The Last Passenger Read Online Free PDF Page B

ran off the bridge, the light from his lantern created mad shadows in the room’s corners. Just before crossing the doorway, he saw the ship’s logbook to the side of the command post. He grabbed it on the fly, and although one part of his brain told him the log should have been in the captain’s quarters, he clutched it tight and went down the metal steps two at a time, sending pounding echoes throughout the stairwell.
    Stepanek’s screams rose and fell as if he were a badly tuned radio losing its reception. Each time O’Leary stopped to catch his breath he listened closely, trying to detect where the cries were coming from. He crossed the banquet room in the dark and shouted Stepanek’s name. The shrieking continued as if he couldn’t hear O’Leary. Or wasn’t capable of responding.
    O’Leary found the opening of the stairwell leading down to the engine room and wavered. The darkness flooding that section of the ship seemed to possess its own density, like some sort of thick gel choking the air. He considered turning around and going back to the Pass of Ballaster for backup. But when Stepanek’s cry scaled two octaves, O’Leary ran on with renewed vigor. Still holding the ship’s log in one hand as if it were an improvised shield and his lantern in the other, he descended several flights, catching his breath at each landing.
    Having lost count of the number of stairs, he arrived at an area that split off in three directions. Trembling, he thought he could see a bit of yellow lantern light at the end of one corridor. O’Leary made his way toward the light and felt as if the air around him were growing hotter, thicker. The space crackled with electricity. He spotted Stepanek collapsed on the ground, curled into a ball, with his back to him. As he moved closer, the unmistakable scent of urine stung his nostrils.
    O’Leary placed his hand on the sailor’s shoulder to turn him over and let out a scream of pure terror. Stepanek was shaking uncontrollably. His eyes rolled madly about in their sockets and blood streamed from his mouth and nostrils. Horrified, O’Leary realized the sailor might have bitten his tongue.
    “Stepanek! Stepanek, wake up!”
    He shook him by the collar, but Stepanek’s mind seemed to be off in another especially cruel and horrific land. O’Leary decided he couldn’t take anymore and wouldn’t stay a moment longer on this cursed ship.
    He shoved the ship’s log down the front of his pants and lugged the sailor up on his shoulders like a cargo sack. He held the lantern in his free hand and retraced his steps up the staircase. As he walked he had the distinct impression that someone, or something , was behind him, but he did not dare look back to see.
    Don’t look, he thought. Keep walking. Get the hell out of here.
    Don’t look.
    The atmosphere was so electric that the hair on his arms stood on end as he climbed the stairs; his heart leaped into his throat. A monotonous buzzing echoed throughout the entire ship like the ringing of a dead tuning fork. The vibrations traveled up through the soles of his feet and hummed in his head. He wiped sweat from his forehead.
    He found himself in the banquet hall again. The back door led to the dance parlor and its ornate staircase. He was almost out.
    Then, O’Leary heard it. At first, between Stepanek’s moans and his own heavy breathing, he had not detected a soft yelping that came from his right. He moved his lantern in that direction, scared of what the light would reveal.
    But there was nothing except a pile of sheets haphazardly strewn across the dance floor. O’Leary swallowed, and a small spot of wetness spread in his underwear. The pile of sheets had not been there when he had passed by not ten minutes ago. He was sure of it.
    The yelping sounded again and the pile moved. In an almost hypnotic state, O’Leary watched the sheets come toward him, and the noises around him multiplied. A chair fell and plates crashed to the floor. The