The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise

by Hegarty, W. J.

  “Agreed.”

  Miller excused himself from the party. He needed a break from the festivities to contemplate the last week’s events alone. He stood against a rail overlooking the calm water just outside of the bar. The music and the laughter were muffled, but it still accentuated a growing guilt in the pit of his stomach for those whom he left behind and others whose fates were completely unknown to him.

  Takashi was gone—he sacrificed himself for the group, thrusting Miller into a leadership role he never asked for or wanted. Miller deeply admired Takashi. He deferred to the man’s leadership, of course, but more than that he accepted and even yearned for his guidance. He absorbed from him the sort of life lessons that he was too proud to take from his own father. What he wouldn’t give for some of his dad’s pearls of wisdom now. That guilt in his stomach festered with the thought of his family back home in Arizona. He nearly made himself sick considering a myriad of possible fates. Miller dumped his carefully mixed drink overboard in disgust. How could he celebrate like this when so many were suffering and dying?

  And then there was Rachel and Soraya. His two biggest regrets that would haunt him until his dying day. One was his best friend since childhood, and he watched her die, helpless to do anything about it. The other was a woman he grew to love during their time together on the road, but insecurities prevented him from ever speaking on it until it was too late. He watched her disappear into an unfamiliar city that was overrun with the dead. Another sacrifice. Now both women were lost to him.

  “You needn’t shoulder this burden alone, Miller.” Jeremiah had approached quietly.

  “I just needed a break, Jerry. It’s a little overwhelming in there.”

  “It is, but that is what we are fighting for.”

  “We’re fighting to keep people drunk? Or are we fighting for random bar hookups? What about those assholes upstairs? They despise everyone in that room. Are we fighting and dying for them, too?”

  “Yes,” Jeremiah answered without missing a beat. “Even those assholes upstairs deserve to live. We fight because of those things and more. We fight in hopes of a return to some semblance of normalcy and everything that goes along with it.”

  Joelle was the only member of the de-cons staff who spent her free time with people other than her coworkers. None of the de-cons crew socialized with this group—or any other group for that matter. They worked in de-cons, they drank in de-cons, and for all Joelle knew they lived in de-cons. The fishermen and the stowage workers shared the same workspace as the de-cons employees but weren’t counted among that group. As a matter of fact, most of the fishermen were at the party. It was only the de-cons staff who kept to themselves. They were a tight-knit group, a clique that Joelle just never seemed to mesh with but somehow found herself working alongside. She did what she was told and sometimes she didn’t like it, but she wasn’t about to test the alternative.

  On a night like tonight, Joelle was dressed to kill. She could ditch her drab work uniform for a flattering dress of her own. She joined Genevieve out on the deck, away from the stuffy bar. She and Genevieve had gotten to know each other well over the last few months. They tried to share drinks weekly to talk about their jobs now and before and what their hopes were for the future.

  Joelle marveled at Genevieve’s stature; it was a talking point she never seemed to move past. As tall as Joelle was, Genevieve was even taller. Genevieve’s height was a feature that Joelle seemed fixated on. The Frenchwoman’s size had been the basis of self-doubt in her younger years. Now, it was a point of pride. She stood eye to eye with her peers, and in some cases, she literally looked down on them. Even with her own past insecurities in mind—like everyone else that crossed Joelle’s path—Genevieve was shocked to find out that Joelle was in fact never a model. That talking point always frustrated Joelle, and she yearned for people to realize that there was more to her than just her looks. She hoped that working in the dirty bowels of the ship would show people that. Apparently that wasn’t the case.

  The women had escorted Petrova out to the deck. She was getting sick over the edge from too much drinking, too much dancing, and not nearly enough food in her belly to soak it all up. There was also the consideration that she needed to be up in the morning for an excursion. Between bouts of puking, they would lead Petrova a little closer to deck eight, where she had been living with Joelle for a few months now. Petrova’s girlfriend was another point of contention for her and her father Vadim to argue. If he knew that their relationship was polyamorous and that they often added a third to the mix—sometimes it was a guy and sometimes it was another woman—the revelation would have probably been enough to drop him on the spot.

  Joelle thanked Genevieve for the assist and then tucked Petrova into bed. Afterward, she changed out of her dress and into a long T-shirt and sat alone out on the balcony. The next three days would be hell for her while Petrova was out on the road. If anything were to happen, it would take days for the news to get back to Joelle, if she would even be made privy to any such information; Vadim would surely see to that. Joelle would be up for the remainder of the night. First thing in the morning, she would see Petrova off and remind her to be safe out there because she had something to come home to.

  The night wore on long past midnight. Bull was asleep in a corner; Trix covered him with a blanket and gave him a pillow she kept in a nearby storage closet. A bit earlier, Ulrich had retired for the evening after being assured that no more drama would perk up in his absence. Genevieve excused herself nearly an hour prior; she wanted at least six hours of sleep before their early a.m. wake-up call. Ahole promised he’d be right behind her, but he was busy explaining to Miller the finer points of life as a member of an excursion team.

  “We live like kings here, Miller. The excursion crew, that is,” Ahole said while offering Miller a hard slap on the back. “We answer to no one except the captain.”

  “Is that so?”

  “That’s right. Excursion teams live in luxury, baby.” He slammed down the empty shot glass and slid it across the bar top to Trix. “Set me up with one more for the road, would you, babe?”

  “Coming right up, red.” Trix sighed. She was wearing down. It was late.

  “That’s the spirit. As I was saying, we’ve got balconies and room service. Man, every day is like a fucking vacation, Miller.”

  “What about everyone else?”

  “What about ’em? They’re fed and they got plenty of shit to do, for the most part. They have entertainment and jobs. What more do they need? I know what you’re driving at, mate, and looking from the outside in, I get it. But you’re wrong.” Ahole straightened up for a moment to better accentuate his point. “Do we have it better than most? Sure, but so what? Someone’s got to keep this tub supplied, and I’m happy to do it. Why shouldn’t there be perks? After all, it’s our asses on the line out there so the fat cats upstairs can still act like their shit don’t stink and the fuckers below deck can do whatever the fuck they want. You’re goddamn right I enjoy the perks.”

  This wasn’t the first time that Miller had heard mention of something below deck. Whatever was down there had been referred to in his presence before, always with a tinge of contempt or fear. Ahole, of course, seemed indifferent to whomever or whatever he was referring to.

  “I keep hearing mention of this below deck. Isn’t everything below the main level with the pool just a couple decks of housing and stowage? Obviously de-cons, medical, and the inner workings of the ship are down there, but I get the impression that below deck is code for something or someone.”

  “Don’t worry about it, mate. The place is hard to get to and is easily missed if you don’t know it’s there. The main entrances were covered up and sealed over. One way in, one way out these days. But don’t waste your time with that. Keep your head in the game, Miller. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Cortez admires you, but if he thinks your mind’s not on mission, he’ll ground you in a heartbeat.” Ahole rose from his barstool.
He nodded a goodnight to Trix before offering Miller a few more words. “Look, mate, I understand you have concerns, and I did, too. I’ll show you around down there when we get back. I promise. In the meantime, get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Underworld

  Radzinski awoke in a strange room—again. Blinding light seared his eyes; it was pouring in from the balcony door left fully ajar the night before. Various bottles of booze lay empty on the floor about the room. Discarded clothing littered these living quarters, whomever the room belonged to. Dresses, underwear, and shoes were dropped with no rhyme or reason. Radzinski noticed his pants dangling precariously off the balcony rail. Where his underwear and the rest of his clothes were, he hadn’t a clue. He sat up in bed; his head was pounding. On either side of him, two naked women slept—he must have run into them again last night. The bubbly one and her quiet friend he met nearly a week ago on his first night free from de-cons. Across the room, passed out on the couch, two more of the bubbly girl’s friends slept in a tangle of limbs spilling off of the furniture.

  He lit a cigarette and made his way to the balcony, where the bright sun was an annoyance but the fresh ocean air did him good. He watched tiny flying fish skitter about the cresting waves along the side of the ship. Seagulls flanked the vessel; they must have been close to land. He leaned into the railing and wondered where his own balcony was in relation to this one; he had no clue what deck he was even on. With his luck, his room was right next door and that would present a problem; he didn’t want these girls getting the wrong idea about last night. He was already considering a talk with Naomi about changing rooms. Then it dawned on him that maybe they’d let him change rooms if he played ball. No thanks, he thought. He wasn’t about to risk his life for a boatload of fools, no matter how much fun he had been having. He assumed he had fun last night. At least by the looks of the room and the state of its occupants, it appeared like they had a good time.

  He heard a stirring from the room—the bubbly girl and her friends would be awake soon. Best he make a quick exit and avoid an awkward conversation. He wasn’t here to make friends, and he wasn’t about to have breakfast with these people. He slid his pants on, then tiptoed toward the door, boots in hand. On his way, he passed the small bathroom. Its door was ajar, and he found his shirt. The fifth girl was using it for a makeshift pillow as she slept it off between the toilet and the bathtub. She can have it, he thought. It looked like she needed it much more than he did.

  Radzinski roamed the ship until he found a public restroom two floors up, just outside of the pool bar area. He washed himself up as best he could with wet paper towels and powdered soap. Afterward, he took a moment to consider options before continuing on his way. He leaned heavily on the sink and stared at his reflection. A weary visage stared back. “Oh, fuck off,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Eventually he made his way to the crowded cafeteria, where the aroma of freshly cooking bacon and eggs filled the room. And fish. The smell of cooking fish always permeated the air. Sweet Lips and his staff were doling out portions to a growing crowd of hungry residents. They lined up buffet style, each receiving a scoop of scrambled eggs with onions and a generous portion of potatoes with a side of bacon and two slices of toast.

  This is more like it, he thought.

  There was a coffee station set up near where the queue of patrons funneled out from the food line. He squeezed in and poured himself a large cup before taking a window seat overlooking the pool. If there was any food left when the line died down, he’d get some. The chance for idle chatter while waiting in a busy line wasn’t something he felt like dealing with in his condition.

  “No shirt, no service, brah.” Sweet Lips loomed large over Radzinski’s table.

  How the hell did a guy as big a Sweet Lips get the drop on him? he thought. Radzinski didn’t hear him coming at all. I must have gone soft on that island with the rest of them. “Morning,” he said.

  “I’m just messing with you, man. Here, on the house.” Sweet Lips presented Radzinski a plate of breakfast.

  Steam wafted from hot bacon and eggs and fish, melted butter oozed from the toast, and the potatoes were cooked to perfection with just a bit of crispness to the outside; the center was soft and warm. The potatoes and onions were seasoned with something Radzinski couldn’t quite place, but they were delicious all the same.

  “Thanks, man. I appreciate it. I was in no shape to wait in that line.”

  “Yeah, you look it.”

  “Far be it from me to suggest tearing down something as awesome as a pool bar, but wouldn’t that area be better served as a garden out in the sun like that?”

  “Aw, dude, don’t you dare talk about taking my pool bar away from me. I’ve got the best view on the ship right here.”

  “I can see that.” Radzinski grinned with a mouthful of food.

  Below them, even at this early hour, sunbathers were already spread out, staking prime spots around the pool. At the far corner of the deck, two gigantic men lifted weights out beyond the steel-drum band. One wore a pink speedo, the other a pair of baby-blue bike shorts. A group of hungry onlookers surrounded them. More than a dozen admirers were enjoying the show. A blonde woman in a yellow bikini joined them in their workout. She must have been a solid six feet tall and built of pure muscle. Sweat glistened from her toned abs and shoulders while she performed a round of squats that highlighted her well-defined thighs and calves. The two guys spotted her while she performed her routine, themselves glistening in the hot sun. Her set comprised twenty-five reps of what looked to be at least her own body weight; it was probably more. Radzinski nodded as he and Sweet Lips took it all in. At the very least, the woman in the yellow bikini intrigued him. If he weren’t so hungover, he’d go introduce himself. Maybe tomorrow.

  Sweet Lips surveyed the area. “But really, though, we tried planting crops on that deck but there’s just too much wind. It was blowing the soil away. That stuff is a precious commodity these days, so we converted some interior rooms into greenhouses. It actually works out better that way. Now we can harvest year-round.”

  “Makes sense. It’s not often you get to have your cake and eat it, too, huh?”

  The men shared a laugh over a hot plate of food and gorgeous scenery.

  “My man.” Sweet Lips strummed his ukulele. “I’ll let you get back to it.” He sauntered off, all the while playing his instrument for his appreciative guests.

  Radzinski slowly nodded while he continued his meal. A trace of a smile formed as he watched Sweet Lips entertain the diners. With a full belly, he had the sudden urge for a nap; he was still drunk. A few more hours of sleep and he could continue his exploration of Haven. But first, sleep.

  ~~~

  Radzinski leapt from his bed; the sound of gunfire filled his room. He dove for his weapon, but it wasn’t there. In his stupor, he’d forgotten that they had confiscated all weapons upon arrival. A burning sensation in his ribs kept him on the floor. The shooting stopped, and it wasn’t gunfire. A metal ice bucket had been placed on his nightstand just beside his head and a string of firecrackers was lit in the container. Todd and four of his security detail stood above the naked Marine with shock batons in hand.

  “Cooperate or we’ll give you another,” Todd warned as he brandished his own shock stick.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “It’s moving day. You don’t work. You don’t get to live up here with the pretty people.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Cortez offered you a place on his team and you refused, multiple times. Your friend, Miller is out on the road with Cortez as we speak. And what are you doing? Did you think you could just walk around the ship getting drunk on our dime and no one would notice?”

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  “Funny. We’ll see how funny you are when you’re living in Underworld with the rest of the useless scum. Now get up.”

 
; Todd and his men yanked Radzinski to his feet and shoved him into the hallway. They pushed him with enough force that he slammed against the opposite cabin door.

  “Alright, alright. Can I at least get dressed first?”

  “You can dress on the way. Now move.” Todd threw a black garbage bag at Radzinski; all his belongings had been tossed inside while he slept.

  An unused maintenance stairwell was hidden behind a false door at the far end of deck seven. Decks seven and eight made up the bulk of Haven’s living quarters for just about everyone who lived in the sun, Financiers notwithstanding. From his vantage point—while descending the darkened stairwell—it appeared to Radzinski that each deck’s access way to this hidden passage had been similarly covered up.

  The exit for deck six swung open and a pungent aroma smacked Radzinski in the face. A combination of smoke, cooking meat, body odor, and mildew filled the air. The place was lit well enough but was not as bright and inviting as the other decks he’d sampled. Deck six was teeming with life. People meandered about not too dissimilarly to what he had seen above, only these people’s clothing was worn and beat up, and many of them had an anxiousness about them. A stark contrast to the carefree nature shared by most on the rest of the ship, at least from what he had seen.

  Todd and his security detail marched Radzinski through corridors until the floor opened into a large gathering area. The room had obviously been converted from something in its finer days, but what its original purpose was, Radzinski couldn’t fathom. A few dirty people huddled in corners with hands outstretched as the men passed. Most of Underworld’s denizens, though, were busy—they had routines of their own, be it cleaning ominous stains from the disheveled décor or carting various goods from one location to another. At the center of the room was a crowded bar. The River Styx was haphazardly painted above the establishment on a slab of plywood.