of sweat broke out on their foreheads.
Alwad felt his own forehead and found sweat there as well. His hands trembled. He had not felt fear in years, yet something in that sound shook him.
What could have made such a noise?
he thought.
The roar came again and, this time, louder and closer.
“We should call the captain,” one of the men said.
“We should run,” said another.
Alwad kept his eyes trained down the passageway. His fingers rubbed together as he thought of what to do next.
Then a door opened twenty feet away and someone stepped out. In the dull light of the passageway, Alwad could not make out who it was. The face was cast in shadow. The body, skinny and gaunt.
The man looked their way and turned, walking toward them.
“Who goes there?” Alwad said, his voice steady even as his stomach rolled over.
The person did not answer and kept walking. The thud of his boots echoed off the metal bulkheads.
Alwad heard the others backing away. His heart hammered and his nerves told him to flee, that something was wrong here. Before he could, the person walked directly under a light and Alwad received a full view of the man's face.
If the horror before him could even be called a man. Alwad saw a skull with hair marching toward them. Pieces of skin hung loosely, flapping back and forth as it walked. The eyes, gone. An ear dangled by a single strand of cartilage.
One of the men screamed. Another ran. Alwad tried to turn and run himself, but as he did, his stomach cramped. His chest tightened. Every muscle fell into spasm. He collapsed on the deck and the world went black. Before he lost hold, he heard feral screams.
S
emyaza made quick work of the soul in his new vessel, attacking as he never had before. Though the new vessel's soul had been stronger than the last, it shrunk and fled before his burgeoning power, leaving a trail of fear in its wake. Now he looked through his new eyes.
Two dead men lay at his feet. He stood in blood pouring from head wounds. One of their skulls had been smashed and flattened. The other had both eyeballs ripped out.
His gaze drifted up the dimly lit passageway and found another man on his knees. The man's hands pressed against the wall as if he held it up. His head reared back as though he was prepared to beat it against the steel.
Then the man stopped. He looked around him as if lost. His face slackened and his eyes widened. Blood soaked his hands and dripped from his fingers. He breathed slow and deep.
This was the first time Semyaza had witnessed a survivor of the chaos. They had always been dead if they were within a certain distance. Not this time, though.
The last one kills himself,
Semyaza thought.
Except this time. I won too fast.
And now the man lived, not understanding what had happened or realizing what he had done.
“Alwad?” the man said.
Semyaza reached into the vessel's memory.
Yes,
he thought.
My name is Alwad now.
The first officer on board the
al-Phirosh
.
“Is that you?”
“Yes,” Semyaza said, his voice flat.
“What happened?” The man cried and wheezed. He fell to a sitting position and hugged his knees. “What happened?”
So weak,
Semyaza thought.
“You killed them,” Semyaza said. “Murdered them with your bare hands.”
The man shook his head. “No.”
“Yes.” Semyaza walked toward him. “You did.”
“Allah, be merciful.” The man bawled into his blood-soaked hands. “I do not remember.”
“Mercy? Why should God show you mercy? He does not show me any.”
The man looked up at Semyaza who now stood over him. The blood from the man's hands covered his cheeks, giving him the appearance he wept blood. His lips trembled.
“What?”
Semyaza squatted next to him. “We have fallen. God has no time for us. No time to grant mercy or damnation. No time to judge. We are not worthy of it.”
“I am crazy.”
Semyaza ran his hand through the man's hair. As he did, he thought of Uriel. He thought of his own pleading to God to end his existence and the total disregard he'd received in return. The anger stirred again within. The rage festered.
The man screamed as Semyaza clenched a fistful of hair.
“So I will judge you,” Semyaza said.
He grabbed the man's chin with his other hand and bashed his head into the steel wall. Over and over he rammed until he heard the skull crack. The man's body twitched underneath him. Brain matter and blood oozed from several openings where the cranium had split.
Semyaza let the dead man slump over to the deck. He rose and took in his work. The anger did not subside. He glanced at his hands. Around the blood he saw skin already flaking away, falling and drifting to the floor in small amounts.
He did not care.
“Judge me!” Semyaza shouted.
He waved his right hand over the bodies. “Do you want more of this?” Semyaza swept his hand back. “Do you?”
As he swept his hand back and forth, the bodies jerked and moved. Semyaza noticed this and stopped, his arm still extended.
No movement.
He moved it left and right.
The bodies twitched.
What is this?
He extended both hands. Nothing happened.
Move,
he thought.
Nothing.
He waved his hands back and forth, skin flying off as he did. “Move.”
Nothing.
Semyaza closed his eyes. He thought about the bodies. He imagined them standing, moving, walking under his control.
He opened his eyes.
The bodies of the dead men stood in front of him. The heads lolled to one side or the other. Their arms hung limp.
Semyaza could not believe what he saw. What he now knew.
I can control the dead.
His concentration broken, the bodies fell back to the deck.
“This will take some practice,” Semyaza said.
“O
ne Beretta M9A1 handgun.”
Mike reached through the cage and grabbed his gun from the Marine corporal. “Where's my ammo?”
The corporal passed two fifteen-round clips through the cage. Mike took the first and slipped it into its holster on his belt. The second mag he picked up and walked over to a large red barrel with a narrow mouth, which sat on the other side of the room. It was filled with sand. He pointed the pistol into the mouth and slid the second mag of nine-millimeter rounds into the bottom of the grip and released the slide, chambering the first round. He set the safety and holstered the gun.
Having his gun helped him feel normal again. The hospital had not wanted to discharge him, but Mike hadn't given them a choice. Once the sun rose, Mike had insisted on his release. The doc was good enough to give him a new set of clothes, though: a pair of desert camouflage pants with a black T-shirt.
“This is all you've got?” Mike had asked. He hated the fact he looked like a Blackwater guy again.
“You can always wear the hospital gown,” the doctor had said. Then he made Mike sign a stack of forms.
Mike figured he could pick up some better duds in Baghdad. In the meantime, there were more important things to worry about, like getting his stuff back.
“My knife,” Mike said as he walked back to the cage.
The corporal passed the Spyderco through the cage in a plastic bag. “I won't ask where the blood stains came from.”
“Good.”
Mike took the knife from the bag and slipped it into his pocket. He pushed the empty plastic back to the corporal.
“My flask.”
The corporal slid it through. “Don't worry; no one drank any.”
“That's right, because it was empty last time I checked.” Mike slid it into one of the cargo pockets in his pants. “Where's the airfield from here?”
The corporal gave him a rough set of directions. The airstrip was on the other side of Camp Bucca, but within walking distance. Mike had already arranged, with the help of some wounded pilots with connections, a ride on a CH-53 Super Stallion helicopter heading to Baghdad. Once there, he would pick up an air force MAC flight to Djibouti. And then he would eventually get new tasking from Glenn.
“Thanks,” Mike said and left the armory.
The walk across Camp Bucca felt longer than it took. The sun was bright and harsh. It still hurt to breathe. His side ached and the pain pills did little to stop the brief but sharp stabs that shot up from his side every time he took a step with his right foot.
Mike limited his breaths to slow deep ones. The dry hot air didn't help. The inside of his mouth tasted like cardboard.
At the airstrip, he saw several stretchers loaded into helicopters, their rotors already spinning. As Mike checked in for his flight, he noticed the manifest for the helo lifting off the ground. Major Greengrass was on it, heading to Baghdad and then Bamberg.
Must have caught an early ticket to Germany,
Mike thought. Then he smiled when he read Greengrass's first name. He hadn't realized until that moment that he'd never caught the major's given name. It wasn't really surprising, either. From Mike's experience, most people in the military went either by positional title or surname. What surprised Mike was the actual name: Francis.
“If I ever meet you again, I am going to bust your balls hard.”
Mike chuckled, but then a sense of failure overtook him. Greengrass left a wounded warrior, a man who'd done his job and suffered a casualty as a result. There's no shame in that. Mike, however, left Iraq having accomplished nothing other than killing a bunch of people.
That's why I was sent here,
Mike thought.
It's what I'm good at.
He remembered the sea of dead bodies, their white eyes boring into him, pleading for him not to kill them.
“But you're still a good guy. Remember that.”
Lowe's words from his dream echoed in his head like a bad song. Mike wished he had a full flask.
He tried to distract himself with other thoughts and ended up reliving the events at R91. The mystery of the tomb or prison or whatever it was. Whatever the hell had escaped it and left a string of death from An Nasiriyah to Basra. The battle. The insurgent.