Beyond the Ice Limit

68

AFTER THEIR WOULD-BE jailer had sealed the hatch, Eli Glinn could make out the clang of his departing footsteps. They had been put in the lowest part of the hold, called the lazarette, which contained the ship’s steering gear and enclosed the hull seals for the azimuthing propulsion pod. It was dark and hot. Below the steel-grate floor, he could hear water sloshing around and the sucking sound of a bilge pump.

He could also hear a gathering noise all around them, a chorus of rustling and scratching: the worms, emerging from their hiding places.

“The scientist in me,” said Wong, “wonders how it works. I mean, you get this worm up your nose and into your brain, and then you’re doing the creature’s bidding. But you have no idea that’s what you’re doing. How do the infected people rationalize their actions?”

Glinn felt a certain comfort in the distraction this problem afforded. “Human beings,” he said, “have a bottomless capacity for rationalization and self-deception. The worms simply jack into that capacity.”

“True. But do you suffer amnesia? Do you remember a worm crawling up your nose?”

“I imagine we’ll soon find out,” said McFarlane.

In the darkness, Glinn was sorry he couldn’t check his watch to tell the time. There were only minutes to go before the explosion. He wondered if the ship was inside or outside of the danger zone. He hoped inside, and that the ship’s destruction would be quick.

McFarlane gave a shout. “Son of a bitch! Fucking worm!” Glinn heard him moving around, stomping and shuffling.

“Ugh!” Wong brushed off a worm and slapped at her clothing. “They’re all over!”

He heard, around his feet, the sound of the gathering worms like the rustling of autumn leaves. He felt one begin to slide up inside one pant leg, then the other. He shook his limbs, slapping at the clothing even as he realized he was only delaying the inevitable. Maybe he should submit. But somehow he couldn’t do that—the feeling of the worms crawling on his flesh was so revolting that he slapped and kicked at them, trying to shake them off. But there were too many, too many, and they clung to the skin in a sticky sort of way.

Garza was shouting, McFarlane was swearing, Wong was screaming. The hold filled with their cries. And still the worms came…

And then it happened. It was as if they were inside a bass drum and someone abruptly pounded it, viciously, with a mallet. It was a boom so deep and so violent that it shook Glinn to his very bones, shook the brain within his skull, shook him into oblivion…

But not for long. He came to lying on the grate, with a splitting headache, his ears buzzing. It was still dark. The scritching of the worms was gone—to be replaced by the sound of roaring water.

“Sam?” he croaked.

A groan.

“Rosemarie?” Glinn felt around and located her, giving her face a light pat, then another. “Rosemarie?”

She gasped. He helped her sit up. “My head,” she murmured.

“You hear that?” came Garza’s voice. “The explosion ruptured the hull. The ship is sinking.”

“And we’re locked in the hold,” said Wong, her own voice strengthening. “From worms to water. Pick your fate.”

Meanwhile, the throbbing sound of the engine had become a grinding noise. After a moment, it ceased altogether.

“Anybody have any ideas on how we might get out of here before we drown?” Glinn asked.

“No,” said McFarlane in a low voice.

“I do,” said Wong.

“Now’s the time to tell us.”

“We find out how the worms got in here. And we go out that way.”

“That’s right,” said Garza. “And we know how the worms got in here: through the ventilation shafts. Even a hold as deep as this one—especially one this deep—has to have serious ventilation.”

Glinn heard Garza rise and begin feeling along the slanted bulkhead of the lazarette, tapping the walls. There was a hollow bang.

“Here it is,” he said. “And here’s a gasket. Just follow the sound of my voice. We’ll crawl out of here.”