The Hunter From the Woods by Robert McCammon Read Free Book Online Page B

find!”
    Michael turned around in his chair. Over him stood the monstrous, huge-shouldered, lantern-jawed man he’d heard called ‘Olaf’. They’d been on the same loading detail. Michael had already apologized for some infraction that had involved the passing back and forth of heavy crates, though he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d done to make Olaf holler a curse and spit on the deck. Michael had been briefed and trained on all this, but the briefing book and the landlubber’s lessons went out the window when the hard, fast work began.
    “I’m talkin’ to you !” Olaf said, as if Michael didn’t already know. The mess hall went silent. “You gonna sit there or I’m gonna pull you up?”
    The man’s protruding brow was dappled with red. His dark brown eyes were also red-rimmed and as fiercely hot as volcanic stones. He had a dirty matting of brown hair with an untameable cowlick sticking up in back. He stood with his meathooks on his wide hips awaiting Michael’s decision.
    Michael was tempted to return to his breakfast, but he reasoned he should stand.
    “Now you listen !” A finger with a filthy nail jabbed his chest. “You don’t get in Olaf’s way! You don’t push Olaf! Eh? You don’t make Olaf look slow in front of nobody! Eh?”
    “I already said I was—”
    “You shuddup !” Olaf growled, with another painful finger jab. He looked Michael over from boots to cap. “You ain’t no sailor !” Michael said nothing. This was getting serious; who would have thought the dummy could see through him so easily?
    “No sailor!” Olaf repeated. “I seen how you don’t know what you’re doin’! And them hands! They ain’t no sailor’s hands! These ,” he said, thrusting his work-scarred and rope-burned palms into Michael’s face, “are sailor’s hands! So you gonna be tellin’ me, what real sailor you put out of a job by signin’ on here! Eh? What friend a’mine you put out on da pier, him with maybe a wife and three, four kids?” He gave a scowl that caused even the black man with the shaved-off nose to wince. “You ain’t no good ! I take a breath a’ you, and you stink !”
    Michael had no reply for this. He’d already gone one sorry too many.
    Olaf smacked his left palm with his right fist. His mouth wore a wild grin. “Ah, I’m gonna teach you! Olaf’s gonna drop you, pretty fella. Olaf’s gonna fix that nose and close up them eyes. Olaf’s gonna stretch that neck and give you a new set a’ teeth! Olaf’s gonna—”
    But what Olaf was going to do was interrupted by Michael hitting him in the jaw with his right fist as hard as he could let one fly.
    Olaf went back on his heels and crashed over the next table and fell over two men who tried to get away but were caught under the toppling bulk. Then Olaf slid down their backs and fell to the sickly-green floor tiles, where he lay with blood on his mouth, his eyes twitching in their sockets and his fist still balled up but unthrown. He made a bubbling noise over his bitten lower lip, gave a thunderous fart from his massive ass, and then went to sleep like mother’s best baby.
    Michael sat down to finish his breakfast. He’d nearly broken his knuckles on that slab of a jaw, but at least he was on his way to having sailor’s hands.
    Somebody laughed and somebody hollered. Somebody gave a whistle of respect and somebody shouted out in a singsong language Michael had never heard before. Then the clatter of utensils on plates continued, cigarette smoke puffed into the air, and the black-bearded second mate burst into the mess hall with one of the cooks and wanted to know who the fuck was fighting in here.
    No one said anything. The second mate, a Spaniard named Medina, stood staring down at the sleeping Olaf. He repeated: who the fuck was fighting in here?
    “Hey, mon!” said the black man with the carved nose. He grinned wickedly, showing white teeth sharpened by chewing Jamaican sugarcane. “That big fool, he fall down and