"Why didn't you guys tell us who you were?" I asked. "You scared us to death!"
The one named Wally said, "We tried to, but you just ran away."
"You lads had us half believing in ghosts," said another, Reggie. "The mind plays tricks in a place like this."
"We didn't know what to think," said Wally.
"We felt the same way!" I said.
A third man, Dick, spoke up. "But we'd have more cause to be suspicious, wouldn't we? You might expect to find poor sods like ourselves on a derelict ship, but who, I ask you, would ever dream of findin' a group of choirboys on bleedin' holiday, much less a wee moppet like yourself?"
"We thought we'd gone mad," said Reggie.
"Didn't you hear us hail you?" asked Julian a little belligerently.
Dick replied, "We live in a right fortress of mattresses up there, so we wouldn't, would we?"
"I guess not."
"Warmth has been a rather abiding concern, I'm afraid."
Hector asked, "How do you get around in the dark like that?"
The one named Phil said, "We've come to know this bloody scow like the backs of our hands, son. In the beginning, we used torches, same as you. Still and all, you took us by surprise with that ambush." He swiveled his sore neck. "Nice scrimmage, that."
"What a way to break the ice," said Wally.
As they showed us their shortcut to the promenade, we briefly explained our situation (which must have seemed nonsensical to them-they offered no comment), and they told us what had happened to them.
They were a singing group-The Blackpudlians-a Beatles tribute band from England that had been booked to play twelve days of Christmas gigs as the ship steamed from the British Isles to New Brunswick and back again, skirting the arctic ice cap. The onboard festivities were to have culminated in a New Year's Eve party the last night of the voyage. But it turned out to be a different kind of carnival.
"Blue meanies," said Wally, laughing unsteadily-it was almost a sob.
"Blue meanies," agreed Dick. "While we were having tea with Mr. Coffey in the Lido Lounge."
"I remember I was in the middle of spreading clotted cream on a perfectly toasted currant scone, when there was an alarm, and Mr. Coffey had to excuse himself. 'What's this, then?' says I. 'We've not hit an iceberg, I hope.' And he laughs back, 'I'll remember that when I'm handin' out lifejackets.'" Wally shook his head.
"Weren't no iceberg," said Reggie gravely.
"Course it weren't no iceberg, you sod," Wally said. "After a few minutes we hear crockery breaking and see a brawl at another table-"
"This madwoman's attacking her 'usband-"
"Now, we don't know it was her 'usband, Dick."
"-and she's got the poor bloke in a clutch like a bleedin' boa constrictor-"
"Looks like she's off her bloody nut."
"-Kisses the man-"
"No bloomin' peck on the cheek, I can tell you."
"-Whole place goes mad. Chaps at the next table try to intervene, she drops her 'usband and pounces like a leopard-this is a high-class woman dressed for a proper tea, mind you. Second man goes down-"
"Sturdy-looking chap, too."
"-Now the stewards arrive, and there must be a dozen stout fellows pitching in to restrain the woman, who looks the very devil: blue as a coot, slippery with blood and jam, but she's holding her own! At last they seem to gain the upper hand-"
"We're all standing about with our mouths hangin' open like bloody carp."
"-People are administering CPR to the two men on the floor, kicking biscuits this way and that, when suddenly another woman joins the fray!-"
"Frightful, really."
"-My first thought was that she was simply hysterical-"
"People were, you know. I was a bit cracked meself."
"Not something you see every day."
"-but it was plain as day this woman was as daft as the first, strangling the life out of some poor steward while the rest of us were still in shock from the previous bit. Then things became really queer: The body of the first man-and I say body because he was plainly as dead as a haddock, in spite of their attempts at resuscitation-unexpectedly lunged up and seized hold of a good Samaritan who had been attempting mouth-to-mouth on 'im! Grabbed the fellow's head in the middle of a breath and held on tight while the other man thrashed about like a hooked fish, trying to break off the unholy kiss-"
"I'll never forget the look in their eyes, mate. It was bloody rape."
"-So then Phil says to us, 'I must go, lads,' and that like breaks the spell, and we all bolt for the exit. But as you may imagine, that was only the beginning. Out in the corridor we can hear the whole bloody ship going mad. Through the windows we can see a full-fledged melee on the lido deck-a whole crowd of men stampeding like antelopes and being picked off by nasty devils that had only just been society dames-"
"Sheer bedlam…"
"-Some of the men were lowering lifeboats, but I could tell we didn't have a hope in hell of pushin' through that lot-"
"Bloomin' Dante's Inferno."
"-so I figured we'd best get to our lodgings and shut ourselves in good and tight. Just hold out until the cavalry arrived."
"Problem was getting there."
"Yeh, there was no way down. Every stair was full of people flockin' up, slaughtering an' being slaughtered, and for the moment the slaughterees-such as ourselves-were still sufficiently numerous that the four of us were able, just for that brief moment, to stand apart from it all and consider. But the window of opportunity was closing even as we watched."
"The blue meanies were multiplying."
"Quick as a wink, those monstrous women and murdered men were taking over the ship, like some… chemical reaction spreading outward, some elemental change. Soon we'd have the whole nest after us."
"Dick said-good on yer, mate-'We have to get off this concourse,' and it made perfect sense: The public areas were the killing fields. So we found a staff-only door and slipped inside a short corridor piled with racks of empty bottles, leading to the lounge scullery. There was no one about, and we didn't think it likely that anyone from the crew would return to ordinary duty, but of course it wasn't the crew that we feared-"
"God, the fear! Miracle that alone didn't kill us."
"-so we ducked into the first available foxhole: the wine closet."
"Brilliant. Really brilliant."
"It couldn't have been better suited to our purpose. A small room, yes, but stout as a keep to protect the really expensive vintages-well insulated, and with its own humidity and temperature controls. Even a spyhole to view the kitchen."
"Not to mention floor-to-ceiling shelves of the finest grape."
"All it lacked, in fact, was a means of locking ourselves inside, and Dick made short work o' that."
"Dick knows fuck-all about drums, but he's a right genius when it comes to bending a handle." I gathered that this was a private joke among them. "Isn't that right, Dick?"
"Sod off. It was simple: We broke the outside door handle so nothing could get in. There was a mallet and chisel for opening crates-it was easily done."
"But you puzzled it out, lad," said Phil. "Credit where credit is due."
"Hear hear," said Reggie.
Ignoring them, Dick continued, "And that's where we stayed, dashing out now and again for the niceties, but never losing sight of that door. You can be sure we took every bleeding precaution not to lock ourselves out. Twenty-two days we lived like that."
"Didn't you ever wonder what was happening in the rest of the ship?" asked Hector.
"Course we did. But let me tell you something, lad: When you've seen what we had, and every so often you hear a figment from your worst nightmare scratching at the door, it tempers your curiosity. I think we'd be there still if it hadn't been for the cold."
"Bloody hell, that was torment."
"The ship's power failed not long after the meanies came. Day by day we watched the thermometer drop. Not as fast where we were as outside, but too fast for comfort. I don't know why we thought it would stop at zero C, but it was a blow when it didn't."
"Meanwhile, we were tucked under dirty aprons and sacking, with bags of flour heaped around us-we were a sorry sight, mate. The warmth from our bodies caused moisture to condense on the walls, so that after a few days it began to look like a bloody icebox in there. We had to chip it off the peephole to look out. And that was nothing compared to what it was like outside."
"Bottles, tins, everything froze solid. The sink taps went dry. There was still plenty to eat and drink, but we had to use Sterno to melt it. Once the lights went out, all we had to see by was Sterno, too. I think it was our silly gobs pressed around that anemic flame, with a bottle of Chateau Lafitte Rothschild melting above it, that finally pushed us over the edge."
"We couldn't take it no more."
"We came out, found a torch, and used the kitchen's big gas cooker to make a proper joint of beef, hardly taking notice of how much bangin' about it required. "
"We ate it before it was barely done."
"Blimey that was good."
"Best bit o' beef I ever ate."
"And while it cooked, we thawed cases of porter on the stove, so that for once there was no shortage of drink. We lived in that kitchen for eight days, making up for lost time. When no meanies set upon us, the range of our forays increased, until eventually we deemed the ship safe."
"That's how we've been living ever since. Robinson Crusoe times four."
"Until you lot came along."
"Which begs a question…" said Dick.
"Yes?" I asked.
"We heard a few things on the wireless. We thought the women had all…"
"Become meanies? No. I have a medical condition." They looked at me askance until I added, "It has something to do with menstruation. Since I don't, uh, menstruate, I didn't catch it."
"Ah." They seemed to accept this without further question.
During the walk back, Jake came up next to me, and said, sotto voce, "Did that guy call you a muppet?"
We arrived at the lower promenade a few minutes late, but no one was much upset. They were too busy. Most of the sub's crew was there, including Commander Coombs, and a major operation appeared to be under way. Our new companions did attract a great deal of attention, however. I tried to politely introduce them, but Coombs and the other officers rudely brushed me aside, subjecting the overwhelmed quartet to an extensive "debriefing."
"Not cool," said Hector, watching the interrogation.
"I mean, this has been their home for months," I said. "And we just barge in and take over? What are they supposed to think?"
Julian said, "Hey, survival of the fittest."
I was disappointed in him. "That's not right," I said. "We have to come together, especially now."
"Dream on."
Approaching Mr. Robles, who looked miserably cold, I asked, "What's going on? Why is everybody here?"
"We're salvaging whatever we can off this ship."
"Really?" My heart sank. Cowper's medicine was one thing, but… "That's a long way to carry stuff," I said.
"We'll rig up something. Maybe open a loading bay. Don't worry." Trying to cheer himself up, he asked, "So how is it in there?"
I thought about the cold, the bodies, the dark. He wasn't asking about that. Looking at his beaming expression, I replied, "It's a fucking extravaganza."
The next few days were full of hard physical work, but I can't say it wasn't interesting. Using the sub's massive sailplanes as levers, a crane was improvised to hoist the forward escape trunk out of its bed, leaving the bathysphere-like pod dangling in midair above a large well in the deck. Objects up to seven feet wide could be taken aboard. While the men were handling this delicate operation, the boys and I were given long lists of provisions and sent off to scour the liner.
It was decided-wisely, I think-to leave the ship in its deep freeze, with only a small backup generator running to provide light. Whether or not Xombies could revive after being frozen was unknown, and we wanted it to remain that way. Apart from that, there were concerns about heat or vibration destabilizing the ice mass on the ship's superstructure.
Mr. DeLuca had managed to activate the liner's communications suite, though there was nothing coming over the airwaves that the sub's array couldn't already pick up. As civilians we weren't allowed to listen in, but by all accounts it was a weird and troubling international chorus of despair, the last struggling pockets of humanity. If we did send a Mayday, it would only join that hopeless din, but anyone who wanted to could try it-they just had to wait for the submarine to leave the area first. It was a gamble Coombs knew no one would take.
Using the Englishmen as guides, pack routes were established throughout the ship, and I organized parties to loot the various regions. It bothered me to be doing this without seeking the Blackpudlians' consent, but I kept reminding myself that it was not really their ship.
They looked a lot different once they had gotten cleaned up and trimmed their beards and hair. First, they were quite young, all under thirty. Second, though they were third- and fourth-generation citizens of the UK, all were ethnic Pakistanis-Reggie, for instance, was actually Rajeev Jinnah. Two of them were practicing Muslims. Much as he loved the Beatles, Commander Coombs was not pleased to have these aliens aboard.
Large cargo sledges were cobbled together from lifeboats and heaped high with goods. The mountains of booty included food and drink, bedding, towels, toilet paper (probably the most eagerly anticipated item), furniture, appliances, plumbing, electronics, building supplies, sporting goods (including a brace of shotguns for skeet), cookware, silver, fine china, clothing, bulk fabric, laundry supplies (also much awaited), freezer components to expand our cold-storage capacity, and medical supplies-including Cowper's Lanoxin. Diesel fuel, oil, and various other substances usable by the sub were also tapped, though our reactor, of course, required nothing.
Then the task was dragging this treasure trove to the boat and finding room for it belowdecks. The Big Room became something of a warehouse again, but at least this time with the promise of greater comforts to come.
The cold was our bitter taskmaster. With the sub wide open and tons of subzero groceries being stowed, heat was retained only in certain sections, and these were not the sections most frequented by civilians. A couple of barely adequate warming stations (heated tents) were set up for us, but my requests for more were answered with, The sooner you're done, the sooner we can close the hatch. The officers hated leaving the boat open like this-it was too vulnerable to attack. They wouldn't let us relax until we finished.
The only ones who did not seem uncomfortable were the four Brits. They actually requested to stay in the more familiar environs of their ship until it was time to leave, and could be glimpsed from time to time following their own routines like backwoods trappers encroached upon by modernity.
As it turned out, we left a bit sooner than expected. Four days after our first sight of the Northern Queen, and just as we were dragging our umpteenth sledgeload through a deep groove in the ice, the boys and I were shocked to hear the sub's deafening horn. We could see the crew up top rushing to replace the escape trunk.
"Holy shit!" said Julian. "We're under attack!" We dropped the lines and ran.
But it was not an attack, it was a leak. There was serious flooding on the liner-the boys stripping the carpentry shop had noticed it and flashed a signal to the officer on watch. The ship was sinking. It was not happening so quickly that there was any danger, but Coombs wanted to be sure the sub was in one piece and we were all on board in case of any ice upheaval.
The Blackpudlians-Wally, Phil, Dick, and Reggie-were the last to come below, lugging their instruments.
"Well, that's it then." Wally sighed, taking a final look at the ship.
"That's it, mate," said Dick.
"Feels like a lifetime we been on her."
"It does at that."
Turning to Mr. Robles, Phil asked, "How much longer d'ye reckon she'll last?"
"A little while," Robles said. "Few hours, maybe. Strange how she popped all her gaskets at once."
"Bloody mysterious," said Dick.
Robles shook his head. "I guess it's a miracle she's lasted this long."
"Hear that, Reg?" said Phil. "A miracle."
"Auld girl did right by us."
"And we by her."
We left the awesome, ghostly sight, shutting ourselves once more in the confines of the submarine. There was something melancholy about it, about turning our backs on that lost ship, and I was reminded of the times when my mother and I had taken walks along a pasture, bringing slices of Wonder Bread to a huge old horse that lived there. I was four or five, and the animal was wonderful and terrifying. My mother was always the one who did the feeding, holding each slice on her wide-open palm in such a way that the horse could nibble it off with its giant lips. She made it look easy, and the day came when I begged her to let me feed the horse. Are you sure? she asked. I swore I was, and she showed me just how to do it, palm flat. But when the great animal came at me I panicked, clutching the bread in my outstretched fingers so that the horse accidentally bit them. I screamed. My mother tried to soothe me, saying, Honey, look-your fingers are fine, but I was childishly hurt and petulant, crying, I never want to see that horse again! Promise me, Mummy! Promise me we'll never come here again! And as I said it, part of me prayed she wouldn't hold me to it, that she'd see me through the tantrum and give me a chance to make up with the horse. But she never took us back there.
"Sir?" It was sonarman Gus DeLuca. "I'm picking up sounds from the ship."
Coombs was impatient. "What kind of sounds?"
"She's foundering, sir."
"All stop."
"All stop, aye."
I sat back from my workstation, cocking an ear toward the sonar room. Everyone became very quiet. Coombs put on the earphones, tilting his head in concentration. Then he straightened up and gave the headset back. Crossing very deliberately to his station, he announced, "Gentlemen, I need a periscope sighting if you please." He seemed to be gritting his teeth.
We maneuvered around until we located a small polynya, just big enough to raise the periscope. Coombs broadcast the view over every monitor in the boat.
There was the Northern Queen, blue in the twilight. She was several miles south, but at full magnification, she filled the screen.
"Attention all hands," Coombs said over the loudspeaker. "I advise you to look at your handiwork."
A subterranean popping sound reverberated through the hull. It had been going on for some time, and I just didn't register it, dismissing it as pack-ice movement. Ice made a lot of peculiar noises, and this was similar: a groan like rope creaking under a great and increasing strain. Coombs put the hydrophones on the PA, turning the volume way up, and we could hear a harsh metallic grinding-a freight train screaming to a stop-and roaring water.
His voice muffled by the racket, Coombs said, "The tub's overflowing."
Perhaps the liner was listing at a more extreme angle than I remembered.
"Omigod, look!" Shawn said as the sleek whale's tail funnel atop the ship buckled and crashed down her side. An instant later we heard sheet-metal thunder. Icy clouds bloomed in the night, white as stage smoke. "Whoa," said Shawn, delighted.
The vast ship began to roll over.
Again the noise was very much like an approaching train, triggering a primordial instinct to flee. Feeling it in our marrow, we watched the many-tiered superstructure tip over with gathering force until it struck the patch of sea ice so recently occupied by ourselves. The sledges we had built were no more, lost in that tumultuous junkyard crash that went on and on until the ship was completely upside down… and even then it continued: dual cacophanies of ruptured steel and surging rapids that provided an awful accompaniment to the visible death throes we could see on screen. The gargantuan hull moved as if alive, a sea monster sloshing in a pond, rolling this way and that, spouting geysers high into the air, until at last it reared up accusingly and plunged out of sight.
I thought it was over. My hands were clinging, white-knuckled, to the console. But no-Coombs, like a demonic maestro, let us hear the whole ghastly works all the way to the bottom. It was like he was saying, This could be you.
When it was finished he lowered the periscope.