by Joshua Grant
Pandora
Joshua Grant
Copyright © 2016 by Joshua Grant
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations.
First Printing, 2016
ISBN: 153710845X
ISBN 9781537108452
www.diabolicshrimp.com
For Randall and Sherri Jackson Grant who continue to give their children a strong foundation of love and kindness. And for Yahweh, the greatest parent of them all.
“The line separating good and evil passes not through states, not between classes, nor between political parties, but through every human heart.”
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Author Bio
Prologue
The ocean would never be the same again.
The realization hit Malcom Render hard and sudden but he instantly knew it to be true. He looked out at her gentle curves barely visible in the Emerald Rose’s neon running lights. There was a time when the sea mystified him, when he was a kid reading the old adventure tropes like Robinson Crusoe and The Odyssey. Monsters and magic and shipwrecks were real to him then.
But all childhoods ended and so did the whimsical fantasies that went with them.
Until today.
Malcom shifted his stance on the darkened bridge. Soft moonlight spilled out on the expanse of ocean ahead adding to the sensation that he had crossed into some sort of mystical dream world. He cast a glance at the men and women working at their monitor stations around the bridge—dark silhouettes sliding about in the grainy light of their screens like disembodied spirits—men and women he was solely responsible for. Had they noticed his disquiet?
As third officer aboard the sprawling cruise ship he was privy to information that they were not. Yet they had to know something. All hands were involved in the day’s earlier rescue. Even the passengers had witnessed the unusual spectacle, snapping pictures and gasping. But their cameras couldn’t capture the horror of what happened below deck behind closed doors. Neither they nor the crew would be allowed to know just what it was that they carried--the man, if that’s what it could be called--the passenger that came from no port.
And no one seemed to be asking the really important questions. Like why had Captain Sepella diverted their course instead of informing the Coast Guard? All ships had a moral duty to lend assistance to other vessels in need, but big ass cruise ships weren’t exactly ideal rescue vehicles. And what had even happened to the La Magia? The smaller vessel was torched and in a million pieces when they found her. Looked like someone had taken a cannon to it. Who and for what purpose would be a discussion for the ages.
And that’s not even the strangest part.
Tension crept back into Malcom’s shoulders and again he swallowed it down, trying to appear more relaxed than he felt as he surveyed the darkened bridge. It was good to see a calmer nightshift crew. The frantic atmosphere of the afternoon was nowhere to be found, replaced only by a silent apprehension. Everyone had heard the words spill across the bridge. They still echoed in Malcom’s ears.
“There’s a survivor.”
Malcom shifted his stance. The bridge had gone dead silent, everyone well aware of the implications. Anyone that had survived such a tortured wreck would not be in very good condition. But still the crew acted admirably, performing their duties, staying focused on the task at hand. It was only later when the action had died down that the questions started pouring in, questions Malcom couldn’t answer.
Who was their mysterious survivor?
How did the Captain know the wreck would be out here in the first place?
Will I ever be able to sleep again?
Malcom shuddered at that one. Probably not, not after earlier. He closed his stinging, tired eyes, remembering.
Malcom intercepted Sepella just outside the ship’s infirmary, adrenaline from the rescue still coursing through his veins.
What the hell Malcom? What are we doing?
“Lock it all down,” Sepella ordered into the white wall phone gripped all too tightly in his hand. Clearly Malcom wasn’t the only one that was stressed by the unusual situation. “No one comes down here. Tell the passengers he’s stable and recovering.”
He. So the reports of a survivor were true. Malcom’s stomach twisted a notch tighter, the reality of their situation sinking in.
Sepella hung up the phone and immediately turned his attention to Malcom—
And all the past hour’s doubts and nerves came bursting through the third officer’s chest.
“Sir, what the hell are we doing? Why haven’t we called the Coast Guard? We—“
Sepella held up his hand and somehow Malcom lost the capacity to speak like someone caught in a force choke. It was something in the older man’s expression, a deeper worry than Malcom had ever seen in him. Something was bugging him, far beyond the fact that they had just found an obliterated vessel with only a single survivor.
“You need to see this first,” Sepella said. “The survivor, he’s—well something’s not right.”
As understatements of the century went, that was pretty up there. Malcom opened his mouth to let him know it but Sepella had already turned, barreling through the infirmary door.
Prick. Malcom took a deep breath, following him in—
--and gasped, the smell hitting him like a hand, a sickly sweet aroma pouring into his nostrils, forcing its way down his throat causing his stomach to churn. It was diesel, and blood, and—
--and Malcom froze, the ship’s doctor approaching, her scrubs smeared red. He barely saw her. His vision was glued to the exam table in the back of the room and the burnt half corpse that occupied it.
Oh my God!
Malcom fought his writhing stomach. The man’s skin, it was charcoal black with splotches of glistening red peering through like wetted smiles jeering at Malcom. Matted clumps of charred hair clung to his nearly bald head, the tattered remnants of his clothes suggesting he was once an officer on the ill-fated La Magia but his rank insignia had long since burned away.
But it was his eyes that pulled Malcom’s gaze, demanded it. Sickly yellow orbs, yet somehow sharp despite the massive amounts of pain he must have been feeling. Piercing, they glided around the sterile white room, taking everything in as if for the first time. The charcoal man sat upright, unnaturally calm as he surveyed his world, his eyes predatorial, full of the sick curiosity of a serial killer deciding where to jab his victim. They landed on Malcom, wriggling their way into his skin—
Malcom forced himself to look away, to focus on the doctor�
�s concerned face.
“You were supposed to sedate him,” Sepella said quietly, for what purpose Malcom didn’t know. If the man could hear through his half melted ears it would be another minor miracle.
Or curse.
“I did,” the doctor replied. Malcom heard the tremble in her voice. It made his hands sweat. “Most powerful thing we got. He—he hasn’t even screamed.”
Malcom swallowed, keenly aware of the bloody corpse in his peripheral watching them with silent interest. “Shock?”
He knew it was a stupid suggestion even without the doctor’s slowly shaking head. “There are burns on ninety percent of his body. He shouldn’t be in shock. He should be dead.”
All plunged into silence, everyone aware that she was right, that the man should very well be dead and wasn’t, and that scared Malcom, really scared him.
“Can he speak?” Sepella said at last.
“He hasn’t said a word yet. I don’t know if his throat—“
The doctor paused, drawing a shuddering breath. “Captain, this goes far beyond our abilities to handle. Hell, I don’t know what to do for him honestly. This man needs—“
“Noted.” Sepella stepped past her, approaching the bloody man. What the hell was his problem?
Malcom met the doctor’s concerned look with one of his own. He didn’t know her very well. She was new and he never got sick, but it was nice that someone else saw Sepella for the asshole he was. Maybe they could go get drinks later, talk all this craziness out.
After I deal with him. Malcom followed Sepella over to the bloody shell of a man.
The smell in the back of the ward was so much worse—greasy and industrial and just about the worst thing Malcom had the displeasure of inhaling. The man didn’t seem to notice. Hell, his nose was a ragged skeletal hole, a gruesome visual confirmation that the doctor knew what she was talking about when she said he shouldn’t be breathing at all.
Sepella cleared his throat. “I’m Captain Sepella of the Festival Cruise Ship Emerald Rose.” He paused, searching the carnage of the man’s face for some sign that he understood. There was none, just the soft whistle of the man’s breaths slipping through the wet charred hole of his nose. Sepella continued uneasily. “We rescued you from what was left of your ship. Can you remember what happened?”
The crimson-faced man scanned his cold eyes over them—first Sepella, then the doctor, and finally Malcom. They bore into him, digging back into his skin—
--like he wants it, wants to rip ragged wet slabs of it off to slap on his own dilapidated body—
Shut up Malcom!
He swallowed deeply. This man had been through hell. The last thing he needed was Malcom turning him into some kind of monster. Still, he watched so—so thirstily—that Malcom backed off half a step.
“Perhaps you should rest,” Sepella pressed. He looked like he was trying to swallow marbles, the same look on Malcom’s face as the smell slid around his tonsils. “The doctor here gave you a sedative. It should help. Are you in pain?”
The burnt man ignored him, his jaundice-laden eyes still fixed on Malcom. The third officer held his ground this time despite the heartbeats thudding against his spine urging him to make his way back towards the door. This was all wrong. But then again, maybe the man just hadn’t heard. His ears drooped inward like the cauliflower syndrome of a boxer, partially melted in the heat of whatever had destroyed the La Magia.
Sepella inhaled deeply. “Look, we’re going to let you rest for a bit but we need to know if there were any other survivors out there.”
The man’s cold eyes snapped to the Captain, ripped from whatever pain-induced trance they were in.
“Survivors?”
Shit. Malcom grimaced.
His voice was hell itself—hoarse and full of pain, yet somehow completely calm as if the agony couldn’t stop him from focusing on his agenda, whatever that may have been. Slowly he shook his glistening head from side to side, the skin cracking lightly at his neck making Malcom’s body itch. “There weren’t any survivors.”
His glistening skull twisted toward Malcom again, skin cracking, eyes thirsting once more. “You. Male, thirty three, brown hair, green eyes. Forty-two organs.”
A pang of alarm shot through Malcom but the man didn’t seem to notice. His face muscles twitched pulling his charred lips up into a delighted smile, the skinned face of death grinning, burning away Malcom’s assumption that anything would ever be okay again—
“Sir?”
Malcom jumped, ripped free from his dark reverie. He was thankfully back on the bridge, away from that shitshow of an infirmary. Just decks below. He took a deep breath, turning to see Bosun Kirby regarding him in the eerie green glow of his navigation monitor.
“Are you okay?”
Okay. Was that a word Malcom even understood anymore? He certainly wouldn’t feel okay until they were safely in port and their passenger, or whatever the hell he was, checked into a hospital—but probably not a long time after that.
“I’m fine,” he lied, exhaling slowly.
The bosun seemed to believe it less than he did. At least he had the courtesy and professional sense not to say it. “Sir, I should probably tell you, the crew is just a little bit spooked. I mean, just what did we find out there? No one will tell us anything.”
His voice was hushed but Malcom could tell the other crewmen on the bridge were listening in. Rumors spread quickly, even on a ship of this size. It was Malcom’s job to make sure they didn’t become a problem. And walking corpses that talked about your organs pretty much qualified.
Malcom leaned across the monitor station, the bosun doing the same, the bridge becoming deathly still.
“Kirby, I know I can trust you not to spread this around.”
The bosun nodded, the shadows stretching and dancing across his face.
“Good, because in that wreck we found a real live merman, flippers and all.” Kirby’s features dropped into a scowl. Malcom heard someone snort from behind their monitor. At least there was that. He hated lying to the men but he needed them sharp and focused on their jobs.
And the truth—well lying was a hell of a lot better than that. Ignorance was officially bliss.
“The Captain will address everyone in the morning,” Malcom assured in as calm a tone as he could muster. “You helped save someone’s life today. He’s down there recovering thanks to your efforts. You’ll just have to be content with that for now.”
Kirby contemplated him for a moment but then nodded.
Good. Malcom wouldn’t have to lie to anyone again. Just to myself, he noted.
From the second Sepella had diverted their course, he knew that something was wrong. Somehow they had all stepped off a precipice and were tumbling down a very disturbing rabbit hole. Malcom wasn’t religious or even superstitious but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was caught in the middle of something greater than himself, that powers beyond him were at play here. Something very evil was happening and it was extremely important that he figure out what and soon.
Male. Forty-two organs. No survivors. What the hell was that supposed to mean? And I’m thirty one dammit!
The door to the bridge opened and closed behind him. About damn time. His shift had finally ended. The first officer could take over so he could finally track down Sepella and get some real answers. Footsteps approached from behind—
Wet footsteps.
His mind registered something was wrong even before he heard several of the crewmen gasp, before he smelled the coppery punch of blood. He swiveled to see the freakish outline of the burned man looking all the more ghoulish in the green light of the darkened bridge.
Holy shit! Malcom’s heart raced into a thunder rhythm he felt in his fingertips.
“I like you,” the burned man said and rotated his grizzly face toward Kirby. “I don’t like you.”
He smiled and began to convulse and Malcom knew they were all dead.
Gabriel Wright’s feet
padded across the soft lobby carpet. He reveled in the sensation. The ten year old boy loved the fact that he could go barefoot anywhere on this ship--well, almost anywhere. His mother insisted he wear shoes to the formal dinner held each night. But besides that, he was king, free to go and do as he pleased.
Freedom came with a price though. His mother was off looking for the new Mr. Right. A new Mr. Wright, Gabe corrected himself. If, or when, she found him, he’d be lucky number four. Gabe liked it better when it was just the two of them, but his mother got so lonely sometimes so he tried to understand. The problem was her exploits left him alone far too often, current case in point.
Gabe wasn’t a completely shy kid. He had a few good friends back home. And there were a few other kids on this cruise. He just wasn’t in the friend-making mood at the moment.
Besides, being alone wasn’t all that bad. It gave him a chance to wander the ship’s lesser travelled corridors imagining extraordinary things. Every plant was a botanical monstrosity and every room steward a bionic guard. He was never alone in his imagination.
And the company is pretty cool too. Gabe smirked as he approached his reflection in the glass double doors at the other end of the brightly lit lobby.
The clear barrier sensed his presence and automatically peeled away with a light vrrrm. Pretty sci-fi. Cool. A blast of warm sea-tinged ocean air assaulted him as he crossed the threshold and was thrust into a world of soft moonlight. The aft Lido deck was wide and open, a sprawling viewing area at the rear of the ship where dozens of adults would lounge in beach chairs and bask in the warm tropical sun. It was abandoned now. Most of the ship’s denizens were attending the big nightly show, Gabe’s mother and a host of possible Mr. Wright candidates included. Probably one of those comedy routines he didn’t really get. He preferred the show that was happening everywhere else.
Here alone he was a pioneer sailing through the dark abyss of space. The ship seemed to play along. Beyond the illuminated barrier of curved railing the sea was nonexistent, a shadowy nothing, a perilous black hole waiting to devour him and his trusty crew...well, if he had a crew. Place was beyond empty. In fact, this was the first time Gabe had been completely alone since stepping foot on the intrepid vessel.
