Bones are Made to be Broken

by Anderson, Paul Michael

  Hogan cleared his throat and nudged one of Riley’s fists with a glass of water until Riley took it.

  “How long was I out?” Riley asked.

  “Roughly six hours. We’ve been at sea for four.”

  Silence fell, the kind of silence no one wants to break. Hogan watched him. Riley watched his hand gripping the glass.

  “What are you thinking?” Andrea asked.

  Riley frowned. “I’m thinking who in their right mind puts a man afraid of water on an ocean liner?”

  “Now, Riley, you’re not afraid of water,” Hogan said, his voice smooth and quick. You could tell he’d said this kind of thing before. “This is stress, exacerbating a pseudo-fear of open water. Your aquaphobia is nothing but smoke-and-mirrors. I’m trying to help you remember what’s really important in life—”

  “Shut up.” Riley swung his feet out over the side of the bed and forced himself to stand. Lightheadedness smacked him and he planted his feet. “What’s the term you’re always throwing around? ‘Obfuscate’? Excellent word. You’re obfuscating the point. Who in their right mind puts a man afraid of water on a goddamn cruise? ”

  Hogan and Andrea retreated towards the alcove.

  “You’re obviously excited,” Hogan said. He shook the pills. “Perhaps you need—”

  “Get out.”

  “Maybe later.” Hogan set the vial on the desk. “But, really—”

  “OUT!” Riley hurled the water. Hogan and Andrea ducked and the glass exploded against the far wall.

  Hogan flung open the door and dashed out, Andrea at his heels. In the hallway, a man in a white button-down shirt sprinted past, his face a pale, shocked blur.

  Riley slumped against the wall, dizziness slamming his stomach into a blender. I can do this. I can do this.

  His gaze fell upon the vial on the desk and he didn’t know what he hated more: Hogan, the ocean, or how much he wanted those pills.

  If he didn’t look outside, his nausea and vertigo were dim annoyances. He’d taken a pill, hating himself for it, but it had slowed him down, calmed him. The pill wasn’t as powerful as the shot Hogan had given him, but he thought if he took more than one at a time, it could be.

  His eyes fell upon his things scattered across the bedspread, among them an issue of Wired with him on the cover. THE FIRST STAR TO FALL? read the caption. Riley McCarrick’s Omega Systems the First Casualty of the New Global Economy?

  His fists clenched, his trim nails digging into the palms. He barely felt it.

  Riley hadn’t needed Hogan to tell him that his aquaphobia stemmed from stress, which fed on the control he lacked at work and home. It was all pop-psychobabble. What Riley needed was help controlling it.

  Hogan began mentioning a cruise after a year of everything continuing to spiral out of control. Andrea had been for it from the beginning, showing an enthusiasm he hadn’t seen in years. She’d called it a second honeymoon, a chance for renewal, and Riley had ended up feeling tag-teamed.

  (why would they do this? Andrea could be spiteful, but you pay Hogan)

  Andrea might be paying him more, and maybe not in cash. Paranoid, but she knew Hogan’s name when Riley had never told her. Hogan had rubbed her back when she barely let Riley near her anymore.

  The cover smiled at him, a photo from before Omega went public and his wife didn’t hate him. He sneered and smacked it aside. The movement brought the vertigo back, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, breathing through his mouth. He could imagine the ship heaving this way.

  “Fool,” he muttered, and made himself straighten. He spied the vial of pills—unmarked; of course, my dear Watson, what better to enhance the delusions of the victim?—on the edge of the desk, and picked it up, rolling it in his hand. He’d already had one, and more might invite another acid-trip fever dream, but what did he care? He didn’t know how long this cruise was. Andrea—ah, and the delusion grows roots, Watson—had set it up.

  He thumbed the cap off and shook two out, setting the vial down. The tiny white pills looked so innocent.

  (alice ate the cake that read EAT ME and down the rabbit hole she went)

  He dry-swallowed the pills.

  The colors popped, the sound of the ocean was in time with his pulse, and he didn’t know if he was asleep when the knocking started, or if he just became aware of it. It was too crisp and professional to be anyone but room service—had he ordered food? Had Andrea, working like Oz far and away, ordered it?

  The knocking continued, forever and ever, world without end, amen, chunky peanut-butter.

  Christ, just leave the food at the door. When he was hungry, he ate pills. Didn’t they understand that?

  He stumbled into the alcove and nearly flattened his face into the wall. Whoopsie. Who knew they offered plastic surgery cruises? Captain, I wish to flatten this nose of mine. Money is no object. Just ask Andrea, the Great and Terrible Invisible Wife of Oz.

  He slid towards the door and fell against it, pawing the handle until he could stick his head out.

  The clerk on the other side looked how Riley felt; hair a crow’s nest, dark bags bulging under red-ringed eyes that cut to the left and right, a mouth that twisted and writhed, two-parts sour grin, one-part anxiety.

  “I don’t want any food,” he said. That’s what he thought he said, anyway.

  The clerk’s mouth quivered like a sound wave. “So you haven’t eaten, sir?”

  “No,” Riley said. “You and Andrea gonna force-feed me? Me no hungry. You go away.”

  He thought he heard a scream and started to dismiss it, until he saw the clerk cringe.

  That was real, he thought. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  “Very well, sir,” the clerk with the dancing mouth said. “We’ve been having some issues with … food poisoning … and we wanted to make sure everyone had eaten.” He shook his head. “What everyone had eaten. Excuse me.” He looked like he wanted to giggle.

  It wasn’t the clerk’s eyes staring at him, but the clerk’s Bozo the Clown grin. Riley couldn’t look away from it. That scream, he wanted to say, aren’t you supposed to check on things like that?

  “Me no hungry,” Riley repeated, pulling his head back in. “You go away.” He closed the door and latched it.

  He thought the clerk might’ve yelled, “Everyone must eat, sir!” but another scream went off—or maybe went off. Riley was out of the alcove and his pulse had again fallen into rhythm with the ocean current. That’s the key to fear—become it. Like Batman. His blood was one with the ocean.

  His eyes fell upon the vial of pills. His friends. Counting them individually—even pairs!—along with his buddies vertigo and nausea, he had quite the shindig on his hands.

  “Party down,” he muttered, scooping up another two pills. He dry-swallowed them.

  His feet tripped over themselves and he fell onto the bed. The comfiest rabbit hole ever, he thought, and passed out.

  This time, knocking did wake him up, but it was not the ever-professional, ever-consistent knock of room service, but a drunken wham.

  “Riley!” Andrea’s voice, a near-scream. “Riley, open up!”

  He fell off the bed, his arms and legs freshly-stitched doll parts he could barely control. Just call me Raggedy Riley.

  “Riley, please!”

  He knee-walked into the alcove. Gone was the acid-trip fever dream, but his thoughts were cotton candy, teased apart and spinning in the churn.

  “Riley!”

  He used the handle to heave himself up, then threw himself against the door to keep his balance and looked through the peephole.

  Andrea leaned against the door, her hair a mess, mascara raccoon-circles around her shocked, red-ringed eyes. In the distorted fisheye, she looked like an alien, a nightmare E.T. The strap of her evening gown had fallen into the crook of her elbow and one breast, shockingly pale, was exposed. A bloody handprint painted the nipple. He couldn’t see her hands.

  “The Great and Terrible Invisibl
e Wife of Oz!” he cried. “How in the hell are ya?”

  She flattened her face against the peephole. “Lemme in, Riley! It’s dangerous out here!”

  “Which is why I am in here, partying down.”

  Her exhale fogged the peephole and he frowned. “You have to help me!”

  Anger, an old, forgotten part of him, flickered in the back of his head. “Like you’re helping me, right? Right, Wife of Oz?”

  She pounded at the door with her invisible hands. Did he hear metal clang? Was she a cyborg? “Help me, you bastard!”

  “Show me your hands.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Show me, you bitch!”

  She threw herself off the door and weaved on her feet like a boxer about to drop. She didn’t raise her hands, but didn’t need to.

  She held a carving knife, bloody and dripping. “Let me in!” she cried. “People are attacking out here!”

  Riley, frowning, pushed himself away. “Should’ve picked a better cruise. Go away.”

  Andrea pounded and kicked at the door. “You bastard! Let me in! LEMME IN RIGHT NOW!”

  “Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin.”

  He fell against the wall, but didn’t feel nearly stoned enough. It was still night, the lights were on, but the colors were dull, washed with gray. Vertigo and nausea had flown the coop. Where were his friends?

  He went to his knees next to the desk, knocking the open vial over and spilling pills across the top.

  Andrea shrieked and pounded. “LEMME IN! I’LL KILL YOU, RILEY! LEMME IN LEMME IN LEMME IN!”

  Riley scooped a handful into his mouth and swallowed. What a dull party, really. For good measure, he scooped and swallowed another handful.

  “HEARTLESS BASTARD! UNFEELING PRICK!”

  Darkness clouded his vision. I feel nothing, he agreed and fell onto his face.

  A scream forced him awake and what felt like spun glass in all his joints forced him to scream back.

  He clawed his way to the bed and thrashed himself slowly into a sitting position. He felt like he’d fought World War II, both theaters, single-handedly. His skull pulsed, heavy whams against his forehead and ears. The crotch of his jeans was bunched and cool against his skin. He’d pissed himself at some point.

  His eyeline met the surface of the desk, where he saw the empty vial and three lonely pills.

  He massaged his forehead. “Did I fuckin’ take all of that? How am I not dead?” He looked underneath the desk and saw a pile of crusty puke. Well, that explained that.

  How long had he been out? The gap in the drapes, cold grey daylight fought for space against the nightstand lamps. It could’ve been hours. Or days.

  Why was he up now, then?

  Another scream erupted outside, distant, and he remembered.

  He used the desk to pull himself to his feet and shambled into the alcove, a hand on the wall for balance. He collapsed against the door with a grunt and looked through the peephole.

  The body of an elderly man lay in a pool of blood against the opposite wall of the hallway.

  Riley jerked away from the door, the migraine shoved forcefully onto the backburner. “Christ!”

  He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand and looked again.

  Same image.

  He was shivering as he opened the door, but couldn’t stop.

  The old man looked as if he’d once had a face, but what was left resembled something shoved into a Mixmaster. This guy hadn’t screamed recently. The blood he lay in had dried.

  (how can you be cold this is a body for god’s sake!)

  He looked down the hall. Doors marched away to his left and right, dwindling to points on the horizon. Blood smeared the walls, dried to brown smears.

  He was the only living thing in sight. The only sound was his leaden heart and shallow breath.

  “Jesus,” he muttered.

  He stepped back inside, closed the door, and went to the room phone. According to the directory, just picking up the phone connected it to the front desk.

  He got nothing but dead air. He hit zero for the operator and the line rang and rang. He dropped the phone back into the cradle and didn’t bother fixing it when it landed askew.

  His mind wanted to drift to the corpse, and he forced it to stop. He had to think.

  Where had everyone gone? Who was screaming and why hadn’t anyone done something about the old man?

  (there’s no one to do something)

  He remembered the nightmare clerk, saying people were suffering from food poisoning and that he should eat.

  He remembered Andrea, blood-streaked and raving, pounding on the door. Dream or real? Live or Memorex?

  The body outside isn’t Memorex, he thought.

  (what if everyone’s gone? what if they’re all dead? who’s driving the ship?)

  “Bullshit,” he muttered.

  (you have to find someone)

  His shivering worsened. How could he leave this for … that? He hugged himself, but the shivering didn’t lessen.

  (if there’s no one here who’s controlling the ship?)

  The potential answer—no one—made him shiver harder.

  No, he couldn’t stay, if only to find out what was happening.

  He changed into clean clothes, shutting his mind down, working on automatic. He forced himself back into the hall, checking the number on the door as he left. 9.040, the brass plate read. He hadn’t even known what his room number had been.

  He followed a sign which stated he was on DECK 9 and that elevators were this way. The silence reminded him of libraries. The carpet so thick, his footfalls were silent. Nothing but the roar of his own blood in his temples. He came to an open door two rooms down—9.036—and made himself stop.

  “Hello?” He flicked the switchplate on the left. Peeking out from around the corner were feet. He entered, recognizing the shoes, and thought of Andrea again.

  He looked around and the air left him. “Jesus.”

  Andrea lay sprawled on the floor between the bed and the bathroom, the skirt of her evening gown hiked up to reveal cotton panties. Her head, smeared with blood, was cocked up and away.

  Hogan’s open mouth lay on her torn throat. Riley could see purple-gray intestine underneath his shirtless belly. The bloody carving knife lay nearby. The coppery stink of spilled blood and dried shit clogged his nose.

  (people are attacking out here)

  His eyes falling on the knife to avoid the view of the mutual murder, he thought, couldn’t help thinking, If I’d opened the door …

  He bolted and leaned against the hallway wall, closing his eyes. His stomach threatened, threatened … but didn’t have anything to throw up. He coughed, his spit thick and disgusting, and slumped against the wall.

  I don’t think Andrea expected this, he thought and clapped his hands to his mouth to stifle the scream.

  (breathe calm down you can do this)

  He didn’t believe that—how much could he do if he’d almost overdosed like an idiot on pills?—but it calmed the scream that wanted to jump from his mouth. Who knew who might hear?

  He looked longingly down the hall, back towards his room, but it didn’t even have the comfort of familiarity for him.

  The rabbit hole spit me back out, he thought.

  He came across the body of a boy of nine sprawled in an open doorway further down. His eyes had been gouged out, leaving bloody sockets crying blood. Riley glanced behind him, sure that the eye-gouger was creeping forward with bloody fingers, but he had the hallway to himself. His pulse was its own raging ocean current.

  Suites named after English Queens met him at the end. Just before these was an archway opening to the stairway and lifts. Inside, another archway led to the opposite hallway, but he had no interest in seeing that carnage. He considered taking a lift, but God knew what he might find in them.

  The ship was silent. He didn’t even hear the piped-in Muzak that a lot of hotels played in the hallway. It was just
his breathing, his heartbeat. His sign of life. He wondered how many rooms there were, how many people in them, all of them as silent as the old man and the little boy. His wife. Dr. Hogan.

  Riley turned towards the expansive, carpeted stairs. He kept his eyes forward as he descended, his shoulder brushing the far wall.

  The body of a young, blonde clerk lay sprawled on the landing of Deck 8, his chest-cavity opened up like a pea-pod, his insides bulging against the ragged edges, and Riley stopped on the last few stairs. Unlike the old man, the clerk’s blood hadn’t dried into the carpet. If Riley touched him, his body would not be cold.

  He glanced behind him. There was nothing up there.

  He came down slowly, eyes cutting to the archways. A fire-axe lay against the bottom step, the blade wetly smeared with pieces of the clerk.

  The spit in his mouth felt viscous and snotty. He swallowed, but it didn’t help. He needed a weapon, but, Jesus, what if the handle was still warm from whoever had killed the clerk?

  (stop the weak-sister routine and take it)

  He crouched down, his fingertips touching wood, and his hand curled around the axe. Something wet fell off and landed with a squish.

  He closed his eyes. His stomach would never forgive him.

  A scream erupted, high and yodeling from the left hallway, then cut off abruptly. A cackling laugh followed it. His testicles shrunk into tight little balls.

  Having a weapon didn’t mean he wanted to use it. He went down the next flight two at a time, not looking back.

  He didn’t bother with the rest of the rooming floors. Although he saw no more bodies, he heard running footsteps and jerky panting. He didn’t want to meet their owners. He thought of all those bodies and his mind wanted to shut down. How? How?

  On Deck 3, someone’s bellowing roar enveloped him and the stairwell ended with a hallway curving right. He inched forward, the sound boxing his ears, wrapped him in an audio cocoon. His skin tightened with gooseflesh. He felt like every idiot in every horror movie who goes deeper into the haunted house but what other choice did he have?