Borealis by Ronald Malfi Page A

encircled his eyes and his lips quivered, vibrating the trail of saliva that held him to the toilet. “Never been seasick b’fore. All my time on boats, ain’t never been seasick. Funny, huh?”
    Charlie leaned in and pulled the flush chain. The commode growled and, with a whoosh, devoured the whole mess.
    â€œMike taking us home?”
    â€œThink so, yeah.”
    â€œI’m still seein’ him, Charlie. Every time I close my eyes, man, I see him—or what was left of him—in that holding tank. The water all pink, the space-spiders creepin’ and crawlin’ all over him. His flesh all white and hanging off in chunks like bits of uncooked chuh-chuh-chicken—” He leaned over the commode and retched.
    â€œGo lie down, Joe.”
    â€œThose crabs,” Joe said, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. “I mean, we can’t use ’em, right? We gotta let ’em back out into the sea. Christ, Charlie, they fucking ate him.”
    Uneasy, Charlie turned away and climbed the galley steps that led out into the milky haze of an overcast day. It felt like forty below, the wind practically searing the skin from his face. He chased the tip of a cigarette around with a lighter until he caught it. Sucked vehemently. It was all he could do not to stare at the hatch. How in the world had Sammy managed to open it on his own, let alone fall in there?
    He glanced up at the pilothouse. Just barely did he make out the seemingly disembodied face of Mike Fenty, floating like a white moon behind the salt-streaked windows. Lungs tugging on the smoke, Charlie ascended the steps toward the control room, his muscles almost audibly creaking in the cold, running one numbing hand along the iron rail. Around them, the sea was growing rough. Behind a veil of cumuli, the sun had repositioned itself in the sky, burning silver threads through the clouds.
    The control room door was locked.
    â€œHey, Mike.” Charlie knocked against the pane of glass. “Door’s locked.”
    Mike did not turn to look at him; he merely stood behind the wheel facing straight out the windows.
    Charlie knocked again, this time with more urgency. Through the pane, he could see that the control panel was unlit: still no power.
    â€œMike?”
    Snapped from his daze, Mike craned his neck to stare at Charlie. With the dedication of a death-row inmate, Mike leaned over and flipped the latch on the door. Charlie stepped inside, expecting the usual blast of heat from the floor vents, but it was almost as cold in the pilothouse as it was out on the foredeck.
    â€œYou takin’ us back to Saint Paul?”
    â€œSure,” Mike said.
    â€œGuess we’ll come back for the pots another time.”
    â€œSure will.”
    â€œFigure we might not want to touch the reds in the holding tank,” he suggested. “In case, you know, Sheriff Lapatu wants to have first look. Scene of the crime and all that, I’m guessing.”
    â€œWhat crime is that?” Mike said. He continued to stare out the grime-streaked, salted windows.
    â€œI guess not a crime, per se, but…well, you know, we prob’ly shouldn’t go messin’ in that tank, is all.” He put a hand on Mike’s shoulder. Still, the captain would not look at him. “You all right?”
    â€œSure am.”
    â€œCouldn’t get the power up?”
    â€œDon’t need it. Been navigating these waters since I was a teenager.”
    â€œLights are blinking and the petrol stove is cold.” Charlie tapped one of the floor vents with his boot. “Feels like the heat ain’t makin’ it up through the vents anymore, either. Like she’s givin’ up on us.”
    Mike swung his head around to face him, his eyes haunted and nearly fearful. “What do you mean ‘she’?”
    â€œThe boat. She. Listen, Mike, why don’t you head down, get something in your stomach. You’re burning