“Bullshit!” came the reply. “We know he’s in there. Open up!”
A number of angry voices were raised on the other side of the door, and someone began pounding. “Who is that? Wong? Open the fucking door, Wong!”
Prothero, terror in his eyes, shook his head at her. He backed up, casting around the lab as if for a place to hide. There was none, of course.
“He’s not here,” she said again.
“Listen up, Wong! He’s infected. We caught the son of a bitch sleeping. Couldn’t wake him up. He’s got a worm!”
Wong felt paralyzed. She glanced at Prothero. He didn’t look right, but then he rarely looked normal.
“Are you listening? He’s infected! Get your ass out of there and let us take care of it!”
Prothero shook his head, mouthing no, no, no.
Wong couldn’t decide how to reply. She felt paralyzed.
Boom! Someone slammed into the door. Boom! The door was not a bulkhead and she could see it bow inward with each body blow.
“Open up, Wong! If you won’t save yourself, we will!”
“I don’t have a worm!” Prothero screamed. “I swear! I just took a snort nap, that’s all!”
“He’s in there!” There was a tumult of shouting and expostulation beyond the door. “Wong, for God’s sake, he’s dangerous! Let us in, now!”
“I’m not dangerous. I swear!”
Wong looked once again at Prothero. His eyes were bloodshot, he was soaked in sweat, and his body was twitching and jumping with panic and fear. He did look infected.
He read the meaning in her eyes. “No, no,” he said, swallowing and trying to speak without screaming. “I’m not. Rosemarie, I swear it. They’re crazy. I took a nap. Five minutes. I was out like a light. But I’m not infected! Remember, if you’re infected they can’t wake you for two hours, and—”
Boom! And now the metal door handle rattled and came loose. Boom!
Wong made a decision. “No!” she yelled at the men trying to break down the door. “You can’t do this without evidence!”
Boom! The handle sprang off the door.
“You need proof!” she yelled.
Boom! The door flew open and a huge man forced his way through. She was shocked; it was Vince Brancacci, the ship’s jovial chef. He did not look jovial now, with a meat cleaver in his hammy, hairy fist. A crowd surged in behind him, half a dozen men armed with tools, crowbars, wrenches, hammers.
“There he is!”
“No!” Prothero said. “Please God, no!”
The crowd, realizing they had Prothero trapped, suddenly seemed to hesitate.
“He’s infected,” Brancacci said, advancing with the cleaver. “He’s finished. We need to get rid of the worm inside him.”
“No, no, please!” Prothero whispered, shrinking back against a rack of computer equipment.
Wong stepped in between Brancacci and Prothero and drew herself up to her full height, towering above Brancacci. “You can’t kill a man without evidence. You can’t do it.”
“We have evidence,” said the chef.
“Which is?” Wong asked.
“He was sleeping. He couldn’t be woken up. And look at him—just look at him! He’s not acting normally.”
“You wouldn’t be acting normally if you were being chased by a mob.”
“Get out of my way,” said Brancacci threateningly.
She could smell the sour odor of Brancacci’s sweat. “Don’t do this,” she said quietly. “Just turn around and go. You can’t execute a man based on such weak evidence.”
He reached out, grasped her shoulder with one powerful hand. “Please step aside.”
“No.”
With a wrenching motion he threw her aside. He was strong, and the action sent her tumbling into a rack of equipment, which fell with her to the floor with a crash. Momentarily stunned, Wong sat there as the mob moved in, stepping over and around her.
“God, God God please no no noooo!” she heard Prothero sobbing and pleading.
Brancacci swung the cleaver at his head, striking him above the eye with a sickening hollow sound. Prothero screamed, going down, blood splattering, his head already coming apart. Brancacci drew back and, taking careful aim, swung the cleaver again. The scream was cut short. Prothero lay on the floor, unmoving. The chef now stepped over Prothero, straddling him, and brought the blade of the cleaver down once again, driving it into his skull and opening it up like a melon.
Wong turned her head and closed her eyes. She heard a frantic struggle, shouts of Find it! Get it! Get the worm! But then the tumult rapidly fell into silence.
She opened her eyes. Brancacci was still standing spraddle-legged over Prothero’s body, cleaver in hand. The rest had formed a silent circle around the fallen scientist, staring down at his remains, his skull and brains strewn across the floor in a pool of spreading blood.
“Stupid bastards!” Wong cried. “Are you satisfied now? Do you see? There is no worm!”
54
MANUEL GARZA PAUSED at the bottom of the engine room stairs and wiped his face with a cloth. He was exhausted from the tedium of searching the ship and finding nothing. It was maddening: they knew the worms were on board. They had attacked several crew members, coming out of nowhere and then disappearing. But how do you find a six-inch, pencil-thin, gray worm on a research vessel packed with a million miles of wires and cables? And the engine room promised to be one of the worst places of all.
Frederick Moncton, the ship’s chief engineer, a dapper French Canadian with a pencil mustache, was waiting for them, along with the first assistant engineer, two junior engineers, and a fireman. Garza had four guys in his immediate crew, Deputy Security Chief Eyven Vinter and three other security personnel. He had disarmed them; he didn’t want pistols being fired in the confined spaces belowdecks, where rounds could ricochet all over and vulnerable equipment abounded. Instead, they carried heavy tools, hatchets and crowbars, as weapons.
Garza had not had occasion to visit the engine room before. It was a large, hot, stuffy room smelling of diesel fuel and oil lubricants, but on the plus side it was at least a walk-around space, with steel floors kept spotlessly clean. The main diesel engine ran half the length of the room and was painted light gray, and it stood alongside three synchronized diesel generators, painted blue and yellow, that provided the ship with electric power, primary and backup. The rest of the room was a forest of pipes carrying fuel, seawater coolant, oil, and internal engine coolant. Running along the ceiling was a massive amount of ductwork.
It looked well maintained and organized. The personnel who had gathered, in uniform, to help his team go through the engine room appeared steady and professional. They had not succumbed to the hysteria that had been spreading topside. For this Garza was truly grateful.
He plucked the radio from his belt. “Eduardo, do you read?”
A moment later the clipped voice of Bettances, the chief of security, replied. “Roger.”
“Your teams find anything?”
“Not a thing.”
“Very well. Keep me informed. Garza out.”
He replaced the radio. “Mr. Moncton,” he said, bringing out several photographs of the worm, “we’re looking for these. Any spaces where they might be hiding have to be opened and searched.”
Moncton took the photos, flipped through them, and passed them around. “Yes, sir. We’re at your service.”
“You and your team know the ins and outs of this area. We’d like to start at the far end and sweep back to this point. It seems most efficient if your crew were to take the lead, opening every possible space where these things might be hiding.”