Voyages of the Seventh Carrier by Peter Albano

Author:Peter Albano [Albano, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Media
Published: 2019-07-18T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter XII

Lying in his bed, sedated and weak from the loss of blood, Brent Ross’ mind wandered freely, moving from one image to another like a beam of light illuminating objects in a dark room. And Sarah was there smiling and leading the way, turning, gesturing; but always slightly out of reach and elusive like a wisp of fog. He had known her or dreamed about her for most of yesterday – or so it seemed. And that had been a lifetime – too long for a fantasy – or was it? If she was real, he would follow her, track her to the edge of the world and beyond, claim her, feel her body against his.

And he had met those men in the alley; fought them. The memory brought a twitch, jarred his eyes wide open for a moment. But the light was bright. He closed his eyes, retreated back into the dark room and found the alley where the men waited, knives glistening. He felt the fear of those blades. And then the fear of himself and what he had become. “Never enough! Never enough!” rang through his brain. But whose words? Fujita’s? His own? His father’s?

He remembered his father’s temper. The uncontrollable, mindless drive to inflict punishment. He had felt it in the alley. Had become his father – or, worse, an animal. “No! No!”

An old man in white materialized over him, checking tubes, feeling his wrist. “Sleep, Yankee. Sleep!” Brent felt a needle in his arm. He obeyed.

*

The voices broke the blackness and dawn crept to the edge of the world. Turning his head slowly and blinking his eyes into focus, Brent found himself in a large white room lined with at least a score of bunks. Wide-open portholes let in brilliant sunlight and the noise and smells of the shipyard. His chest and abdomen throbbed. Sarah was real. And so were the men in the alley. And so were the knives.

He followed the voices to two old men in white smocks walking down the room’s central aisle past the foot of his cot. Although they talked in rapid Japanese, the American caught enough words to understand that Mineichi Fujimoto, the communications officer, had vanished the previous night. Apparently disoriented, the old man had wandered off into the yards and disappeared.

The old men stopped at the next cot, glanced at a chart, moved to the far side and then hunched over the patient. But the patient was not Japanese. Old and gaunt, he had sharp hard features that appeared hacked from driftwood by a dull ax. Wisps of long stringy blond hair mixed with gray and white escaped bandages wrapped around his head.

“Gott in himmel,” came from the bed, rocking Brent wide awake. Then Brent noticed the armed guard standing at the head of the bed. The man was obviously a prisoner and in pain.

One of the men in white spoke. “I am Chief Hospital Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi, and this is my assistant, Orderly Third Class Sokichi Torisu.

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