FOX, Book Four, Part 1, The Ship
Michael gray Griffith
Book Four
The Ship
Chapter
The seagull had recovered from whatever had made it sick, and in less than a week, it had forgotten that it had been ill. But on the morning of the eighth day, while flying up the coast from Seal Island, it started to feel queasy again. Over the water at the time, it decided to head for the mainland, but as its bowels rumbled, it soon realized it wouldn’t make it. Instead, it landed on the bow of a container ship heading into the port of Fremantle. There, with eyes alert for humans, it rested while waiting for the illness to pass. But it got worse instead of better, and as the men started moving on the decks, it hid as best it could and hoped.
During the night, a starving rat discovered it and began eating it. It died a short time later. As the rat spat out the feathers to get to the flesh, it couldn’t believe its luck. After surviving on the plastic coating of wire, bread scraps, and even a pair of socks, it repaired itself on this bird’s flesh. Momentarily stronger, it fought an older rat over the right to eat from a packet of biscuits that a stoned sailor had dropped. It won the fight and the biscuits. A female rat noticed, and hungry for strong pups, she let him in. The ship was old and infested with rats—so many that one good meal in your belly could change everything.
Chapter
The earth was gone. The damp concrete of the dock was cold, and the steel smelled of salt. Immediately ahead, after Fox had surmounted the gangplank, was an open door leading into the accommodation section that reeked of men. Choosing against exploring the interior, he moved off to the darker areas of the deck. Moving as quietly as a spirit, he picked his way to the rear of the ship, where the stern rounded off.
Fox moved to the handrail and stared down at the port’s murky water. The port’s lights were highlighting the water’s oily rainbows, and under the water, he could just make out the top of the enormous propeller’s blades. Retreating back, he looked up at the torpedo-shaped lifeboat and tried to figure out what it was. Painted a vivid orange, it sat on top of its 45-degree angle tracks, whose ends jutted out over the ship’s stern. Below it, another metal door was closed. Next to this, two small square windows were warmly lit from inside. He moved on, searching it all, but the stern offered no adequate shelter. With few choices open to him, he decided to head down to the bow and look there.
Soon he stopped. Next to the accommodation section, which was six stories tall and topped by the ship’s bridge and all its radar equipment and antennas, the way to the bow was along a narrow walkway running under the container’s patchwork cliffs. From here, the walkway also looked devoid of anywhere to hide. This left one option.
Inching his head around, he peered inside and studied the corridor. Almost immediately on the left, another door opened. Further up, the corridor broke to a tee junction, then ran on to end at another closed door. Everything reeked of man.
Before entering, he returned to the side and searched for any sign of Crow, but the only things moving on the dock were some pieces of rubbish swirling and lifting on the breeze. He moved inside.
Keeping to the edge of the corridor, he peered around the first door. The room had four sets of tables and chairs. Two of the tables were attached to the wall. Serving these tables were two bench seats. These were also attached to the wall. A man was sitting on one of these seats. Clad only in shorts, his thick arms were decorated with tattoos, bordered with long sprouts of black and grey hair. The hairs were also growing out of his back and shoulders. In fact, the only place they weren’t growing was on his head. Asleep on his arms, which were crossed on the table, the man was snoring. Next to his head stood a half-empty bottle of beer.
This man was Taff.
Fox, who was amazed at his own lack of concern in the presence of a man, moved on to the tee junction. Half of the corridor dropped away in a run of steep stairs, and beside that, another set rose to the floors above. He could hear the laughing men as their voices wafted down. He could smell their cigarettes. The stairs’ angle was foreboding: he chose the opposite way, lured by the scent of water. Immediately after the tee junction, another door presented itself. Slightly ajar, he sniffed it through the gap, then, as he touched the door with his snout, it opened a touch. Hesitant, he listened for danger, then raised his front paw and pushed it open. Empty and cramped, the white room had a small sink he couldn’t reach, a pee-smelling urinal, and a bowl that smelled of feces.
He found this delicious. Peering into the bowl, he found water and drank, then licked at a skid mark. There was nowhere to hide in this room either. Peering out of its door, he saw other rooms ahead, but all of them had closed doors. From the closest one came the sounds of throbbing music, dulled by the walls, and the sound of a young man singing along to the music.
Tail down, he returned to the first room where the man was sleeping. Impressed once again with his own calmness, Fox began searching the room. Beneath the tables were scraps of food: a crumb, half a biscuit, and some dried beer. Stopping constantly, his ears independently swiveled as they investigated each new sound. Finally, he moved under one of the bench seats. The space was woeful in its lack of safety, but for now, it was all that life was offering.
Fox chose to hide beneath the man. Curling underneath him, Fox jerked as the man farted. As the smell dissipated and quietness returned, Fox ran through what he knew of the ship’s logistics. He wondered how long it would be before the ship would be underway and how long the journey would take. For every missing answer, there were three more daunting questions. Finally, he closed his eyes, but it was a ruse: there was no way he would sleep tonight.
Chapter
The rat smelled Fox. Rising, it sat on its haunches and grasped at the air as it sniffed. Then it disregarded Fox’s smell since, having been ship-bound all its life, it had no idea what a fox was.
From the dark underneath the bench, Fox followed the rodent’s every move. The rat treated the man with contempt and fearlessly scoured the dining room’s floor, stopping to give something an extra smell or to eat a crumb. The crumbs were not enough. It had been hungry for two days, and so disregarding that voice in its head—the one telling it that whatever it was under the bench was alive—it ran straight to Fox, deciding, with its six months of life experience, that Fox was a forgotten jacket and definitely worth a chew.
The last things she saw were Fox’s golden eyes glistening above his striking jaws. Her light lit up the darkness beneath the bench before lifting up to pass through the man above. The man never stirred. Fox found it odd that his species was so unobservant and ate the rat, knowing that the crunching of bones would not wake the man. He was right. Apart from shifting and farting a few times, the man did not move until the sun, seeping its way in through the window, woke not only him but all the other men.
To try to escape the light, Fox squeezed further under the bench. As every man who sat at the table and ate their breakfasts, unaware of their guest, Fox’s confidence grew. His morning consisted of the boots of men, the chatter of their incomprehensible language, and their laughter. Some read newspapers. It was all men: no women, no children, no dogs. Just men, and each of them smelled of the sea. It was as though the ocean had marinated their skin.
Although it felt cold to be separated from Crow, Fox’s ability to remain hidden thrilled him. A few times he playfully, and silently, bared his teeth at the back of the men’s boots. Outside, the sounds of metal meeting metal shocked the air. He could hear the thuds of the containers being loaded onto the ship and the clicks as they were locked in place. There was the sound too of the gulls and the laughter and yelling and talking of men. Then, for a while, the thuds stopped. The men were still talking, the trucks grumbled along, but the ship was quiet. After a while came the loudest bump yet. But this one, unlike the others, came from the opposite side of the ship. A short time later he felt the ship move. There was no denying it: they were underway.
The impossible was happening, and after all those he had lost, the face he found he missed the most was Crow’s. There was one man drinking coffee at a nearby table, and eyes on him, Fox moved into the light and strained to hear Crow’s voice amongst the cacophony of sounds, but the only birds he could hear were gulls.
“Goodbye Bird,” Fox whispered, as he felt the ship being turned around. Half an hour later the ship’s engine rumbled into life. To Fox, it felt as though the ship had started its heart.
Men filed in. They filled every table and ate their lunch. Fox smelled potatoes and steak and grew more used to the men’s voices and laughter. He needed to pee. Cautiously, he held on.
As the men left, another man came in with a broom and a mop and bucket. Leaving them near the door, he began wiping the tables, scattering the crumbs onto the floor. As he began to sweep, Fox shoved himself into the bench’s corner and went rigid. The broom clanked into the legs of the chairs and finally made it underneath his table. It was a red plastic broom with stiff black bristles, and as it scraped the floor, Fox stopped breathing.
Then it was gone.
Fox peered out quickly and looked up at the man. Tall and skinny, he had a quiet face and hair cut so short it almost looked like he didn’t have any. Dressed in white pants and a white shirt, he had a cloth hanging out of his back pocket and eyes that seemed alone and preoccupied.
The mop came. Sloshing its way all over the floor, it too found its way under Fox’s table and splashed Fox with soapy water. Fox almost ran, but knowing he’d be found, he held on, and as quickly as it came, the mop was gone.
Finished with the floor, the man left the mop in its bucket and pulled out his cigarettes. When Fox had gathered the courage to peer out again, he found the man sitting at a table. Cigarette in his fingers, he had his wallet open in his other hand and was staring at a picture of a woman and two children. As Fox watched, the man gently and tenderly stroked the picture.
This man was Barry.
After Barry left, Fox knew that as soon as he could, he would have to move, for there was no way he could continue to hide here.
The rest of the day passed like this. Dinner was exactly like lunch, then after dinner, Barry returned to brush up and mop, and again he did not discover Fox. After Barry was gone, Fox could hear the ocean calmly letting them pass, and the men congregating far above. There was the faint sound of bottles clinking, and a hint of cigarette smoke. It was deep in the night before Fox heard the last of the men stagger off to their quarters and leave the ship’s heart to thump on by itself.
Emerging, he stretched, but he couldn’t wait long. His bladder was bursting, and he did not want the men to discover his scent. He found the outside door was open. Returning to the deck, the air was so fresh it stung his eyes. He urinated, like a river released, and realized all sense of plant life, earth, cars, and houses were gone.
Peering through the handrail, he found the moon shimmering over the peaceful water, while on the horizon, a few distant lights were slipping out of view. As the ship moved on, driven by its screw, he watched these lights until the distance swallowed them all.
Left only with the lights of the ship, and the stars and moon, he set off for the bow.
Another rat met its death in the dark. Its only view of Fox: a stabbing silhouette of his gold-painted head. The rat was fat and succulent, and since Fox had only eaten a short time previously, he took his time eating it.
The only part of the ship that was lit was the accommodation section. This was built six stories tall so that, when fully loaded, those in the bridge could see over the containers. Here it stood out because the ship was less than half full. But while the accommodation section was lit, this part of the ship was left to the darkness and the elements. Safe, Fox wandered to the start of the walkway that ran next to and below the containers. On one side, the handrails were the last guard between man and the sea. On the other, the steel base that supported the containers rose: its heavy steel full of holes so the bigger waves could pass through above him. He looked back at the bridge. Its three heavy glass windows were warmed with man-light. Above the bridge, he could hear sailors chatting as they relaxed on the top deck. One man was resting on the rail and smoking as he looked out at the dark horizon.
This man was short and slim, and even from down here, Fox’s eyes were keen enough to see the man had dark olive skin.
This man was Raul, and he did not see Fox.
Fox trotted up the walkway, smelling and evaluating every crevice as he went. There had been other rats in the shadows. He could smell their passing. This left him relieved. Food wouldn’t be a problem, but where to hide?
Each container was twenty meters long, stacked in columns of three, they offered nothing in the way of shelter. Even the one with the fox’s head was of no use, bar the hope it offered.
On he went, passing container after container until they suddenly stopped. The steel foundation the containers were secured to was not one long bed, but two. Each bed separated by a narrow walkway: a bridge to the other side of the ship.
Upside down in the center of this walkway, a fully inflatable dinghy was bound in place. The boat was supported close to the floor on a metal base. There was a gap underneath it. Shoving his snout in here, Fox sniffed and scattered a couple of surprised rats out the other side. Once they were gone, he crept in. It was snug and dry and smelled of rats, salt, and rubber. The only unpleasantness was the cold, steel floor, but he could accept this for he had found a lair.
Chapter
Some rats had collected on either side of the dinghy. They had never had to defend themselves against anything larger than a cat before, yet here, sleeping beneath the upturned boat, was something that resembled a dog. They had no name for it. They called it “The Dog.”
One of their brothers was a small pile of chewed bones abandoned on the port deck, but they were unconcerned with the dead. Their concerns were for themselves.
They smelled “The Dog.” They tasted the air that surrounded “The Dog.” They chattered nervously, unaware that Fox’s golden eyes were open and observing them all. With dawn, they’d sunk away to their hides, leaving only their droppings.
Hungry for light, Fox crawled out and lay in the sun. Everything was different. As his body and soul drank up the warmth, he reveled in his mastery. At any time last night, he knew he could have lashed out in a killing carnage. Tonight, if he felt hungry, he would kill.
An hour later, a man startled him. The wind, streaming over the bows, had blown away the man’s scent. Unable to smell his approach, Fox heard him with only seconds to spare, and in those seconds, he scurried beneath the boat. Hidden, he peered out at the man’s feet. It was Taff, and he was wearing thongs.
Underneath the boat, Fox debated an escape route, but as he realized that the man had no idea he was here and was instead spreading out a large beach towel, he relaxed. Taff proceeded to undress and then lay down. Soon, he was asleep.
To Fox, Taff’s snoring was laughable, and as the sun turned the underneath of the dinghy into an oven, Fox gave in to the nurturing warmth and, ears on guard, slept too.
Chapter
“How does it feel, Professor?” the interviewer asked. Her name was Rebecca. She was a young freelancer, and not only did she tape her own interviews but she also took her own photographs.
“Naturally, if I win the award, I’ll be overwhelmed,” he said. “Even to know you’re in the running is an honor in itself. Then again, if I do receive it, morally I couldn’t claim it as a sole award, but on behalf of all the members of my team.”
She went on, a plump questioning robot with curled brunette hair.
“And what of the Fox Claicvirus? The success rate is outstanding. Unheard of. Is it true that several countries are currently trying to replicate your success?”
“They were trying before. We were just the first to get lucky. In North America, they have a great problem with North Sea lampreys infesting their Great Lakes. We, of course, still have our cane toad problem.”
“So you’re saying there’s a constant need for this sort of technology?”
“It’s a science, not a technology, and yes, there is a great need.”
“And what about cross-infection or a mutating virus? Aren’t you concerned at all that a virus that has been so effective with rabbits and foxes could turn its attention to other animals? Us?”
The Professor smiled: “This question again,” he said. “I take it you haven’t availed yourself of my other interviews.”
“Is that your answer?”
“The virus can’t cross species. It’s impossible. That’s my answer.”
“Isn’t it true,” she asked, “that before you managed to purchase a culture of the virus from Poland, both the Spanish and German authorities refused to hand it over to you because they feared it wasn’t species-specific?”
He paused. Who was this little robot?
“Unfounded fears,” he answered. “And unproven.”
“And isn’t it true that in the entire world there are only two men—an American scientist and a technician who, from their small laboratory in St. Louis, are actively testing and cataloging the spread of Claicvirus—and that these experts were never contacted by you, or by anyone on your staff, in regards to accessing their expertise or research?”
He paused again, then folded his arms. “There was no need to contact them. We did our own, thorough, testing.”
“And who monitored these tests? An independent body, or yourselves?”
Sebastian felt like he was playing chess with a child, and now four moves in, it was suddenly dawning on him that not only could the kid play, but that he was exposing him.
“The tests were rigorous and thorough,” he said, calmly and firmly.
“I’m sure they were, Professor, but tell me, did the awarding of your grants to continue your research depend on you providing positive results?”
Sebastian paused and wondered if the next word to leave her lips would be: “Check!”
Chapter
Every day was like this now. The routine of accessing the toilet, killing and eating the odd rat, and sleeping under the dinghy repeated itself for two weeks. Fox put on weight. And the long hours of relaxing healed the last physical wounds the Dog-Fox had inflicted.
But it wasn’t always relaxing. Several times a wiry, heavily tanned man, who always had a cigarette in his lips, had hosed the decks down. This man was Henk.
One day, Fox peered around the corner of the containers in time to see a rat flushed from its hiding place by the hose’s pressure. As Fox watched, the rat made a run for it. Henk saw it too, and bringing the water around, he sent the rat squealing across the deck and out of one of the scuppers, where it tumbled, forever lost, into the passing water below.
Every time Henk hosed the deck, he also hosed the walkway. Fox had wondered first about running around to the other side of the containers and keeping the containers between him and Henk, but the chances of being seen by other men made this too risky. Instead, he remained under the dinghy and crawled onto one of the two upside-down bench seats. At first, they had been hard to balance on, but soon he learned that if he lay lengthwise, making sure his back didn’t show through the dinghy’s floor, and bit at the seat, he could hold on easily. The hose always splattered the interior with water, but Henk never looked underneath.
Fox became so confident that one evening, as he lazily watched some grey clouds amassing ahead, he was not in the slightest bit concerned. He had survived storms before. Stretching himself under the last remnants of sun, he bit at his new infestation of rat fleas and ignored, too, the rising pitch and roll of the sea.
An hour later, he’d changed his mind. The ship was no longer cutting through a flat ocean but was under attack. Besieged by waves and a howling wind, the deck rose and descended: its bow smashing into the sea, sending water and foam rushing along the walkways.
Curled up beneath the boat, Fox whined as the foam from the larger waves found their way under here and, picking him up, slammed him against the sides of the boat. Despite the soft rubber, within a few hours he was bruised and saturated.
The storm grew stronger. Thunder and wind seemed to be tearing the air apart as lightning shocked the world awake. Then one tremendous wave tried to swallow the bows. The cascading water rushed into the dinghy with such force it filled the boat. For a moment, before the ship pulled itself out and the water drained away, Fox was sure he would drown. It was so dark he couldn’t see his paws or the inner side of the boat he was being thumped into. As it drained, he knew he couldn’t stay here.
Crawling out into the pounding rain, he ran down the walkway as the foam from the following wave chased him. As he reached the bare space between the bridge and the first containers, the last of the wave caught him. Washed off his feet, he was carried along, a slave to the flow, with his paws scrambling to grip the deck that he couldn’t see. As the water streamed down the scuppers and struggled to take him with it, his claws scraped across the deck until they managed to hold. Safe, he bolted for the door.
The door that was closed.
Whining, he looked to the bow as he felt the ship plunge into the next trough. The trough was so deep Fox lifted from the steel floor and, with gravity pulling him, he raced towards the container’s steel bed.
He yelped as he crashed into the metal. Lifting himself up, he knew he had to make it to the stern before the water came back, but as he went to run, he collapsed. His left leg wouldn’t work.
The water found him. As the ship leveled and began the climb out, the furious water raced him to the face of the accommodation section and thumped him again into the steel.
Placing the leg down, it collapsed again. He cried, his voice pathetic against the groaning of the containers and pounding, cracking, crashing, howling fury of the storm.
On three legs, he grimaced as he limped his way around the stern of the ship. There, he curled under the shadow of the suspended lifeboat and bit at the swelling shoulder of his useless leg.
The night was just beginning. All night the ocean would torture the ship.
Chapter
In the morning, as the returning sun dried the decks, Fox limped back to the dinghy. Beneath the boat, it was damp and salty. As he curled up, he shivered. What he needed was warmth. What he needed was to lay in the sun, but that wasn’t going to happen because Henk and Taff were both hosing the decks, removing the storm’s salt.
On the dinghy’s bench seat, struggling to hold on, Fox endured the hose’s water as it powered in. Taff even thrust the end of his hose under and squirted everything. Fox was smashed off his seat and thrown around the boat, but because the hoses were so loud, the men didn’t hear his thud. Together and on either side of the ship, they moved onto the bow.
Fox had managed not to yelp. But now they were gone, he gave in to the pain and whining, collapsed. His sleep was shallow and feverish. But it wasn’t pain that woke him. It was rats.
The rats had twigged. All day the smart taste of his blood from where Fox had been biting at his leg had been wafting down the walkways. Now, beneath the watching stars, they fidgeted their way towards the upturned boat.
Head down, Fox could see them. As more arrived, the ones at the back pushed the others forward. Along two fronts, they clambered over each other and slipped off each other’s fur. Their chatter becoming the one combined, determined din.
Fox growled, but the weariness in his tone betrayed him further. He growled again, but they ignored him.
Knowing they would attack soon, Fox slid to the rear of the dinghy and braced himself. In doing so, he banged his injured leg and, unable to stop himself, whimpered. The whimper was all the rats were waiting for. Their two fronts joined, they all charged in the one gnashing wave. Instantly they clambered onto his back and sunk in their teeth. Rolling, Fox dislodged some of them, but to each one he shook loose, two more took their place. He yelped as he felt their teeth rip out sections of his skin. Growling and biting, Fox managed to scramble out onto the deck. Outside, the other rats, that were trying to force their way under, momentarily panicked. The walkway became an echo of squealing disorganization. Leaping over the squealing horde, Fox limped for the bridge. The rats tore after him. One squealed as their numbers forced her to the edge of the ship. Unable to fight the press of the others, she found herself pushed out one of the deck’s scrubbers, and spinning, squealed into the drink.
Fox limped on, hobbling despite the obvious hopelessness: despite the pain attempting to get his body to collapse. He limped across the clear space between the containers and the bridge with the rats at his feet. The door was open. He shot inside without checking for men.
The interior lights daunted the rats for a moment, but then, regardless, they followed The Dog.
Fox careered into the dining room and curled up beneath the bench he’d used the first night.
The rats entered. Initially hesitant, they slithered into the room. Amassing, they rose onto their back paws, checking the air for the scent of the men: for Fox.
Fox growled, baring his arsenal of teeth. The rats paused as if in one collective mind, clawing over each other’s backs. Fox could smell their musk. Others were pouring in through the door, chattering and exploding into little fits of squeals. The front ones bared their own gnashing teeth. The floor between Fox and the door was a living carpet of rats. Chairs shifted as the rats hit the chairs’ legs. Fox tried to move further under the bench, but the pain in his leg was so unbearable, it prevented him. From all sides the rats approached. Frustrated and incensed, he began to yap. High-pitched cries of anger that filled the room.
The rats were not intimidated. They knew they’d won. As one, they rushed forward, then just as suddenly, they stopped. Fox watched, many of them had risen onto their hind legs and were now sniffing the air.
Fox didn’t understand. Then he heard it too.
A man was approaching.
As one, the rats avalanched out of the door, pouring back into the innards of the ship.
“What the fuck!” Taff yelled, kicking and stomping at the fleeing rats. Some fell, squealing in agony as they were crushed beneath the man’s heavy boots.
Fox, exhausted and unable to suppress the pain of his leg any longer, whimpered like a cub.
Taff entered the room kicking out at the last of the rats. Raul followed him in.
“What’s going on?” Raul demanded to know.
“Rats! Millions of the buggers!”
“Well what the hell are they doing in here?”
“How should I know?” Taff replied, while bending down. “Seemed to me they were after something under here... Jesus Christ! It’s a fox!”