The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise

by Hegarty, W. J.

  “So that’s it then. They just put him down and dumped him overboard?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And my baby, too.”

  “Casandra, I…”

  “Jesus, the hits keep on coming, huh?” she said. “I think I want to sit back down now.”

  Across the room, Jeremiah tended to a knife wound. The patient was dirtier than Jeremiah had come to expect from Haven’s inhabitants. The man reeked of cheap booze and smelled like he hadn’t bathed in days. A litany of scars betrayed a violent life.

  “Would you mind telling me how you managed to get stabbed on a vessel that so adamantly prohibits the open carrying of weapons?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like to live below deck.”

  “I’ve been below deck, to de-cons and stowage. We’re below deck now.”

  “This isn’t below deck. It may be located below deck, but it’s not below deck in any way that matters. Understand?”

  “No, I do not. Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me.”

  “I wouldn’t. You’ll find out soon enough. Now just patch me up, Doc, so I can get out of here.”

  Nazneen shone a light in a patient’s eyes, looking for the telltale signs of concussion or some other form of brain injury. “Follow my finger, Christopher. That’s it. Okay. Have you been feeling any intense pain to go along with the headaches? Maybe a sharp sensation in your head. Nausea, perhaps?”

  “Sharp pain sometimes, yeah. Not sick, though.”

  “Okay. What else can you tell me, Christopher?”

  “I don’t know. Lately I’ve been forgetting things.”

  “Forgetting things like what? Like where you are or your name, maybe?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just…” Christopher hesitated as if embarrassed. “I don’t know. It’s probably nothing, but sometimes I’ll be in a part of the ship and I don’t know how I got there. I know where I’m at, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what I’m doing there.”

  “I see. Do any of these blackouts occur while you’re drinking?”

  “Doctor Nazneen, I’ve been walking myself home drunk for ten years. I know what a blackout is. This isn’t it.” The man was clearly offended by the implication.

  “I’m sorry. I just have to cover all my bases. I wasn’t implying anything.”

  “It’s fine. I know you’re just trying to help.”

  “Christopher, I’m going to prescribe you acetaminophen for the headaches. Unfortunately, there’s not a whole lot I can do for the blackouts in this facility, but the next time you experience one, please come see me immediately. Day or night. I’m always available.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry if I wasted your time with a headache. I feel kind of stupid now.”

  “Absolutely not. It’s never a waste of time where your health is concerned. Remember what I said: day or night,” she offered with a smile. “Jonah will fill your prescription on your way out. Take care, Christopher.”

  Miller entered the infirmary still wearing fatigues and a white T-shirt. He let himself slip, decorum-wise while living on the island; at least here among strangers he wanted to look the part.

  “This is an impressive setup they’ve got here, Jerry.” Miller looked around wide-eyed at an honest-to-goodness hospital, as modest as it was.

  “This facility is adequate,” Jeremiah replied.

  “Well, at any rate, you must be thrilled to be able to practice medicine full-time.”

  “We do what we must, and in that vein, word going around is that you’re joining Cortez on his excursion team.”

  “I am. I want to help, and I feel like I can really contribute by going out there with them. They can show me the ropes, and I can teach them a few things.”

  “Admirable,” Jeremiah said stoically. “Are there no ulterior motives involved?”

  “Such as?”

  “After proving yourself invaluable to the sustainability of this ship and the well-being of its inhabitants, I would posit that persuading Captain Kayembe that a return trip to Poseidon’s Rest would be the next logical step.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I may be a robot, Miller, but it is not lost on me the affection you harbor for Soraya. Were I in your shoes, I would also make returning to Poseidon’s Rest a priority.”

  “There’s no fooling you, is there?” Miller smiled. “One step at a time.”

  “Careful, Miller. All is not as it appears aboard this ship.”

  “Oh?”

  “You cannot tell me that Todd’s explanation of Bernie’s disappearance doesn’t ring false.”

  “It does seem odd, doesn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. That man was infatuated with Casandra. Can you honestly imagine him putting her or her unborn child in danger if he were indeed bitten?”

  “I’d be lying if I said this story made any sense at all.”

  “When I confronted Krysler, I got the distinct impression that he was about to say something he shouldn’t have.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But right as I felt like I had pushed him to the brink of action, Todd arrived in an apparent bid for my safety. It all seemed very…” Jeremiah paused and chose his next words wisely. “Rehearsed.”

  “You think Krysler was planning a confrontation?”

  “Not only am I sure of it—I believe Todd put him up to it.”

  “To what end?”

  “That I am unsure of. Keep your guard up around these people, Miller.” Jeremiah scanned the room to find Jonah casually spying on their conversation from his station at the makeshift pharmacy. “Most of them have far from earned my trust.”

  Miller eyeballed the shady nurse. Upon being noticed, the man fumbled with pill bottles to look busy.

  “Enough of my paranoia, though.” Jeremiah escorted Miller over to near Doctor Nazneen’s office. “What brings you to this part of the ship, my friend?”

  “We’re heading out in a few days for an excursion. I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything in particular you wanted me to keep an eye out for.”

  “Medications, pills, anything ending in ‘-cillin,’ purified water, bandages, first aid kits…” Jeremiah recited a list of desired supplies without missing a beat.

  “Whoa, whoa, I get it. I know what to look for. I just came down here to see how you and Aiko were getting along in your new jobs.”

  “Everything is going exceedingly well, at least as well as can be expected on your first day at work.”

  “Fair enough. Personally then?”

  “Personally, Aiko is worried about our child in light of Casandra losing the baby, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t apprehensive as well.”

  Miller gazed across the room at Casandra, who was sleeping again.

  “Poor thing. After all she’s been through, just to lose the baby like that.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What do you think caused it?”

  “It could be any number of factors. Stress, malnutrition. It’s impossible to pinpoint an exact cause.”

  “It’s this ship.” Aiko joined the conversation.

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” Miller asked, expecting that he wasn’t in on the joke.

  Aiko answered as best as she could. “I don’t know what to believe, but one thing is for certain. Not one baby born on this ship has lived for more than a few days since the outbreak started.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We are,” Jeremiah confirmed.

  “It gets worse, Miller. Unimaginable.” Aiko was barely speaking above a whisper. “I know this ship is only an isolated sample, but hear me out. More than three hundred people are living aboard Haven, and nearly sixty percent of them are women. By accident, someone should have gotten pregnant by now. But there have been no recorded pregnancies since the crisis began. Not one. And every woman pregnant before this started? Her child dies in utero or within a few days after birth.”

  “What are
you saying?”

  “We are carrying something fatal to newborns. But more than that, I believe whatever has caused the dead to return to life has sterilized the rest of us.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Contrast

  Moonlight illuminated deck eleven. The twilight hours—that limbo between a hectic workday and a night of reveling—were the most tranquil time on Haven. Dozens of well-dressed people in evening gowns and tuxedos made their way to the theater. They were the Financiers, and everything on deck eleven was strictly for their own use. The Captain’s Theater was no different. The title was pretentious to be sure, though Kayembe had nothing to do with its naming. The people who designed the ship felt the name gave the theater a sense of inclusiveness for the guests, like they were invited to an otherwise private function that only few attended. The theater was located on the far end of deck eleven, just across an open-air walkway from Presence, the Financiers’ private nightclub. Two decks below the walkway, soothing beats from the pool bar’s steel-drum band filled the air, wafting up to the Elite’s level—much to their chagrin. Inside the theater, a variety of shows was performed solely for their pleasure.

  Miller sat beside Captain Kayembe and Raeni. The captain wore a perfectly fitted tuxedo, as did all the other gentlemen in attendance. His wife was adorned in a fine black gown with matching jewelry. Miller fidgeted with his tux; he never cared for the look of these things and the cut was uncomfortable. As the last of the Elite took their seats, the lights went down. The opening act began.

  The first performer was a knife dancer from India. She swayed in time with regional music; the blade was her partner. Her movements flowed like water as her green silken gown trailed behind her through the air, its various green hues vibrant against the illuminated stage. The opening act ended to a round of applause. Following the knife dancer, a trio of Caribbean women dressed in cultural attire performed a traditional dance routine with each taking their turn at the lead. Deep drums beat in succession with their routine; a flow of passionate and very precise movements followed. The dancers had a sadness to them not lost on Miller. He wondered if these performers had the luxury of living on the more spacious upper decks with the Financiers or if they were simply stuffed in with the rest of the working class below, only to be appreciated when they entertained those who still clung to an air of superiority.

  The main attraction of the evening was a reproduction of Hamlet. It seemed Haven was in no short supply of talented thespians. That was all well and good, but if such a large portion of Haven consisted of entertainers, support staff, and aloof guests, where did that leave the ship in the case of emergency? Were Kayembe’s private guard, Todd’s security, and Cortez’s excursion teams really all that Haven had in the way of protection? Whatever Kayembe hoped to prove with this show of extravagance, Miller was certain that his own personal take away was not the desired result.

  The play concluded to unanimous though restrained applause. Afterward, the Elite made their way across the gap for cocktails at Presence while passing over those deemed beneath them at the pool bar. Miller begrudgingly mingled with the well-to-do, most of them telling stories of past achievements with barely any recognition to the wait staff who diligently served these people.

  When he had his fill of dull conversation, Miller took a spot at the end of a bar nearest to an exit; the room was filled to capacity. Intermingling with the Financiers were the Presence dancers and wait staff. For tonight’s occasion, Acacia had her employees dressed in Victorian-era suits and gowns. Still fine evening wear but distinct enough to be instantly recognized at a glance. On any other night, she dressed her staff as if they were her interpretation of the Hellfire Club. The women wore white or black or red corsets and underwear with matching thigh-high stockings and dinner gloves and heels. She presented their male counterparts in Victorian-era suits with wigs to match. Tonight, they were present but not a part of the gathering—seen but not heard.

  Acacia was the general manager of Presence; she was given the position when Trix decided that she wanted nothing to do with the clientele. Considering the patrons’ obvious contempt for the help, Acacia still managed to do a commendable job of entertaining the well-to-do. She wore a shaved head and adorned it with ornate makeup in a different intricate pattern daily. She typically accentuated the markings with blue lipstick and matching eye shadow. Acacia wore a tight black and brown sleeveless dress with gold trim—her normal work attire. She hailed from Munich and spoke with a thick accent that she often used as an excuse to frustrate the Elite for her own personal amusement.

  Lavender was a mid-twenties dancer at Presence and Acacia’s number one. She ran the girls and guys who danced for the Elite. On a typical night she wore a stylish business suit topped with a dark bowler hat. Tonight, though, she was in an Elizabethan gown like the rest of the servers. She hated these nights. As if the Elite didn’t receive more than enough pampering already. For more formal occasions like tonight’s festivities, some dancers doubled as wait staff, whom she oversaw as well.

  Captain Kayembe was in a passionate conversation with a Spanish couple—Esteban and Victoria. The former was a handsome man in his fifties with white precisely styled hair and a matching beard. He wore a finely pressed three-piece suit that stood out among the room full of tuxedos. His wife, Victoria, wore an immaculate skintight red dress and heels and she sported a fine pearl necklace that hung down, accentuating her ample cleavage. The two of them spoke with Kayembe and Raeni as if they were old acquaintances. The four of them stood in stark contrast to the stuffy, overly self-important masses gathered around them. It was clear with only a cursory glance that the Financiers were desperate to be included in the conversation. It was plain to see that they were in fact not.

  Dolores Merriweather, drink in hand, puffed away on her long cigarette. Behind her stood her manservant, who diligently held her purse in one hand and a tiny lapdog in the other. The man kept his head bowed, quietly awaiting instruction, even as the dog incessantly yapped. As had become routine, she was sharing morbid tales. Tonight’s audience was a mid-twenties brother and sister, Ian and Elsa, who seemed to relish in the conversation. The pair were dressed from head to toe in matching, shiny pink suits over silken shirts unbuttoned to just below mid-chest. A fourth, Elias, joined them. He was a sleazy-looking man in his forties, and he wore a distressed dark-gray business suit. His greasy black hair and unkempt beard gave Miller pause as to the man’s inclusion at the function. The four of them were clearly mocking the help by mimicking their every move and going so far as to imitate their local dialects in an all but flattering manner.

  After a time, the entertainers joined the celebration to another round of applause. They reciprocated with a series of bows. Miller got the distinct impression the bows were less a sign of appreciation but more expected. One final performance, as it were.

  Ahole and Genevieve enjoyed a bit of attention themselves as the only other members of Cortez’s team aside from Petrova who seemed to be in attendance. Genevieve wore a blue dress and long cocktail gloves. Ahole, a matching indigo suit. She had a few inches on her partner, even without her heels; on nights like this, she towered over him. A small crowd gathered around the pair, listening intently as they regaled them with tales of adventure from the road. Ahole’s overly animated gestures were a highlight. The larger his display, the larger the reaction, though Genevieve’s eyes betrayed her doubt of the Elite’s sincerity.

  “Miller,” Kayembe said as he squeezed through the crowd to join Miller by the bar. “I thought you’d left.”

  “I’ll be honest, sir. A gathering like this isn’t really something I’m comfortable with.”

  “In what aspect?”

  “All of it, really.”

  “Continue, please.”

  “Well, the fake smiles and the squandering of resources is plain to see.” Miller gestured to a passing waiter and his tray of hors d’oeuvres. “The food and drink could be rationed better. Not to mention all thes
e people waiting on us. I’m sure any number of them didn’t think survival meant more of the same.”

  “And what would you have me do, Mr. Miller? There are people out there where you came from that would kill for the chance to live as we do. Should these people be forced to lament the past daily? Or perhaps cry themselves to sleep, saddened with the knowledge that others are suffering when there is absolutely nothing that can be done for them? You would deny these people a second chance to enjoy what could very well be their final days?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, sir. I don’t expect anyone to sit in their room, afraid of what’s out there. It’s how all of this makes me feel is what I have a problem with.”

  “You’re racked with guilt. That is clear to see. This life in the face of what you’ve been through must seem alien and frivolous. Trust me, Miller, when I say that this has all been carefully planned. The people need an outlet, no matter their station. You’ll find in time that the rest of the ship has their own ways of celebrating their new lease on life.”

  “Maybe, or maybe it’s wasteful and I’ll never come around.”

  “Perhaps.” Kayembe paused. “Or maybe this has simply been too much too fast. Perhaps your first excursion with Cortez in the morning will lead you to better appreciate what we have here.”

  “Maybe.”

  Their Conversation was hushed by an ongoing argument near the center of the room. Vadim and Petrova were in a heated exchange over her continued inclusion on Cortez’s team. She laughed and made a beeline for Miller’s location at the bar.

  Petrova hung on to Miller for support as she yanked off her silver heels. Her shoes matched an exquisite strapless silver sequin dress that was cut far up the right thigh and adorned with fancy stones. Her face was flush, her hair disheveled, and she spoke through a mischievous grin. A thick Russian accent pronounced itself when she was drinking. “My father is a relic of the past, Miller,” she slurred before yelling something at her father in Russian, which only served to reignite the fight.