CHAPTER 32
Fil-pin Sea
Dennis Silva was
scratching his name on the rough-hewn wood of the boat with a small
knife he’d always kept in the shooting pouch he’s managed to save.
He’d already carved abbreviations of the names of all the other
Allied “survivors” of the monstrous wave: Princess “Becky,” “Lt.
Tucker,” “Lelaa,” “Cook,” “Brassy,” “Sis Audry,” “Larry.” For some
reason, he’d even added “Petey” before adding “D. Silva.” He
thought it was important, if the boats they’d gathered and lashed
together were ever found, that folks would know they’d made it this
far. Otherwise, nobody would ever know what happened to them. He
considered carving Rajendra’s name, but didn’t know how to spell
it, and didn’t have the energy. He couldn’t remember the
carpenter’s or engineer’s names. Dumb-ass, he thought of Rajendra. Silly, useless dunce finally rears up on his hind legs
like a man—when it didn’t make a difference anymore. Hanging on To
The tiller migh’ve seemed like a brave stunt at the time, but the
boat was going over no matter what. Silva shook his head.
The rest of the Imperials probably never even
woke up—never knew what hit Them. Whether they did or not, they
didn’t tie themselves in. Buncha dopes. Or were They? A quick
drownin’ might’ve been better than this slow, dessicatin’ to
death.
No. Scratchin’ names on a boat is one Thing—never hurts To
cover all The bases—but just givin’ up and dyin’ is for pansies.
One way or another, somethin’s going to have to kill
Dennis Silva! He finished his wood work
and put the knife back in his pouch. They’d collected and lashed
together eleven proas that would float, but all had lost their
masts and there wasn’t an intact sail left among them. There’d been
no sign of the rest of their little “fleet” and all the food, and
virtually all the water had been lost or spoiled. Over a hundred of
Lawrence’s people survived the wave, but they’d begun dying almost
immediately. The creatures could handle the sun and heat extremely
well, but only if they had plenty of water. Now, most of the
survivors were bundled beneath scraps of the rough Tagranesi
sailcloth, seeking protection from the sun. Looking around at the
mounds of gray “canvas,” Dennis saw little sign of life, and he
began to imagine he was the last one alive. The proas themselves
looked more like a logjam than anything else he could imagine,
bobbing and undulating with the swells beneath the merciless sun,
inexorably coasting northward with the current. They might wash up
on Japan someday, he thought, but they’d be long dead before
then.
He caught sight of a
blurry figure on the far side of the “logjam.” That was about as
far as he could see with any clarity anymore. Squinting, he
recognized Chinakru. The lizard leader had posted himself there as
a lookout, much as Silva had done on this side. Silva was strangely
encouraged that the old guy still had the juice to do it, even if
there was little point. Maybe, like Silva, he just didn’t have it
in him to give up while there was any life left in him at all. He
felt light-headed, and his tongue was swollen so tightly in his
mouth that he doubted he could speak, but he nodded solemnly,
respectfully, at the old lizard. Chinakru nodded back.
The boat shuddered
slightly and Sandra moved slowly, painfully, out from under the
modest shelter they’d rigged. Seeing Dennis, she crawled in his
direction, clumsily seating herself beside him.
“Three days,” she
managed to say thickly. Her lips were cracked and her eyes looked
dull.
“Yeph,” Silva
replied, surprised that he could talk—and by how bad his voice
sounded. He wished Sandra hadn’t come out. She looked terrible, and
seeing her only reminded him how badly he’d failed to protect her
and the others.
“S’vivors won’t ’ast
much ’onger now,” Sandra gasped.
“I
know.”
The canvas moved
again, and Lelaa crawled out to join them, panting. She didn’t look
as bad as Sandra, but only because of her fur. If anything, she’d
probably suffered worse. ’Cats generally needed even more water
than humans did.
“Wat’s dat sound?”
Lelaa asked, after several tries.
“What sound?” Dennis
croaked. All he could hear was a constant, ringing “reeeee” in his ears.
“Dat . . . rumble,
bubble sound.” Lelaa put her ear to the damp hull of the boat and
listened again. “Der it is,” she almost crooned. “Louder now. I
hear it asleep, and it waked ... woke me up. It’s
real.”
“So? It’s prob’ly a
mountain fish down there, fartin’. I bet somethin’ that big could
fart for an hour.”
Sandra shushed him.
“No, I hear it too.” She looked around them at the sea and saw a
large, low, fuzzy shape, creeping toward them from the south. “My
God!” she practically shouted, and fell down in the boat. Chinakru
was yelling something and the mounds of canvas began to
stir.
“It is a mountain fish!” Silva hissed, groping for the
Doom Whomper. “A baby one!” He tried to raise his massive weapon,
but it was just too heavy. “Hel . . . Help me with this thing,
Cap’n Lelaa!” he almost roared.
“No!” she said,
wonder creeping into her voice. “That’s no mountain fish!” she
declared, surprisingly clear.
“Well, whatever the
hell it is, gimme a—” Silva stopped, staring at the closing
apparition. “Uh . . . Is that . . . ?”
“Ess nineteen!” Lelaa
confirmed with utter certainty, helping Sandra back up. She worked
her mouth and tried to lick her dry lips. “Though maybe only your
God knows what she’s doing here . . . and how she managed it!” The
excitement in her voice aroused others in the proa and the canvas
fell away, revealing blinking eyes and haggard faces. “Former”
Tagranesi on the other boats began to stir as well, and Chinakru
was moving around his boat, alerting others.
The battered
submarine didn’t look much like her old self anymore; most of the
superstructure atop her pressure hull was twisted or gone. She
resembled a wallowing, listing, waterlogged tree trunk that had
been chewed on by a super lizard, but enough of her distinctive
characteristics remained to identify her. The four-inch-fifty gun
still stood, supported by the naked, reinforced structure beneath
it that had once been concealed by the foredeck. The straight up
and down bow was unmistakable, and though both were now fully
extended, the aft periscope was decidedly bent near the top. Of
course, the filthy, bloodstained men and ’Cats clinging to the
remains of the shattered conn tower removed any possible
doubt.
“Ess nineteen!”
shrieked Captain Lelaa, trying to make her cracking voice heard
over the two rumbling diesels as the sub slowed to a stop
nearby.
“Ahoy there!” came an
answering, almost unbelieving cry through a speaking trumpet.
“Captain Lelaa? Is that really you? Who the devil are all those . .
. creatures?”
Princess Rebecca
stood unsteadily, supported by Lawrence—who was in turn supported
by Abel.
“They are Lawrence’s
people,” Rebecca managed to cry. “Would you happen to have any
water to spare?”
Sandra looked at
Dennis, a grin further splitting her dry lips. “Your gun is empty
anyway, Mr. Silva, and your gunpowder is all wet!”
“A good thing too,”
Silva replied, strength seeming to surge back into his limbs as he
stared at the battered wreck before him. Clearly, the old submarine
had been through hell. He couldn’t wait to hear her story. “I bet
one shot would’ve finished her.”
Petey squirmed out
from under the heaped canvas and sluggishly hopped to the bulwark
beside Rebecca, where he goggled at the submarine. “Eat?” he moaned
plaintively.