Borealis by Ronald Malfi

punctured. At least, as far as Charlie could tell from peering over the side…
    A cigarette dangling from his chapped, bloodless lips, McEwan appeared beside him. “The fuck’s Mike doing?” he shouted over the sudden grinding of gears sounding up from the engine room. He waved a hand in the direction of the pilothouse but the lights behind the glass had gone dim; Mike Fenty was nothing more than a ghost among shadows.
    â€œSomething’s funny,” Charlie whispered.
    â€œYeah,” McEwan agreed, his voice scratchy. “A regular fucking riot.”
    Bryan was cursing at the petrol stove when, five minutes later, Charlie and McEwan came down the galley steps.
    â€œDamn thing won’t work,” Bryan growled, dropping a fist on top of the unit. “Useless.”
    â€œMaybe needs more fuel?” Charlie suggested.
    â€œIt’s full. I just checked. And look.” He reached up and slammed one of the cupboard doors, cracking it against its frame. It rebounded, easing itself back open. “See that?” said Bryan. The early stirrings of insanity glittered behind his eyes. Laughed humorlessly. “None of them close.” He ran one finger along the inside of the door, prodding the magnetic panel screwed into the wood. “The magnets don’t work anymore. None of ’em do.”
    For the first time, Charlie noticed all the cupboard doors were standing open.
    Grumbling, McEwan retrieved a bottle of vodka from one of the open cupboards then dropped his considerable bulk, in tandem with a piggish grunt, into the booth. “Go complain to Fenty,” he said, unscrewing the cap off the bottle. “It’s his piece of shit rig.”
    Still glaring down at the petrol stove, Bryan said, “I don’t get it. Everything worked fine until now.”
    â€œTo the kid,” McEwan toasted, bringing the bottle of vodka to his lips.
    â€œHow the hell did he get down there?” Bryan asked, sliding into the booth beside McEwan. He grabbed the bottle from McEwan’s lips and took a swing himself. “What was he thinking?”
    â€œMike’s right,” Charlie said, folding his arms. “Hatch is too heavy for one man to lift. And Sammy, he weren’t no Superman.”
    â€œSounds to me,” McEwan said, “you’re accusing one of us of bein’ there when it happened.” Without expression, he snatched the bottle back from Bryan. “Maybe even insinuatin’ we had somethin’ to do with him dying.”
    â€œI don’t know what I’m insinuating,” said Charlie.
    â€œWhy don’t you go ahead and say what’s on your mind, then?”
    â€œI’d just like someone to explain to me how that kid got himself killed in the holding tank, that’s all. Kid’s dead. I’d like to know how it happened.”
    In the overhead, the lights blinked in their fixtures. All three of them cast wary glances. The ship was keeling to one side, items slid out of the open cupboards and onto the floor. A bag of sugar spilled like beach sand across the counter.
    â€œWe’re turning around,” Bryan observed. “Mike’s taking us back.”
    â€œWhat about the pots?” McEwan said.
    â€œPots ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Charlie said. He turned and rolled out of the galley, both hands planted on either wall for support as he made his way down the canting corridor. The bluish light from the head shone in the darkness. Joe was staring into the commode, his legs folded up under him, a dazed expression on his face. As Charlie approached, Joe turned his head slowly to address him, a silvery tightrope of spittle bowing from his lower lip to the rim of the toilet.
    â€œHey, Charlie.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Joe?”
    â€œSick.” And indeed he looked like death. In the bluish light of the tiny latrine, his skin had adopted a translucence that was almost corpselike. Dark rings