Walking toward my berth in the Dechaineux, I creep up behind the helmsman and thrust the blade of a table knife into the side of his neck. The helmsman’s neck contests the invasion; curious. Pushing forward in a motion intended to sever all blood vessels and his larynx, I am thwarted by the dullness of the knife. Instead of quick and quiet death, he gurgles a response as he turns in an attempt to retaliate.
Before the helmsman can defend himself, I shove four fingers of my left hand into the slot created in the side of his neck by the blade, I can feel his life spilling onto my hand, turning it red, wet, and slippery. Exercising care to not grab the spine, I grasp the larynx with both hands. I steady him with my foot on his shoulder and pull, ripping the entire esophageus out of his body.
The Fire Control Technician, who had been sleeping at his post, wakes briefly before I strangle him using the esophageus as a ligature. I take the knife strapped to his waist and use it to disembowel the Sonar Technician and eviscerate the Yeoman. The air in the control room is thick with the rusty salty odour of fresh blood. The aroma reminds me of the time I served in the slaughterhouse of the piggery.
I hear the captain shouting at me, I turn to face him, a fighting knife in my right hand and my left wielding six feet of entrails. Attempts to crack the viscera like a whip only yields a disappointing swish and splatters blood and partially digested food at the ceiling. I advance toward the captain. Behind me I hear the distinct click of the hammer being cocked on a Browning P-35 9mm.
“Stop!”, Jaxon commands sternly. Spinning around to face him, I see, standing in a pool of blood and offal, Jaxon, he has the Navy issue semi-automatic pistol trained at my forehead. The gun and the hand embracing it become the only focus of my attention. The adrenalin coursing through my body allows me to witness the next series of events in super slow motion.
In front of me is my friend, whom I do not wish to kill, but with that 9mm cannon pointed at me, he is an immediate threat. I decide slashing his arm with the knife will distract him enough for me to disarm him. I alter the grip of the knife from underhand to overhand in one fluid motion as I swing my knife wielding right hand up. I impressed myself with that grip change, done without dropping the knife; this time.
As my weapon, now in slash mode, inches closer to Jaxon’s forearm, I am intensely aware of the movement in Jaxon’s right index finger. The sound of the firing pin striking the Parabellum cartridge and the rearward movement of the gun’s slide confirm the action. The pistol jumps slightly in his hand. Next, I see the copper jacketed hollow point round exit the muzzle, followed by a plume of white smoke.
I watch the spent brass spin out from the side of the firearm as the rotating slug closes in on my forehead. The bullet reaches the bridge of my nose. The projectile pierces my skin, travelling through that fleshy space between skin and skull. Oddly the round hasn’t hit any pain nerves. I am aware as the first trickles of life leave my body. I try to lean into the slug, to hasten the inevitable.
The bullet proceeds to attack my skull, the initial splintering of bone creates insufferable pain. Bang! I wake up. The pounding in my head is unacceptable, I probably had a little too much of that high powered rum last night.