by M. L. Banner
“Fine, I’m dumping my bag and bellying up to the Irish pub I saw on the ship’s map.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want to do,” she said, not even allowing a wisp of emotion to salt her words. She took her bag from him, pulled it through the narrow doorway into the room and let the heavy door flop back, like a Venus flytrap. It thumped closed on her husband.
A few seconds later, the lock clicked open. Ted withdrew his card and pushed open the door. “Man, you piss me off sometimes.” His voice imitated hot, but he wasn’t really that fiery.
“I know, that’s why you love me.” She flashed a playful smile at him.
She was very familiar with this game. Ted often played the victim in circumstances such as these, when he didn’t want to deal with other people, especially a lot of people. The victim thing—which he played rather poorly—was in hopes of garnering enough sympathy from her to release him from tonight’s dinner with a table full of strangers or that he’d be let out of his obligation with the captain tomorrow night. But she needed him to keep up appearances and although she rarely participated, she couldn’t completely shut him down now as she often would in these kinds of circumstances.
She snickered again, and then suppressed her smile, pretending serious. “Look, if you want to go on a binge or continue your anti-social behavior on my vacation, and on our anniversary, I’m not going to stop you. We can order room service tonight, but don’t think you’re going to abandon me to a dinner that was set up in your honor tomorrow. And don’t forget the captain is a big fan of yours. You wouldn’t want to let one of your biggest fans down, would you?” She batted her eyes at him for effect.
Then she did turn somewhat serious.
“And as far as the drinking goes, I’m the one who’s going to be pissed if you don’t take me with you drinking. After almost getting eaten by Cujo, then a flock of fucking seagulls and then a billion damned Bens, I need to do some heavy drinking myself.”
Ted didn’t say anything in rebuttal, pretending to examine the couch, while she quickly started the process of unpacking. She often would do busy things when she was anxious.
She paused and glared at him for a long moment before continuing.
“And before we both get slobbery drunk, you need to make sure I can call Mom. I can’t figure out the damned ship’s cell service. Even though we texted our families, I just want her to hear my voice before she reads about any of this, whatever this is.”
Ted plopped into the couch and just nodded. They’d been married long enough for him to know when she was releasing her pent-up worries, it was best to just let her finish before he said anything.
She wasn’t done, but flicked her hair once again, not for show but because it bothered her. It wasn’t tied up into her normal ponytail, the way she liked it. She was trying to be a little more dolled up for their cruise.
“Finally, and speaking of almost getting eaten, are we going talk about what we’ve witnessed the last thirty-six hours and what’s going on?”
Ted removed his ball cap and ran a hand through his thinning black hair. That was his tell that he was deliberately considering what she had said, and he was choosing his words carefully.
“Can we decompress about all of this later? I still need to consider a few things. Maybe tomorrow?”
It was the way Ted’s mind processed things—like an engineer, very methodically. He never rushed to judgment. He was always stable like that. And although it was what she preferred, she sometimes wished he’d act irrational, just a little.
“Fine. I’m going for a run, then.” She moved toward the bathroom, mumbling something unintelligible about needing a busy activity to occupy her mind and an errand she needed to take care of before dinner.
He watched her reach into her bag and precisely find and snatch out her running shorts and sport shirt, as if the bag had handed these items to her.
She disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Ted to himself.
~~~
Ted marveled at her organization. Even though their main checked bag, with all their formal clothes, hadn’t arrived yet—he wondered if it ever would, based on their abrupt exit from the port—she packed exactly what she needed in her carry-on, and had it placed exactly where she needed it. She’d probably be fine if their main bag never arrived. His stuff was separated unequally between the checked bag and his carry-on; he couldn’t even say what was in each. He’d unpack later.
Far more interesting to Ted was what awaited him on the small built-in desk/dressing table. It had mirrors and compartments too small to hold anything useful. More practical was the desk’s center, where three bottles of red wine were displayed on a tray. And beside it, a leather-bound notebook.
“All right, now we’re talking,” he said, mostly to himself, since TJ was out of earshot.
A noise like a muted rocket ship engine blasted away from inside the bathroom. He couldn’t help but break a smile at the sound of the turbo toilet, wondering how startling that must have been to some first-timers who used it. TJ had been on many cruises before they met, so that noise was probably old hat to her.
Enough of this. Time to drink.
He turned his attention back to the wine mirage and plucked an envelope sandwiched between two of the bottles. After noticing the RE logo on the top left corner, he pulled out a hand-written note card and paraphrased it loud enough so that she could hear him inside the bathroom. “The captain wants to welcome us on board with these three bottles of wine.”
Using the corkscrew—also monogrammed with the solid white on dark blue Regal European logo—he yanked out the cork, and poured half a glass of the red cab. He’d prefer she’d join him in this, but knew she wouldn’t have one until after she finished her run. He couldn’t wait that long.
In the small open area of the desk, he unfolded his iPad, turned it on, and loaded a copy of his second-to-last book, along with all of his notes.
He sipped the wine and glanced down at the healthy streak left on the side of the glass. It was a bit harsh, but it would do just fine thank you. He took a larger sip.
With eyes focused on his iPad, he went directly to the Research area of his Scrivener program, and opened the document on toxoplasmosis.
Another sip of wine.
“Oh shit,” he muttered.
He swallowed the rest of the glass of his wine, no longer tasting it or feeling its warmth in his belly. His ball cap came off again; he put his glass down and massaged his aching temples.
TJ popped out of the bathroom a new woman: her lipstick freshened, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and her slim figure perfectly highlighted by her running outfit.
Ted watched her move with quick determination, briefly admiring his wife’s athletic physique, before he turned his attention back to his iPad.
She thrust the clothes she’d been wearing—folded neatly, almost creased—into the already opened small closet, laying them neatly on a middle shelf, and walked over to Ted. “Save some for me, dear.” She smiled and pecked him on the lips, turned and marched out the door.
He needed more wine.
~~~
TJ had intended to head up to the sun deck, two decks above them, and go for a run. Then she had a meet-up with a ship’s officer. But she only made it three steps out of their cabin before she stopped dead. There were dogs barking.
Her head snapped in the direction of an open crew access door. A small man with a big smile was pushing a service cart her way. She wasn’t paying him any attention, because her mind was busy attempting to confirm what she thought she had heard. Before the rats attacked the port, they had seen the dog crates being ushered on board. But only now did it connect: these dogs were on her ship, that was their barking, and they could be loose.
That’s when the memory flooded back all at once. She had thought she had long since suppressed this, burying it deep down where it would no longer hurt her. She squeezed her eyes shut and desperately tried to think of anything else
. Still the memories came: the images, the sounds, the smells... and the fear.
TJ had been in Chicago as part of a larger investigation of Cleavon Drummond, or Cleavon the Cannibal, as the media later called him. One of Cleavon’s victims was from Tucson and so TJ had flown out to work with their team in Chicago. The next day, they had a warrant for one of Cleavon’s suspected locations. Her Chicago equal, Agent Little, and she were going to cover the back of the property. What their sources never told them was that Cleavon owned several vicious dogs tied off by the exit. Unfortunately for Agent Little, he surprised the dogs. More unfortunate was TJ’s deathly fear of animals, and most especially dogs, since it was a dog which had viciously attacked her years earlier. She had hung back behind a dumpster when the animals struck. Even though she was supposed to cover him, she froze. She even retreated farther behind the dumpster to get away from the animals.
The dogs tore the agent apart, and she did nothing.
His screams were heard for blocks and other agents came running.
But it was too late.
Agent Little died on the scene and TJ remained in her spot, cowering behind the dumpster, shaking like a leaf in October.
A Chicago PD officer helped her up, though not before commenting, “I sure as hell wouldn’t want you backing me up.” Turned out that wouldn’t be a problem anymore, because after that, TJ had been relieved of her fieldwork.
She froze, and Agent Little died.
“Ms. Williams,” called a voice in the distance.
TJ blinked her eyes. She came out of her vivid daydream and found herself nearly hyperventilating.
“Ms. Williams, are you all right?” begged the little man standing in front of her. He’d swapped his willful smile for genuine concern.
“Yes. Thank you.” she answered, in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. “I’m sorry...” she tried to focus on the man’s badge, but was having difficulty.”
“I’m Jagamashi, but you can call me Jaga.”
He was an Indo, she thought. She started to feel a little more... normal. “Ah, terima kasih, Jaga,” TJ replied.
“Sama-sama, Ms. Williams. Senang sekali bisa ngobrol dengan orang yang bisa berba-hasa Indonesia.” Jaga smiled genuinely. (Thank you, Ms. Williams. It’s so nice to speak to someone who understands Indo.)
“Bahasa Indonesia saya tidak terlalu bagus.” TJ chuckled quietly and shrugged. (My Indo is not that good). She was surprised the language had come back from her time in Indonesia.
She took a deep breath. “Thanks Jaga. Speaking to you in Indonesian really helped. Ah, before you go, check in on my husband. He has some questions about room service and I know he’d like some ice.”
“Of course. Sama-sama, Ms. Williams.”
“Makasih, Jaga.” She smiled and then jogged past Jaga in the direction he had come, tossing a side-glance at the now-closed crew access door. She was glad she had some work after her run. She needed to focus on anything but crazy dogs.
08
The Dogs
Allegro Palmigren Ramgoolam—guests were thankful he went by, Al—loved what he did, especially at times like this.
When he entered the giant thoroughfare known as I-95, the internal “road” which traversed the Intrepid from bow to stern, he only heard the muffled mechanical thrum of the ship’s powerful engines. Maybe two hours earlier, these spacious halls had been a buzz of activity as many of the officers and crew found their way to all parts of the ship, out of sight of the ship’s guests.
A noxious combination of grease and oil filled Al’s nostrils. He shot a scornful glance at a chin-high box filled with mechanical parts and gave a tug on the master leash. His canine charges were unrulier than usual.
The box was one of many organized discards which awaited recycling when they ported in Miami fourteen days from now. Even though the cruise had just started, this stretch of hallway was already lined with pallets of various items slated for the same purpose: corrugated boxes, strapped tight into a human-sized square; a multi-colored rectangle of pressed aluminum cans, which reflected dull spikes of hallway light as he walked by; and maybe a dozen other various boxes, the contents of which he didn’t know. By the end of the cruise, every square meter of wall surface throughout this vast network of hallways would be crowded with recyclables and other discards.
A crash and a series of thumps in the distance drew his and the dogs’ attention.
An unruly toy poodle barked at the unseen clatter and it shot forward, pulling the collection of dogs and Al with it. Al gave a mighty tug on the master leash, which was connected to all the individual leashes, which were connected to each dog’s choke-chain. “Heel,” he boomed his command.
The pack halted instantly.
The little white poodle, the perpetrator of this undisciplined instigation, coughed twice and then sat its haunches on the gray laminate floor, panting its displeasure at being restrained roughly. The other dogs followed suit.
And so ended the first lesson in tonight’s series of lessons, for Al to establish himself as the pack’s alpha dog.
“Hello Al.” A tall Croatian crew member in a black jumper strode by. The mechanic’s head snapped forward after admiring the pack’s obedience, and then he turned into a connecting hallway, the echoes of his black Dickies already trailing off into the expanse. Al didn’t know the mechanic, other than he was probably from engineering based on his uniform. But the mechanic obviously knew Al.
A chasm-sized smile of bright white spread across Al’s face.
Having one of the few pet kennels on any cruise ship, filled Al with a large measure of pride. He often enjoyed boasting on phone calls or on social media to his family and friends in Mauritius, as well as to other crew members, that he had the most unique job among all cruise lines. This wasn’t an exaggeration, since other than RE’s Intrepid, the only other cruise ship that could claim a pet kennel was the QE2.
Al was also prideful of how well he did his job, the proof of which was evidenced by the generous tips he often received and the many positive comments sent into corporate about him and his pet spa. Regal European responded with elevations in title and pay, lots of praise, and recognition among his shipmates. Corporate even offered to give Al a number of staff befitting his position. He had heard that some in corporate felt a second officer shouldn’t be walking dogs, or cleaning cages. But Al preferred to do this job himself. So he operated solo.
But the real secret to Al’s success was in how he handled the guests. As he told his mother many times on the phone, it basically came down to giving guests what they wanted, at least in their minds.
Usually the guests stressed over their pet’s wellbeing while on the ship, and this was where it would seem (to the guests) that Al focused most of his attention: what food the animal was eating—he ordered food in advance from many specialty outlets all over the world, for which RE charged a generous mark-up; how often they were being fed—he was very careful with this; whether they were getting enough sleep-time—“It’s their vacation too,” he’d tell the owners; if the other animals were being mean to their pet—“Absolutely not!” he’d insist to them; whether the animals were watching the right programs on TV—“Because they all had their own favorite programs,” he’d mimic in a comedic voice to his family through their laughter; the number of times they saw a picture of their “mommy” or “daddy”—the pet’s parents always had a specific number in mind; and so many more requirements imposed by the guests on him for the care of their pets. But this was where Al had a secret which helped him excel.
He learned to take copious notes of the guest’s instructions and concerns and he made sure to repeat them back to the guests. That way the guests believed their wishes were going to be fulfilled to the fullest measure, even if Al was lax on some of their standards. As he had told his family, “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.” And he could tell pretty quickly what he could get away with and what he couldn’t, based on the pet and their owner.
And as a trained and certified vet, Al was also adept at caring for the animals’ medical needs.
Most of these animals—typically dogs—were very pampered by their owners, and almost all just wanted attention: they suffered from separation anxiety, especially after being dumped at the kennel. But they also suffered from a sense of being the most important entity in the owner’s household, sometimes to the detriment of the owner’s own children. It was this pet-centric thinking and the lack of training that led to the pet’s overall lack of discipline.
And so the first walk of the cruise was critical.
He always conducted the first walk late during the first night of the cruise. That would allow him to take control over his boarders without any interference from the pets’ owners or any well-intentioned crew who might wander by and offer scorn for his seemingly rough methods. He never did anything to harm an animal. It wasn’t in his nature. But since most of his boarded pets were undisciplined, just like their owners, he often needed to be aggressive by showing them who was in control.
And there was always that one pet that didn’t do what it was told.
This time it was the white-colored toy poodle, owned by a wealthy Brit traveling to one of her homes in the states—he had yet to meet her. Her equally pampered dog, Monsieur, had its own ideas about where they should go. To prove this, the poodle rose and attempted to take off again. But Al wouldn’t have it. Snapping back on just Monsieur’s leash caused the little dog to once again gasp for air.
It would eventually learn.
Al looked up, and saw the signs pointing to various crew rest areas: The Living Room, the Slop House, and so many other areas all dedicated to the crew. From this point forward to the bow of the ship, he’d experience more crew than he wanted: he just didn’t want to find himself under the scrutiny of others while he was training the dogs. And he still had a lot of work ahead of him. Al glared at the poodle, about ready to wander off again.
