by Matt James
1
My name is Frank Moon, and my life is completely in the shitter. The good news for me is that everyone else’s life is in the shitter too, so I’ve got that going for me. All of us normies who were lucky enough to survive the end of the world are now doggy-paddling around in a giant, Earth-sized toilet trying not to drown in, well, you get it…
“Holy hell, Frank!” Jill says, stunned.
I take my eyes off the scene before me and direct them to my soaking-wet wife. She’s standing beside me, in the rain, at the front of our boat. We “borrowed” the Coast Guard cutter on our way out of New Jersey, barely escaping with our lives.
Her reaction to what lays ahead is precisely what I would’ve said if I wasn’t busy with my inner monologue. I tend to talk to myself a lot, internally and externally alike. It’s as if there’s someone in my head telling me what to think and say.
Weird huh?
Anyway, after having to stop several times on our journey south, we’ve finally arrived at our destination: Lake Worth Beach, or rather, the pier jutting out of it. We were hoping to beach the watercraft and walk ashore, but it’s plain to see that it isn’t happening.
A crack of lightning erupts overhead, illuminating the shore, revealing the main problem with our plan. The issue here is that most of the pier is smashed to pieces, crumpled beneath a damned cruise ship. It’s not like we can go around the floating hotel either. We noticed that little tidbit when we quietly floated in from the north, killing the engines just before arriving.
Coming in noisy, no matter what the mode of transportation, never ends well.
The flashes of light are bright enough to show us the beach as well as carcasses that litter it. The corpses stretch as far as the eye can see. Most are dead—some aren’t, however. While the lightning shows us the shore to a degree, it’s still too dark to see exactly what is moving—the veil of rain isn’t helping either. And there are things moving… Is it the floundering sea life, or is it something from the mainland feasting on the stranded?
Grunting in frustration and drenched, I turn and head back inside the wheelhouse where I check our fuel gauge for the hundredth time. Doing a quick three-sixty, I confirm that there is no boardable craft in the vicinity in which to siphon gas from. It’s how we made it this far since evacuating the Northeast—Manhattan specifically—and since this isn’t the first time you’ve been along for the ride, I won’t bore you with too much backstory. Sometimes that crap is a snore-fest, am I right? I see what’s left of the world in front of me every single day—in my dreams as well. I don’t want to relive what went down any more than I have to.
Jill’s hand finds mine, and I relax, thankful she’s with me.
Our home: Gone.
Our friends: Yep, you guessed it! Dead and gone.
Our normalcy: More gone than gone—not that we were normal, to begin with.
The only thing good in all of this is that it brought Jill and me back together. Our marriage was in shambles until the space rock reminded us of what was important in life. Each other.
Sappy, I know, but it’s the truth, and until then, we were this close to calling it quits. I wish you could see how close I’m holding my index finger and thumb together.
I would never admit it aloud, but I don’t really give a shit who else has died. The only person that truly matters to me has survived, and that’s enough for me.
I reflexively roll my eyes, knowing I don’t actually believe that. I may be a coldhearted prick sometimes, but I’m not that big of one. At least, I don’t ‘think’ I’m that big of one… Regardless, it’s mostly because of all the death I’ve seen—pre-apocalypse, I mean. As far as the post-apocalyptic death toll… Well, a lot of innocent people died in a matter of hours. Like, millions. And it’s barely been over a week! It’s almost too much to comprehend unless you’ve traveled as far as we have and seen the dead for yourself.
They’re everywhere.
That’s probably an optimistic number of dead too. I’ve never been good with numbers. They usually hurt my brain. Numbers aside, it’s been pretty hard to deal with being one of the chosen few that did not turn into the planet’s newest super-predator and dominant species, the Unseen. I named them that for an obvious reason. The one consistent abnormality in them all is their lack of eyes. Every sub-species is alike in that way.
And yes, those that have turned, at one point, had eyeballs. It wasn’t until after they had gazed at the meteor and its subsequent flash of hellish light that they decided to dig them out of their own heads. Luckily for me, I was in my bedroom watching a Treehouse Masters marathon when it all happened. Jill was spared because she was working a charity event at the Museum of Natural History. The rest is, well, just that, history.
“How do we get ashore?”
Jill’s question is a doozy and I, unfortunately, think I know a way in. And by “in,” I mean, in through the shipwreck. I turn the key and flinch when the engine coughs loudly. Then, it turns over and roars to life. We’re running on fumes in the worst way. I relay the shitty plan to Jill, and all I get in return is a sour look. She doesn’t like it, but nor does she have a better idea.
“Well, at least it’s one of the smaller ships,” she comments, shrugging. “Could be worse.”
She’s right too.
Back when we lived around here, we used to take the weekend cruises all the time. You’d sail from Fort Lauderdale out to one of the Bahamian islands and then come back again. Not only are these boats a lot smaller than their longer-term sister vessels, but they were a hell of a lot cheaper to boot!
Guiding the cutter over, I find what more than likely sank the ship. A hole the size of a two-car garage door sits in its flank. From what I can tell, something must’ve pierced its side, blowing out a section of one of the lower levels. Even from where I’m standing, I can see a door belonging to some poor soul’s cabin.
“Okay,” I say, keeping the nose of the craft pushed up against the hull, “out and up.”
Jill nods and grabs her pack. I have one too. Both were left behind by the sailors that had first manned the cutter. Inside is a bevy of survival equipment from the boat, along with a few things we picked up along the way. And yes, before you ask, we did, in fact, steal from the dead. I’m not thrilled about what we did, but it was something that needed to be done.
Our lives literally depended on it.
As I hurry out of the bridge, I snag the holstered gun hanging from a coat hook. There had been no need to carry it twenty-four-seven for the last couple of days, but I had kept in handy, just in case. I take off my dripping jacket and slip it on, tightening the shoulder holster’s straps.
It’s a lot hotter in South Florida than it is in New York this time of year, but the jacket still serves a purpose either way. Even if it’s too hot to need, it’ll hide my weapon from those that may perceive it, and therefore me, as a threat.
And I’m not talking about the Unseen either.
Gangs of survivors roam the cities of America now. We encountered one in Manhattan and another between here and Jersey while we searched for something to eat. We were forced to dock somewhere in the Carolinas and were immediately met by a disheveled group of fishermen.
Whereas Jill and I kept our heads during the Earth’s reckoning, a lot of people went fucking nuts. We came ashore without our weapons drawn but had to shoot our way back to the safety of our boat before we were overwhelmed by a half-dozen, unkempt sailors. Seriously, it had only been a few days since Abaddon, and the other, smaller meteors entered our atmosphere, and the fishermen already looked like they’d been on the lam for years. I suppose, in retrospect, it spoke to the men’s pre-apocalyptic state.
Feeling more secure with my gun under my left armpit, I head back out into the deluge, right for the front rail. Jill is already there, waiting for me. Her eagerness to leave the sputtering cutter matches my own. I’ve never been an enormous fan of the ocean, even though I grew up in Florida. Now, I’m ready to nev
er sail her seas again.
For what it’s worth, Jill’s pistol is tucked into the back of her pants. I see it when she steps into my clasped hands and climbs into the ruined cruise ship. Women and children first… Check. That means I’m next and I gladly reach up for Jill’s outstretched hands. Thankfully, she’s strong and holds me aloft while I shimmy up the ship’s slick, teetering hull.
When my foot leaves the cutter’s deck, something strikes the vessel from below. The sizeable boat rises to meet my feet, and the impact jars me free of Jill’s grasp. Wide-eyed, she shouts as I fall on my ass, landing hard. Then, the ground beneath me tilts backward, and I roll ass-over-teakettle toward the vacant wheelhouse. The cutter’s powerful engines die a moment later, and the craft begins to drift away from Jill and our improvised mooring. Without the forward momentum of the churning props, the boat is at the sea’s mercy now.
And whatever hit the cutter.
Lord knows we’ve seen some angry behemoths while out at sea. Like the gargantuan shadow that was so big, it couldn’t follow us into the shallows. It never surfaced, but its girth was undeniable. The leviathan was the reason we stayed as close to shore as possible on our way here. Doing so kept us safe. Unfortunately, it also added another two days to our journey to find our families.
Both Jill and I lived out the majority of our childhoods in these parts. I’ve personally been to Lake Worth Pier more times than I can count. Everyone from here knows about the fantastic Benny’s on the Beach. The restaurant sits firmly atop the boardwalk that starts the pier and has been a mainstay in the area since the late eighties.
It was also one of the first places Jill and I had a meal together as a couple. Weekend brunch during spring break. I was surrounded by beautiful scenery, including Jill in a bikini.
Man, what an awesome day.
The sound of splintering metal and fiberglass takes me away from the memory of Jill's sun-kissed body and back to reality. Something has latched itself onto the hull of the cutter, crushing it as if it were a tin can. It causes the front of the boat to raise a few feet which gives me another wicked idea.
Ugh, I think. The deck’s incline has increased. My new plan isn’t going to be so easy.
I take a second to regain my equilibrium, just as a pair of huge something-or-others explode out of the water on either side of me. I hit the literal deck and army crawl toward my escape. Peeking over my shoulder, I recognize what has lashed onto the cutter within the next lightning flash—its appendages anyway.
Some sort of Unseen-octopus—a real-life Kraken—has attacked the boat from beneath, intent on sinking it with whatever is left on board.
Me.
“Captain Frank Nemo?” I ask myself, thinking of the classic Vernean novel, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
When two more of the oversized tentacles slither up the starboard and port sides of the cutter, I realize that I’ve overstayed my welcome. Then again, Squidward would probably enjoy me being here and be equally excited to have me on the menu.
Frank-a-la-boat?
Pivoting, I bolt for Jill’s outstretched arms, plant my foot on the railing and jump out into the pouring down rain. The cutter shrieks in agony just as I clasp hands with my wife.
There, dangling like a worm on a hook, I look back and watch as our refuge gets swiftly yanked beneath the murky waves. I don’t get to see the Unseen-octo, though. Honestly, I’d rather not. The only thing I see is the rest of its tentacles wrap around the bow of the vessel, and in less than ten seconds, the cutter disappears beneath the surf.
Jill begins to pull me up, and I give her some much-needed help, squirming the rest of the way into our new haven. We fall back together and stay there. Exhausted and drenched, we try to catch our breaths before standing. When I do, I help Jill to her feet and kiss her hard. It’s the best “thank you” I can give her.
Together, we lean out over the water and wait, but find nothing. Both the Kraken and the cutter are gone.
“Well…” I say, patting the inside of the hull, still breathing hard, “I guess we know…what attacked…the cruise ship.”
Jill glances at me with an eyebrow raised. “No shit, Nemo, what made you think that?”
2
The ship is a disaster, which really shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. Is it really outlandish to be that shocked, considering we were just attacked by a real-life sea monster—a monster that had apparently torn off a chunk of its hull? See… Not so farfetched.
If my estimation is correct, and regrettably, I believe it is, a large population of the passengers and crew have either turned into snarling demons, or they’ve died. The lowest level is entirely deserted—not that it is void of bodies. Nothing is alive, yes, but there are still plenty of people here.
“It was a slaughter,” I say, gun drawn. Jill doesn’t respond. She only follows close behind me, gun pointed at the floor in the low ready position. “They had nowhere to go,” I continue. “Like shooting fish in a barrel.”
“Still,” Jill adds, “someone must’ve survived and aimed the ship at the pier.”
She’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean somebody actually survived. Sure, a crew member might’ve forced the ship onto a collision course with Benny’s pier. That, however, doesn’t mean that same person lived to see their plan come to fruition.
Should we try the bridge? Maybe someone locked themselves inside?
I shake my head. No one could’ve survived on board of this hell cruise for a week. If someone were able to steer the ship here, then they would’ve most likely headed for shore immediately after. Then, they’d have to navigate the horrors waiting for them on dry land.
Just like what we’ll have to do.
We check for survivors everywhere we can, peering in through all the open cabin doors. The ones that are still closed and locked, we pass by. I, of course, check the handles to make sure.
Not only are they inaccessible, but whoever called the rooms home for the length of the cruise are probably dead anyway. As much as I want to do my cop thing and save as many as I can, there is no way for Jill and me to make it out alive if we stay onboard any longer than we have to.
It is truly ‘every man for himself’ nowadays.
Boarding the ship was already a bad idea, but sometimes the worst ideas are the only ones we have. If we hadn’t acted when we did, then we would both have been chilopod food right now.
“Where are they?” Jill asks, keeping her voice low.
“Not sure,” I reply, knowing she’s talking about the Unseen.
There has been zero movement on the ship since we came aboard. It’s easy to see why too. From what I can gather, most of the people on the ship didn’t turn into monsters. That meant that there was more caged food for the ones who had become the Unseen.
“Ugh,” Jill mumbles, holding her jacket over her nose.
The staircase is packed with the dead, bodies on top of one another. As people had begun to die, the survivors, at the time, did what was natural and had run.
“They were probably heading topside…” I almost gag. “To the, ugh, lifeboats. And something must’ve met them halfway and cut through them while they were bottlenecked here.”
“I can see that, Frank,” Jill barks back, avoiding the feet of a child. “Just stop it, okay? I don’t need you narrating this.”
I stop and look over my shoulder and get an apologetic smile from her. Jill knows I’m not trying to gross her out. Like I said before, I’m not that much of a coldhearted prick to do something like that. It’s just the inner detective in me coming out—and he wants to dissect everything. Gross… Dissect… I also want to know what happened to these people, so I can learn from them and avoid their fate.
I look back at Jill again. To keep her safe.
Torturing myself mentally is something I’ll gladly do to ensure my wife’s safety. If that’s going a little over-the-top, then that’s what I’ll do, go over-the-top.
I think back to the Unseen-octo. B
etter to go ‘over-the-top’ with details than to go ‘overboard’ and drowned.
Threading our way through the bodies is hard work due to all the coagulating blood and low light. We forego turning on our flashlights so we can keep our pistols drawn. The only light in the stairwell is the red emergency lights above the door to each floor’s door.
It reminds me of when I had to do the same thing inside Betty’s apartment building back in Manhattan. She was such a delightful woman, someone who helped me dearly. In the end, she died before she could evacuate the island. I sigh at the memory of her bleeding out in my arms.
Initially, I thought about checking each floor of the ship for survivors, Unseen or not. But with Jill barely holding it together in the stairwell, I decide against it and keep moving. The smell is one thing, but the squishing and glooping sounds of the congealed blood beneath our feet is another entirely. It takes a lot to rattle me and hearing my feet pop as I pull them free of the drying plasma is…
I gag and vurp a little, swallowing the small amount of vomit back down.
The angle of the listing ship isn’t helping things, no matter how slight it is. Jill and I are forced to slosh through the deeper pools and follow the route of least resistance. If we were to try and stay on the higher, drier parts of the stairs, we’d still most likely slip and fall. While safer to march through the crimson puddles, it’s also the more horrid of pathways.
“Well, there go these shoes,” I joke, uncomfortable with my surrounding. I’m happy to hear Jill snicker behind me. “Never gonna get that stain out.”
“You’re disgusting,” she says. “You know that, right?”
I laugh a little but bite my lip after I nearly trip on someone’s unwound intestines. I didn’t see them as I rounded the corner of the last landing in the stairwell.
