Trouble in Paradise

by David Rogers

  “Yeah, this is really weird . . .” Ann picked up as Betsy trailed off, before stuttering to a halt herself. She gaped at them for a moment, then shrugged awkwardly. “It’s like a horror movie.” she finished lamely.

  “Yeah, so we’ve got a problem.” the captain said abruptly.

  All eyes turned upward to him again as he lowered the binoculars. He sighed heavily and let the instrument fall on the strap around his neck as he looped it into place. “Whatever’s going on, the radio doesn’t make it sound like there’s any kind of plan for resolving or fixing it anytime soon.”

  “But the government, I mean, they—” Tiffany said hesitantly.

  The captain shrugged. “CDC is government, and some of the news includes stuff from cities and states – nothing Federal yet – and it doesn’t sound like to me they’re getting a handle on anything.”

  “So what do we do?” the deckhand next to Tiffany asked, his voice level. She glanced at him in surprise, then blinked. He was her age, but his tone suddenly made him sound like her father. Like he knew what to do. He even sounded more assured than the captain, who was nearly three times her age and had spent most of his life working on the water. She couldn’t remember much about any of the things she was supposed to know about him – details bored her – but she knew Daddy wouldn’t have picked just anyone to see to the multi-million dollar yacht.

  “Well for starters we need to keep an ear on the radio, and figure out if there’s a safe port anywhere.” the man said.

  “Wouldn’t staying out until things calm down be best?” the deckhand asked.

  “I’m not saying we should put in right away Hugh,” the captain said with a nod, “but we’re only provisioned for another five or six days. The water tanks will probably hold us for a few weeks – as long as everyone stops taking freshwater showers – but the pantry isn’t really stocked for a long cruise. No sense in waiting until we’re out to decide where to go.”

  “How far can we get?” Tiffany asked, struggling to find a question she thought wouldn’t sound completely needy or stupid. The men’s eyes swung to her – for once not even flickering down even briefly at her chest – and she shrugged. “I mean, before we’re out of gas.”

  “We’ve basically got full tanks.” the captain said with a shrug of his own. “Technically, as long as we don’t hit any serious weather or headwinds, we could make most anywhere on the European coast with a reasonable reserve. But that’s seven or eight days, so we’d either need to pick up some food from somewhere or tighten our belts to make the supplies last.”

  “Do we really need to cross the Atlantic?”

  “No.” the captain said immediately. “Not unless we’ve got no other choice.”

  “Why are we talking about it then?” Ann asked.

  “It’s good to know all our options.” Hugh said. “What the captain means is we need to think things over while we gather more information.”

  “Right.” the captain said with another nod. “And, whatever we decide or learn, the boat can take us quite a ways. Certainly we can go anywhere we need to on the East Coast, or down into the Caribbean, Mexico, most of South America, even California assuming the Canal in Panama stays in operation.”

  “So we need more information.” Tiffany said, still trying to sound like she thought Daddy would in this situation. She blinked as she suddenly realized there were three satellite phones on the boat, plus the radio and other built-in gear. She could talk to Daddy. “I want to call my father while you monitor the radio and whatever for more information—” she started to say, but she cut herself off when the captain abruptly toppled forward.

  Hugh’s hand closed on her arm, pulling her roughly out of the way. The captain fell right past her, close enough for her to feel the passage of air as he went by, and hit the deck less than a foot from her. His body smacked down full length, like he was doing a belly flop, with no sign he’d made any attempt to catch or protect himself.

  Tiffany realized she and Ann and Betsy were screaming. Hugh was saying something, but whatever it was his voice was lost beneath those of the trio of terrified girls. She realized there was a splatter of blood across the deck from something that had happened to the captain in his fall; the splatters had reached her bare feet and legs.

  Betsy darted past Tiffany and Hugh, falling to her knees next to the captain. She reached to turn him over, something Tiffany wasn’t entirely sure should be done. Wasn’t there something about not moving people who’d been in an accident? But before she could gather her shocked thoughts enough to say anything, she saw the captain moving. As Betsy rolled him over, his head lifted and turned toward her.

  There was an almost audible snap as his head seemed to center on the bikini clad girl at his side. One of his hands reached up and grasped her forearm as she pushed on his shoulder, and as he rolled over on his side, his other hand latched onto her thigh.

  “Captain?” Betsy said compassionately. “Are you okay?”

  “Uh—” Hugh said.

  “Betsy—” Tiffany finally got out.

  A second scream from Ann cut through both of their comments, washing it away. Tiffany glanced behind herself again, the beginning flickers of annoyance stirring. It was just a fall. The captain was fine; he was moving around. Maybe he might have broken something – the deck was imported hardwood after all – but even so, it wasn’t like the boat was hard to handle. She’d seen the bridge many times; steering wheel like a car, with a lever to control how hard the engines were going. Not a big deal.

  But all that faded away from her mind as she saw what was happening. Blood was pouring down Ann’s torso from her neck. The second deckhand, the older one, was behind Ann. His arms were wrapped around her upper body, pinning one of her arms against her side; and his mouth was fastened onto the curve of her body where neck met shoulder. As Tiffany stared in that one horrible instant, she saw blood spurting out across the man’s face as his teeth tore into her friend’s flesh.

  “Oh fuck!” Hugh half-shouted, swaying in place as he looked too. Ann’s scream was high and thready, and she started pushing on the man’s head with her free arm. She wasn’t making any headway; he was resisting every bit of her panic fueled efforts to shove him away. The blood was starting to pool on the beautiful wood beneath her feet, and her summer tan was nearly gone beneath the coating of sticky red as her life pulsed out of the gaping wound opened by the man’s teeth.

  Just as Ann’s screams started to weaken, along with her attempts to free herself, Betsy’s scream took up the chorus. When Tiffany tore her attention away from Ann, she saw the captain was chewing on Betsy’s thigh. Not biting, chewing. There was a large gap in the skin and muscle of her upper leg that glinted blood smudged bone at the deepest part; and there was a lot of blood flowing. He had the girl by an arm and leg, and wasn’t letting go despite her frantic struggles as he masticated the mouthful of her thigh he’d bitten off.

  Tiffany’s mouth flopped open, and she felt a thin exhalation that wasn’t strong enough to turn into a scream leaving her lungs as she stared at the scene erupting around her. This was not happening. This was some sort of sick joke. How, she didn’t know; but it couldn’t be happening.

  Hugh stepped forward and kicked the captain in the side of the head. The deckhand wore simple deck shoes, designed to give good grip in wet conditions and slip on and off easily. They weren’t designed for kicking; not even balls on a sporting field, much less a human head. But Hugh gave it his best in a clear bid to knock the older man off the girl. He howled in pain as his foot made contact, and the captain rolled back some.

  As Hugh hopped, trying to keep his balance with his face contorted unhappily as he held his foot clear of the deck, Betsy tried to scramble backwards. The captain’s grip on her leg had loosened, and his hand on her forearm was starting to slacken as well. Tiffany found her strength and propelled herself into motion as Hugh put his foot down and tested his balance gingerly.

  She leaned forward and
grabbed Betsy under both arms. Pulling, she helped as Betsy tried to extract herself from the captain’s clutches. For the first couple of seconds he came with her; then Betsy got her uninjured leg into the act, kicking at him several times. Her foot stomped out like she was stepping on a bug, and even without shoes she managed to knock the captain’s fingers loose. Tiffany fell over backwards as Betsy suddenly moved without impedance.

  “Here.” Hugh said, leaning down and tugging on both girls at once. Tiffany didn’t have time to be startled at the strength in his lean, tanned arms as he hauled her and Betsy up. Betsy swayed on her feet, crying and cringing from shock and pain, but Hugh got one of her arms draped across his shoulders so he could hold her upright. “Come on.”

  “But A—” Tiffany started to say, looking that way, only to feel her voice trail off in fresh shock. Ann was clearly dead. There was more bone showing where the other deckhand was . . . eating her. Tiffany felt her stomach roiling within her as she saw the man chewing pieces of Ann. Blood was only sporadically spurting now; not the massive gusher it had been moments ago. The girl’s head was lolled over, away from the wound, and her eyes were fixed and open. She was not moving, except where the deckhand was jostling her as he held her against himself and bit and chewed.

  “Ohmygod!” Tiffany blurted incoherently as she doubled forward and vomited The remains of the chicken wrap she’d had for lunch, and the alcoholic fruit juices and water she’d been sipping since, poured up and out of her as her insides heaved. She felt it splattering across her legs and feet, puddling on the deck; but most of it went right across Betsy and Hugh. They were in front of her, and Tiffany had no time to try and aim or control herself. It was all she could do to suck in breath around the acid and bile coming up along with the food and drink.

  “This way.” Hugh said, catching Tiffany under her arm with his free hand and pulling her away from the bridge and the yacht’s central passage. Stumbling as she tried to keep her feet while he tugged and her stomach kept heaving uncontrollably, Tiffany ended up leaning against the railing on the left side of the ship. The last of her gastronomical reversal went over the side to the water below. Then she dry heaved half a dozen more times, her insides knotting and clenching up painfully as she huffed and groaned. Finally the muscular spasms ceased, and she wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Straightening, she saw Hugh kneeling next to Betsy, who was clinging to the railing several feet away. The deckhand had taken off his shirt and wounded it around into a sort of approximation of a cord or rope; and was now pulling it tight around Betsy’s leg just above the bite.

  “Yeah, bite.” Tiffany thought sourly. “Freaking meal more like.” The wound looked big enough for someone’s hand to fit into. Tiffany couldn’t imagine anything short of a gunshot being worse. She could see Betsy’s thigh bone for God’s sake. Blood was still pulsing out, but it was slowing some as Hugh pulled the makeshift tourniquet tight. The shirt sank into her flesh, and raised fresh protests from Betsy.

  “Oh God.” Betsy moaned. “Oh God, oh my God.”

  “Best I can do right now.” Hugh said, standing up. “Medical kit’s in the crew quarters.”

  “What about . . . help.”

  “Have to do something about Captain Noonan and Cooper first.” Hugh shrugged unhappily, glancing at the passage at the base of the bridge. Tiffany looked, but she could only see the captain’s feet at the moment. From where he was, she guessed he must have joined the . . .

  “Are they eating—” she got out uneasily. Her insides rumbled, but there was nothing left to expel. Otherwise Tiffany was sure she’d be vomiting again.

  “I think so.” Hugh said. “Come on. We need to check on Ángel.”

  “Who?” Betsy asked weakly.

  “The cook.”

  “But—”

  “Med kit’s in the same direction. There’s nothing we can do for your friend.”

  “But—” Tiffany started.

  “There’s an emergency kit back there too.” Hugh said urgently. “We don’t need the bridge to get on a radio. Let’s go.”

  Unwillingly, Tiffany followed as Hugh helped Betsy move back along the outside of the yacht’s railing. Betsy was being more or less dragged along, since her feet were barely moving; but Hugh was clearly a lot stronger than his wiry frame seemed to indicate. Tiffany was having trouble keeping up as Hugh led the way to the rear of the deck where the ‘back door’ to the yacht’s structure on this level was.

  Pushing it open, he immediately descended the stairs on the side. Tiffany took one glance up along the passage, to where Ann was, and immediately regretted it. Both men were leaning over the girl, and they were definitely eating her. It was horrific. Tiffany shuddered and followed Hugh and Betsy quickly. The next level down was the ‘main’ one. The forward portion was all boring stuff; kitchen, some storage, and the crew’s quarters. Guest bedrooms were all upstairs and downstairs, along with various sitting and lounging rooms.

  Hugh led the way forward. There was a hatch-like door next to the entrance to the kitchen, which he opened. Tiffany saw a number of boxes and bags in it, each labeled neatly with embroidered lettering. The one Hugh pulled out was white with a red cross on it, making the label that read ‘Medical’ redundant. “Okay, in here.” he said to Betsy, slinging the medical bag over his shoulder before reaching for the kitchen door. “We’ll need some water I guess, to wash that out.”

  Betsy nodded weakly. With no better notion occurring to her, Tiffany kept following as Hugh pushed through into the kitchen.

  As the door opened, she smelled something cooking. No, something burning, she realized. Craning her head around Hugh so she could see, she saw several pots and pans on the stove. Steam and smoke was rising from them, and beyond the cooking appliance she saw Ángel standing with his back to them. The normally neat area was a mess; with a lot of the contents of the cabinets and shelves scattered across the floor and counters.

  “Ángel, man, turn all that crap off and help me.” Hugh said quickly. “Dinner’s postponed for the moment.”

  The cook turned with a lurching motion, staggering around in a ragged stationary circle that alerted Tiffany before she saw the man’s face. His normally swarthy and cheerful features were slack and pale. Not completely pallid, but definitely lifeless and drained of a lot of his normal color. His eyes, dead but moving, fastened onto the trio who had just entered, and his arms reached up toward Hugh and Betsy since they were closest.

  “He’s like the others!” Tiffany screamed, while Betsy just screamed inarticulately and tried to back up. She surprised Hugh, who was busy reacting to the cook, and slipped from his grasp. As soon as he wasn’t supporting her, she tripped over a bag of rice and fell back against Tiffany. The girl’s sudden weight unbalanced her, and Tiffany went down with Betsy atop her legs.

  “Oh shit.” Hugh said. He grabbed for something on the counter next to him as Ángel staggered forward. The deckhand brandished a knife at the other man, but the cook didn’t seem dissuaded at all. Not even when Hugh leaned forward and stabbed the knife right into the man’s chest. The dead man’s chest.

  Tiffany stared in shock as she saw the carving knife sticking out of the cook’s body, wobbling and wagging as he kept moving. There was no blood; it was like Hugh had stuck it into a watermelon or cantaloupe. No, fruit had juice. People were supposed to bleed. But Ángel just ignored the knife and reached for Hugh.

  “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” Hugh said, splaying his hands out to either side of himself. Catching his weight on the counters, he lifted himself and lashed out with both feet at Ángel. The cook staggered backwards when Hugh kicked him, tripping over the stuff scattered across the floor and falling flat on his back. As with the captain, he made no effort to catch himself or arrest his fall. He hit, bounced a little, and almost immediately started straightening and righting himself. Tiffany saw something wet and slick spreading beneath him; something on the floor he’d broken or burst when he went down.

&
nbsp; “Get her up.” Hugh said loudly, and it took Tiffany a few moments to realize he was talking to her. She was busy staring at the cook, who was clambering unsteadily to his feet. His every movement was rough and jerky, like his muscles and limbs had forgotten how to function properly. But he was rising, and that was a problem.

  “Hurry!” Hugh said, turning to look at them. Tiffany started scrambling to her feet, extracting herself from beneath Betsy; who was moving slowly and clumsily. Not as much so as the cook, but not with any sort of serious grace or ability.

  Tiffany had managed to get herself up to a kneeling position, reaching to get a grip on Betsy so she could try and get her friend up, by the time Ángel was back on his feet. He lurched forward again, but as he did this time he brushed against the stovetop. The burners were showing blue flame at varying intensities, and he knocked a frying pan off one of the front corners as he staggered against it. As its contents cascaded down across him, there was a sudden whomp-woosh of something expanding and Tiffany felt a blast of hot air blow her hair back away from her face.

  She blinked rapidly, turning her head away instinctively, as she felt heat. Not a little either; a lot of it. The little room, the kitchen, was suddenly bright enough to make her wince even though she was looking at cabinets only a few inches from her nose. She blinked some more, and felt her eyes tearing up from the intense burst of light, and finally the room started to darken back towards its previous level. But not all the way, she noted dully.

  Hugh hit the deck just next to her; she barely missed having his full weight come down on her. While he wasn’t a large guy, she wouldn’t want him landing on her. She was quite slight, and wasn’t up to having full grown guys squish her into the ground, or deck, or whatever.

  Turning her head back, intending to look at Hugh, she gasped as she saw the cook had been engulfed in fire. He was basically a torch with arms and legs; like something out of a movie. And he was moving; still lurching forward and reaching out toward the trio. Hugh was moving too, scrabbling backwards on his ass with arms and legs kicking and pulling. Tiffany squirmed backwards alongside him instinctively, as Betsy raised her head and caught sight of what was happening in the kitchen.