From the corner of his eye he saw the pale blur that was Ruth's face drift out of sight. There was the lightest of footfalls on the stairs. Holding both flashlight and gun at arm's length, Chase began to edge sideways toward the door, not for an instant letting his attention waver from the crouching rodents. Their evil yellow eyes swiveled in their sockets, following the light. And careful and painstaking as he was, Chase couldn't prevent his feet making a rustling noise on the rubbish-strewn floorboards. The rats heard. Their eyes detected the movement of the light. They knew that their prey was seeking to elude them. Acting as if on command they bunched for attack, haunches flattening as they prepared to hurl themselves in a sleek black fury of gouging teeth and tearing claws and whipping tails into the beam of light.
Chase was nearly at the door, four or five shuffling steps away, the adrenaline priming his system for the leap through onto the landing and down the stairs--another step, and one more, almost there . . .
They came en masse.
The fastest and greediest shrieked as it took the slug in its snarling mouth. Bits of pink tongue and bloody splinters of teeth exploded as it twisted in midair and crashed onto the metal shelving. Chase continued to jerk the trigger mechanically in a reflex action of sheer terror, pumping shot after shot into the squealing mass of furry bodies, seeing lumps of flesh fly off, seeing an eyeball transformed into a ragged red hole, seeing a shredded stump of paw whirl away and strike the ceiling, leaving a spattered bloody star. Seeing every detail with perfect precision and clarity before he emptied the gun and flung himself sideways through the door.
At the bottom of the stairs Ruth stood holding the rifle at her shoulder, squinting through the sight. Ducking low to avoid her line of fire, Chase scrambled on hands and knees to their spread-out belongings and rummaged in a canvas carryall and snapped a fresh clip into the Browning.
Together they waited, side by side, for the rats to emerge from the black rectangle at the top of the stairs. Almost certainly he'd killed two and severely wounded another one. That left two of the bastards, always supposing there weren't more of them in the roof. Reinforcements. A whole fucking battalion of them. He felt light-headed, euphoric almost, his body charged up like a generator running at peak power. He knew that later he'd probably collapse in a quivering white-faced heap.
Minutes passed and the darkness at the top of the stairs remained empty, and when Chase probed it with the flashlight there were no slitted yellow eyes watching them.
Ruth cocked her head. "Can you hear that?"
They both listened as from above came the muted sounds of tearing, chewing, and snuffling: the slack salivatory sounds of animals feeding.
25
Knees drawn up, arms laced across his bloated belly, the man in the bunk moaned continuously and monotonously. His mouth was pulled back in an awful grimace of pain. His face was the color of moldy cheese.
"Come on, man, you must have
Frank Hanamura swung around and glared at the medical orderly, his tolerant good nature sorely tried. This was the third case in the past fourteen hours. Stomach cramps, vomiting, fever, swollen abdomen. And would you believe it, not even a qualified doctor on board! He calmed down a little; it wasn't fair taking it out on the kid, and besides it wouldn't do much good. The young orderly was frightened and way out of his depth.
"Are you sure it isn't food poisoning?"
"I don't know. It could be. But they've eaten the same food as the rest of us, haven't they? How come we're not affected?"
Hanamura turned back impatiently and leaned over the bunk, his glossy blue-black hair reflecting a sheen of light from the frosted globe on the bulkhead. "Gorsuch, can you hear me? Gorsuch!"
The man moaned, eyes creased shut, rocking himself.
"Gorsuch, what did you have for your last meal before the pains started? Can you remember? Can you tell me?"
A froth of some dark viscous substance had formed on the sick man's lips, like an oily scum. Hanamura drew back sharply at the smell. It stank of putrefaction, as if the man's intestines were rotting.
Without a word Hanamura left the cabin, his dark eyes clouded, and went up to the bridge. According to the chart the
