by Kody Boye
“You want me to go make something to eat?” Rose asked.
Lyra shook her head. “Not suppertime yet.”
Rose’s stomach growled.
Lyra offered a frown.
It wasn’t the only time this would happen.
This she knew.
The swelling omen gave no indication that it would shift direction.
“This isn’t good,” Rose said. “This isn’t good at all.”
Lyra exhaled smoke from her lungs. “Nope,” she said.
They stood at the bow, looking upon the monstrous apparition that could easily swallow them whole. Hands in the pocket of her hoodie, gaze wavering between the darkened horizon and the trail of smoke ebbing from Lyra’s cigarette, Rose remained frozen, and only moved when a lock of her bangs fell across her face. Even with her hood pulled over her head, the coming wind was outrageous.
“I don’t know how you can smoke in this,” she said, glancing over at Lyra when the cigarette smoke blew into her face.
“Easy,” Lyra replied. “Watch.” She pressed the cigarette to her lips and made an impressive display of taking a hit.
“You’re such a bitch,” Rose laughed.
“Mama thought the same thing.” Lyra snorted. “Thought she’d name me something sweet to make sure she wouldn’t have to deal with a hellion. Little did she know.”
A flash of lightning appeared in the distance, briefly cutting through the creeping darkness.
Frowning, Lyra took another hit off her cigarette and braced one arm under her breasts. “You got any idea about what we’re gonna do about that?”
“I figured we’d just secure the stairwells and buckle down. Why?”
“I’m just sayin’. This looks bad.”
“You don’t think we’ll get stuck in it, do you?”
Her friend shrugged. “Beats me, but you know how it is. We get such shitty weather out here. Sun can be shining on your tits one minute then raining on your ass the next.”
“True,” Rose sighed.
Regardless, that gave no indication as to whether or not this was merely a passing specter of a haunting just waiting to occur.
At just the right fucking time.
Another spark of lightning, followed by a third, trickled across the sky. The deep, rumbling groan that followed set fate into formation as a gust of wind surged forward.
“Fuck,” Rose said. “It’s coming right at us.”
“Shiver me timbers!” Lyra cried, flinging her cigarette into the water. “Batten down the hatches! Protect the wenches! We’ve got a storm on the horizon!”
“Really?” Rose asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I dunno. Isn’t that what pirates used to say?”
Thunder answered.
Then came the rain.
It was no sooner after they secured the stairwells when the storm came in force. Trickling down upon the deck, whispering of what was to come, it was all they heard as Rose and Lyra stepped back to examine their work.
“You think that’ll hold?” Lyra asked.
“What do you mean?” Rose frowned.
“I mean… if anything happens?”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“I know, but… just on the chance it does—”
“We’ll be fine,” Rose said. “Don’t worry.”
She couldn’t be sure, though. They’d battened down the hatches, locked themselves indoors, were preparing and dreading and waiting for the storm of the century to arrive and the eye to swallow them whole. There was no denying that her words were a bold, crass lie. Even Rose knew it. Such sympathy shouldn’t have been wasted on something she couldn’t confirm.
But you will be fine, she thought, with a sound and resolute nod.
If zombies hadn’t killed them, on or off the ship, what chance would a storm have?
Throwing us off the boat… drowning… stranding us in open water… getting eaten by sharks.
She swallowed and forced herself to maintain her composure.
Panicking now would do no good.
Fate, if anything, would decide their course.
So far, it’d been in their favor.
“Are you hungry?” Rose asked, slicing through the haze of unease.
“I’m not sure,” Lyra said, her words uneven and delayed. “Not sure I have much of an appetite.”
“We gotta eat sometime. Might as well do it before it gets any worse.”
“Yeah… I guess.”
Not knowing what else to say, Rose shrugged and walked into the kitchen.
She made them a quick meal of instant macaroni with boiled eggs. Given the circumstance, she dreaded the outcome of the macaroni and even more the eggs, but when she removed the shells and found them concrete, she sighed and served them with trepidation. They even tasted all right, when she got around to taking a bite out of one, and though the meal wasn’t proud, she could at least say they ate.
As the storm progressed, slowly but surely descending upon them, they retreated to the captain’s quarters to finish the remainder of the meal, their silent hope the only flame against the backdrop of darkness.
By the time dinner was over, they’d lost all but the light streaming from an array of LED candles on the nightstand.
To say they’d entered their darkest hour was an understatement.
Seated upon the bed, legs crossed and back pressed against the headboard, Rose watched as outside, the world succumbed to chaos.
Seated in a chair across the room, Lyra remained silent.
The rain poured.
The ship rocked.
Lightning burst and thunder roared.
If crying would make it better, Rose would’ve done it.
They’d all said God had a plan for everyone.
Was this His plan for them?
“Lyra?” Rose asked, her swelling sinuses preventing her from speaking without a sniffle. “Why don’t you come over here?”
“What’s the point?” Lyra replied, deadpan in tone and feeling. “It’s not like that’ll make it any better.”
She’s just scared, Rose thought, bowing her head to hide the tears that might be revealed during the next lightning flash. You can’t take it personally.
Who could blame her? Rose didn’t. She doubted anyone would if they saw their situation. So great was their Hell that Socrates could not have defined it, that Shakespeare could not have written it, that Mozart could not have composed it. Even Austen, so great and humble in her portrayal of female plight, would’ve had a hard time explaining, for it was not of ordinary circumstance that women board a ship to escape from earthbound creatures of flesh.
No.
This thing—their present. It was something unlike anyone could’ve ever imagined.
Even in the movies, Rose thought. Even in the motherfucking movies.
She had first ignored the slight tremble echoing along the ship, but it was beginning to grow disorienting.
Troublesome in its intention but even more dire in its implication, its teasing throes created the impression that it would first destroy them, then disappear, as if nothing had happened. Lyra’s attention had shifted from the window, but Rose’s hadn’t faltered at all. Instead, she merely looked, piecing together the constellation of raindrops upon the inanimate surface.
Maybe it was her paranoia, or maybe it was just the storm getting the best of her, but she felt like somewhere out there, something was watching, waiting to eat her with its eyes.
Shaking her head, Rose settled onto her side and curled up into a ball, shivering as the divergence of her body became clear.
The sheets were cold.
The bed was empty.
Lyra should’ve been here, under the covers, with her.
“Are you sure you don’t want lay down?” Rose asked.
Lyra said nothing.
Rose sighed.
She couldn’t help but think about what Lyra had said.
They had to keep talking—
<
br /> Because silence killed.
The storm of the century ended the following morning.
It was without mercy that there was no deliverance.
There was no calm, as she had suspected, no bliss from the relief of it all. There were no dandelions and daffodils among which young and small children played, where kittens mewled and dogs barked. There was no eternal pool in which they all could bathe—and, quite unbearably, there was no figure to look upon: to bask in the glory of a being who could relieve them of the world and the Hell that had been brought upon it.
When Rose opened her eyes to find the world lit in pale blue light, she wasn’t sure if it was real.
What happened?
The blinding realization struck her in a moment, as it had in days past and would, most likely, for the rest of her life.
There was little she could do to fight it.
Pushing herself forward, Rose brushed her hair out of her eyes and blinked to adjust to the light pooling into the room.
She couldn’t believe the storm had passed so quickly.
It seemed like a dream.
But it’s not, she thought, flexing her fingers, popping her knuckles. It’s real.
So real, in fact, that she could not deny when she heard a sound unlike any she’d expected to hear again.
People.
Yelling, shouting, calling back and forth.
“Lyra,” Rose said, reaching down to grasp her friend’s shoulder. “Wake up.”
“Unnhhh,” her friend replied. “What is it?”
“Something’s happening.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But we need to go look. Now.”
The sight was both beautiful and terrifying.
It resembled a graveyard of sorts. Stranded souls, vacant passages, gnarled headstones, murky waters, grandeur, commonplace, poverty and then desperation—before them loomed the shadow of Ireland, but before it stretched a flotilla as far as the eye could see.
From simple canoes, mightier tugboats, recreational fishing vessels to private vessels like the one they were on, they broached the coastline of their great sister country as if seeking salvation—which, it so rightfully seemed, appeared to be the case.
From the decks or depths of such vessels came the shouts of those desperate, the screams and wails of those in pain, of those in dire straits from hunger or exhaustion or even, Rose saw, the calamity that was the sun. One woman in particular—who cradled the body of what appeared to be her dead son—moaned as if the Gods would hear: her tone continuous, her ululation clear.
“What’s going on?” Lyra asked. “Why aren’t these people on shore?”
“I don’t know,” Rose replied. “I—”
She stopped.
In the distance, she could just barely make out guard towers, atop which stood a series of uniformed men.
“Oh God,” she said.
“What?” Lyra asked, her tone sharp and barking. “What is it?”
“A quarantine.”
“Attention passengers of the vessels outside the borders of Ireland,” a voice amplified by a megaphone said, its shrill bursts of static careening across the area and sending the hairs on Rose’s neck on end. “You are entering a restricted maritime base. Per the quarantine protocols of the United Nations, and in conjunction with the Irish government, you are asked to turn around or seek asylum at one of the designated naval checkpoints specified on the emergency broadcast system. Failure to comply will result in termination.”
“What are they talking about? Termination?” Lyra took hold of Rose’s shoulders. “Rose. That means—”
“You can’t do this to us!” a woman screamed.
The maniacal shriek of something whose vocal cords no longer spoke swallowed the woman’s distress whole.
Rose jerked her head.
A man scrambled across the deck of a ship directly across from them.
“Help!” he screamed, casting his hands about the railing. “Somebody! Please! Help—”
His cries were drowned out as a barricaded door finally gave way.
Zombies burst free.
Panic took hold.
Nearby, someone on a ship slightly larger than theirs lifted a metal barrel with the help of a companion and hurled it over the railing.
The object struck and landed on the screaming man’s ship, denting metal and crushing the leg of a zombie.
“This is your final warning,” the man over the loudspeaker said. “Those not exhibiting signs of infection must turn and leave the maritime borders of Ireland.”
“Get the gun,” Rose said.
“But—” Lyra started.
“Go! Now!”
Lyra darted toward the helm.
Rose caught a flicker of light from one of the towers just before a gunshot rang out.
The head of a diseased creature exploded.
Desperate in his flight, the screaming man tried to scale the railing.
His leg was snared.
A creature bit down.
The man’s screams were silenced almost as soon as they’d begun.
“What the fuck am I gonna do with this thing?” Lyra called. “I can’t shoot snipers!”
“Just stay down!” Rose called back, flinching as a bullet bounced off a nearby ship. “Just stay down and wait it out!”
“We can’t—”
A hail of gunfire filled the air.
Rose’s eyes were instantly drawn to the yacht filled with zombies.
She watched in horror as nearly a dozen creatures were gunned down in a blaze of glory.
How many are there? she thought, trembling, eyes darting along the towers arranged along the coastline.
She couldn’t tell. Masked in the shadows of early morning, only winks of light and parades of bullets marked their existence. Such delegations were quickly lost when she realized targets weren’t specific—they were completely random. People whose bodies bore no signs of injury were shot through the head even when they raised their hands in submission.
People screamed.
Crude firebombs were thrown.
Nearby, a boat caught fire and smoke billowed into the air.
“Oh fuck,” Lyra said from her place near the stairway.
“Stay down!” Rose screamed.
“I am!” Lyra returned.
Someone aboard a smaller boat drew a gun and began to fire.
The woman lasted less than a minute before she and her canoe were filled with holes.
We’re going to die, Rose thought as she watched the carnage unfold. We’re going to die and there’s absolutely nothing we can do about—
“Hey!” a voice called. “Hey!”
Rose’s eyes grazed the waters.
Through the chaos, she caught sight of a small tugboat making its way toward them. Helmed by a tall, young black man, the captain waved his hands and only ducked when a gunshot ricocheted off the boat near them.
“Hey!” he cried, his Irish accent so thick he could barely be heard over the chaos. “Lady! Lady!”
“Don’t say anything to ‘em,” Lyra warned. “We don’t know what they want.”
“I need help!” he wailed. “We’re all gonna die if we don’t get out of here!”
“Stay where you are!” Lyra shouted, training the gun on the man.
The individual paled. “Your boat’s got fuel,” he said, “doesn’t it?”
“Don’t say anything,” Lyra growled in Rose’s direction.
“Look,” the man said. “You gotta help me. Please. My boat’s out of fuel and I can’t make it to the docks in this thing. I’m screwed. Please—if you could find it in your heart to help me, I’ll do anything. Just help me—please!”
“We don’t know to drive this boat,” Rose said as the nearby yacht succumbed to flames. “He’s right, Lyra: we’re fucked if stay here.”
“Are you joking?” her friend asked. “We don’t know this guy!”
“The people who s
aved us didn’t know who we were either.”
Her friend didn’t reply.
“I know how to drive the boat,” said the black man in the waters below. “Help me. Let me help you.”
Currently, the smog allowed them only the slight advantage of privacy, though Rose knew that wouldn’t last long. At the rate the ship was catching fire, it would only be a matter of time before it exploded—ultimately ending the smokescreen of war.
Her eyes darted to the railing.
As fate would have it, the ship had rotated during the storm, placing the life raft directly in the path of the tugboat.
“Come on,” Rose said, turning her eyes on her friend. “Help me.”
“We don’t know if we can trust him,” her friend replied.
“Neither did Jewel or Tommy!”
Lyra’s eyes darkened. The hand holding the gun trembled, her finger idly slipping toward the safety. “If anything happens,” she said.
Rose nodded. “I know.”
“All right then. Go—now!”
Ducking, Rose darted alongside the railing and kept her head down as the gunshots escalated. What had begun as feeble attempts at defense had turned into an all-out war. All manner of weaponry was engaged: pistols, rifles, shotguns—she even heard automatic gunfire.
If she didn’t hurry—if she didn’t get this man on board—who knew what would happen?
At the rescue station, Rose stared at the mechanism and balked at its shadow.
“Don’t panic!” the man in the tugboat called up. “I’ll walk you through it!”
“I don’t know how to do this!” Rose called back.
A shot went off.
Smoke ebbed from Lyra’s pistol.
A man collapsed aboard his ship and began convulsing.
“They’re gonna want the ship after seeing it has motor function,” the black man said, guiding Rose’s eyes back to his face. “Stay with me, miss. I’ll walk you through it. Ok?”
“Ok,” Rose said.
“Now, listen to everything I say very carefully. You don’t want to risk this thing going over.”
Nodding, Rose leaned forward and waited for his instruction.
The stakes couldn’t have been higher.
