My world was illuminated by the pulses of light darting through the doorway. It no longer was possible to distinguish muzzle blasts from flashlights from electrical shorts, and the shadows whirled among them. There was an army in there, a thousand soldiers forming and reforming as they fought.
Was that a pair of legs that just moved in front of the door? The shape soon was gone, or replaced by another indistinct form. Now a pipe had been hit, a line carrying compressed water, which sprayed into the compartment. The mist hissed and popped as it settled on the equipment.
And then that sound was all that was left. The darkness and light untangled and stopped moving. The only illumination came from outside my field of view in the other compartment, and it seemed to be facing the wall, offering only an ineffectual reflection of light to the rest of the room.
Something moved by the aft doorway. Maybe. I picked myself up, but remained on my knees. Larsen’s orders — all of them — were shouting at me to act. Drawing the pistol, I called out.
“Hey! Who’s there?”
Stupid.
And there was no answer.
I crouched and moved forward. Yes, there was blood on the doorway, snaking down its edges. As I got closer, I could see that a hand rested on the lower lip. Its fingers were limp and pale.
If I stayed close to the wall, I’d have the best view into the next room. I squatted over Jakes’s body, ignoring the knife sticking from his back like a lever. It was impossible to glean any details of the electrical control room’s interior from this angle. I couldn’t see the face of the corpse by the door.
What was in the corner with the compartment’s lone light source? A huddled lump on the floor. A SEAL? The Serpent?
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Hello?” I asked.
Still nothing but the water drizzling from above.
The SEALs had planned to return via the lower deck. But if they still were alive, why weren’t they replying?
I would have to look. I would have to dive into this nightmare and see what had happened.
First, who was on the other side of the door? Keeping the pistol in front of me, I craned my neck enough to see over the hatch’s rim. Even in the damp gloom, I could see Reyes’s face staring back at me, eyes wide. His mouth was open, too, as if he’d been trying to yell when he died. The cause of death was the dozen still-oozing bullet holes in his chest.
The professional side of me, the side that had examined a thousand mutilated bodies, was fighting a losing battle. I was afraid. Yes. It was inescapable, the fear. I knew that each corpse I encountered in the room would make me see how close I was to becoming one as well.
But I climbed through the hatch anyway, stepping over Reyes’s splayed legs. I had been right about the light on the other side: it was emanating from an assault rifle lying in the corner.
A little water had collected on the deck, but no more sparks were jumping from the equipment. As I stopped next to the mass on the floor, I could see that the puddle around the body-and it was a body-was cloudy with blood.
I picked up the rifle. The space where the magazine fit into the underside was empty, and the bolt was thrown back. Whoever had been firing this had run out of ammunition.
Using its light, I discovered the corpse’s identity: Grimm. He was in worse shape than Reyes. I was surprised there wasn’t more blood.
His throat was hacked apart, and several bullet wounds pocked his back. I couldn’t see his face. I didn’t care about what it would tell me. His hands were empty; I must be holding his rifle. There were two empty clips by his feet.
I swung the light aft and moaned. It was all I could manage.
Moretti sat with his back against the wall, knees to his chest, staring through me. One hand was pressed to his torso, where it had been struggling to stanch the flow of innumerable wounds. The other was wrapped around the MP-5 on the floor next to him.
I stepped closer through the crimson-tinged water. He looked alive, as if he were listening to an unseen speaker in front of him. I could see his rifle better now, and its bolt also was all the way back. Cartridge casings around him threw twinkling reflections across his body and the walls.
It would be impossible to reconstruct who had been shooting at whom and where everyone had been standing. But I had only found three bodies so far and was running out of places to look for them. Maybe Larsen had survived. Maybe the Serpent had not.
But the answer to that question lay in the doorway to the engine room. It was Larsen. His body sprawled in the electrical compartment, a clip-less rifle by his side and a combat knife in his hand.
Unlike the other three, no bullet wounds were visible. But I didn’t need to check his corpse to see what killed him. His face was resting on the edge of the hatchway, deformed by the impact. Larsen had run out of bullets. He had tried to escape. And he had died.
The pistol in my hand now seemed too heavy to keep a grip on. Had
Larsen reached for its empty holster, ready to finish off the Serpent? Had he panicked when he discovered himself defenseless? Had the Serpent dragged him back through the door, then killed him with a quick thrust of its arms?
I found that it didn’t matter. Nothing did. Nothing except the pouch on my belt. Forward torpedo room? Or engine room?
The engine room was closer. I would choose the manner of my death based on convenience. It seemed random and appropriate, and the thought made the water, the blood and the killing seem less real.
I pulled Larsen’s body from the door, trying to ignore the moist thump as his head hit the floor. Holding the useless assault rifle in one hand and the pistol in the other, I entered the engine room. It was tranquil, the beam from my light showing dormant machinery waiting for someone to throw the switch.
Pausing at the ladder to the lower deck, I thought of Campbell. Maybe I should go back and get him, and we’d set our explosives together in the torpedo room. There was no reason to die alone. We’d each mold the C-4 around the torpedoes’ warheads and stand there, surrounded by what was sure to be an instantaneous death, and wait next to the executive officer’s corpse.
The executive officer. Lee.
Shit.
One of us could get off this boat. That yellow suit on Lee’s body was for escaping a submerged submarine, and the Korean had been trying to do just that when he had expired. I didn’t know how deep we were or how to operate the escape hatch, but I didn’t care. A shaft of hope now pulsated in my mind.
Set the explosives, then run. What about Campbell? What would he do? I already was in motion down the ladder and across the lower deck to the oil-storage area Larsen had told me about.
I was sure I could set the timer. After all, I had been ready to do so when I thought I would perish as the ship’s hull tore open. But I wasn’t sure I could just leave Campbell. It was the rational thing to do, I suppose-after all, was it better for one of us to survive, or for both to die? What a disgusting thought. Drowning Campbell. Because one of us would surely have to suffer, if not die. Would he try to stop me? I couldn’t picture him threatening me. It hurt to imagine that. Would he agree to stay behind and do the noble thing?
Shit, why shouldn’t I be the noble one and allow him to escape? Maybe there was another pressure suit someplace. I didn’t think we had time to look for it, though. The Serpent, even if it had been seriously wounded, wouldn’t wait long to try to wipe out the remainder of the force trespassing on his ship.
The prospect of survival made me sick.
I packed the explosives into place and crouched there, back against the wall, certain an attack would come streaking from beyond my flashlight’s beam.