The Black River (The Complete Adrift Trilogy)

by K. R. Griffiths

  Dan chuckled.

  "Guess I'd better enjoy it while it lasts, then."

  The cruise was far beyond the means of the newlyweds, and made possible only by generous wedding gifts made by both sets of parents, along with an almost-certainly reckless decision by Dan and Elaine to max out their credit cards.

  They had agonised over that choice for a long time, until Dan had finally overcome Elaine's resistance to the idea. Elaine was the sensible one, the one that was good with figures and planning.

  Dan had made good money selling his artwork, but the funds they had only stretched so far. He hadn’t painted in two years, now. Not since it happened.

  Yet when he told Elaine that he would work again; that the blank canvases and dry brushes were not permanent, she believed it, perhaps more than he did himself.

  In the end, Dan's persuasion had proved successful: the honeymoon was a once-in-a-lifetime deal after all, and it coincided with another opportunity that would never come around again: tickets for the maiden voyage of the world's biggest, newest cruise ship.

  "You know," Dan said, "I've been reading up on the Oceanus." He gestured at the fistful of pamphlets he had been scanning while Elaine got them checked in. "It turns out there's actually some debate about whether it is the biggest ship in the world after all."

  "Oh?"

  Dan nodded.

  "Apparently there's one with twenty decks out in the Middle East somewhere. That one's longer, too."

  Elaine frowned.

  "So how is there debate? That one's bigger. Are you telling me that our once-in-a-lifetime honeymoon on the world's biggest ship is actually just a common-or-garden trip on the world's second biggest ship, Captain?"

  She grinned.

  "Ha! Want to get our money back?" Dan chuckled. "The Oceanus is much wider, apparently, so it is still considered the biggest in terms of 'available deck area' or something like that."

  "So," Elaine said. "It's sort of a length or girth thing?"

  Dan rolled his eyes.

  "There you go again, bringing everything back to sex."

  Elaine punched him playfully on the arm.

  "You set me up to say that."

  Dan shook his head soberly.

  "Obsessed," he said. "When we get back to dry land, I'm booking you into a clinic. Sex addiction is an illness, you know."

  "Oh?" Elaine arched an eyebrow. "When we get back to dry land? Whatever will you do in the meantime?"

  Dan affected a serious expression.

  "Well…I doubt they have the means to treat you on the ship. And I hear going cold turkey can be pretty rough…"

  Elaine laughed.

  "Deal," she said. "And don't worry about the ship, even if it is the second biggest after all. Size doesn't matter to me. You know that."

  Elaine turned and walked toward the main passenger exit of the terminus, heading for the giant sign that read boarding. She didn't look back, but Dan could tell from her shuddering shoulders that she was giggling helplessly at her own joke.

  He stood for a moment, smiling happily and looking around the rest of the crowded building barely able to believe that after years of self-imposed isolation, he was standing among so much bustling activity and not suffering a panic attack.

  The atmosphere in the place was electric. Most of the passengers looked to be middle-aged—after all, cruises were expensive, and younger holidaymakers tended to opt for the heaving beaches and sweaty nightclubs of resorts in the Mediterranean. Still, Dan saw a few younger people milling around, waiting to pass through security or heading toward the boarding exit. Some families with young children who ran laps around their parents, their faces lit with excitement.

  He saw several young couples, and a few of them wore the same dopily-happy expression that he imagined was plastered across his own face. Honeymooners, most likely. Setting off for three weeks of luxury and relaxation, and leaving the land—and all the problems and anxieties that went with it—behind.

  It was, Dan thought, going to be the best three weeks of his life, as long as he didn’t let his illness get in the way.

  He took a moment to breathe deeply and tried to savour every little detail of the vast terminus, and to memorise the fact that he had stood there, alone in the crowd, and nothing bad had happened to him, and then he hefted the suitcases, and broke into a trot to catch up with his giggling bride.

  3

  The waiting was the worst part: rocking incessantly in the gloomy rear of the van; rolling around in the vehicle’s metal belly like an ache. Stuck with the bags and the tools and the dust, unable to even see the road ahead, it felt to Herbert Rennick like being transported in a large metal coffin.

  He tried not to think about just how apt that might be.

  Herb cast a glance around the van. In the back, where the light diffused through a layer of grime on the windscreen, he thought he could almost see the tension hanging on the air like confetti.

  The four men inside the vehicle had travelled for several minutes under a smothering blanket of silence, each apparently more preoccupied with their own thoughts than chatter. Maybe, Herb thought, it was always like that when men headed off toward what might be their deaths. That sickly silence. Herb didn't know: he had no frame of reference for a thing like this. Nobody did.

  What he did know for sure, was that the silence was getting under Edgar's skin. Even in the gloomy half-light, Herb could see that Ed's face had become home to two twitching, darting eyes.

  Edgar was the oldest of the four Rennick brothers, and the de facto leader. If anyone was going to break the silence, it would be Ed. It was always Ed.

  Herb dropped his gaze as Edgar's penetrating eyes locked onto him, and he let the floor of the van become his sole focus. The floor and his thoughts.

  This is actually happening. We're going through with it, right now.

  Herb could hardly believe it. The trip in the van with his three brothers was the endgame, the culmination of a lifetime of preparation, and Herb hadn't ever believed it would actually happen. Now that the time for action had arrived, it felt like he was stumbling through someone else's bad dream.

  In the end, the day of reckoning seemed to come so fast, and Herb's attempts to persuade his family to deviate from the course they followed had proved as brittle as dead leaves. He always thought he'd have more time to talk some sense into his brothers, but it turned out that assumption had an expiry date.

  Because here they were.

  Edgar was still staring at him.

  "Are you ready?" Edgar said gruffly, breaking the silence for the first time since Seb had turned over the van's engine.

  Herb looked up at Edgar sharply, through eyes that felt almost painfully wide. The question hit him like an electric shock.

  Edgar had insisted on riding in the back with Herb, letting Phil and Seb—the middle two brothers; twins who formed their own strange little team within a team—take the front of the vehicle. That insistence, Herb was certain, was borne of Edgar’s need to keep a close eye on his youngest brother.

  Got to make sure I'm not going to do anything crazy, right? Herb thought darkly. Little late for that, bro. We're all in the middle of a whole lot of crazy right now.

  "Am I ready?" Herb repeated. He couldn't quite keep his disbelief at Edgar's question out of his tone.

  Phil and Seb were stoic, steady types, and they generally followed Edgar's lead without hesitation. Seb, particularly, idolised Edgar, and wherever Seb went, Phil followed. The middle two brothers were a package deal, and had spent their entire lives following orders and causing no fuss.

  Perfect little Rennick boys.

  Herb knew that Edgar had aimed the question only at him, and it found its mark. He felt his temper flare.

  "How can I be ready for something like this, Ed?" Herb snapped in a tone that came out disappointingly high-pitched. "Ready? What fucking kind of a question is that?"

  Edgar nodded, as if the fraught response was exactly what he ha
d expected, and dropped his eyes to the floor of the van, apparently lost in thought. Herb followed his big brother's piercing gaze, and saw the dust skittering around their feet, refusing to settle. Seb was driving too fast.

  Edgar drilled his gaze into the back of Seb's head for a moment, before returning his stare to Herb. Edgar was tall, athletic. Good-looking where Herb was plain. Of the four brothers, only Edgar had inherited their father's extraordinary piercing grey eyes. He exuded charisma and confidence, and he was born to lead. It came naturally to him.

  None of that meant Edgar was right about what they were doing. About any of it.

  "None of this goes bad as long as we don't draw attention to ourselves, Herb," Edgar said, with what Herb thought was an admirable attempt at a patient tone.

  "You be ready," Edgar continued, stabbing a thick finger in Herb's direction, "we all be ready, by preparing ourselves thoroughly, and by making sure none of us fuck this up by freaking out. We've all trained for this, so just relax, okay? Seb!"

  Edgar roared that last word, making everyone in the van flinch.

  "Slow the fuck down," Edgar hissed. "We're expected. Everything is arranged. Nobody will give us a second glance, as long as you stop driving like the fucking wheels are on fire."

  Seb grunted a response, and Herb felt the van slow a little. After a moment, the dust in the rear settled back onto the floor as if the life had been stolen from it.

  Everything is arranged, Herb thought darkly. It was amazing what wealth could arrange; the doors that his father's money could open.

  They were close now. Herb thought he could almost smell the excitement of the passengers crowding at the terminus mingling with the salty aroma of the English Channel. In the distance, somewhere beyond the wheezing rattle of the van's ancient engine, Herb heard the ship's horn split the afternoon air. It was no more than a toot, really, but the size of the damn thing made it sound like a warning blasted from celestial trumpets.

  Wasn't that the sound that was meant to herald the beginning of the Rapture?

  Herb had caught one of those self-appointed prophets on TV once; some charismatic lunatic who loudly proclaimed that the End of Days would definitely fall on some date that Herb had long since forgotten. Needless to say, the supposed last day on Earth had passed without incident, and the prophet had simply blustered his way to another date, further off in the future. The world was actually going to end in another few years. A simple mistake; anyone could make it.

  Just another bullshit artist.

  At the time, Herb had wondered what type of person you had to be to fall for that routine. Damaged, he guessed; looking to paper over the cracks that ran like canyons cut deep into your psyche. Following a doomsday prophet, Herb thought, meant you had a hole in your soul; one you'd gladly fill with just about anything.

  Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. Herb's father had imparted that wisdom once, gathering his sons together and delivering the impassioned speech that Herb could still remember word-for-word. Herb had been six at the time; Edgar the oldest at nine.

  Herb couldn't remember anything else about being six years old, but he remembered that day with extraordinary clarity. Couldn't forget it.

  There is a world beneath…

  Herb shook away the memory before it sank in teeth. Thinking about how it all began wouldn't help him now. It never had.

  Silence had fallen on the van again, and it thickened as Seb slowed the vehicle to a crawl. There was no mistaking the smooth braking. They had left the public roads, and Seb was guiding the van around the vast concrete wilderness of the port.

  Arrival.

  Showtime.

  Herb caught Edgar's eyes once more, and detected a fat vein of eager anticipation running through his big brother's perma-confidence.

  The expression on Edgar's face unsettled Herb, but it didn't much surprise him.

  Herb thought the duty that he and his three brothers had inherited was a curse; he always had. When their father had blustered at great length about lineage and birthright and the precious gift of their bloodline, Herb had seen only murky insanity.

  Edgar, though, took their duty in his stride, and never questioned their father’s crazy story, or the bizarre homeschooling that he and his brothers underwent. To Edgar, the duty that fell to the Rennick boys was more than a job that needed to be done; it was a calling.

  Sometimes, Edgar ranted about all the people out there who didn't know the truth, going about their daily lives oblivious to what the world really was. They lacked clarity, Edgar said. They drifted aimlessly, circling like insects trapped in a jar until eventually their air just ran out.

  The rest of the world, Ed maintained, lived without a duty; without a calling, and so they lived without a point.

  Herb thought that what Edgar described so negatively sounded a lot like freedom, but he couldn't really fault Edgar for not seeing it the same way. After all, Ed had been indoctrinated from a young age, and for whatever reason, he hadn't resisted that programming in the same way as Herb.

  Maybe that was because Edgar was the oldest. The leader. His father's right-hand man. It didn't much matter.

  Not anymore.

  As if reading Herb's troubled thoughts, Edgar reached out an arm and patted his little brother reassuringly on the shoulder. It was an awkward gesture, and out of character enough that it didn't calm Herb in the slightest.

  "It will be fine," Edgar said gruffly. "We just need to stay cool. Follow my lead, right?"

  Herb nodded glumly and felt his last chance to talk some sense into his big brother slipping away. The atmosphere in the van was charged with tension. Trying to shake Edgar's convictions now would be futile. Just as it always had been.

  The van creaked to a halt and the sound of the engine died slowly. The atmosphere inside felt swollen; ready to burst. The four brothers sat in the pregnant silence for a long, tense moment, until Edgar stood, stooping awkwardly in the low space.

  He drew in a deep breath, and raised his right wrist, showing them all his watch.

  "I make it one seventeen, and thirty-six seconds...thirty-seven, thirty-eight—"

  Edgar continued to count as Herb, Seb and Phil held up their own watches, nodding confirmation that their times matched Edgar's.

  "Set the countdown for nine hours," he said, and stared around the van pointedly. "Our window for extraction closes at 10:30pm, and we are not going to miss it. Right?"

  Murmurs of agreement.

  Edgar twisted the winder on his watch, setting a countdown on a smaller dial at the bottom of the face, and watched from the corner of his eye as Herb followed suit.

  Herb twisted the tiny dial, and felt his intestines twisting right along with it.

  This is it, he thought. Once we board that ship, there will be no turning back.

  Herb studied Edgar carefully. For a moment, the oldest of the Rennick brothers stood in silence, and Herb tried vainly to read some doubt in his eyes. Edgar rubbed absently at his injured thumb. It had been weeks since the nightmare in Brighton, and the wound there still hadn't healed properly.

  "Nine hours," Edgar repeated, and threw open the rear door, flooding the dusty interior of the van with cold, grey sunlight. He stepped out, squinting as his eyes adjusted, and flinched a little at the coastal wind that speared through his uniform.

  Two hundred yards away, a hulking shape blocked out much of the weak early afternoon light; a gargantuan shadow that seemed determined to fill the horizon.

  The Oceanus.

  Herb stared at it impassively as he reached back into the van and grabbed his bag, wincing a little at the metallic clanging from within as he hoisted it over his shoulder.

  The ship had been impressive the first time the brothers had laid eyes upon it, during one of the several reconnaissance missions they had undertaken over the previous few weeks. It didn't fill Herb with awe now, though. It filled him with something darker.

  When the four brothers were out of the va
n, each carrying an identical bag, Edgar nodded once at them, a single sharp gesture designed both to encourage them and to keep them all focused, and led them away silently.

  Toward the ship.

  4

  The Oceanus was grand on the outside; vast and awe-inspiring, but on the inside, Dan immediately saw that grand didn't do the vessel justice. Not even close.

  After passing through a final ticket inspection at the exit of the terminus, he caught up to Elaine as they walked up a huge ramp that transported the passengers onto the waiting ship.

  At the top of the ramp, beneath a large welcome aboard sign, stood a wide entrance that opened out into a cavernous lobby area, filled with glamorous reception staff sitting behind plush mahogany desks. The queue of passengers moved relatively quickly, showing their tickets at reception and picking up keycards to the cabins that would be their home for the next three weeks, and as Elaine and Dan shuffled toward the desks, Dan looked around with interest.

  Everything in the lobby seemed to be reflective; from the polished floors to the gleaming wood of the desks. Even the enormous, welcoming smiles of the reception staff revealed teeth that seemed to shine. Warm light bounced and reflected in the huge space, lending the lobby the feel of a high-end Las Vegas casino.

  Dan glanced down at his clothing, and felt a faint flush of embarrassment sting his cheeks. Elaine wore a summer dress and looked great, of course, but Dan's clothes—a faded Oasis t-shirt and a tattered pair of shorts that had seen better days a long time ago—made him feel more than a little out of place.

  That was one of the things about agoraphobia: purchasing new clothes got bumped way down the list of priorities.

  The other passengers in the queue were all classily-dressed in what looked like expensive summer clothes, and Dan made a mental note to update his wardrobe when the honeymoon was over. Maybe, he thought, one of the shops aboard the ship might even kit him out in something more appropriate.

  All of a sudden, he was acutely aware that while he had been stuck in self-imposed exile, the rest of the world had carried on spinning without him. He felt out of place, sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb, and the familiar anxiety began to tug at his nerves.