by M. L. Banner
Like several passengers, her daughter hid underneath the lounger beside her, gazing wildly at the birds as they made a meal out of her mother above her.
The blaring ship horns only made matters worse, as no one could hear anything above them or the pandemonium topside.
Only the birds seemed to give the horns any notice, as dozens pelted them like kamikazes giving their lives for some greater bird cause.
A few passengers had the good sense to attempt to make a run for one of the entrances inside the ship. Those close to the entryways were also being coaxed inside by crew members and fellow passengers. But just like when a plane crashes or a ship is sinking, most passengers blindly ran forward, rather than first looking to find the best route. Illogic born from panic drove most folks forward to a cluster that had collected before the entrances, where many had stumbled or stopped to fight off their attackers.
Inside, large crowds had developed behind the forward stairwell entrances and the deck-to-ceiling glass walls surrounding it and the Windjammer cafe on both sides. With the first wave of the bird attack, before those outside thought to find safety inside, those already inside seemed to understand that it was not good to let the birds in, so they had shut the big sliding doors. Even the crew members, whose job it was to open doors for passengers who needed the help, were pushed aside by those who sealed the openings and resisted every attempt to open them back up. When the occasional bird bounced off one of the glass panes, those closest yelped in surprise and tried to step back, but instead were pushed more forward by the growing swell of gawkers behind them.
The crowd inside stood gaping at the onslaught outside, feeling safe behind the glass enclosures.
With each passing second the hordes of people inside grew, fed by more passengers streaming from upper and lower decks. Most were coming to the Sun Deck to catch some sun or get some food at the cafe, oblivious to any problems until the general alarm sounded. Now they collected en masse and gawked.
Crew members from inside the ship attempted to get outside and help. But they couldn’t get by the swelling crowds, protected by the closed doors. And instead of being fearful, they pushed and shoved forward to the glass to take in the amazing spectacle outside.
As the assemblages collected and grew, the swell pressed against those up front, restricting their movements and making it impossible for anyone outside to come in, even if the doors were open. Passengers outside pleaded with those inside to let them in.
Even with what was going on outside, those inside felt protected by the heavy glass keeping them separated from the onslaught.
A screaming bikini-clad woman came out of nowhere, as if she just materialized from the darkening murk outside. She banged hard into the port-side window-wall. Several of the crowd collected behind the window shrieked and then screamed when they saw the woman was covered in an undulating mass of black, pecking away at her face and exposed body parts, now raw and bleeding.
Other outside passengers followed, some covered with birds, others not. All banged on the doors and windows, demanding entry. But the crowds behind the glass walls held firm, unable to move away from the horror.
Holding back the mad birds from the mid-ship stairwell was a two-story observation glass wall. Before the tsunami, its floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the stairwell in light. Now, a large eight-foot-wide by ten-foot-high section, broken from the tsunami wave, was filled with thin plywood, a temporary fix this morning by the crew, with the intent of replacing the broken windows either in Nassau (if they were available) or more likely upon return to their home port in Miami. Other than restricting the passengers’ view out, they would have been solid enough for the occasional children’s hand or gust of wind. They were certainly not intended to hold back panicked passengers.
Because none of the inside gawkers could see through the plywood paneling, there were only a few behind it and therefore nothing to buttress the thin material against the immense pressure being brought to it from the other side. Outside, a mad crush of passengers, insane with fear, intuitively sensed the wood wall’s weakness. They beat and pushed against it. When their force was far more than the temporary wall could hold, it shattered inward. With a way inside, the outside mass of people poured in. And so did many of the black birds.
The inside crowd joined in the panic, now pushing the other way. They flooded the stairwells, the elevators, and the restaurant entrances. All attempted to get away from the oncoming threats.
Passengers trampled fellow passengers, while the inside din of screaming grew to such ear-splitting loudness, it surpassed the decibel levels of the ship’s blaring horns. All of this noise and movement attracted still more birds inside.
At some point during the rampage of birds, something changed. Amongst the panicked crowds many passengers and a few crew members started attacking each other.
42
Boris
Before the Sun Deck’s insanity started, Boris Thompson and his wife Penny did mostly what they were told: they soaked up the sunshine by the pool. The captain had directed them and everyone else on the ship to do this in his morning address. Yet the ship’s doctor told Boris to remain in the infirmary because of the dog bites he’d received. Supposedly, they wanted to “observe” him. Choosing which command he’d follow was easy: he wasn’t about to miss the first sunny day of the cruise. Besides, as far as Boris was concerned, a ship’s captain had a higher rank than the ship’s doctor, who had earlier annoyed Boris with comments about his weight and abnormally low body temperature.
Each time he thought of the doctor and that damned little dog, he reflexively scratched around one of the six bandages covering his “superficial wounds” made by the insane dog. He felt lucky not to have been hurt worse and was still pissed at the doctor for not believing that it was a toy poodle. If he were making it up, he’d have said it was a Great Dane or a German Shepherd, something much more macho than a blooming poodle. Still, thoughts of the attack terrified him.
Boris glanced around the deck, trying to remain on guard if the evil little pup were to show up again. He just didn’t believe they’d caught ‘im.
“You keep scratching at that, it’s going to start bleeding again,” Penny droned on; at the same time she was scratching at a raw part of her belly that had formed at the top edge of her bikini bottoms, already stretched to their limits. He had warned her that the damned thing was not her size.
“Bloody hell, woman,” he snapped at her.
She busied herself with her second rum drink, sucking away its final frothy remnants.
Boris remained calm, reminding himself that it was their anniversary. He was attempting to make every effort not to say anything cross to his wife during this momentous celebration. “Sorry love. It’s just the damned things are itchy as hell.” It still annoyed him that first the doctor was on his fanny about his wounds, and now so was Penny. He bit his lip, hating that every inch of his body felt anxious.
Something brushed against his elbow.
This startled him so much, he jolted his arm forward and away, knocking his own full drink glass onto the exo-skeletal leg brace protecting his knee. It catapulted its flavorful contents all over his other leg, the chair and then onto the rubberized decking of the jogging track before them. He pivoted at the same time to prepare himself for what he was sure was the attacking mad poodle’s next assault. Boris’ opposing arm cocked back, ready to unleash his balled-up fist on the red-eyed devil before it could take a seventh chunk out of him.
Directly in front of Boris, a mere moment before he’d administer his pummeling, was the bum of an elderly man. The man’s rear thrust upwards and farther toward him, now bumping up against his shoulder. The old man’s only sounds were the squeaks of his chair.
“Now look what you did,” trumpeted an old woman’s voice, raspy and condescending, “you made that man spill his drink.”
Boris couldn’t tell where this disconnected voice was coming from because the backside of the man’
s knickers, now thrust into his face, filled up his whole field of vision.
The offending backside spun around, pivoting on furry slippers, and then Boris could see daylight once again.
“Damned ship put our chairs too close together,” the old man croaked back to his wife and then faced Boris, a grimace etched into a swarthy mug, ancient and wrinkled like a bed-sheet at dusk. “Sorry son.” He scowled at the reddish-brown liquid splashed everywhere and then back to Boris. “Can I buy you another... whatever that was?”
Boris wanted to be angry, but this man couldn’t have weighed more than forty kilos, and seemed genuinely embarrassed by his bump. He stood patiently waiting for an answer, stooped over, loose skin waggling in the breeze.
“Are you buying the man a drink?” demanded his equally stooped-over wife, impatiently waiting for her husband to finish up with her chair.
The elderly man ignored her, a grin forming. It was a curiously happy look that said, That’s just my old woman. You’ll understand this, if you make it to my age.
Boris liked this old guy instantly, and now he wanted to buy him a drink, not the other way around.
“It’s nothing, sir,” Boris said loudly, so that the old man’s wife could hear. “I’m just a little jumpy and I’m a bloody klutz. Can I get drinks for yah? We have one of those all you can drink packages, so it costs us nothing.”
The old man wanted to say no, but then scratched his cheek, more of a habit than his attempting to dispense with an itch. The deep fissures of his face moved around his burrowing fingers. Boris could tell the old guy was programmed to react with a “no!” Probably pride more than desire. But the man continued his hesitation, obviously wanting one.
To make the old man’s decision easier, Boris pushed himself up and out of the clutches of his lounger, ignoring the sticky liquid coating his left leg and his right leg’s inability to cooperate. “Come on, sir. Let me get you and your wife a drink. Our treat. Tell me what you’re both drinking. We’re having the ship’s special: some tasty rum drink called a zombie.”
The man’s wrinkle lines went vertical, and a grin now covered his whole face. “Mercy no. We’re whiskey folks. Both my wife and me. Thank you, we’d love to take you up on your offer. I’m David Cohen.” David thrust out his withered hand, gold Rolex dangling off his wrist.
Boris returned the shake and noticed immediately David’s forearm had a series of numbers stenciled on it: A-18523. It was almost unreadable, but he knew immediately what it meant: David had spent time in the Auschwitz concentration camp. Boris and Penny had just visited that horrible place last year and it made such an impact on Boris, he remembered everything. Boris quickly averted his eyes from David’s, feeling guilty for staring at the tattoo, and more so for guessing what it meant. “I’m Boris, Boris Thompson, and my wife Penelope.”
Penny waved with one hand, her other clutching her drink glass, her lips glued to its straw.
“Evie—hi.” David’s wife waved back.
“Very pleased to meet you, sir. I mean, David.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Boris. And sorry again about the chair.”
“It’s just like the airlines, where they pack us in like sardines—”
“—Don’t forget mine, Boris,” Penny interrupted, holding out her empty as proof.
Boris just smiled and began his waddle toward the bar, the temporary brace on his injured leg squeaking. He had to move around several people, who seemed to be slowly milling around, pointing out to the sea, as if they saw something important.
He ignored them, focusing on not falling on his face again and fulfilling the first half of his mission: get Penny’s drink and one whiskey for David’s wife. Penny and he had the bar package, which allowed them to drink as many alcoholic drinks as they wanted, only one at a time. But the pool-side bartender—he had forgotten the man’s name already—took pity on the hobbled Brit, and allowed him to carry two at a time, as long as both Seapasses were swiped. Boris wasn’t too sure if the bartender would allow him to get two and immediately fill another order for two more, so that he could get all four of them drinks. He’d worry about that after he returned to get David and his drinks.
“Hi Boris, back for another round?” asked the slight man from the Philippians. Doe was his name—he just remembered.
Boris was about to belt out his order to Doe when the ship’s horn, directly above their foreheads, blared so loud Boris thought his head would explode.
Doe too seemed jolted from the horn sound. But then Boris watched the bartender’s face go from confused to shock and then something more: it looked like fear.
Boris twisted around and glanced at the pool below them on deck 9, and then the upper deck where they were, but he didn’t see anything that would warrant concern.
All at once the outside turned dark from a thick cloud that passed over them.
Then it fell down upon them, like it had lost the ability to stay up in the air.
The upper sun deck and lower pool deck looked like they were holding a giant rugby scrum, involving the whole population of the ship. Most were either running or flailing away at the enveloping cloud. An ear-piercing cacophony of horn blaring, squawking and screaming filled the air.
A grunt and scream beside him caused Boris to twist back, where he saw Doe fighting with two black birds.
The cloud was birds!
Doe howled again, this time from pain, as one of the black birds ripped at his cheek.
Penny! Boris thought. She was in danger from these birds.
He spun too quickly, his braced knee not moving the way his brain thought it should, and he flopped hard onto the decking.
In front of Boris, also on the deck, a woman covered her face, curled into the fetal position, as birds mercilessly pummeled at her head and arms with their beaks, bringing up blood with each head-plunge.
Boris got up onto his knees and spotted a wadded-up beach towel beside him. He snatched it up and heaved it at the birds, connecting with one. Two others fluttered above, squawked at her, and then continued their assault.
Boris pulled himself all the way up using the fixed bar stool, grabbed a dirty plate left on the bar, stumbled over to the woman, leaned over her and swatted at the twin fowls, connecting so hard the plate broke in two. One broken piece and the two birds thumped off a railing a meter away.
Boris stood erect and fixed his sights back on his Penny. She was so far way. He clutched the large plate piece harder, brandishing its ragged edge outward, ready to use it to chop and slice at anything that stood in his way. He hobbled forward toward his wife, periodically swinging at one bird at a time. He’d get to his Penny, not fall in the process, and kill as many of these damned red-eyed monsters as he could.
~~~
Penny wondered what all the commotion was about in front of her and below her on the Sun Deck. But she didn’t wonder enough to task herself with looking up. She was too focused on her book and her drink. When the ship’s horns blared and she was jolted by a bird landing in her lap, she looked up. The lap bird flapped its wings in a frenzy, like it forgot how to fly. Then it screeched at her and tried to right itself, glaring its bright-red eyes at her.
Even in her slow to react state, Penny sensed its evil intentions. She belted out a scream and swatted at the bird with the back of her book hand. When another hit her in the shoulder, her screams grew several octaves louder. She gave up swatting, and instead covered her head and closed her eyes when it had reared back and was about to go for her face. She waited for the pain. She heard a loud squawk and then a dull thump, but felt nothing more. She quickly flashed her eyes open, catching a glimpse of the offending bird sailing end-over-end over the railing down onto the next deck and into the pool. Then she felt pain.
She glanced down at the one on her lap, which had dug its talons into her leg, and caught the dark arc of something flashing by her, connecting with this bird, knocking it away.
Casting a shadow over her was their new friend Davi
d. His hand was out, the other clutching a thick hardback book, newly coated in blood and feathers.
“Follow me. We’re going inside,” he demanded.
She flashed him a look of confusion, as he quickly withdrew his hand, gripped his book with both hands and yelled, “Duck!” He swung at her head just as she threw herself to the decking.
David then dropped to the deck himself and grabbed something from a tray before pushing himself back up.
“Make a soft fist,” he commanded above her, his voice no longer raspy or frail.
When she glared at him with more confusion, he bellowed once again, “Stick out your hand and make a soft fist. Now.”
She thrust out her arm, wrist all floppy-like. She turned her head away from him, to check out a woman screaming directly behind her and felt something being wedged onto her hand. “Wha—”
“Now tighten your fist, like you want to punch something,” David explained. His voice was calm, but still loud enough to be heard over the craziness going on around them.
She saw it was a heavy drink tumbler, not like the decorative glasses used for her rum drink. She complied, feeling the glass around her fist tighten.
“When you see one of those birds, punch at it with your new fist. Now let’s go.” He tugged on her elbow, intending to lead her toward his wife, who had sought protection under a lounger.
A bird hit beside Penny’s feet. At first she yelped and pulled away from David’s grip. But then she felt the weight on her fist, cocked her left arm and drove her heavy fist at the bird, pulverizing it into the decking. Pulling it away, she marveled at the glass, now colored red. “I’m like the bloody Iron Fist,” she proclaimed.
