Saks had been asking him this question about every half an hour or so, needling him, trying to get under Crycek’s skin… and pretty much trying to get everyone riled up. Because Cook knew that’s what Saks was: a catalyst. That’s how he saw himself. The more disorder he could create, the sooner Menhaus and maybe even Fabrini – God forbid – would want him back in charge.
Crazy thing was, Cook had even considered handing back the reins to Saks. Wondering if maybe that arrogant, selfish piece of shit might have some ideas about what they should do that he would only share once he was firmly back in the driver’s seat. But, ultimately, Cook had weighed it out like a man deciding whether or not to emasculate himself with a paring knife… and decided it wasn’t exactly prudent.
“You hear me, you crazy shit?” Saks said. “How do you like this fog?”
Cook was ready to intercede, but Crycek turned and said, “Compared to what?”
Cook laughed.
Saks smiled, but he was seething beneath. Who was Crycek to smart off to him? To undermine the disorder he was sowing?
“Compared to Fabrini’s hot ass on a cold night, you freak.”
But that didn’t get him anything. And you could almost hear the reels spinning in Saks’s mind, hear him scratching that one off his big list of Things To Do. Hear his pencil scribbling up there: Note to self, Crycek is impervious to gay cracks. Try a new approach. Maybe insult his mother or father, talk about banging his kid sister.
Cook was watching the curtain of fog ringing them in. It was thick as woolpack now and you could barely see three feet to either side. For a while there, it had gotten dim and those mystic, eldritch moons had come out… Crycek nearly coming out of his skin at the sight of them. But then the fog had blown in or seeped in, and things had gotten lighter out again. Though it seemed like it was thinking about getting dark again, it just couldn’t make up its mind. Things were dimmer, yes, but they could still see each other fine and Cook was almost praying for darkness so he wouldn’t have to see their faces for awhile. The disappointment in them. The way they had been ravaged and lined by terror.
The weeds were very thick. Much thicker than earlier which told Cook they were getting closer to the heart of the seaweed sea. From time to time, he had his little crew row, but that never lasted because Menhaus would complain about his back and Saks would call him a pussy and Fabrini would tell them both to shut up and Crycek would start getting gloomy, asking Cook just what their hurry was. What was waiting out there for them was endlessly patient.
Damn. What a bunch.
“Hey, Crycek,” Saks said. “What’s your view on cannibalism?”
“Oh, knock it the hell off, Saks,” Fabrini said. “You’re really getting on my fucking nerves.”
Saks giggled. He looked satisfied. Well, maybe he couldn’t torment Crycek much, but he could still push Fabrini’s buttons just fine. He seemed happy with that.
“No, I’m serious, Fagbrini. I think we should all just sit down and discuss this. We may drift like this for weeks… in another month, we’ll be out of food and water. What then? I mean, we have to be practical, don’t you think? We have to decide who’s going on the spit. And when that times comes… what’re we gonna do? Flip a coin? Draw straws? Or just decide who’s most expendable?”
Fabrini was breathing real hard, veins pulsing at his temples. “I’m telling you, Cook, shut that prick up or I will.”
“Shit, Fabrini, settle down,” Saks chuckled. “You’re scaring the piss out of me over here.”
“Knock it off, Saks,” Cook said. “Or we’ll all throw your ass into the drink.”
“Yeah,” Menhaus piped in. “Quit being such an asshole.”
Saks chuckled again. “Listen, Menhaus, a man has to go with his strengths.” Dammit, it never ended.
Nobody had come off the Cyclops in real great shape. They were all haunted after that. Those monsters in the sea and fog… well, they were terrible things, but you could fight them and they were not intelligent. But that spider-woman on the Cyclops… well, she was an entirely different bag of chips, now wasn’t she? Even now, nearly a day since they’d fled from that mausoleum, Cook was having trouble putting any of it into context. For, really, what in the hell had Lydia Stoddard become? A ghost? A mutant? A crawling and skittering representation of the raw and shivering insanity that had peeled the skin from the Cyclops and everyone on board? Was she a physical manifestation or something supernatural? Jesus, it all boggled the mind and wilted the soul. But the very scary thing about it all… or scariest might have been apt, because it had all been scary and withering… was that whatever that woman had become, it was intelligent. It could plot and scheme and lure men to insanity and death. And as far as Cook was concerned, you could not fight something like that. Something that was equal parts madness, ectoplasm, and nightmare biology driven by a predatory, deranged mind.
