Free The Beast of Cretacea by Todd Strasser Page B

tones. Ishmael could see that Ms. Hussey responded differently to him than she did to most grown-ups, listening instead of arguing.
    When the man had finished, Ms. Hussey turned to the couple. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

Ishmael rouses to the sensation of dozens of liquid fingers tickling his skin. There’s a tightness around his chest and a loud hum in his ears. His jumbled thoughts slosh in a murky mist.
    Water flows around his body as the ocean slides past.
    Overhead the sky is deep blue. . . .
    This could be a dream, but it’s not. He’s being pulled slowly through the hot sea. The hum is from the wave racer running just a fraction over idle. The tightness around his chest is Gwen’s arms holding him. When Ishmael tries to move, pain shoots through his shoulder. Still, he swivels just enough to see that behind Gwen is Queequeg, his arms around her waist. Billy, still sitting on the back of the wave racer, has a grip on Queequeg’s PFD.
    Ishmael’s eyes meet Queequeg’s. His face and arms are bruised and scraped, but otherwise he appears unharmed. “You saved my life, friend.”
    As he tows them back to the
Pequod,
Flask can’t stop grumbling. “Never seen anythin’ like it. Neither a’ ya has any right to be alive.” He looks back at Ishmael. “Especially you, sonny. That hump came up right beneath ya. Woulda thought you were a goner fer sure.”
    “Did we get it?” Ishmael asks, despite the throbbing pain in his shoulder.
    “Ha!” Flask laughs harshly. “
That’s
all ya want to know? We ain’t got him yet, but we will. He’s still got Queequeg’s stick in him and he’s draggin’ the float so’s we can track him. This time tomorrow they’ll be slicin’ and dicin’ him on the deck.”
    “So we did good?” Gwen asks hopefully.
    Flask frowns. “No! Ya did terrible — ignorin’ a direct order not to fire, gettin’ the float caught, and not cuttin’ yer line, practically destroyin’ yer stick boat! Mark my word, Red, when we get back to the
Pequod,
there’s gonna be bloody bilge to pay.”
    Twenty minutes later, they’re lined up on the deck, their uniforms and PFDs dripping, while Starbuck demands, “What happened out there?”
    “They stuck a hump, sir,” Flask answers weakly.
    Starbuck stares incredulously at the four soggy nippers, then turns to the third mate. “You
let
them do that?”
    Flask lowers his head. “Didn’t happen like that, sir.”
    “Just how
did
it happen?”
    “I told ’em not to fire, sir.”
    “Forget the stick, Flask,” Starbuck snaps. “How’d you let them get close enough to do
anything
?”
    “We wasn’t that close, sir. We was running thirty, maybe forty yards parallel. You know, just fer a thrill before the beast dove. But then the hump, he . . . changed direction.”
    Just then, Stubb arrives breathless, adjusting his glasses and clutching his tablet. “I heard there was some kind of incident, Mr. Starbuck?”
    Subtle shifts in Starbuck’s expression make it plain that he’s not happy to see the fussy second mate. Flask, on the other hand, perks up. “This new young team here stuck its first hump. A big ’un. Got to figure the crew’ll appreciate it, considerin’ how little’s in the pot.”
    Behind them, cogs creak as a crane swings the dripping wreck of their chase boat overhead and lowers it to the deck.
    Stubb inhales sharply. “Oh, my!”
    The chase boat’s harpoon gun hangs loosely from its broken mount. One of the pontoons is gone, and seawater flows from the RTG compartment. While two sailors open the engine’s cover and douse it with fresh water, the crane angles back overboard and hauls up the missing pontoon. Stubb circles the wreckage, carefully recording the damage on his tablet before engaging in a hushed but heated discussion with Starbuck.
    Finally, the second mate addresses Flask. “The estimated damages will be approximately one thousand, Mr. Flask.”
    The third mate goes pale. “But, sir, with