Dead Water Zone - Kenneth Oppel [27]
He pressed his face into her hair, breathing its warm perfume, wanting to be swallowed up by it. Nothing mattered except this.
But she suddenly stiffened.
“What is it?” he asked, embarrassed and confused.
With a swift movement, she reached up and extinguished the lantern.
“There’s someone walking along the pier,” she said from the sudden darkness.
9
PAUL KNOCKED ASIDE the ragged curtains and peered out into the night. At first he saw only the long, dark line of the pier, shrouded in mist. But after a few moments, his eyes adjusted, and he spotted a vertical brushstroke of darkness blending with the water and the distant buildings.
“There’s three of them,” breathed Monica, looking over his shoulder.
As Paul continued to stare, he saw a second dark form and a third, walking in line down the pier.
“It’s Sked and his fun friends,” Monica said, letting the curtains fall back into place. “They don’t usually hang out around here.”
“They can’t be looking for us,” Paul muttered.
“It’s time to leave.”
Paul hurried on deck after her. The cool of the night air made him shiver.
“Cast us off,” Monica whispered from the wheel.
He reached over the side and fumbled with the knot. The engine kicked over with a noisy wheeze, then died. Fingers tugging numbly at the painter, he looked anxiously down the pier. They’d been spotted. Sked and his friends were running now, their boots thudding against the planking. For a second time the engine roared to life, racing for a few seconds before sputtering out. Monica swore.
Paul clawed at the knot, his hands trembling. He worked a strand loose. Come on! The boat’s motor growled uncertainly and then strengthened.
“We’re gone!” Monica shouted. The cabin cruiser lurched away from the pier, throwing Paul across the deck.
“It’s still tied!” he cried out.
The boat heaved back, the painter taut as a tightrope. Sked was almost at the pier’s edge, and he jumped. With a whip’s crack, the painter ripped the metal cleat out of the pier, and the boat surged ahead. Not quickly enough. Paul watched in horror as Sked sailed through the air and landed on deck in a clumsy crouch. Paul tried to scramble out of the way, but Sked brought a steel-toed boot down on his hand. Swearing, he butted his whole body against Sked’s legs, knocking him against the boat’s railing.
“Get him off!” he heard Monica yell. Her voice sounded a long way away.
He pushed himself quickly to his feet and faced Sked. “All alone, aren’t you? No friends this time.” His voice was trembling, but he noticed that Sked looked uncertain.
“You’re swimming home, Sked.”
The spider boy laughed—a shrill, demented hooting that sent terror through Paul. Then Sked lunged. He clamped one thick hand around Paul’s windpipe, the other onto his ear, as if trying to rip it off his head. The searing pain paralyzed Paul for a second. He felt himself gag for breath. Light bloomed in the corners of his eyes—a bright, desperate purple. Very detached, he realized he was being strangled. Sked was trying to kill him. He was looking into Sked’s fevered, pockmarked face, smelling his breath. He was going to die.
His vision wavered, and for a moment he was looking into the face of Randy Smith. With a sudden rage he drove his numb fist into Sked’s chin, and the hands loosened. Paul felt a burst of dark, intense pleasure. He lashed out again, punching Sked in the stomach, winding him. The hands fell away from his throat and ear. Another punch in the face sent Sked staggering back. Paul danced forward and struck him again. He realized he was bellowing, a deep guttural roar racking his throat. He could feel the superb strength