stroking his white beard. “And Stan’s right, there were three of us. You didn’t happen to pick up any floaters today, did you?”
John and Bob exchanged an odd look. “Yeah,” Bob said. “Like about a thousand of them. How did you know that?”
“On this ship?” asked Stan. “You picked them all up?”
John shook his head. “No,” he said. “Every ship took on a few. I think we have about sixty.”
“Seventy-one,” corrected Bob. “We have seventy-one and they’re all as dead as we are. That doesn’t mean they can’t work. Look, we’re about to run into a gale and unless you fancy being swept overboard, you had better follow us.”
“What difference does it make?” asked John. “They’ll both be dead soon, anyhow. You know the drill, Bob. This ship,” he said, pointing out to the other ships, “and all of those ships out there, we’re all going down. That’s what we do down here. We sink.”
“Not today,” said Smith. “Not if I can help it. We’re going to figure out a way to beat this thing. I want to get you people back up there,” he said, pointing up to the sky.”
“Yeah,” said Bob, “well good luck with that. We’ve been trying to get back for thirty-seven years. What makes you think you can figure it out.”
“Because,” Smith said, “because I read books.”
Stan rolled his eyes. If what Bob and John were telling them was the truth, which he had no reason to doubt, they would soon die in the terrible November storm which had claimed the Fitzgerald. Horribly, only to be doomed to relive the experience for all eternity. Stan also read books. He had read one on the Edmund Fitzgerald; the author had called it a Hoodoo ship, destined from the day she was launched to end up at the bottom of the Great Lakes. At her christening, the champagne bottle had been cracked against her hull three times before breaking. When she splashed into the water, the Edmund Fitzgerald promptly crashed into a pier. And if he remembered correctly, she had run aground one year and collided with another ship, the next. She had even lost her anchor in the Detroit River, though Stan had a hard time believing that was possible. They stood at the rail and made small talk for another half an hour. Stan could see that the men were happy to have strangers to talk to. They asked many questions about what was going on in the modern world.
“What about the Vikings,” asked John, “did they ever win the Superbowl?”
Stan shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, sadly.
“Didn’t think so,” admitted John.
There was a long moment of silence as the men stared out at the ragtag flotilla around them. “Let’s get these guys to work,” said Bob.
John nodded. “We’ve got a few hours of calm seas in front of us. You might as well get your feet wet. I’m sorry, but it’s the Captain’s orders. No loafers.”
Captain Smith set his square jaw and shrugged. He then pointed to a large tugboat that was heading their way. “Hang on, chaps,” he said. On the deck, a blue-faced sailor was hailing them. The tug putted next to the Fitzgerald and Stan’s heart leapt when he spotted Jada. Dressed in her tight-fitting wetsuit, she was surrounded by appreciative sailors. Stan wondered how long it had been since they had seen a real woman. Judging by the looks of the ancient tugboat, it had been many years, maybe even an entire century. Stan studied the blue-skinned sailors and then he gasped. Sulking at the back of the crowd, huddled together, he spotted four familiar faces. Marie and Butch, who were as blue skinned as the sailors. And his parents, Sol and Myra, who looked as white as snow by comparison. Butch and Marie were both wearing long black slickers, which billowed in the breeze.
The tug bumped against the hull of the Fitzgerald and a rope ladder was tossed up to John, who promptly secured it to the rail. Jada was the first to scamper up the side and below, the sailors watched her, appreciatively. She rushed into Stan’s arms and hugged him tight. “I thought you were dead,” she said. You’re not, are you?”
Stan smiled and shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. He brushed her braided hair out of her eyes and he gently kissed her.
Marie and Butch were next up the ladder and oddly enough, they both ignored Stan and Jada as they crossed over the rail. Stan felt a sickening feeling in his stomach as he studied their blue faces. They were dead; there was no doubt about that. They walked nearly to the rail on the opposite side of the Fitzgerald and huddled together.
His mother was next up the ladder. Overweight and clumsy, but strong as an aging gorilla, she hauled herself up the rope ladder. Stan stared down at her as she climbed, watching the rope ladder twist under her awkward steps. Twice, he thought she would fall back to the deck of the old tug. She hauled herself over the side, but unlike Butch and Marie, Myra Goobash strode directly in front of Stan and Jada. She pointed back to Butch and Marie. “Are you happy now?” she hissed. “You two killed my little Butchie and poor Marie. Look at them!”
“They look pretty happy to me,” said Jada. “Looks like they both got what they wanted.”
Stan’s mother raised her finger and stuck it in Jada’s face. “Butchie told me all about what happened. He and Marie were just playing around and you and Stan could’ve saved them. But did you? No. You saved those bratty McMahon twins, instead. Shame… shame on the both of you!”
“Thanks Mom,” said Stan. “How is it that you and Dad aren’t as blue as the rest of these people? How did you survive the fall?”
“What, do you take us as a pair of fools? We had our chutes on. We wanted to beat you here. And we did, how do you like that?”
“Good for you, Mom,” said Stan. He then turned away, only to see his father clamor over the rail and charge over to them.
“Murderers,” he said, accusingly, shaking his fist at Stan and Jada. “Don’t try to lie your way out of this one. Butch and Marie told us what happened. How could you? Jada, get away from him. You’re married to Butchie!”
Jada pointed across the deck. Marie and Butch were locked in a passionate embrace, their blue faces pressed together as one. “Not anymore,” she said. “He’s dead to me.”
“And it’s all your fault,” hissed Myra Goobash.
“Yeah,” agreed Sol, “they’re just trying to comfort each other. What would you know about being dead?”
“Excuse me,” said Captain Smith. “You two are Stan’s parents?”
“Only by name,” grunted Stan’s mother. “We’re disowning him; the minute we get back home.”
“Really?” asked Smith.
“Yes, really,” said Stan’s father. “What the hell is it to you, anyhow?”
Smith stepped right up to Sol Goobash, until their noses nearly touched. “These two are with me,” he said, sternly. “They risked their lives to come down here and try to save those two,” he said, pointing at Butch and Marie. “To try and save everyone who was lost today. I don’t appreciate your tone and I think it’s time the two of you leave. I’m going to say this once: if you say so much as another cross word to your son, and if we ever do make it back up to the real world, I’ll have you both brought up on mutiny charges and you’ll wish you were back down here. Do you understand me?”
“You can’t do that,” said Sol, dismissively.
“I certainly can,” said Smith. “I can do that and a whole lot more. Don’t you dare test me; I’m not in the mood for it. Now, get away from us. You people sicken me.”
Stan’s parents stood rooted to the deck and they challenged Smith with their eyes.
“Lovely,” said Bob.
“Maybe we should toss these two back,” said John.
“Maybe we should,” agreed Bob. “I’m tired of them already. I’ll be damned if I want to listen to these two for the rest of eternity.”
“Fine,” snapped Sol, “Myra and I are done with the two of you,” he said, turning to Stan. “Like your girlfriend said: you’re both dead to us.”
“Yeah,” agreed Stan’s mother. “I can’t stand the sight of either of you. Sol, get me away from them.”
“You both
can follow me,” said John. He then turned to Butch and Marie. “Break it up!” he shouted. “Follow me. The Captain doesn’t allow any loafers on his ship. You either earn your keep or you can swim with the fishes. There’s plenty of work to do.”
A moment later, Stan watched as the four of them were led down to the bow, where they soon disappeared behind a stout iron door. On the horizon, Stan could see the sky turning black and already the water was growing choppy as the wind picked up speed. Jada noticed it too and she clung to him.
“Looks like we’re in for a storm,” Bob said, humorlessly. “I’m sorry; the next few hours are going to be hell. You never really get used to it.”
“We won’t have to get used to it,” said Smith. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Whatever you say, buddy,” said Bob.
“What did you call me, sailor?” Smith asked, stepping close to Bob. “I’m Captain Edward John Smith and you damn well better respect my rank.”
Bob laughed. “Or what?” he asked. “How can you possibly make things worse for me? Have you even heard a word we’ve said?”
Stan stepped back as Captain Smith’s skin took on a bluish color. A few seconds later, his face was as blue as Bob’s. “What you said is unimportant. Did you hear my name? Do you know who you’re speaking to?”
Bob stared at him for a second and he shrugged. “Big deal, you’re as dead as the rest of us, Captain Edward John Smith… Captain Edward John