Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius - Kevin J Anderson [38]
He sat and listened and thought about his boyhood in Nantes, his days exploring the world in his imagination with young Jules Verne . . . and flirting with Caroline Aronnax. Nemo kept seeing the face of kindly Captain Grant, thinking of how the man had used his last pistol shot to save him before falling prey to Captain Noseless.
Nemo spent the entire night wide awake in grief and despair. He faced the overwhelming fear that clamored to rule his consciousness, and by dawn he had come through the worst of it. After much contemplation, Nemo decided to live. Somehow
#
During the worst heat of the blistering day, Nemo covered himself with the wet canvas and curled up under it.
Sometime during the second day he devoured the dead chicken raw. Hunger and weakness drove back his natural reluctance to eat the uncooked meat, since his survival was more important than his preferences. Before long, the chicken would rot and do him no good. So he sucked every drop of moisture from the flesh, chewed the fat for every scrap of energy it could provide.
Finished, he made the mistake of tossing the entrails over the side, which attracted the sharks again. One persistent shark circled, sensing more food atop the lashed crates. Its fin traced a spiral, coming closer and closer. Looking into the water, Nemo could see its sleek torpedo form; it reminded him of what Captain Grant had told him about Robert Fulton’s sub-marine boat, which had been designed to move underwater like an armor-plated fish.
The shark finally grew tired or impatient -- and rammed Nemo’s rickety raft. Hastily knotted ropes strained as the crates lurched.
The impact nearly threw Nemo overboard, but he grabbed the rough ropes to keep his balance. His left foot splashed into the water, but he yanked it back onto the wooden raft. The shark returned for another lunge, its soulless black eyes filled with obsession and hunger.
The shark rammed again, cracking some of the boards. Knowing the crates wouldn’t last long under such an onslaught, Nemo spread his feet apart on the uneven surface and snatched up the splintered wooden pole. It wasn’t much of a spear, but it was the only weapon he had.
On the Coralie Ned Land had caught several sharks along the coast of Madagascar. Nemo knew that such a fish had tough hide, reminiscent of chain-mail armor with overlapping scales, rough like sandpaper. He also knew that the snout was the shark’s most sensitive spot.
As the killer fish came at him again, Nemo braced himself and jabbed with the spear. The jagged point scraped the shark’s head, missing the sensitive nose and sliding off the hard scales between its eyes. Startled, the fast-moving creature swerved, missed the crates, and dove deep before it could cause further damage to the raft. Nemo withdrew his spear, held it tighter . . . waiting.
The shark came up from below and rammed the crates. They creaked, but held. Nemo hoped the bottoms of the boxes hadn’t burst, or he would lose whatever resources he had managed to salvage.
Again, the shark returned. Its head and snout protruded from the water, jaws wide open like a two-man saw wrapped into a circle. Seeing the sharp teeth and wet, red mouth, Nemo fought off disorientation. One slip could send him head-first into that hungry maw. With a weird clarity, he recalled the three-fingered sailor at the docks of Ile Feydeau whose shipmate had been swallowed whole. He forced the thought away.
Marshalling his strength, Nemo raised the splintered end of his spear -- and jabbed. The sharp wooden point plunged deep into the fish’s nose. The rough spear gouged a jagged wound in its tough skin.
The shark thrashed, tearing the weapon from Nemo’s grip. Splinters sliced open the young man’s slick palms, but he felt no pain. Not yet. The wooden rod clattered onto the crates, and he scrabbled for