raised by wolves

When we land, we stick to the plan.

Yolita, Verne, and Weston (who is now accompanied by a limping but hard-nosed Dole) spread out and clear the upper decks one at a time, snagging hostages and storing them somewhere convenient. Goober and I proceed below deck to the command center and the safe. We have what we call ATE on this mission, (as in “the dog ATE my homework,”) Authority to Expedite, meaning the Authority to decide that a particular soul needs to be Expedited along its mortal coil i.e., Authority to Kill People but ATKP or “atkhpuh,” comes out sounding like a muffled sneeze. Our job (cracking the safe—really, my job) is the most essential to the mission (stealing the gold), so our kills don’t count against us with The Agency (are you lost yet?). But I don’t kill unless I have to. And Goober doesn’t either unless you tell him to. Not exactly shining stars on the epaulets like in the military, but it’s about as close to rank as we have here, below Weston. In the eyes of The Agency we’re just a switch to be flipped. Faceless. Nameless. A game of numbers and figures moving on static fields that I’m happy to play. Easy.

I think of the monster in the water as Goober and I descend a ladder almost square in the middle of the upper deck, taking us below. There is thick smoke everywhere. I imagine that I am the monster in the water. Without a name. Without a face. Simply “Am.” Like an elemental or chemical force.

I smile and open fire into a crowd of screaming passengers mixed with the odd deckhand or officer and watch them go down fast. Potent stuff in these stun-tranqs Weston had put together. Remember? No killing. But they sure go down.

We find a goofy turd with a sailor’s cap on hiding in a closet in the next room. He’s got a rosary wrapped around his hands. He’s praying. How cute.

Goober yokes him up by the collar, a good foot in the air and says, “Safe. Now.”

The turd sputters and nods and then says, “This way,” and leads us down the cramped hallways below. Lots of narrow spaces and spots you have to hunch down so you don’t hit your head. Lots of blind turns. I’m surprised we haven’t run into any—

On the other side of this next door, the turd dives to the ground and yells, “There they are!” and the next thing I know I’m getting shot at. Security. I quickly side-step out of the line of fire and Goober does the same. I shake my head, tsk-tsk and Goober holds up three fingers. I nod. We pop back out and thup-thup-thup stun-tranqs all hit their marks and the sunglasses-and-black-suits “security” guys go down. The sailor, this stupid turd is praying again, belly down on the floor. I kick him hard in the thigh.

“Get up, asshole. Take us to the safe or you’re fucking dead.”

He does.

We work our way even further below deck, through what looks like crew’s quarters and maybe a cafeteria or something. I don’t know a lot about boats. Forgive me. Then finally, here we are: The Safe.

It’s a huge white door mounted on the other side of a huge white room that we’re cut off from by a thick glass barrier. There’s a door with a steel border and a serious set of complex electronic locks cut into the glass. Somewhere above us, I hear screaming and shots and general mayhem. “Crowd control.”

“Can you open this door?” I ask the turd. He shakes his head. “Who can?”

“Th-th-the c-c-c-captain,” he sputters.

“Where’s the c-c-c-captain, turd?” I ask. “Try not to spit on me when you answer.”

“I…I d-don’t know?” he says. I drive my forehead into his head and hear that satisfying crunch. My favorite sound next to breaking glass and tumblers turning in locks. Ahhhh.

“Where’s the captain?” I repeat myself (which I hate doing). Blood gushes from his nose and he moans in pain. He snorts and sniffles through the blood-laden mucous cascade and then sobs, “This way.”

“Bakarov to Weston,” Yolita’s voice on our earpieces.

“Weston reading, go ahead Yolita,”

“Decks B through D clear. Deck A’s burning up, but I think it’s empty and the fire-control on Deck B is keeping it from spreading. Forty hostages contained in Deck D ballroom. Five hostiles down.”

“Thank you, Yolita. Keep in touch.”

“Verne to Weston,” says that hissing creep.

“Go ahead Verne,” Weston says.

“Decks E, F, G, H and I clear and secure. Thirty hostages detained, waiting on your signal to move them to Deck D ballroom. Ten hostiles down, one out.” This ‘one out,’ means one killed. How Verne managed to kill a man with a gun full of stun-tranqs is beyond me…

“Dammit, Verne,” Weston growls. The psycho throws our cash in the toilet and, Flush, there it goes. “Move hostages now,” continues Weston. “Yolita, be ready to receive Verne.”

All the while this is going on, I’m tap-tap-tapping a nearby computer console, trying to find a hole in the system, an emergency shut-down or security maintenance drill I can use to trick the door into opening and letting me into that safe.

“Awaiting report from Parks and Goober,” Weston says over the earpiece. I put a finger to my gas mask, silencing Goober before he can get that mouth going. A lot of weird stuff on this here ship’s log, I notice thumbing through this file here, that file there. But that’s not what I ought to be doing. I check the security files and again, Weston’s in my ear going: “Awaiting report from Parks and Goober.”

I’m smiling behind my mask, even as the relays and loops go marching by on the screen. Weston hates it when I won’t report. And I hate these stupid earpieces, but whatever. What’s a little antagonism between team mates?

“Parks and Goober, one of you assholes had better report or I’m gonna come down there and shove my foot so far up yer—”

“Parks reporting. We’re at the safe. Running primary security drills now. One hostage detained, three hostiles down. Anyone got a fix on the captain? Our hostage says he’s got the key.”

“Wallace reporting. Parks’s on the computer now and—”

“Shut up, Goober,” Weston barks. “Yolita, Verne, find the captain. If he’s on Deck A, we’re gonna have to find another way to open that shit. Parks, keep at it.”

“A-ffirm-ative,” I say in my best 1950’s robot voice. “Dole, how’s that foot?”

Goober laughs, voice breaking into static over the earpiece, echoing a strange fraction of a second after I hear him laugh there in the room with me.

“Fuck you, Parks,” I can hear him say as I pluck the earpiece out and unsnap my gas mask and a warm smelly cascade of vomit drops out. I spit. “Parks out,” I reply as the mask drops to around my neck.

“Have you…?” Goober starts to ask.

“Yep,” I reply.

“The whole time?” he asks.

“Yep,” I tell him again.

“That’s disgusting,” he says. I wipe my mouth off on the back of my arm and rub my knuckles into my eyes and stretch. I lean down and run my eyes over the screen again. I look at Goober, who’s taking off his mask and shit and I say, “Think you could find me a chair?” He drops the mask and replies, “Fuck you, Parks.”

“No respect,” I say, shaking my head and leaning over the nearest important-looking computer console. “No respect around here at all.”