by Kyla Stone
She took a deep breath and climbed into the boat. When it was full, Micah released the gripes and securing wires. He started to close the hatch.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I'll take the next one.” Micah guided two crew members onto the lifeboat. The hatch slid shut. The shouting and the roaring wind dimmed. Everyone huddled together on the benches, soaking, trembling, terrified. Benjie and one of the little girls buried themselves against her sides.
The boat swayed as it lowered toward the sea. It released, dropping the last few feet to the water. A wave swelled beneath them and the boat bucked as the crew started the engine and motored away from the sinking Grand Voyager.
“Mom!” Willow twisted around, searching the passengers’ strained faces. “Has anyone seen Marisol Bahaghari?”
But no one answered. Her mom wasn’t here. Dread settled in her stomach, hard as stone.
A few benches over, someone vomited. The sour stench filled her nostrils and she clenched her lips, willing herself to hold it together. She needed to be strong for Benjie.
Another crew member bustled around, handing out Dramamine and bottled water. When the lady next to her tried to wave it away, the girl insisted. “It's to keep you from becoming dangerously dehydrated.”
“That and the smell,” Finn said.
Willow tried to smile, but she couldn’t. Her face felt like a mask, skin stretched over bone.
It was only after they'd gotten far enough from the ship that she dared look back. The Grand Voyager looked like a ghost ship. The once magnificent white hull listed to the side, alight with the hungry, flickering glow of the flames chewing through the middle decks. Black smoke billowed up into the sky like the breath of a great dragon.
But the water would swallow the dragon. The ocean didn’t care how mighty and splendid the Grand Voyager was, how wealthy and powerful its passengers. The ship would all go down, every inch of it, devoured by the infinite, indifferent sea.
Willow tore her gaze from the sinking ship. A second lifeboat headed toward them. A third boat released from the cradle too early. Instead of lowering on the cables, it dropped the last fifteen feet. But they were all free of the ship. Another explosion ripped the top decks, fire and smoke spewing into the darkness.
Finn sat across from her, exhausted, his eyes as wide and scared and lost as her own. But he was alive. Whatever hell he'd been through, he was alive. They both were.
“Where's Mom?” Benjie sat up. “Where's Zia?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to be strong. She pulled him close and rested her forehead against his, the way her mom always did whenever one of them was frightened or sick or sad.
Her mom might be in another lifeboat. It was possible. But somehow, Willow knew. She felt it deep in her bones. Her mom was gone, just like Zia.
“No one can hurt them now, I promise,” she whispered to Benjie, her heart pulsing with pain. “You don't need to be scared anymore. I’m going to keep you safe.”
He nodded and nestled himself in her lap like a puppy. In moments, he was asleep. If only she could sleep, too. Her eyes were gritty, her thoughts thick and foggy. Every muscle in her body ached. But Benjie slept the sleep of the innocent.
She wasn't innocent. The memory of her sister's eyes, blank and empty as marbles, burned through her. Zia had died because of her. She'd died alone and terrified. All because of Willow's selfishness. She’d spent all her time and energy resenting her family instead of loving them.
What she wouldn’t give now to hear Zia’s donkey laugh or listen to another of her mom’s lectures on family responsibility. Her mom, who always sacrificed her own needs for her kids. Her mom, who only worked so hard to take care them.
Willow stroked Benjie’s hair as she blinked back tears, her heart aching with grief and regret. She couldn't cry. Not for herself. She didn't deserve it.
53
Gabriel
Jericho shoved Gabriel through the crowd, the Glock pressed against the small of his back. His hands were bound in front of him, the sharp plastic digging into his wrists. Rain pelted him. The wind battered him against the railing. The blazing fire above them battled the lightning forking through the clouds. The sky was a dark, seething mass, like a living beast swooping down to devour them all.
“Move it!” Jericho herded him past the first line of people shoving and jostling to board the lifeboat. There weren't enough crew to manage the calm, orderly emergency evacuation they'd trained for. The repeated shout, “Please remain calm!” was lost in the din. The storm above them, the boiling sea below, the listing deck, and the flames and guns behind them transformed the passengers into a writhing throng of panic.
The ship tilted. Everyone screamed, stumbling and slipping against the railing. Several of the barrel-shaped life raft canisters popped loose from their storage on the deck. Gabriel leapt aside as one bounced past him and crashed over the railing.
Beside him, the fourth lifeboat lowered on its cables. Gabriel felt his brother's presence before he saw him. He twisted around.
“Don't move!” Jericho jammed the gun against his spine. Gabriel barely noticed.
“Micah!”
Micah bent over the controls as the davits and cables lowered the lifeboat until it was even with Deck Four. He glanced up at the sound of his name. His curls plastered against his forehead, water fogging his glasses. His gaze met Gabriel's and he froze, his face contorting with anguish.
Micah jerked his head and broke eye contact, turning back to the lifeboat. He opened the hatch and helped the first few passengers climb inside.
Gabriel blinked the rain out of his eyes. Impossible. And yet there she was, not ten yards away, Silas propping her up as Micah grasped her hand to pull her into the boat. Lightning ripped the sky, revealing her pale face, the bruising and the cut on her lip. But she was alive, dirty and wounded, but gloriously alive.
She looked at him, their eyes meeting for one long, terrible moment. And what he saw was not the hatred that he deserved, but confusion, pain, and loss.
Remorse filled him, a regret so wide and deep it swallowed him whole. He'd betrayed the only two people in his life he truly cared about. Micah, the brother he loved. And Amelia, the girl he cared about, might have loved, if only he'd had more time. If he'd given them more time. If he hadn't deceived and deserted her.
He’d fed his own desire for hatred and revenge more than anything else. More than justice. More than love. And in doing so, he'd betrayed Amelia, his brother, his cause, and ultimately, himself. Self-loathing coiled within him, dark and deadly.
Gunfire rained down on them. The bullets hardly made a sound as they tore into the deck, exploding into splinters of teak. The terror-stricken crowd surged, knocking more people over the railing.
Jericho spun around, aiming wildly, searching for the gunman. Bullets chewed into the hull behind Gabriel. Several panels of the glass railing shattered.
Three people to Gabriel's right crumpled, red water pooling at his feet. One of them was a girl, five or six-years-old, wearing only a bright yellow bathrobe. Her dark hair fanned around her head like a halo, her dim eyes staring up at him.
Gabriel turned his head and vomited. That little girl hadn’t asked for any of this. Who gets to decide who is innocent? She was innocent. And now she was dead. She was Simeon’s collateral damage. She was Gabriel’s collateral damage.
He did this. All these people, all this pain, terror, and death. This was his fault. He saw it now so clearly. Now that it was too late. Darkness engulfed him. He couldn’t bear the suffocating shame of what he’d done. The weight of it was crushing.
The rain was so cold. The seething sky so close. The shattered sea rose up to meet him. Ravenous, waiting. He stepped to the railing.
“Gabriel! No!” Micah shouted.
Someone grabbed his arm. Jericho jerked him back from the railing. “You don’t get to escape justice that easily.” He shoved Gabriel toward the lifeboat.
“You’ll pay for your sins.”
Gabriel bowed his head. There was no price, no punishment, no atonement that would cover his sins. He’d been a fool to ask his brother for forgiveness. There was no forgiveness, not for him. He would find no solace, no peace, no redemption.
Not in this life or the next.
54
Willow
Willow watched the first hints of gray tinge the dark windows. The fingers of dawn painted the sky in the softest shades of indigo and blue. There was no trace of the ferocious storm, no dark clouds, no vicious waves. The sea was still and flat as a sheet of glass.
“You okay?” Finn whispered from across the aisle. He leaned against the window, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were blood-shot and rimmed with red, like he'd been crying in the night. Specks of dried blood dotted his right cheek. A part of her wanted to ask what had happened to him, but she didn't. She wasn't ready to reveal her own secrets.
Every person in this boat would be haunted by the nightmare of this day for the rest of their lives—the things they'd seen, the people they'd lost, the things done to them and the things they'd done. She knew she would.
“I'm alive,” she said.
He nodded. “That has to be enough.”
“We have to make it enough.”
He gestured at her clothes. “I guess you really do hate dresses, huh?”
She looked down at herself, the navy blue fabric ripped in several places, smeared with dirt and blood. Her feet were cut, bruised, and aching. “I sure don’t miss those pain-in-the-ass heels.”
Finn snorted. They exchanged barely-there smiles.
She noticed something in the window behind his shoulder. A gray smudge on the horizon, darker than the fog surrounding it. “What's that?”
Finn turned and looked, cupping his hands against the glass. “My lady, I do believe you've sighted a ship.”
“A ship.” She couldn't quite believe what she'd heard.
Her arms tightened around Benjie. She wouldn’t let him go. Not for anything. Benjie was her only family now. He was her responsibility. He was her heart.
She glanced at Finn, her own hesitant hope reflected in his eyes.
They watched the ship grow closer in the early morning light, the sky shaded apricot and rose. It was a U.S. naval ship. And it was coming straight toward them.
Rescue.
55
Amelia
Amelia pressed against her mother. She couldn't stop shaking. The migraine had dissipated to a dull ache at the base of her skull. She felt exhausted and weak, like she'd been climbing a mountain for days. She stared down at her numb hands. They felt like they didn’t belong to her. As if someone else plunged that needle into Kane's eye. Someone else had stabbed him, over and over.
But she was alive. She’d saved herself.
Silas sat across from her, staring off into nothing. It wasn't like there was anything to look at in this barren, plastic-draped room anyway. Everything was white or gray, sterile and bland.
Since they'd been rescued by the Navy yesterday, the hundred and fifty or so survivors were confined to a massive room-like plastic tent. They were given water bottles and served several meals on brown plastic trays. They had access to a six-stalled bathroom and a couple of showers.
The first time she limped to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror, she was shocked. Hair: tangled, knotted mess. Face: dirty, bruised, and swollen. Dress: torn and stained. Nails: ragged. She'd examined the greenish-yellow bruising on her ribs and stomach, gingerly touching the tender flesh.
But she was here. Simeon wasn't. That asshole Kane wasn't. Her father wasn’t. She was. She raised her chin and met her own gaze in the mirror. This time, she smiled for herself.
But that was hours ago. Now, they were just waiting. Everyone sat on plastic chairs or hunched on the floor, wrapped in blankets. She sat with her mother and Silas against the wall in the far corner.
Jericho was somewhere behind them, giving them privacy. Tyler Horne and Senator López were here, and Celeste and Janet Kingsley-Yates. A few feet away, Willow slept with her little brother curled in her lap, a Star Wars backpack clutched in his skinny arms.
Micah slumped on the other side of Benjie. He was as sleep-deprived as Amelia, judging by his hollow cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. She hadn’t spoken to him, but she could read the sorrow and devastation etched across his face.
Everyone was scared, confused, shell-shocked, grief-stricken. Everyone had lost someone. The sounds of muffled sobbing were constant over the drone of the ship's engine.
The only people who'd come into the sealed room wore bulky contamination suits. They didn't meet Amelia's gaze through their masks. They tended to the wounded and provided first aid. They examined her clutch with the single remaining epi-pen, but hadn't taken it. Not yet. Whenever anyone tried to ask them questions, they just shook their heads. “We're following protocol. Someone will be in to speak with you shortly,” was all they'd say. That and, “Please remain calm.”
Silas glanced at her, cocking one eyebrow. He didn't constantly ask her if she was all right, like her mother did. But he studied her, scrutinizing her face, searching for something. She met his gaze. He was the brother she loved, the one who put himself between her and her father, over and over. Even though he never said a word, he still made sure she was okay.
Even though she wasn’t, not yet. Ever since the attack, she couldn't sleep. Her eyes burned and her head throbbed, but every time she tried to rest, she saw that face behind her closed lids—Kane's venomous eyes, that hideous, lecherous grin. She could still feel his hands—huge, strong, scrabbling like spiders, could still smell the stench of his breath, the heat of it on her cheeks. She couldn't get the stain of his touch off her skin. If she managed to drift off, she jolted awake, her heart beating savagely against her ribs.
Kane haunted her sleep, but Gabriel haunted her waking moments. She kept seeing him in her mind’s eye, in the rain and the chaos of the deck. Gabriel, desperately pleading for something she couldn't give him. Amelia hadn’t seen Gabriel since two naval officers led him away in handcuffs within moments of their rescue. She didn’t know what would happen to him now.
She shivered and wrapped the Mylar blanket tighter around herself.
Her mother stirred and opened her eyes. “Amelia.” Her voice was full of relief. Every time she woke up from her restless dozing, she was frantic until she laid eyes on her daughter. “We survived. We're all here.”
“Not all of us,” Silas said.
Amelia licked her lips. Part of her wished she didn't need to know, that she could pretend it all away. But that was impossible. “Why are they keeping us in here?” she asked again.
This time, her mother actually answered. “They want to make sure we're not infected.”
“Because of what's happening on the mainland,” Silas said.
Amelia rubbed her charm bracelet. “This is all because of Father, isn't it?”
Her mother gave her a hard look.
“You don't have to keep protecting me.” Her tone came out sharper than she intended. “In case you haven't noticed, we're well beyond that.”
Elise sighed. “Keep your voice down, please. We must keep this between us. We don't have all the answers. Not yet. The attack on the Voyager must have been planned for months, possibly years.”
“But the universal flu vaccine—”
“Was in the news for years. As was your father. As we all were. There are political groups who have openly hated and threatened us for almost a decade. You father planned his Health Summit on the Grand Voyager for the same week every year. It wasn't like we made ourselves a difficult target.” Her mother's hand strayed to the hollow of her throat.
“There's more,” Amelia said.
Her mother took a deep breath. “Yes, there's more.”
“The New Patriots said the universal vaccine was a bioweapon,” Amelia said, staring at her mother, trying to read her face for
any signs of deception. “They said it was purposely engineered to murder forty million innocent people. Father admitted it. How could he do something like that?”
“Shhh.” Elise tilted her chin at the people closest to them. But everyone else seemed to be sleeping. And they were in the far corner, which afforded as much privacy as this fish bowl allowed. “When you blame the poor for their misfortune—like your father did—it dehumanizes them. It becomes easier to justify atrocities if their plight is their own fault. And if they’re less than human . . .”
“Did you know?” Silas asked darkly.
Her mother grabbed Amelia's hand and squeezed. “I swear to you, on your life, I had no idea. I never would've—I believed we were safe. Your father—he protected us. I didn't know.”
Revulsion filled Amelia. She yanked her hand away. “But you knew what he's like.”
“You have to understand, Amelia. The world is such a dangerous place. He offered safety.”
“Safety?” Silas snorted. “Is that what you call this?”
“It wasn't supposed to be like this.”
Amelia stood. She couldn't stop thinking about all the sick people, all those millions of lives. She couldn't even comprehend the numbers, the mothers and fathers and children and babies, all suffering, all dying in agony.
And the worst part was how those people trusted the vaccine, believed in it, waited for hours to give it to their sick children. All those health workers administering the shots with a smile on their faces and gentleness in their touch, saying, “This will only hurt a bit.” Because they didn't know. How could they know they were administering grief and horror and death? Amelia bent over, acid burning the back of her throat.
“Amelia! Are you okay?” Her mother reached for her purse. “Do you need your medication? I have your pills—”
