Gordon straightened. “You used that word before, in the galley. What is it?”
“The rougarou is a creature from the swamp that sucks the life out of people while they sleep,” Oran said.
The most astonishing part was that he said it absolutely straight-faced, just as he might say that a cat was an animal that chased mice. But on some level, Gordon knew he shouldn’t be surprised. He had seen Oran stab his brother with a chef’s knife. The man had obviously lost his mind. Was rambling about swamp monsters much of a stretch after that?
“I heard lots of stories about the rougarou growin’ up,” Oran continued. “They look like old hags. They tear off their skin and leave it in a stone bowl, then go out prowling the bayou as spirits. Some say it tears off its victim’s skin too, wears it as its own so no one can tell the difference. Ain’t no way to kill it except by finding its bowl and sprinkling salt on the skin it left behind.”
Gordon shook his head. Clearly, Oran was too far gone for him to reach. This story that his brother had been replaced by the roving spirit of a swamp hag was stark-raving lunacy.
“I know how this must sound, suh,” Oran said. “But they’re here, suh, on this submarine. That thing I stabbed, it ain’t LeMon. It’s not my brother. It’s a rougarou. And I’m tellin’ you, it’s still alive.”
Gordon walked back toward the stateroom door.
“Where you going, Lieutenant?” Oran asked.
“We’re done here, Guidry.”
Oran hung his head. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
Gordon didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.
“Just be careful out there, suh,” Oran said. “Promise me. There never is just one rougarou.”
“That was your brother you stabbed,” Gordon snapped. “Not some creature from your bayou folktales. Don’t you understand that? Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Monje was already dead,” Oran said.
Gordon gave up. There was no reasoning with the man. He just wished he had spotted the warning signs sooner. If he had, maybe he could have saved LeMon’s life. He went to the door, ready to leave this madhouse. More than ready.
A loud crash came from outside. Gordon stiffened. Oran stood up quickly from the bed.
“Ensign Van Lente, is everything all right out there?” he called through the door.
He heard Van Lente cry out, then a gunshot. Gordon grabbed the doorknob.
“Don’t!” Oran warned.
Gordon ignored him. He opened the door slowly, just a crack. The corridor outside was pitch black.
“Ensign Van Lente?” he said. There was only silence.
He opened the door farther, and the lantern light from the stateroom spilled out into the dark corridor. It fell across the lantern mounted on the bulkhead outside, and Gordon saw that it had been smashed. He pushed the door open farther, and the light fell on Ensign Van Lente. He was lying on his back on the floor, staring at the ceiling. His pistol was on the floor beside him. Something was straddling him—a dark shape in the shadows. Gordon pushed the door open farther, until the light hit the shape. Its head was bowed, its face buried in Van Lente’s neck. The shape looked up at him, leaving behind a bloody wound in Van Lente’s throat. Gordon nearly screamed.
It was Ensign Penwarden. His mouth and chin were red with Van Lente’s blood. Penwarden threw one arm across his eyes, shielding them from the light, and hissed angrily. Gordon had only a moment to notice the elongated teeth in the grimacing mouth. Then Penwarden sprang at him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tim Spicer awoke to a loud pounding. He opened his eyes in the darkness of his rack. Confused and groggy, it took him a moment to realize that someone was pounding on the side of his bunk.
“Tim!” a voice hissed. “Tim, wake up!”
It was Jerry White’s voice. Tim leaned up on one elbow and slid the heavy curtain aside. In the dim red light of the berthing area, he saw Jerry standing in front of his bunk, quickly buttoning his poopie suit. Tim rubbed his eyes.
“What the hell’s going on?” he asked, his voice low and raspy with sleep.
“You’ve got to come with me,” Jerry said breathlessly. “Right now. You have to see this!”
“Jerry, it’s my rack time,” he said. “Can’t this wait? Shouldn’t you be sleeping too?”
“Now!” Jerry hissed, keeping his voice down so he wouldn’t wake everyone else.
Tim sighed. He swung his legs out of the rack and dropped to the floor. He had fallen asleep in his coveralls after an exhausting day, and suddenly he was glad for it. He quickly pulled on his shoes and followed Jerry to the curtained doorway.
“What’s this about?” Tim whispered.
But Jerry just motioned for him to stay quiet.
They left the berthing area, but as soon as they were in the middle-level corridor, Jerry pushed Tim back against the bulkhead. Then he pointed silently down the corridor, past the mess. Another overhead light was out, and the deck beneath it was littered with broken glass. Then he saw what Jerry was pointing at. Someone stood with his back to them in the shadows beneath the broken light. He wasn’t moving. He just stood there, staring at the bulkhead that separated the forward compartment from the nuclear reactor. Tim couldn’t get a good look at him in the shadows, but he was pretty sure he saw white-blond hair.
“Who is that?” Tim whispered.
Jerry grabbed him and dragged him into the head. The auxiliary techs had mounted battle lanterns on the bulkheads and taped plastic garbage bags over the broken mirrors.
“Jerry, what’s going on?” Tim demanded.
“That was LeMon Guidry.”
Tim stared at him. “What!”
“I think he broke that light in the corridor, and now he’s just standing there.”
“That’s impossible,” Tim said. “LeMon’s dead. Oran killed him in the galley. He stabbed him.”
“I know,” Jerry said. “But remember when I thought I saw Steve Bodine after he died? Oran said Ensign Penwarden saw him too.”
“But you said Bodine was in a body bag in the torpedo room,” Tim said.
“That’s where LeMon should be too,” Jerry said. “But he’s not.”
Tim blinked and rubbed his face. “Hold on. How can you be sure it’s him?”
“Come on, you saw his hair. Who else has hair that white?”
“His brother, Oran,” Tim said.
“Who is currently under armed guard in the XO’s stateroom,” Jerry pointed out. “That’s not Oran out there.”
Tim shook his head. It wasn’t possible. He turned away from Jerry and went to the hatch.
“What are you doing?” Jerry said.
“I need another look,” Tim said.
“Be careful,” Jerry said. “Don’t let him see you.”
He opened the hatch a crack and peered out. He couldn’t see the far end of the corridor from this angle, so he risked poking his head farther out of the doorway. He felt exposed leaning that far out, and spooked by what Jerry had said, but the corridor was empty.
“He’s gone,” Tim said, stepping out of the head.
Jerry followed him. “We need to find him.”
“It can’t be LeMon,” Tim insisted.
“I’m telling you, it is.”
“Maybe we should talk to Senior Chief Farrington,” Tim said. “He’ll know what’s going on.”
“There’s no time. We have to find LeMon.”
“If that even was LeMon.”
“It was him,” Jerry said, and he started down the corridor.