Episode 45: Rock the Boat

“I do not know who you are,” Captain Clark said, raising his hands slowly. “But I know now that you are in league with whatever is in the cargo hold.” Quasimodo Weishaupt did not react physically to the Captain’s words, although his mind began racing. He had not heard the Captain’s announcement over the intercom in his urgency.

“With their help,” he began to bluff quickly and deftly in Italian, “I am going to take this ship. We are going directly to Switzerland.” Captain Clark blinked; that was a stranger demand than he had been expecting.

“You cannot get to Switzerland from the sea. It is landlocked, and in the middle of the mountains.” Quasimodo twitched nervously and almost began to lower his gun. Captain Clark considered reaching to grab it, but did not. He hoped that this crazy man would be easy enough to deal with.

“Then take us to the point nearest to Switzerland along this sea path.” Quasimodo commanded.

“That will add at least five hours to the time it will take to get to land.”

“And will cut at least ten hours off of the time it will take me to get to Switzerland. Now, Do as I command, or I will bring my allies up from the cargo hold.” Quasimodo shook his gun intimidatingly, an international sign for “turn around!” Captain Clark obeyed, slipped down a GPS map and compass. He quickly calculated a path to the Northernmost part of Italy and set the helm in that direction. He gradually turned the engine of the ship to its maximum speed, and began watching the instruments carefully.

He hoped that First Mate Jesus would not be able to find Mate Rozenkrantzandgildanstern anytime soon.

* * *

First Mate Jesus knocked as hard as he could on the door to Mate Rozenkrantzandgildanstern’s room. He waited a very short moment, and then did again. The Mate was not responding. Jesus grumbled, imagining that they too had vanished. He did not like this tendency of people to vanish tonight. It did not go well with screaming and gunfire. It was extremely unsettling. More than that, though First Mate Jesus did not concern himself with things like this usually, it was worrying. He reached down for the doorknob and hoped that it was better cared for than the one to Second Mate No-Name’s room. He gripped it, and pushed it open.

Inside, he was surprised to find two beds; each contained a sleeping figure. Why, he wondered, would Mate Rozenkrantzandgildanstern need two beds? At first he thought maybe he had a son or daughter that he had to take with him on trips; he had never bothered to learn much about the Mate’s family life, after all, and neither had anyone else. But no, he realized quickly, both figures were male and approximately the same age. He wondered for a moment if perhaps the two were lovers-something that First Mate Jesus would not care about at all, because it was their business-but quickly realized that if they were, they would sleep in the same bed. And then he noticed that one of the beds was not really a bed at all; it was a cot, on which the sleeper barely fit. Finally it made sense; an un-ticketed passenger! Ah, well, that was nothing to be concerned about now. He moved to rouse the Mate in his bed.

Wait, that didn’t look quite like Mate Rozenkrantzandgildanstern… He had the right eyes-maybe-but not the right, well, anything else. First Mate Jesus was very confused. He looked at the second man in his cot; he had the right haircut. Jesus sighed in exasperation, and stopped caring. He reached out and shook both of them; they both woke with a start and rolled over to look at him.

“What’s happening?” the one in the bed asked wearily in Italian. The one in the cot nodded and rubbed his eyes.

“We don’t know,” Jesus could not decide which of the two to look at; his head kept swinging back and forth. He didn’t risk calling either of them by name, in case he called the wrong one the only name either could have so far as he knew. The sentence he had just thought threatened to destroy his sanity, but the concern for his life overrode this and he continued. “There is something in the cargo hold, and the frequencies are filled with horrible screams of pain and death.”

“Oh, god, not again,” the one on the cot said.

“I hope there aren’t barrels this time,” the one on the bed grumbled.

“Or incomprehensible non-Euclidean angles.”

“What incomprehensible non-Euclidean angles?”

“Last time, we ended up on an island, remember?”

“Not really, and besides, it was a long time ago; last time, we ended up on an island.”

First Mate Jesus watched this exchange in bewilderment. He really did not understand any of what was happening anywhere, and he didn’t want to understand anymore.

“The captain wants you, Mate Rozenkrantzandgildanstern.”

“Yessir!” Both of them said at once. First Mate Jesus almost hesitated, but changed his mind and turned to return to the helm.

* * *

“You aren’t getting all of them!” Gaz screamed. “There are too many!” Zombies were still coming up the corridor, and, despite Bob the Assassin’s perfect accuracy, they were slowly closing in over the mountain of safe-corpses. He wasn’t used to close range assassinations like this; he was used to taking the time to aim and focus and shoot. He frowned, pulled his gun close to him, and reached down to scoop up his fallen sunglasses..

“Head up,” he commanded brusquely, before turning and running up the corridor. Gaz followed him without hesitation. They rounded a corner in the corridor and encountered a door to the outside of the ship. Bob hesitated for only half a moment before throwing the door open. He advanced into the morning; it was light, but not very due to dreary cloud cover. A light drizzle fell over the boat, making the outer deck very slightly slippery. Bob slowed his speed just enough to ensure a maintained balance, and dashed up a staircase one person wide to a higher deck. He assumed that, since the enemy was coming from below, higher ground would give him a tactical advantage. A good assassin always takes every tactical advantage open to him. Gaz knew that this was what he was doing immediately, being an intelligent young woman, and sincerely hoped that his assumption was correct.

When they were both up, Bob put his rifle down at the edge of the staircase and, after pulling a sort of tripod thing out of his jacket, unfolding it, and affixing the rifle to its top, pointed the rifle downwards. He put a fresh ammo feed in, and slipped the old, unexpired one into a pocket on the inside of his jacket. When he pulled his hand out, he held two handguns which he quickly checked the clips on. He held one up towards Gaz without looking at her. She took it.

“I would prefer to focus my attention on the area where the enemy definitely is.” He said as if he were teaching her how an assassin worked. “You are to watch the direction down this deck that is open. If anyone comes, fire directly at them, no matter what form they take. The head is the preferable target, but I do not expect you as a non-professional to be capable of hitting that consistently. Aim for the figure, and do not concern yourself with the head, as most targets will be disabled by any hit to the main body. Do not fire until you are sure there is someone. Do not say anything if you think there is someone; I will know we are in danger by the sound of your shot. Do not concern yourself with anything ahead of me or elsewhere on the deck below; they are my concern. Do not move more than two feet from where you are; wait for targets to come to you. Do you understand?”

Gaz nodded, forgetting that he could not see her; he did, because of his specially reflective sunglasses. Even so, he repeated “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Gaz said, forcing calmness into her voice. “I do understand. I will do what you have said. Thank you.”

“Bear in mind that I have not abandoned you only because you seem to show promise of usefulness,” Bob said after a moment. “The very fact that you know I exist means that you know too much for the long run. For the moment, we both need each other. When we are no longer in danger, I will have to make a decision about you.” Gaz blinked, and breathed in that halting frightened way of someone who does not want to cry. Bob shifted uneasily, wondering what he was supposed to have said.

They waited.

* * *

Burt and Daisy began, as you read last time, by charging into the zombie hoard. Both had started out simply; Burt begun smacking zombies in the torso with his broom or mop, which knocked most of them over and snapped some of the older ones in half, and Daisy had begun a whirling, graceful, even ballet-like pattern of stabbing and slicing with a pair of Deli knives. Neither at any time stopped to see the fates of their targets, and in this fashion, Burt moving too powerfully to let the zombies anywhere near him and Daisy moving too quickly for the zombies to actually touch her, the both of them found themselves on a third side of the cargo hold, without any doors. Daisy smiled proudly at Burt, who returned to her a look of acceptance of everything. Together, they turned away from the steely wall and surveyed the damage.

It took a moment for them to process that they had done almost nothing to the horde. Daisy noticed now that there were some biting heads and clawing arms struggling near the ankles of the majority. She looked to Burt.

“Weaknesses?” Burt asked brusquely.

“I was never trained in combat with this kind of invincible creature.”

“Their weaknesses, I mean.”

“Bastard.”

“I don’t know any either.”

“Strategic withdrawal,” Daisy said automatically. “Nearest door?”

“The one we came through.”

“Let’s go. Just don’t die,” the two of them leapt forward, and carefully began carving their way to the door they had come through. They moved more slowly and unsurely this time, because of their failure last time. Burt had the misfortune to notice one of his snapped-victims from the earlier assault grabbing his ankle at the very last moment; he had the fortune to pull his ankle away and crush the ankle-biter’s skull with his still strong broom.

They pushed their way towards the door.

* * *

John the Master Thief was now attached safely, by his climbing gear, to the top of a corridor which he estimated to be directly beneath the ship’s helm room. He clung desperately to the ceiling as he caught his breath and allowed the fear to wash over him. He had learned one way to deal with fear many years ago: he lets it wash over him, run its course, and then he no longer wanted to scream and vomit. He could then get his thoughts in order, which he soon did this time.

After about ten minutes of gripping the ceiling, he let himself drop, stood up, detached the suction cups from his hands and knees, brushed himself off, and walked calmly down another corridor. He spun and stared momentarily after a loud sound burst forth from where he had been, and a matching pair of holes appeared on the ceiling and floor at that same point. He smirked at his latest escape from death, having conquered fear for a while, and went on his way.

* * *

“So who are you,” Captain Clark asked his captor, hands raised, eyes glued to the meters and displays of the ship’s current status.

“That is not your concern,” Quasimodo Weishaupt said gruffly, standing threateningly a few feet behind him, directly in front of the door.

“You’ve hijacked my ship in the middle of a massive crisis without a word of explanation. Who you are is very much my concern.”

“It is not your concern!” Weishaupt boomed, and fired into the floor.

“Alright,” Captain Clark said meekly. A moment passed; all that they could hear was the disturbingly mundane lapping of the water against the hull of the ship.

“I am Quasimodo Weishaupt, the rightful heir to the throne of Bavaria,” the hijacker announced after a moment.

“I thought this wasn’t my concern,” the captain muttered.

Quasimodo ignored him and continued. “I am too late in my life and of improper birth to take the throne, and as such…” Quasimodo grunted and stumbled forward; the voice of First Mate Jesus cut through the cabin.

“I found Mate Rozenkrantzandgildanstern, and… Huh?” Quasimodo had spun and fired his gun. The bullet had lodged itself in First Mate Jesus’ stomach, and he was very confused at this development. Captain Clark took the opportunity to leap onto Quasimodo Weishaupt and try to wrestle the gun away. Mates Rozenkrantz and Gildanstern rushed into the room to pull First Mate Jesus to the side, out of some unusual instinct. The Captain and the Hijacker wrestled around vertically for a moment, and the latter finally escaped from the grip of the former; the gun, however, was now held by both of them, and pointed directly up. As they struggled invisibly with each other, and First Mate Jesus began to bleed to death, and Mates Rozenkrantz and Gildanstern crouched around uselessly, a new voice chimed from the door to the cabin.

“I’m here to steal the shi… Oh, I see, someone’s already doing it.” John the Thief smiled to an unwatching five. “Alright, you two go ahead and struggle with each other, and you three go ahead and be there. I’ll steer us to land.” He sidled around the struggling hijacker and Captain, neither of whom could spare their attention for him. First Mate Jesus was too focused on his bleeding to do anything, and Mates Rozenkrantz and Gildanstern thought that letting him take control was as good a plan as any. Unchallenged, John took the wheel and, after a cursory glance at the compass and map, turned towards land.

“This isn’t much tougher than flying,” he chuckled aloud.

* * *

Bob fired his rifle into the crowd at the bottom of the stairs. He was glad that the enemy had not presented any further obstacles; this was the only defense he could think of against them that would not require at least ten un-had minutes of set-up. As it was, he was keeping the entire force from advancing farther than the second stair from the bottom. He had, by this time, set down his hand-gun, realizing that he would not need it as all of the enemy combatants were focused on getting up the stairs to him rather than going around. He worried that eventually they would get smarter-and then worried that they were stupid without a reason.

Gaz had not yet fired her gun, but was getting antsy. She, despite her orders, occasionally glanced down the stairs at Bob’s field. There was a barricade of corpses beginning to form at the bottom of the stairs, and s stench began to rise from it. She swallowed hard, and held her gun forward.

A shadow moved around a round protrusion from the ship; Gaz pulled her finger closer to the trigger. The shadow moved again, and seemed to get closer. Gaz tried to focus the gun on it, and it moved again; she pulled the trigger. The shadow spun wildly, there was a clang, and it was in the air flying towards she and Bob. Gaz screamed as it fell towards her, and pulled the trigger madly twice more. The shadow spun mid-air, and there were two clangs. Gaz felt something smack her hand, and felt the gun fly to just beneath Bob. He spun and raised his own handgun at the assailant.

A thin and buff woman with her brown hair in a ponytail, a blue blood-stained apron on her front, a belt full of cooking sprays and utensils, and two frying pans in her hands stood above Gaz, with those frying pans held inches around her head. Bob pointed the gun at her aggressively.

“Don’t shoot at me,” Daisy growled, “Or your friend gets her head crushed.” Bob grunted, and lowered his gun. He returned to his rifle and fired into the crowd.

“Release her.” He said bitterly. “She thought you were an enemy. She is new to the game. She did not realize that you were a kitchen ninja as I would have.” Daisy smirked, and pulled her frying pans away. Gaz sighed, and looked at her.

“I’m sorry?” She said hesitantly. Daisy smirked at her.

“An amateur assassin should not be able to come so close to hitting a Kung Food adept.”

“She is mine,” Bob growled. “Do not consider it.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Gaz asked suddenly. Bob hesitated before his next shot, but said nothing. Daisy chuckled lightly, and then took on a grave expression.

“They’ve killed a master of Broom Jitsu,” she said. “I had to abandon him in the cargo hold. I do not know who either of you truly are, though your floppy hat tells me that you are someone I should wish to ally myself with.”

“Do not expect success in this,” Bob said gruffly. “Though for now, it is in all our best interests. Prepare for combat.”

Gaz stared between the two of them. This was not something that she had been expecting. All thought was eradicated from her mind when something shiny glinted through the air. She leapt down, grabbed her gun, and fired madly into the air. Daisy the kitchen ninja stared at her for a moment, and Bob took a glance at her through his sunglasses.

A large spray of water leapt over the edge of the boat, caused by the crash of something massive, and organic. Gaz looked over the edge, which was just close enough to see over. She grinned.

There lay a giant Jellyfish.