Dead Sea by Brian Keene Page B

could remember in my head. If I looked at their pictures now, I'd just see them as zombies.
        Mitch pulled a small rifle cleaning kit out of his backpack and went to work on the guns, using long cotton swabs to get the debris and residue out of the barrels, and then oiling them down. He explained each step to the three of us as he went along, so that we'd be able to do it, too. When he was finished, he stowed our weapons beneath his mattress and slid one pistol under his pillow. He didn't unload his backpack; instead, he stuffed it between his rack and the bulkhead. Then he took off his boots and lay down. We all did the same. Each bed had a tiny feather pillow, one sheet, and a thin gray blanket that felt like it was made out of horse hair-very rough and scratchy. They smelled musty and mildewed.
        "This pillow stinks," I complained.
        "Mine does, too." Tasha wrinkled her nose. "Smells like a zombie."
        "They should," Mitch said. "They've probably been sitting on this boat for the last twenty years."
        I propped myself up on one elbow. "What do you mean?"
        "This is a museum ship," he explained. "The Spratling is a piece of American history, so rather than sending it to the scrap yard to be cut up into razor blades, the maritime museum preserved it and turned it into a floating tourist trap, just like all the other ships at Inner Harbor."
        "Okay," I said, "but what's that got to do with why these pillows smell funky?"
        "Think about it, Lamar. This is a museum. A tourist attraction. How long have you lived in Baltimore?"
        I shrugged. "All my life."
        "And in all that time you never took a tour of the ships? Not even when the Taney was here?"
        "No. I mean, I knew about them. Knew a little of their history. But I never toured one."
        "Damn. Well, I guess I can't say anything. All the years I lived in Towson, I never came downtown and visited Edgar Allan Foe's grave."
        That told me something about him. Towson was the suburbs, way out on the edge of the city. I wondered what had brought Mitch down into Fells Point.
        "Were you a fan of Foe's?" I asked.
        "Sure. Read the shit out of him when I was in the ninth grade. My grandfather gave me a big collection of all his stories. My favorite was always "The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.'" He chuckled. "It takes place on a boat, now that I think about it-a ship sailing to the South Pole."
        "So if you dug the man's work, why not visit his grave?"
        "Didn't feel like getting shot. That's a bad area of town, isn't it?"
        I shrugged again. "When you actually live down here in the city, all of it's a bad area, Mitch. That's just how things are. You get used to it."
        "Yeah," he said. "I guess I can see that."
        But I knew he'd never really understand it. He couldn't. He had no frame of reference; only what he'd watched on episodes of Homicide or The Wire. Tasha and Malik knew it, too. They didn't say anything. Didn't have to. The expressions on their faces said enough. Mitch was from a different world.
        "Well," Mitch continued, "the Spratling has always been a pretty popular attraction. Not just with tourists, either. They do weddings and stuff onboard, too. So there are a lot of people that have tromped through here over the years. When people come aboard this thing, they want to experience exactly what it was like for the men who served. They'd board via the gangplank, just like we did. Then, the tour guide would take them around above deck and show them everything. Answer all their questions. Then they'd go below, down the original stairways- except on a ship they're called ladders-just like the crew would. And just like any other museum, there'd be stuff all around on the tour: old photos, the captain's log, shit like that. And of course, they'd keep the racks made up just as they would have been when the Spratling was still on active