Dead Sea

And then he felt himself sliding down the railing to the deck, empty. Just completely empty and so numb, so cold and frozen he thought he might shatter if someone touched him.

And then there were three, he thought.

17

When Cushing came back, he knew something had happened.

Maybe it was the atmosphere on the Mystic, which was positively tense and guarded, worn just as thin as an old blanket. If Cushing, coming down the ladder into the main cabin, had to put a name to it, it would have been apocalyptic. Because it was there on everyone’s face: doom and gloom with an extended forecast of dread. Pollard was just sitting there and so was George, both looking pale and despondent.

Cushing knew it was something more than Gosling’s death.

Whatever it was, it was recent. The wound still open and bleeding. It hadn’t even had the chance to scab over yet.

“Okay,” he said, leaning in the doorway. “What now?”

Pollard and George looked at each other, maybe both hoping the other one would put it into words. Pollard finally just looked down.

George cleared his throat, said, “Chesbro… he’s dead.” He paused, swallowed something down. “I think he was trying to escape in the raft… it got torn up and him with it.”

George gave him the quick version and from what he said and what Cushing could see in his eyes – a simmering black horror – he was glad he had not seen it. He’d seen plenty of bad by that point, but this he could do without.

“Well, I guess… I guess it was his own fault.” It was cold and cutting, but Cushing did not retract it. Did not even consider doing so. He pulled something out of the duffel bag hanging at his side: a fifth of Jack Daniels. He tossed it to George. “Looks like you guys need one.”

George’s eyes lit up. He broke the seal and threaded off the cap, took a good pull off it. Pollard practically fell off the settee trying to get a taste himself.

After he had, he just shook his head. “Fucking civilization,” he said, the whiskey filling him with something that had long been missing.

Cushing smiled, dug a carton of cigarettes from his duffel. “Here, George. Bad for your health, they say, but piss on it.”

George’s eyes lit up. “Cigarettes? No shit. My perverse addiction thanks you.” He fired one up and smiled. “Oh baby, oh yeah.”

“Goddamn junkie,” Pollard said. He took the pack and fired one up himself. “I’m supposed to be quit… can’t see it mattering now.”

“Where’s Elizabeth?” George said, blowing out smoke. “Aunt Else has all but accused me of kidnapping her.”

“She’s coming,” Cushing said. He cocked his head. “You sure as hell aren’t gonna believe what she found.”

They heard her coming down the steps, saw her enter the cabin. She offered Pollard the thinnest of smiles and gave George the obligatory death-stare. He winked at her. Maybe she didn’t like him and his mouth much, he figured, but she understood him. Understood him just fine. She stepped aside and four men stepped in behind her.

“Jesus H. Christ!” George said, jumping to his feet. “I can’t.. . holy shit!”

Pollard was up, too.

They both looked like they were seeing ghosts.

But there was nothing spooky there, just Menhaus, Fabrini, Saks, and Crycek. And for all them, it was like the ball had just dropped at midnight on New Year’s Eve.

Saks gave him his porcine, wicked smile. “Well, can’t say I’m surprised, George, figured you and Cushing were holed up somewhere swapping spit.”

That made George laugh. Didn’t seem like he could stop. “Yeah,” he gasped, “but the whole time we were thinking of you, Saks.”

“Shit,” he said.

George shook hands with Fabrini, his favorite muscle-bound Italian. Fabrini looked so glad to see him, he had tears in his eyes. And Menhaus? Same old Menhaus. Thinner, certainly, more lines on his face… but the same old Menhaus.

“Jolly Olly,” George said and they hugged, slapping each other on the back.

“Boy, I’m glad to see you guys.”

“Glad to see us?” Menhaus laughed. “Shit, after… what? A week with Saks here? We’re definitely ready for some human company.”

Fabrini chuckled.

Saks laughed despite himself. “And after all I’ve done for you.”

“Or to him, don’t you mean?” Fabrini said, very little humor in his words.

“Kiss my ass, Fagbrini.”

There was tension there, but it faded about the time the bottle started making the rounds. Jokes and insults passed around like cold germs. Cushing said very little, though there was plenty he wanted to enlighten them on. But not yet. Not now. Not until they settled in.

Elizabeth just stood there, looking uncomfortable like she’d just wandered into a men’s club. The talk was both salty and spicy, the language a little rough. She looked a little surprised and taken back by it.