The Beast of Cretacea by Todd Strasser Page A

his eyes are that eerie bloodred. He chases Pip around the table once, twice, and then they stop and face each other, breathing hard.
    “Well, now, what a plump little marsupial you are.” The raider cackles. “Surrender, Pudgy. You’ll make a suitiful hostage.”
    Pip responds by hurling a handful of salt in the man’s face. When the raider squeezes his eyes shut, Ishmael sees a crossbones tattoo on each of his eyelids. The man grabs the edge of the table and heaves it over. Plates, mugs, and silverware crash to the floor, and the chase begins anew.
    “Hey!” Ishmael shouts.
    The raider pivots and draws his gun. Ishmael and Gwen spring out of the way.
    BANG! PIT-CHOING!
A shot rings out and ricochets off the wall.
    “Decrease, Pudgy. You’re worth a fortunate ransom!” The raider chortles as he chases Pip.
    Crouched under a table, Ishmael catches Gwen’s eye and signals to a pair of chairs. A moment later, after Pip rushes past them, they both jump to their feet, grab the chairs, and swing as hard as they can.
    Smack! Wham!
Gwen gets the man square in the face, while Ishmael’s chair smashes into his chest. The raider goes down on his back with a thud and lies there stunned, the gun still in his hand.
    But a moment later he’s up again, blood rushing from his nose. Spitting a disgusting glob of blood and short, blackened teeth onto the floor, he aims his gun at Gwen, who dives away.
    BANG! PIT-CHING-CHING!
A bullet ricochets off the leg of a table inches from Gwen’s face. Having missed her, the man points the gun at Ishmael, who also dives.
    BANG!
    The bullet whizzes by as he hits the floor.
    “Wheresh Pudgy?” the raider slurs, now almost completely toothless. A door slams on the other side of the room. Ishmael hopes it’s Pip escaping. The man starts to follow but suddenly grunts and falls face-first; Gwen’s grabbed his ankle and tripped him.
    On the floor, the attacker rolls over and aims his gun at her.
    Only a few feet away, Gwen’s eyes widen with terror. She starts to crab backward on heels and hands, but this time the man with the gun is too close to miss.

Sweeeeee!!!!
A shrill whistle pierces the air. In the mess, the raider with the gun looks up. There’s a second whistle, and he jumps to his feet and dashes away, squeezing through a porthole and dropping out of sight.
    Rat-a-tat-tat . . .
A fusillade of machine-gun fire strikes the
Pequod
’s hull again, and the whine of drones is in the air. Ishmael helps a trembling Gwen to her feet, and they hurry into the galley, where Billy’s kneeling beside Queequeg on the floor. Queequeg gingerly traces the red choke marks on his throat with his fingertips. Through a porthole, Ishmael watches as black-clad raiders fire from the skiff to provide cover while their comrades jump off the ship and swim back.
    “Hold your fire! Don’t shoot!”
Starbuck’s voice roars out of loudspeakers all over the
Pequod.
Through the porthole Ishmael sees why: In the raiders’ skiff, a big man yanks a drenched Charity to her feet and presses a gun against her head. The skiff starts to speed away.
    The
Pequod’s
all-hands bell rings. Ishmael turns away from the porthole. Gwen and Billy are helping Queequeg to his feet.
    “You all right?” Ishmael asks.
    Queequeg nods, and winces when he tries to swallow. “May not be saying much for a while,” he rasps.
    “Is that a promise?” Gwen asks archly.
    The door swings open, and Fleece waddles in, mopping his broad, sweaty brow with a dish towel and breathing hard. “From up on deck, it appeared as though someone down here was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with those carnal criminals.”
    “Th-those three.” Billy points at Ishmael, Gwen, and Queequeg.
    Fleece raises his eyebrows. “Well, I’ll be Melville’s mother!”
    The door opens again, and Starbuck sticks his head in. “Everyone okay?”
    “Aye-aye, sir.” Fleece points at Ishmael and the others. “These’re the brave young souls who slowed those