by Addison Gunn
MILLER FOUND GRAY’S office empty, then braved the stairwells and made his way to the captain’s quarters on the second floor.
Miller hadn’t seen Gray’s ex-wife, Barbara, or his kids James and Helen, in quite some time. He just hadn’t found time to visit. In truth, they meant a great deal to him, but standing in front of their cabin, he suddenly felt guilty. He’d been so wrapped up in his job and his team, he hadn’t considered them or how they’d fared until just that moment.
When he knocked, Barbara answered. She wore a surgical mask and glared at Miller for a moment as if she couldn’t comprehend why he would be there. Then, nodding to herself, she stepped aside and allowed him to enter.
“It’s good to see you, Alex,” she said, sounding defeated. “Are you well? Don’t touch anything if you can help it; James has influenza.”
Miller swallowed the lump developing in the back of his throat. “Shouldn’t he be in quarantine?”
Barbara shook her head, her hand lingering an inch above his arm as if she had wanted to pat it. “Gray won’t hear of it.”
“Jesus, Miller, where the hell have you been?” Gray stood by the kitchenette—really just a countertop with a small sink and range—his surgical mask propped on his forehead. He looked old and tired, and was holding a mug of seaweed tea, going by the smell. Bags under his eyes sagged like cinema drapes.
“Doyle was ill,” Miller explained.
Gray expression flooded with concern. “The influenza?”
“No,” Miller answered quickly. “Something else.”
“You sure?”
“Quite.”
Satisfied, Gray turned his droopy eyes to the back of the cabin, toward the beds. “We weren’t so lucky.”
Across the sitting area, and standing beside the farthest bed, stood a doctor from the infirmary. He spoke in hushed tones to Barbara as she approached, then turned back toward the frail form of James, Gray’s sixteen-year-old son. The boy looked stretched and motionless, a whisper of a man.
“Where’s Helen?” Miller asked.
“Staying with friends up on third deck,” Gray said. “We couldn’t risk having her exposed.”
Not sure what else he could say, Miller replied, “I’m sorry.”
Gray tilted his head as if a snide comment was about to escape his lips, but stopped himself and frowned. “Me too. I need you to do something for me.” He set his tea on the counter and replaced his mask. “Lewis has himself quarantined up in the bridge. Don’t look so concerned, it’s a precaution. The last thing we need is the commander taking ill. But I can’t bother him with this, and besides, I need it off the books.”
Miller felt his mouth turn sour. “Yeah?” He wasn’t sure what Gray meant. As in, behind Lewis’s back? Gray was supposedly the head of this vessel, even if he wasn’t the commanding officer—but Miller hadn’t realized anything happened aboard the Tevatnoa that was on the books. What books? Who kept them?
“The influenza is dangerous, don’t get me wrong,” Gray said. “But it’s the secondary infections that are killing people. Some sort of bacteria—some sort of streptococcus, a pneumonia or something—is getting into the lungs and causing pneumonia, and the infection is resistant to the antibiotics we have aboard.”
The hairs on the back of Miller’s neck prickled. “I see.”
“I’ve been in contact with the lab,” Gray went on to explain. “And they’re making some progress in developing a stronger antibiotic. Some sort of two-prong approach: one chemical kills the bacteria’s immunity and then some sort of penicillin derivative kills the bacteria. But progress is slow.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the beds. “Too slow.”
“I’m not sure how I can help the labs...”
“No,” Gray snapped, catching himself. He ran his hands through his thinning hair and took a long, slow breath. “I’m not finished. The labs tell me they’re also working on a solution over on the Princess Penelope.”
“That’s good. Have they made any progress?”
“Would you just shut up and listen?” Gray barked. “I’ve been trying to reach them, the Princess, but they aren’t responding.”
“I’m sure their lab will be in contact once they have a viable solution.”
“No,” snapped Gray, drawing Barbara and the doctor’s attention. His eyes went wild and watery behind his surgical mask as he glared at Miller. “The whole ship isn’t responding. Not the captain, not the security squad, not the lab. Nobody.”
“Maybe the storm knocked their communications offline? Have we sent a team over yet?”
“Lewis won’t let me,” Gray hissed. “He doesn’t want to risk spreading the influenza aboard the Penelope. He says we could all be carriers and not even know it.”
Miller opened his mouth to reply, but let the words shrivel on his tongue.
“You have to go,” Gray said. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, and he wiped them away absently. “You have to get over there and bring back their research, or a sample—and you have to hurry.”
“We don’t know they have anything, Gray. If we’re carriers, like Lewis fears, going over there could kill thousands. And for what? The chance they might have something useful?”
“Miller,” Gray heaved, his exterior cracking. “Please, for James...”
“Sir, I—”
“You orchestrated and launched a full-scale frontal assault on the Astoria Compound with a god-damned nuclear bomb strapped to your back to get to me and my family out. Alex,” Gray pleaded, “I need another one of your miracles.”
“We don’t know it’s a miracle,” Miller said, trying to get Gray to see reason. “I could bring back nothing.”
Gray inhaled sharply and swallowed. “I know,” he said, his voice catching. “But you’re the only chance he’s got.”
12
SAMANTHA LAY ON a mat of pine needles in her shelter, the wind and the noises of the forest keeping her awake. Her first full day at the camp had been odd, but also comforting. It was soothing to feel the flow of a well-working commune about her, even if it was flawed. It had been so long since the farm had functioned properly, she had forgotten.
Her mind kept turning over the events of the day.
What most troubled her was the division of labor around the camp. One group of men and women had been designated as the ‘hunters,’ while another was deemed the ‘gatherers.’ As the two groups left camp to perform their duties, a third group were tasked with remaining around the outskirts of the shelters to gather firewood and tend the central fire. The fourth, smallest group prepared food and maintained the shelters. At first, this system seemed perfectly logical and functional to Samantha, but as the day progressed she began to see ways in which it could improve.
For one, it made no sense to have a group of five responsible for preparing the food and repairing the shelters; the two jobs were unrelated.
Food preparation was relatively simple in the forest. You boiled the drinking water, you butchered the meat, you cooked it over the fire, cut the portions, and then cleaned and disposed of any remnants. When all that was done, that same five people would gather supplies and repair any damage or wear and tear to the shelters in preparation for the cold night.
By the time they got to it, there was hardly enough daylight left to see the small huts, much less repair them. It seemed to Sam that three people could easily take care of food preparation for a group this size, while the other two repaired shelters in the light of day; it was much easier to spot holes in roofs with sunlight coming through them.
But she had been warned upon her arrival not to ‘lead’ the commune, so she kept her mouth shut. It proved painful to watch.
Thoughts like this, and that the hunters were over-dependent on spears—traps would be much more effective in this environment—kept her awake the first night, which was why she heard the attack coming.
Footsteps from behind her shelter crunched and swept across the forest floor like a swarm, spreading far
and wide. She heard the unmistakeable click-click-click of metal upon metal and knew someone was starting a fire.
Sitting up inside her shelter, Sam immediately thought to scream, sound an alert, to pulse a warning through her body to signal the rest of the deserters, but she hesitated—stuck between self-doubt and self-loathing.
She could cry out and raise the alarm, but it would also lead the marauders straight to her—and not just that, hadn’t she been told not to take command? Would sounding the alarm be considered an act of leadership? Who knew anymore what her people would deem unworthy?
Immediately on the heels of these thoughts she felt a surge of self-hatred, especially after she realized she had already decided to remain silent and let events unfold. If she kept quiet, she reasoned, perhaps the attackers would center their attack on the inner-circle shelters, giving her the opportunity to escape.
She paused only a moment, but it was enough. In a burst of shouting and broken glass, the attack began. Smoke filled the air first, then the twang of bows and arrows. Sam crawled out of her shelter and into pandemonium. The camp was on fire, people running back and forth in total disarray. It was hard to tell who was the enemy and who wasn’t.
A bottle of burning fluid flung past Sam’s face and smashed into the structure beside her. An arrow shot by her head and she ducked, dropping low and moving fast.
With no weapon, she had no choice but to run, zigzagging between trees and blindly searching for cover. The fire from the burning camp, and a sliver of moonlight from above the canopy, provided limited visibility. She stumbled, tripped, fell into holes, and crashed her way through the forest—marvelling at how she wasn’t spotted and shot down.
As she ran, she saw two Infected, a pair of brothers she knew from the potato-arrowroot farm: skilled archers. They were hunkered behind a boulder, taking aim at the camp and cutting down anyone trying to escape the inferno. Once their eyes met, the pair took aim directly at Samantha and let arrows fly.
She ducked behind a tree and increased her speed. An arrow shaft whizzed by her shoulder as she moved, and a second pierced the tree beside her.
“Over here!” someone shouted.
“I see her!”
Running in the dark, Samantha toppled, fell, then picked herself back up again and kept going. Her knees stung, the palms of her hands burned. She sprinted blindly, stumbling into the night. Behind her, she heard the crashing and snapping of twigs and branches as her pursuers bulldozed closer. Someone—or many someones—were in pursuit.
“Samantha!” a voice called. “Sam, stop!”
Joseph’s voice.
With a sudden burst of speed she changed direction, and ran headlong into a trench.
Smashing down in the dirt, her face driving into the ground, her eyes blurred. She tasted mud and blood, but managed to get back on her feet. Shaking out her arms, she was relieved no limbs appeared broken—but the footsteps behind her kept coming. She dragged her body out of the hole and kept running.
Cries and hollers from the camp echoed off the trees and through the forest, pushing her farther away.
“We need you back at the farms!” Joseph shouted.
From what she could tell, he was approaching from the right. At least, she thought so; her sense of direction was off. She had no idea if she was facing east or south. She couldn’t even tell if she was running toward the farm or the camp. She saw nothing but moonlit trees and crumbling earth below her feet; the glow from the burning camp was too far away to provide a bearing.
“Please, Sam! I can’t control them alone!” Joseph shouted. He sounded closer still. She was losing ground.
Switching directions again, she crawled over a fallen tree and stalked to her left. In the silent forest, every move she made rang out, so she froze in position behind a tall, wide tree. As Joseph’s voice neared, she held her breath.
“We need your strength,” Joseph continued, closer still. “We need you to guide us through the winter.”
She sensed his lie. He was reaching out to her with his feelings, pleading. His passions tickled her skin, and the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rose.
His oncoming movement had ceased. All was quiet now. Only the bugs and the nocturnal predators moved. Just as she wondered if he had gone away, a hand reached out and grabbed her by the side of her hair. A thin blade came from around the tree and touched the base of her throat.
She grabbed the hand in her hair with one fist, and the wrist holding the knife with the other. Twisting with all her might, she dropped to her knees and wrenched her body down and around, turning to face him. He looked momentarily confused, and Sam balled her fists and punched, nailing the inside of Joseph’s elbow with an audible crack, knocking him forward at the waist as he reached for his broken arm. Sam then stood and sank her knee with as much force as she could muster into Joseph’s groin.
He folded like a chair, dropped the knife and howled, falling to his knees. Snatching up the blade, Sam slashed the air in front of her in hopes of sending him jumping back and away, but—distracted by the pain—he merely squatted, his eyes wide. In the low glow of the moonlight, a dark slash bloomed across his belly.
She’d gutted him.
She felt like she’d stabbed herself, his pain consuming her. Dropping the knife, she could only stare as Joseph fell sideways onto the forest floor, his insides spilling from the wound.
13
THE PRINCESS PENELOPE cut through the waves at ten knots. It was a slow and steady pace for the cruise liner, but it would take the dinghy time and full throttle to catch up from the Tevatnoa, on the far side of the S-Y fleet.
Under the cover of night, Doyle steered the dinghy at low speed past the Dawn Rising and the tugboat, Robin’s Nest, until they were in the Penelope’s thirty-meter-wide wake, where Doyle hit the accelerator, pushing their tiny boat to catch up.
Once abeam the ship and keeping pace, Miller, du Trieux, Morland and Hsiung tugged their adhesive elastomer gloves and kneepads over their uniforms and hopped directly onto the hull of the cruise liner.
Climbing up sheer sheet metal—especially with the wind and ocean spray—took care, and time. The adhesive interwoven with the stiff material held their weight, but had to be carefully peeled away and placed with every movement, slowing their pace to a crawl.
Since the pilot’s door could only be opened from the inside, they proceeded up the cruise liner some twenty meters above sea level. Twice they had to wait for Morland to catch up, his vertigo slowing him down, but they reached the lowest deck without incident and seemingly without witness. They gathered behind a mega-lifeboat and Miller surveyed the situation on board, a cold sweat icing the back of his neck.
The noise was unreal. The Tevatnoa was generally quiet at night, the residents—for the most part—asleep in their cabins. Sure, there were midnight crews performing maintenance, small security patrols, a straggling insomniac every now and then, but for the most part, the voluntary curfew was respected.
Aboard the Penelope? Not so much.
Shouting could be heard from all areas, rivaling the roar of the ocean. What they were shouting, Miller couldn’t say. Then he recognized the undeniable pop of automatic gunfire, and the squad crouched as one and drew their weapons.
“How long has the ship been without communications?” du Trieux asked in a taut whisper. She slapped the safety off her Gilboa Viper II.
“Three days, at least,” Miller said. He’d told her that once before, but didn’t push it. He chambered a round in his .45 Gallican and re-holstered it.
“And the labs are where again?” she asked.
In the dark, Miller squinted at her. They’d covered this. “Mid-deck, near the bow.”
She nodded, as if hearing it for the first time. “D’accord.”
Morland popped his knuckles. “I’ll take point.”
“Go,” Miller said, and they were off.
The team took the corridor from the lifeboat’s dock, then climbed a ladd
er onto a promenade of sorts, running down the center of the ship. Further toward the bow, they happened upon a recreational pool and waterslide, now converted into a hydroponics pool.
Another ladder took them back down, still heading toward the laboratory, when Morland stopped cold in his tracks and threw himself against the wall, holding up his fist.
Following suit, du Trieux, Hsiung, and Miller waited for the go-ahead—which didn’t come.
“What’s the hold up?” Miller asked Hsiung.
Shrugging, she nodded to du Trieux, who shrugged back.
They waited a few minutes, until Morland inched forward as if to move, and then abruptly twisted around to face Miller. “Incoming!” he said.
“Incoming what?” Miller gaped.
Like a tsunami, Cobalt was surrounded by passengers. Dressed in civilian clothes with a variety of make-shift masks and coverings, the mob took one look at the four of them and swarmed like a pack of hyenas.
“Who are you?”
“Where did you come from?”
“Who sent you?”
“Take them to Taylor!”
“Grab their weapons!”
Unwilling to open fire on non-combatants, but also uncertain of their intentions, Miller watched mournfully as a hand reached out and removed his blessed M27 rifle from his hands.
“My name is Alex Miller and I’ve been sent from the Tevatnoa to—”
The woman holding his rifle shouted over her shoulder. “He says they’re from the Tevatnoa!”
“Do they know?” someone asked.
“Shit!” somebody else shouted.
“We’ve been sent to speak to your chief science officer?” Miller volunteered.
“Ha!” said the woman beside Miller, through the handkerchief around her face. “You, me, and every soul on this boat wants to talk with her.”
“Betsy, shut up,” a man beside her said.
The woman glowered back at him. “Sod off, Perkins.”
