Excerpt from Chapter Twelve
Figures—at least three—digitally camouflaged—lurched into view in the deeper darkness of the room. An icy chill spread along Nash's skin and he involuntarily stepped back from the doorway. Eerie greenness shone up from the deck casting an unnatural light over the features of the advancing trio. With the light source positioned below them, their shadows were as unnatural as they were, inverted, and he couldn't say which parts of their exposed flesh were uninjured and which might be mangled. He took another step back, ready to slam the watertight door home, lost his footing, and fell unceremoniously on his ass.
Calloway grunted what might have been a laugh, not having seen the three sailors in the room.
A skinny arm thrust over the lower edge of the door frame, homing in on Nash's ankle like one of the old Tomahawks that Mortimer still carried in her arsenal.
Shit shit shit.
A face followed the arm, then a shoulder. Her lips were gone, as was a swath of her frizzy hair. This ship was crawling with women—dead women. The remaining tuft of hair on the other side of her head made her skull seem broken and uneven. Her grip was strong as hell, her fingers wrapped steel-like around his ankle, pulling him back toward the door. Her mouth gaped, wider than it should have been able to, teeth glinting in the green glow. Nash fought for purchase with his hands but they scraped ineffectually against the rubbery nonskid surface of the deck. Lashing out with his free foot, he slammed into the wall beside the door. He locked his knee. She was stronger than she had any right to be. She couldn't pull him any closer, but using him as an anchor, she heaved herself up and across the raised threshold of the door. Her teeth an inch from his ankle, snagging the leather of his boot as she wrenched her head back and forth, an animal tearing into a fresh kill. This might be his only chance.
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