The Last Passenger

by Manel Loureiro

  “Father!” The young mother gave a piercing shout with the baby still in her arms. She pressed him closer to her bosom, debating whether to protect the child or help her injured father. She did not, however, have a chance to decide. Moore motioned one of his men forward, and he jumped in front of her and rammed the barrel of his rifle straight into the woman’s stomach. She doubled over, her mouth gaping like a fish out of water. Automatically, she wrapped her arms around the baby. Off balance, she couldn’t stop herself from falling, but as she fell she turned to protect the baby from being hit. Her ribs smacked against the floor, making an audible and unpleasant crunch. She yelled out in agony.

  Her husband emerged from his stupor and punched the guard in his side. The guard, bleeding from his ears and nose, had been distracted by looking at the pale legs of the woman on the floor. He turned to keep from falling to the floor. He spread out his arms, and that was the precise moment the young Jewish man chose to make a grab for the guard’s gun.

  He had very little time. Maybe two or three seconds. If there had been just a few more seconds, the young Jewish man would have cocked the Mauser and pointed it at the guards. If he’d been a bit more experienced handling a firearm, he would not have hesitated before finding the trigger. If it had all been slightly different, the rest of the story would have completely changed. But his fate had been decided. The dark shadow laughed in the dark corner and smacked her lips over a story that had already played out a million times.

  The young man lifted the barrel too late. A few shots sounded out, and two huge holes appeared in his flannel shirt. Tiny pieces of flesh and blood flew out. The man looked around in disbelief before he fell to his knees, the gun still in his hands. The red flowers bloomed out on his chest into one enormous dark stain that was only growing larger. His wife’s scream was muffled by the uncontrollable sobbing of their daughter. The guard whose gun had been taken bellowed out in anger and repeatedly kicked the young Jew’s body. Soon, everyone began shouting out at once.

  Kate watched as the horrific scene unfolded, but shock kept her from saying anything. They had shot and killed a man right in front of her. Senka watched it in her own way and seemed to be in a state of deep concentration. If Kate had been calmer, she would have noticed that Senka looked like a fully charged battery waiting for action.

  The only one who remained calm amid the chaos was Moore, who was still holding up his Walther PPK. The smile on his face had spread to unnatural and deformed proportions. The voices in his head chanted wildly. The last vestige of his personality had been destroyed. All that was left of Moore was his body. Oberfeldwebel Otto Dittmar had returned from the darkness with a new lust for life.

  “Silence,” he belted.

  Somehow, his voice carried over the chaos. Slowly, everyone quieted down until the only sounds heard as the engine droned on were the wife’s muffled sobs, the little girl weeping, and the baby crying.

  “Since they wanted to come aboard so badly, we’ll go ahead and let them stay.” Moore’s voice had become raspy, making him sound like a different person. “But it’ll be in a place that fits your means. Let’s not forget we’re talking about dirty Jew rats.”

  They moved the prisoners toward the ship’s walls, which were lined with enormous steel frames that looked like the giant ribs of some prehistoric animal. They forced Kate and Senka to help the young mother drag her husband’s body next to his huddled family. The mother looked at her hands in horror. They were covered in blood. She frantically wiped her hands on her greasy clothes.

  Moore took notice and gave a hollow, harsh chuckle. “Don’t worry, bitch. It won’t matter what you look like where you’re going.”

  He twirled the pistol on his finger, pointed it at the young mother’s head, and pulled the trigger without blinking. A small red hole opened up in her forehead, but the back of her head exploded like a piñata. Behind her, blood and bits of flesh sprayed the interior wall of the Valkyrie’s hull, leaving a strange design like a demented expressionist painting. The woman’s limp body fell to the floor as it continued to convulse.

  Next, Moore pointed the gun at the little girl. Kate’s blood froze. She knew that little girl. Although it seemed like it had been a lifetime ago, it was the girl she’d followed. Even in hell she would recognize that raggedy dress and the bruises on her arm. But most of all she would never forget the sorrow plastered on her face.

  “Esther,” Kate whispered weakly.

  The little girl looked at Kate as a tear rolled down her cheek. She closed her eyes and resigned herself to what was about to happen, as it had a million times before.

  Moore fired, and the bullet entered the little girl’s temple. Her brain matter sullied her blonde hair, and her body toppled as if she’d been struck by a giant hammer. Her legs tangled, and she fell at Kate’s feet. A puddle of dark red blood began spreading slowly around her head like a fiery halo until it reached the tip of Kate’s boot.

  For the first time during all of this, Kate felt like she would die here. This was the end of the line. Shot by some lunatic who thought it was 1939. The shadow had won.

  Moore again pointed his gun, this time at the elderly Jewish man, who was staring sadly at his dead family. His chanting came to an end, and his fists were clenched. Then, he raised his eyes and paused a moment on Kate.

  “Don’t worry, Kate.” His voice was weak like a dying river. “Everything will be all right.”

  He turned to Moore, and his expression completely altered. He used what little energy he had left to straighten up on his wounded knee, and the elderly man transformed into a monstrous giant radiating waves of energy. The shadows hiding in the corners rippled in agitation as a chorus of unintelligible whispers grew in intensity.

  “You!”

  The elderly man’s voice had become a roar as he pointed an accusatory finger at Moore. A light breeze stirred his mended coattails. As the moments ticked by, the wind picked up in strength. Kate rationally knew that it was impossible for a gust of wind to blow inside an enclosed space on board a ship, but she panicked nevertheless.

  “You!” The elderly man bellowed once more and raised his other hand high above his head. He opened his fist, and a sandy-colored powder was taken by the wind and blown everywhere. The powder sketched serpentine patterns in the air before dissipating. “Pulsa Dinura! Pulsa Dinura!”

  The powder reached Moore, and the shadows went mad as they swirled around Moore and the others like a hurricane, making sounds of bewilderment. The room pulsed with a beat of its own as the rivets in the wall began shaking.

  “Pulsa Dinura!”

  The sound was almost superhuman. As the old man yelled, he opened both of his hands and pointed all of his crooked fingers straight at Moore. Overwhelmed, the head of security raised his gun and fired three times. The first bullet hit the elderly man in the shoulder, which sent him spinning like a top. The second entered through his side and passed through his lungs before exiting and becoming lodged in the steel wall. The third bullet shattered his backbone, and he collapsed to the floor like a rag doll, dead before he hit the ground.

  As soon as the man hit the floor, the hurricane ceased. The wind stopped, and the walls no longer trembled. Calmness returned. Fabric remnants and cardboard that had been stacked to the ceiling began falling all around them. Everything seemed eerily normal.

  Everything except one subtle change.

  The shadows in the corners were no longer moving or mumbling. They were blacker than the darkest of nights, thicker than a well of crude oil. They were almost solid.

  They were almost breathing.

  Pulsing.

  On the verge of starting something.

  Moore, covered in sweat, turned toward his men and pointed toward several steel planks that had been carefully stacked as ballast on one side of the room.

  “Throw those bodies in a pile over there, and then cover them with those planks.” His voice was calm, as if he hadn’t just murdered four people in cold
blood. “Have the chief engine operator give you a generator in order to do the welding. Since they wanted on board so badly, let them stay on board forever. Like rats behind the walls.” He turned toward Kate and Senka, who were sitting totally still, spectators to the drama. “Throw them in, too, but alive.”

  “But . . . sir,” one of the men stuttered.

  Moore swiveled and stared at the man without saying a word. His pupils were two throbbing pools of dark hatred with a life of their own. The man shrank beneath Moore’s look and whimpered. A tendril of blackness eddied about the ceiling above his head, and from one of the man’s tear ducts came a droplet of blood. His head bobbed like a marionette missing a string.

  “Do as I say.” Moore’s voice sounded like the rumbling of distant thunder. “Now.”

  His men began stumbling about. They pushed both women at gunpoint toward the lifeless bodies of the Jewish family.

  Senka, who’d been passive this whole time, brought up her arm in one perfectly fluid motion. Her elbow struck the man’s neck with a hard blow. He coughed, gagged, and brought a hand up to his broken trachea. Senka took advantage of his vulnerability by grabbing the barrel of the gun and pulling, which sent her toppling onto the other guard. Both fell and became a tangle of arms and legs.

  Moore and the third guard pointed their guns at Senka. From such a short distance, it would be impossible to miss. Nevertheless, right at that moment a wave that was more powerful than the others hit the side of the Valkyrie. Without the stabilizing engines, the ship rocked with the force of the wave. At the same time a harsh sound like that of a locomotive crashing echoed throughout the room. Moore tried to regain his balance as one of his men fired a shot that hit the ceiling.

  “Now, Kate,” shouted Senka. “Run for the elevator.”

  The door leading to the main boiler room was only a few feet away. If she hurried, she could get there before her captors regained their balance.

  Kate ran for the door. But then she saw him—a little bundle of blankets and hair, barely moving or crying.

  The baby.

  She recalled the tender look the elderly Jewish man had given her. Now she understood her duty. She finally knew what her role was in all of this.

  She stopped in her tracks, and it saved her life. Moore’s first bullet hit the wall right where her head would have been if she’d kept running. Instead, she’d turned around and lunged for the baby on the ground.

  She picked up the baby on the run, grabbing him by the edge of the blue-and-white tallit that was wrapped around him. Without stopping, she continued full speed as a second bullet ricocheted off the floor near her feet. She could hear Moore raging just above the click of the firing pin as it struck the air. He was out of ammunition.

  In the meantime Senka had reached the boiler room door. Moore was running toward the door with his eyes on Kate as he switched out the empty clip. Kate had wasted precious time by picking up the baby, and the head of security had recovered his position. He was blocking Kate’s path to the doorway.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Senka saw something moving to her right. The guard with the broken trachea was writhing on the floor and turning blue. But the other two had regained their balance and were now taking aim at Kate as the Valkyrie continued to sway back and forth.

  The guards, who were half-brain-dead, weren’t having much luck aiming their long Mausers as the floor beneath their feet kept moving. The first shot missed high and provoked a shower of sparks several feet above their heads.

  “That’s some real shitty aim, boys,” Senka shouted from the doorway before heading for the elevator, giving the guards the finger as she ran. Moore was too focused on Kate and the baby to take notice.

  As Senka zigzagged toward the elevator, she felt a sharp pang in her side. She probably had a broken rib or two from when Moore had kicked her. Each breath hurt, but she had no choice but to clench her teeth. If she could get to the upper decks of the ship, her chances would increase exponentially. She might even be able to lower one of the lifeboats before the explosives detonated and the whole place turned into an even bigger storm of pissed off guards. She wiped sweat from her chin and panted.

  The elevator door was so close now. She was about to make it.

  Trained for situations just like this, Senka heard warning signals go off in her head. She’d been zigzagging in order to make her a difficult target to hit, but now she noticed that no more shots had been fired. Then, she saw the chief engine operator and his team huddled in the corner, all with the same look of mute terror splashed across their faces.

  She risked a look back and was instantly paralyzed. Both guards had stopped in the doorway that led between the engine room and the coal chute, and they stood perfectly still, leaning on their guns. Both men wore expressions of wicked amusement. A black cloud of evil swirled endlessly around them. It covered the entire back wall and had begun to fill the rest of the room.

  The first tendril of darkness stretched out toward the engine room workers and enveloped them with a sound like a watery vacuum, immediately followed by shouts of agony. The painful chorus lasted a few moments before cutting off like a fading radio signal. And that was it. There was no sign of the men. The shadows snarled, satiated. Somehow, they’d become even darker.

  Everything turned black. Only the lights of the elevator shaft remained lit, casting the scene in a sickly yellow light.

  Senka let out a howl like a caged animal. They weren’t going to shoot her. They planned to let the shadow take care of her. She would suffer a fate a thousand times worse. A bell rang behind her. The elevator had come down from above, and as the gate creaked open, she heard the murmuring of voices that told her Moore’s reinforcements had arrived. She was trapped.

  The memory of a distant day when she was a girl washed over her—a day she had seen black clouds of smoke spread high into the sky as her village burned to the ground. A girl surrounded by grim-looking men with rotten souls. A girl about to be dragged to the gates of hell.

  Senka opened her eyes. Tears began welling up, but her defiant gaze didn’t waver. She was no longer that little girl. She was Senka Simovic. A python, an expert in inflicting pain. A survivor. She wasn’t about to let evil win again.

  “Come get me if you have any balls, kopilad.” She raised her hand and made a gesture of rebellion. “One against seven. Cowards. Bastards.”

  That was enough to incite the men, but instead of peppering her with gunfire, they charged like bulls. The shadow twisted around in surprise as if things were not going according to plan. It flew toward Senka, but she jumped a railing and headed toward the service tunnel that led to the propeller shaft.

  The grate was still loose. Senka ripped it off in a single motion and climbed in as the guards nipped at her heels. At the end of the passageway, she could still see the faint light of Paxton’s flashlight.

  The sound of a gunshot in close quarters sounded like a cannon and deafened her immediately. A sharp pain pierced the small of her back. The first bullet ripped through her kidneys and lodged inside her. She stumbled and had to grab the wall to avoid falling over.

  The second bullet punctured a lung. Senka noticed a pressure on her back that propelled her forward. A flash of heat suddenly stifled her as if she were in the middle of a fire. Her mouth bled slightly, but she refused to fall to her knees. Not yet.

  When she was close enough to Paxton’s body, she collapsed. She felt a third and fourth gunshot and something hot cut through her leg. Her vision was turning fuzzy. Digging deep into her last reserves of energy, she turned around to look toward the tunnel opening.

  Guards were marching single file after her, the lead man brandishing a smoking barrel and a hazy expression. Behind him all that could be seen was darkness like a starless night on a distant and hostile planet. They’d nearly reached her.

  The shadow had overtaken the men, devouring them as it went. A black, impenetrable cloak swooped over Senka, sounding like excited, evil whisperin
g. Senka glimpsed into the gathering gloom and made out the face of a blonde woman. She wore the most malevolent expression and watched Senka from the bottom of the ferocious cloud. It was the same face she’d kissed to exhaustion. A face that cast a wicked, vulgar smile. Something cold and bitter gripped Senka’s heart.

  Senka. You are mine. Come with us. Now.

  Senka spat out a mouthful of blood with a blank look and gave the shadow one last grin as it approached. “I’m no longer scared. Go to hell, bitch.”

  She grabbed Paxton’s leg and pulled it, triggering the bomb. Right before the ball of fire obliterated her, Senka was able to hear the sound the shadow made.

  A sound of shock. Of pain.

  The fireball erupted and devoured everything in its way. Finally, Senka Simovic had been set on the path to peace.

  XLVIII

  “It’s over, Jew,” Moore snorted in satisfaction as he approached Kate with wide strides to maintain his balance. He cocked his gun and pointed it at her.

  Without warning, though, a huge fireball emerged from the service tunnel in a flash of light so intense that it split and destroyed the shadows. At the same time, the fireball splintered throughout the tight space of the passageway and spread over the huge axle. The pressure was so powerful that it gave way like a sail to the wind. Forced out of place by the explosion, the axle scraped against the metal that surrounded it, causing an awful screech. By the time the axle came to rest, it had scarred the inside of the ship.

  The diesel engines of the Valkyrie continued working at three-quarters power as warning lights began flashing on the control panel. Normally, in a situation as serious as the loss of an axle, the chief engine operator would immediately order the shutdown of the engines without even consulting the captain. But all that remained in the engine room were shadows, so no one pressed the necessary button to make an emergency stop. The engines continued churning, behaving as if the axle hadn’t been rendered useless. The pressure continued to build up on the gears until what could have been an easy repair became an all-out disaster. Camshafts flew through the air, and the engines, which had been overloaded, began grinding horribly as dozens of parts burst apart and became twisted. Finally, a metallic cough indicated that the engines had stopped working and were completely ruined.