This time, she didn’t look away. Blood boiled and popped. Skin bubbled and blackened. Bone charred. And the smell, oh Jesus that smell… she could taste the smoke.
She heard grunts. She heard a steady, low growl, the sound of an animal fighting to chew its foot free of the iron-toothed trap.
The torch slid from her hand, clattered against the metal deck. The blue jewel continued to breathe out its hateful hiss.
She pulled the scorched stump close to her chest. Her head rolled back in a silent cry — How much more? How much more do I have to take?
Candice forced herself to look at the charred mess that had once been connected to a hand. A hand that could draw and paint. A hand that had almost sent her to Arizona State to study art before she made the choice to serve her country. A hand that had touched her wife so many times.
Blisters swelled. Her flesh steamed like a freshly served steak, but the bleeding had stopped. Drops of red oozed up through the blackened stump’s many cracks and crisp edges.
Her right hand was gone… so why did her missing fingers still feel the fire?
With her remaining hand, she reached inside her uniform’s shirt, felt her belly where she’d hidden her drawings — still there.
Candice reached for the door that would take her out of the submarine’s tiny, steel-walled trash disposal unit. She couldn’t hide here forever. She held her breath, knowing that just lifting the TDU door’s lever would make noise, might bring her shipmates.
She closed her eyes again, searching for the strength to go on. Amy, I will never quit. They won’t get me they’re all out to get me they’re all trying to murder me…
Candice slowly lifted the lever.
The door opened to a dark passageway, empty save for the few wisps of smoke that filtered in from the fire she’d set in the engine room. The gray bulkheads, piping and electrical conduit looked no different than they had for all the months she’d served here.
Everything was the same; everything was different.
To her right, the wardroom where she had eaten countless meals.
To her left, the crew’s mess: pitch-black, all the lights smashed and broken.
Candice reached to the small of her back, drew her pistol. She’d shot two men dead; how many additional crew had she killed with her act of sabotage? She wished the answer was all of them.
She had to reach the dry deck shelter. The surface… she had to get to the surface.
Sweating, shivering and bleeding, Candice stepped out of the TDU.
She almost slipped when a cracking voice sounded over the intercom.
“This is the… the captain.”
Candice froze as if he was actually in the passageway with her, as if he could see her. It was his voice, familiar from so many months, yet not his at the same time. He fought to get the words out.
“Man Battle Stations Torpedo. I say again, man… man Battle Stations Torpedo. That… that is all.”
She flinched at the harsh click of the PA shutting off. Torpedo launch? Against who? There wasn’t an enemy out there, wasn’t anyone at all except for…
“No,” she said. “No.”
She’d disabled the sub’s ability to escape; she hadn’t disabled its ability to fight.
Escape. They were coming for her… she had to escape.
Candice held her severed arm close to her chest, her right shoulder shrugged up almost to her ear. She moved down the passageway, waiting for each step to bring one of her tormentors running.
If she could get to the forward escape trunk hatch that led to the dry deck shelter, if she could get into one of the SEIE suits, then she could make it to the surface. The dry deck shelter was amidships, just aft of the control room and attack center. To reach it, she would have to walk through the crew’s mess, past all the dead bodies.
And some of them, she knew, weren’t all the way dead.
Candice felt a vibration under her feet: the torpedo tubes flooding, the final step before launch. Only seconds until Mark 48 ADCAPs shot out at fifty-five knots, heading for ships that had no idea what was coming.
She walked into the darkness of the crew’s mess. An aisle ran down the center. Small, four-person booths lined either side. In those booths, she could make out lumpy shadows, the still forms of corpses, the crimson shade of dried blood.
This was where they had tried to bring her.
A dim light filtered in from up ahead, shone down from the open, overhead escape trunk hatch.
Her eyes adjusted enough to make out something on the ground just in front of her.
A severed head.
And she recognized it: Bobby Biltmore, an ensign from Kansas.
Congrats, Bobby — at least you’re actually dead.
She stepped over the head and kept moving through the aisle, waiting for one of the corpses to rise up and grab her, pull her under a table, do to her what they’d done to the others.
The smell of rot, fighting for dominance against the scent of her own cooked flesh.
Only a few more feet to go. The shadows seemed to move, to take shape and reach out for her. Her hand tightened on the pistol’s grip, squeezed hard enough to somehow force back the scream building in her chest and throat.
Candice Walker felt another vibration.
Fish in the water… torpedo launch. The targets wouldn’t just sit there, they would fire back. That meant the Los Angeles only had minutes to live.
She focused on the light ahead. A ladder led up to the escape trunk hatch. The ladder usually hung from brackets on an adjacent bulkhead — someone had connected it.
Candice reached the ladder and started up, her only hand holding the gun, using her elbow and smoldering stump to keep her balance as exhausted legs pushed her higher.
She climbed up into the cylindrical escape trunk: empty, thank God. At five feet in diameter, there wasn’t much space, but she didn’t care — salvation lay one more ladder up, one more hatch up into the dry deck shelter.
That hatch, too, was already open.
She stayed very still. She saw someone walk by the hatch. She saw a face, a flash of color. Wicked Charlie Petrovsky. He was wearing a bright-red SEIE suit: submarine escape immersion equipment.
Candice Walker’s pain didn’t vanish, but it took a backseat to the rage that engulfed her. Was Charlie like her? Or was he like them? Either way, it didn’t matter — she needed that suit.
The sub vibrated again. Another torpedo had just launched.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair! She’d done more than anyone could ask. She wanted to live.
Candice sniffed once, tightened her grip on the pistol, then quietly started up the ladder.
WICKED CHARLIE PETROVSKY
Wicked Charlie Petrovsky came to.
He lay on the floor of the dry deck shelter, bleeding from a bullet lodged in his neck. He kept his eyes closed, didn’t make any noise — he could hear her moving around nearby.
Candice Walker: the woman who had shot him.
Charlie was a guitar player. That was why he started calling himself “Wicked Charlie,” because he was wicked-awesome on the six-string. He’d known it was kind of douchey to give himself a nickname, but everyone liked him and he could flat-out shred on his vintage Kramer, so the moniker stuck.