by M. L. Banner
“You people have German Shepherds and you’re scared of dogs?” Flavio humphed. He stepped out into the hallway, not even waiting for an answer. His fingers squeezed tight around the smaller end of the club—more like a table leg—that Ted had given him. It wasn’t as hefty as his wrench, but since he’d lost that, it would have to do.
He turned back to see what was keeping the other two and noticed the acting security director roughly grabbing Hans’ arm and giving him a couple of tugs until the German reluctantly exited the elevator and they both pulled up alongside Flavio.
Wasano let go and now had both his hands on his rifle, slung in front of him, at the ready. “Do you smell anything?” he whispered to Hans, in between him and Flavio.
Hans grimaced and shook his head vigorously. “Only lots of alcohol.”
Flavio smelled it too. Anyone would. A friend of his family from Romania had a bootlegging operation and made their own vodka, which actually wasn’t too bad, if he drank the stuff. One day, he was invited to visit so he could pick up several bottles as gifts for him and his friends, as thanks for what he had done fighting the Russians. Flavio remembered entering a giant room where his friend bottled the stuff… it had the same gagging smell as this one.
“Let’s keep moving,” Wasano whispered. “We have a lot of decks to cover.”
“And I think we want to find them before sunset?” Flavio quipped. For the first time in memory, he was feeling a little anxious.
Wasano stared at the big man, perhaps picking up on his anxiety. “Why is that?”
“I was thinking... Vampires and other monsters; they always come out at night.”
“Come on,” Wasano huffed, taking the lead into the Crows Nest nightclub and bar.
Flavio had rarely been up here; there was no reason to. They didn’t serve food, the people were noisy and obnoxious and everyone was drunk. He didn’t drink, but even if he did, and he was a passenger, he wouldn’t come up here. A bartender-friend of his, Vicki Smith from England, often worked up here and the Anchor Bar, where they did serve food, and he would hear stories from her about some of the shenanigans that went on at the Crows Nest late at night. By the smell of this place, if the ship had not been overrun by crazy animals and crazy people, he would have thought they were walking into the aftermath of a giant party. “Wow, alcohol smell very strong here,” he whispered, mostly to himself.
“I think I smell something,” Hans said.
They halted mid-step. “Wait,” Wasano breathed. “You smell us, not crazies. So that means you smell more of us?”
“Yes, I think so, but—”
There was a loud thump behind them.
The three swung around toward the noise: Wasano sighted his rifle, finger hovering just off the trigger guard; Flavio lifted his club up into the air, ready to strike; Hans turned his shoulders the other way, as he readied himself to run away.
“Hold on, mate,” a female voice huffed. She and an officer were standing behind the large semi-circle bar, holding up full bottles of premium vodka, as if they were ready to use them as weapons for their own battle. “Flavio?” She lowered her bottle.
“You were going to hit friend with hundred euro bottle of Grey Goose?” Flavio huffed.
“Wa-wa-we thought you were one of the zombies,” stammered the officer, who lowered his own bottle-weapon.
“Or the zombie-dogs,” Vicki said with a smile. She always smiled, even when she was having a crappy day. “Hey, you didn’t see them when you came in, did you?”
“No, but we heard a lot of growling,” said Hans.
“I think they’re gone now.” Flavio then sniffed the air, making a show of it. “Vicki, they not have your perfume in gift store?”
“Ha, Flavio! You don’t like my eau de Hennessy?” She made a show of extending her head and exposing her neck, ready for nasal inspection.
“Wa-wa-we—well actually, Vicki,—came up with the idea when we heard the zombies could smell us,” said the young officer, who acted like he had had one too many cups of coffee.
Vicki shrugged her shoulders. “Tosh. When we heard on the radio about them smelling us, I thought maybe they wouldn’t be able to if we dowsed ourselves in some pongy alcohol. Guess we were jammy, because a few of them came in here and left. And then the zombie-dogs—those things creep me out—they came in and scratched at the door with all the people, and then left.”
Flavio’s eyes were drawn to some movement on the other side of the nightclub room. It was Wasano, clearing the place out further to make sure it was safe. That was the other point of their mission: clear out and secure areas of the ship, for survivors to gather.
Wasano stopped beside a bloody corpse up against a wall. He leaned over, checked the pulse and then continued toward the bathrooms.
Flavio returned his gaze to Vicki. “What people?”
“Oh, there was a large group of people that came here, after the zombies started attacking.”
“Why do you keep calling them zombies?” Hans asked, seemingly annoyed by the term.
“I’m a big Sean of the Dead fan—sure would love a cricket bat right about now. Plus, they seem kind of like zombies, only the fast kind.”
“But they’re not dead,” Hans continued his needling, definitely annoyed.
“I know, but—”
“Vicki,” Flavio interrupted, more irritated at the uselessness of this banter, “where are the people?”
“Oh yes, of course, they’re over there, in the loo.” She pointed in that direction.
Wasano picked up one of the broken bottles of liquor littering the entry into the ladies’ room and then knocked on the door. It cracked open and a mascara-streaked face peeked through the crack.
“It’s safe, miss,” Wasano said. And then to the officer behind the bar, “Second Officer Rolland, please lock the doors to this place so that no unfriendlies come in.
The young officer snapped to attention. “Ye-ye-yes, sir.” He shuffled around the edge of the bar, on the side near the entry, while fumbling with the keys in one hand, but reluctant to let go of the bottle-weapon with his other. After a few moments, he locked the doors.
Vicky leaned over the bar and whispered, “He’s all collywobbles.”
Flavio didn’t know what that meant, but it seemed to fit the nervous officer.
Wasano had knocked on the men’s room door, also announcing to its inhabitants that it was safe. Slowly, passengers and crew exited the restrooms, carefully stepping over the broken glass around the doorway.
“Sorry for that,” Vicki called out to them, and then back to Flavio she explained, “After we doused ourselves in the Hennessy, I realized the zombies could smell all the people in the bathrooms. So we heaved several bottles at the doors, hoping they would break and throw off their scents. Seemed to work, but the noise attracted them into the bar. That was my bad.”
“No apologies, Ms. Smith,” Wasano said, slinging his weapon around to his back. “You may have saved all these people’s lives.”
“Maybe you should warn others on radio about the dogs and the alcohol. And that we have another safe place now.” Flavio held out his hand and laid it on top of Vicki’s. “You did good.”
“Why, thank you.” She curtsied.
~~~
Jean Pierre turned the volume to his walkie down to its lowest setting and clipped it to his belt before whispering to TJ, “We now have a safe place up on deck 12 forward, in the Crows Nest. And two of our crew found out that alcohol covers human scents, so...” He stopped short. She could see his mind completing the sentence, so infecteds like you can’t smell us. He was obviously nervous about her transformation and his own role in their mission.
“Looking for an excuse to get a drink?” The words just fell out of TJ’s mouth. She was surprised the humor still came so easily, even in her present state. But she didn’t want this. She needed to focus so that her mind didn’t wander off onto other, more troubling subjects.
A small trem
or erupted inside her.
“Ha! You know I don’t drink,” Jean Pierre whispered. His eyes wandered again to her, and then shot back out in front of him, appearing to search side to side. No doubt scanning for the parasitics she may have missed, even though that was not his purpose for being here.
She didn’t reply. Her focus was on the task at hand, which was difficult enough. But then another humorous thought sprang to mind, like the forgotten image of an old friend. “And don’t think you can get out of being my guinea pig. We need your—what did you call it?—Yes, your manly scent…”
She was losing her train of thought again. Skip the damned humor and focus, she told herself.
Another shiver shook her.
“I know,” Jean Pierre said off hand, not really paying attention to his words. His eyes once again glued to her.
When she caught him, he abruptly blurted, “You’re really cold, aren’t you? Never mind, I can see that.” He snapped his gaze to his feet, his cheeks flaring a rosy tint.
Any other time, a comment like that would have brought her utter embarrassment and she would have reacted by covering herself. But it was only JP. He’s not even attracted to women, she reminded herself. More so, she no longer felt weighed down by the chains of vanity any longer. Part of her changes.
Yeah, she was cold. No, she was damned cold. And no wonder, all she wore at that moment was her compression shorts and a sopping-wet sleeveless T that clung to her every curve. It was her own suggestion to pour the bar tub of ice water over her head to cool herself down. Gone were her socks, shoes, and the sleeved shirt she had been wearing over everything before her dousing.
Much more concerning to her than the revealing nature of her ensemble was keeping her core temperature down. Knowing that she might have to do battle again at any moment, she was afraid of her body temperature popping up above the 99-degree-threshold Molly had informed them about. This was especially true after finding out that she had only been a couple tenths of a degree south of this mark when Al had taken her temp.
When she was doing battle in the hot engine room earlier, she must have gotten too hot because she could feel herself losing all control as she beat on the other dementeds. A part of her wondered if she completely surrendered to this beast inside of her, if that was it. Perhaps she’d no longer be human; she’d be one-hundred-percent “crazy,” like all the other dementeds. A beast carrying out marching orders by the parasites that battled for control inside of her.
“I’m very sorry, Theresa Jean, that I made that comment. It was rude.” Jean Pierre interrupted her mental meanderings.
“It’s all right. I am really cold right now, but that’s better than the alternative. Let’s get th-through this.”
They had been searching the stern of the ship, from deck 10 down, starting with the At Sea Spa. When they had entered the spa’s lower level, they had found several survivors in one of the spa’s Zen Rooms. Jean Pierre had done the honors of talking to them, not wanting TJ to frighten them with her scary-red eyes and pale complexion.
Within a few minutes, the spa was cleared, and they decided that it too was a good sanctuary for survivors on the aft end of the ship. When they found other stragglers who were exposed, they would send them there. Jean Pierre had also made this announcement on his radio, just before Wasano made his, so that Ted and Deep, on the radio, could inform those in unprotected areas both aft and forward where to go.
Still absolutely no sign of any of the dementeds.
Next, they would go into the Solarium, where they expected to find more find survivors still hunkered down, per reports from Deep and his eyes in the sky.
Just before stepping out of the Spa, TJ huffed, “Hang on.” Then she spun on bare heels and doubled back, popping into one of the Zen Rooms they had just cleared.
A moment later she exited the room, wearing reflective wrap-around sunglasses. She’d remembered seeing these, obviously left behind by a passenger. Her reddish eyes were now covered—hopefully making her less scary to survivors. Plus, she could better see under the bright lights of the ship’s hallways and the glass enclosure of the Solarium. Bright light was hard to take now.
“Okay, I’m ready to meet my public.” She flashed a smile and pushed through the glass door.
~~~
They continued running, even though they were so tired. And so hungry. Since their release from captivity, their unstoppable hunger was not only for food, but for the need to bite and tear and rip and kill.
The pack could smell all of them, and almost all at once. This just fueled their ravenous desire for more.
They dashed down one stairwell after another, following the strongest scent they’d smelled in a while.
The mini-poodle, whose amber-colored coat was now a dark red, led the way as the pack’s alpha dog.
At the deck 8 landing, all the dogs halted their progression. Some just stood and some spun around in circles. All thrust their snouts into the air at once, sniffing for the scent again.
It was the scent of their next kill.
They had it now. It was very close to them.
Max, the German Shepherd, woofed his acknowledgment that he knew where the scent was coming from. The little poodle, Monsieur, did as well, only its bark was more of a shrill screech. The two dogs bolted first, and the others followed. They were on the scent’s trail.
They raced toward the port-side hallway of deck 8, toward the bridge, where now all could smell something glorious: people-food.
39
The Attack
The attack would be quick but not painless. And by the time any of them realized what had happened, another one of their surviving group would die.
A few minutes before the attack occurred, David and Molly had hunkered over the large map table, on the port-side of the bridge, arguing their options in animated bursts. Although listening in and sometimes offering a comment, Ted was mostly busy on the radio, helping to coordinate with Deep to direct survivors who were not yet in a safe place to the two newly designated sanctuaries on the ship. They had split up the different frequencies used by the different departments of the crew and spread the word up and down the spectrum, mostly warning survivors to stay where they were until they could make sure the parasitics were incapacitated.
The discussion turned to what to do about the parasitics if they couldn’t find them right away. The three search teams had been gone for an hour now, laboriously going through each room and crevasse on the ship, and there were many to search. But there were still no reports of parasitics, as if they all disappeared. Ted listened to the back and forth, but then stood up and stated his case.
He had already advocated for immediately turning on all air conditioners and setting them to their lowest settings throughout the ship. As much as he was worried for the other survivors, his primary concern was for his wife and the three teams out there, who were putting themselves in harm’s way.
“If the temps were dropping, would the parasitics not at least be more likely to become lethargic? It may not drop their core temperatures to below ninety-nine degrees, but at least it should help. We don’t know if they’re hiding out somewhere, specifically waiting for unsuspecting survivors to come by, at which time they’d attack. Turning on all air conditioners to their lowest setting makes the most sense. But we must do it now.”
Jessica and Niki had been busily working together on the two functioning consoles, all in an attempt to regain the remainder of the helm controls. When Niki heard Ted’s interjection, she turned to him and the group, casting a stern gaze in their direction.
Niki had similar smooth Icelandic features and a striking physical presence as her counterpart, Jessica. That’s where the comparisons ended. Niki was almost guy-like. Her checks were more muscular, her biceps more pronounced, and her blond hair was accented by splashes of purple. Jessica, whose natural beauty seemed temporarily masked by lines of worry and an unwavering focus to her duties, had much more of a warm radiance. Ev
en in their turbulent situation, Jessica would occasionally flash a smile, which was more of her normal persona. Niki, on the other hand, appeared to be one-hundred-percent business, lacking all warmth, her mannerisms almost robotic.
Niki’s features twisted to almost a pucker, which she held for a moment before releasing. It was like Niki wanted to say something she knew she shouldn’t and held back at the last minute. It was obvious she wanted to unload her fury and contempt upon Ted for speaking impetuously. But she restrained herself and became robotic once again.
“The staff captain told me to follow your direction, if he was off comms like he is now. Because you’re not a member of this crew, you wouldn’t know that if I were to turn on the air conditioners, I’d have to first cycle on both engines, and with it our propellers. This is because we don’t have the control to separate the two. This means First Officer Mínervudóttir would have to plot a course so we don’t run into another island. Knowing all of this now, are you giving us an order… sir?” Niki’s scorn was unmistakable.
Ted was taken aback by both her obvious dislike to have been told to follow his orders, but also because he didn’t realize his statement, on the bridge, was akin to giving an order. “Ahh,” he turned to look at the others, who just stared back at him, offering no help for his conundrum. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Ms. Niki—sorry, I forgot your last name.”
“It’s First Officer Tesler, sir,” she barked.
“Oh, like in the great Nikola Tesla, except a…”
“A woman?” she said, her voice inflecting upward. “Yes, my parents had a sense of humor. I don’t.”
“That’s obvious,” quipped David under his breath.
Molly giggled, immediately trying to repress it, but like a sneeze in a crowded elevator, some of it came out.
Niki tossed a scowl in Molly and David’s direction before continuing. “My biggest concern about turning the air down below sixty is that it might burn out the compressors.” She quickly stepped over to the map table and impatiently waited for Ted to follow. “You see, here.” She repeatedly stabbed the table with her forefinger around deck 9, mid-ship, while Ted did all he could to repress his grunting with each of his steps to the table.
