by A. R. Daun
Richard looked apologetic, unsure of himself.
“That's not a judgment I am allowed to make, I'm sorry.” He finally said. “All I know is that I have to meet each of you in turn. What happens next is beyond my control, or at least beyond my sight.”
He tilted his head, as if listening to something only he could hear.
“I have to go, Lady Vega.”
Diwata looked at Pablo and the old man in turn, then made a decision.
“We're going with you,” she said with some finality.
Richard nodded, then without another word walked out of the room, with Diwata and the two other passengers trailing behind him.
Empty at last, the lights in the library flickered, and the piles of gray dust that was all that remained of the creatures stirred, as if from some slight breeze.
CHAPTER 21
Year 1 A.R.
Extract from the journals of Ammara Lewis
We have barricaded ourselves in an empty warehouse. I think we're still somewhere in Bayonne, but it's hard to tell. There is no one around; we saw no other people away from the ship. Just the darkness, and only fleetingly, those things that rushed out of the shadows to snatch at us.
I hear them out there. They're scuttling around the building, even scratching at the walls, their taloned feet crunching on gravel. They circle warily, knowing we're inside, smelling us perhaps. They took a third of the surviving passengers and crew during our blind rush away from the ship, those who chose to run off in their own separate groups, and we're down to maybe a few hundred - a few hundred out of the 8000 souls that sailed off on the Odyssey just two days ago.
There's no light in here, but I switch on the little penlight that I fortunately remembered to bring with me on the cruise. It was a little gift given to me by Steve back when we were first dating, and it has strips of solar film running down the sides. I always thought it was one of the most thoughtful gifts ever given to me. Flowers are nice, and chocolates may be sweet, but give me a man who knows the value of practical presents. I never forgot after every use to lay it flat on our apartment window sill to soak up the sunlight, and I had been taking the time to charge it during the trip as well.
By its light I sense the furtive movements of people as they huddle together in small groups. I hear sobbing as well, and soft whispers as some comfort their loved ones. A few others have brought flashlights with them, and the large room is crisscrossed with faint intersecting beams of yellow light that flicker from wall to wall, sometimes illuminating our tired despairing faces, but most times just catching quick glimpses of crouched bodies, and disembodied arms and legs sprawled and resting on the cold hard floor.
Hisses of disapproval over the use of the lights echoes in the vast cavernous warehouse, but they are few and far between. Fear of the dark and the night carnivores that hide in it is deeply entrenched in the primate mentality, and it is reassuring to many in here to see some lessening of the darkness, but this is balanced by the worrisome thought that they might also attract these new and unknown predators.
What are they? Where did they come from? Where did all the people go? These seem like such futile questions in the midst of the harsh reality. But as I sit here in the dark, stabbing thoughts into this journal by the illumination of my feeble penlight, the questions go sloshing round and round in the shadowed corridors of my mind. Many of the people here are probably thinking the same thing, and obsessing over the same thoughts; wondering how long this night would last, and praying that the walls would hold until then.
But I know better. You see, it's not the rickety doors that hold those things at bay, nor the thin walls that provide only the barest protection against the dangers outside. It's me. And the steward Diwata. And even that horrid man Marco. Somehow, just like he said, the monsters out there avoid us. Perhaps they cannot even come too close to us without endangering themselves.
The Raggedy Man, my poor Richard, was right after all.
CHAPTER 22
Day 4 (6:45 pm EST)
Cape Liberty Cruise Port, Bayonne , NJ
The world dies over and over again, but the skeleton always gets up and walks.
- Henry Miller
Marco was terrified.
This was an entirely new sensation for him, and he did not like the feeling. He had always been the biggest fish in the bowl, and when he was not he usually had the requisite brain power to avoid direct confrontations with those in authority. This was the case even back in elementary school, when he had first realized fear was the biggest motivator in garnering the respect of his fellow classmates, and that aggression was the best preemptive solution for troublesome kids who dared to stand up to him or report him to the teachers.
This philosophy had carried him in good stead all through college and into the workplace as well. There were no more playground tussles with obstinate kids who refused to bow down to his hidden fiefdom of course, but he found that such direct actions had been replaced with more subtle, though just as effective, means of intimidation. The big boy had grown up to be an enormous man, and with his low booming voice and bellicose disposition, Marco seldom had any trouble getting people to see things his way.
Except for the current situation of course. He had heard rumors of trouble brewing during the trip, and the top staff had been briefed on the fact that they were sailing back to their home port because of some technical difficulties, but the extent of the problem was not clear until the Captain's announcement.
Marco had been shocked. He was not an overly imaginative man, but the concept of a world that had simply disappeared was something that was beyond his ability to fully grasp at first. Surely, there must have been a logical explanation for the fact that all communication with the outside world had ceased.
He felt the need for some cool air to clear his head. He had been watching the docking from one of the lower decks when the attack from the docks had commenced, and he had watched with mouth agape as the flood of creatures overwhelmed the security force then poured into the Odyssey.
He looked around wildly. The Odyssey was a civilian ship with minimal protection. It was laughable to think the few security men available would be able to fend off what he had just seen. But he had been too far from his stateroom, and he highly doubted the flimsy door there would prevent the incursion of those terrifying things anyway.
Instead he had eyed the lifeboats that were carried on specialized davits along the side of the ship like ripe yellow seed pods. The Coral Odyssey had 20 of the catamaran-hulled vessels, each of which could carry almost 400 passengers, more than double the number of people that can safely fit in normal lifeboats. At more than 16 meters in length and massing in at 17 tons, they were perhaps large enough to hide one man in the maze of longitudinal benches that cut through the empty spaces of each of the fiberglass monstrosities.
Marco had hurried into the nearest lifeboat through one of four color-coded doors that faced the ship. The entryway led into the main cabin deck, and Marco had quickly decided to sequester himself into the boat's lone toilet, where he had wedged his immense bulk as far from the door as possible.
He had been hiding there and listening with growing terror at the chaos that had engulfed the Odyssey when he suddenly heard a faint clickety-clack sound coming from outside. It came in abrupt fits and starts, fading for a awhile, then rising again as if coming directly towards him. He closed his eyes, willing the sound to disappear for good.
But instead it was joined by a second interloper. He could tell there were two of them because one moved up to the upper seating level of the lifeboat while the other continued its random search below. Marco could almost picture them sniffing the air, their heightened senses aware of nearby prey, but unable to pinpoint its exact location. He knew it would only be a matter of time before they discovered him crouching in the locked toilet, like some hapless rabbit trapped in a snare and waiting for the hunter's final coming.
The door blew apart. Through the rain of plastic pieces and wood
shrapnel he could barely make out the outline of something tall and greyhound lean bending over to snake through the narrow toilet opening. It was a shocking dark red in color, and curved spines protruded from the interstices of the ropey muscles that wrapped around its upper body, the tubular strands pulsating grotesquely in time to some inner periodicity.
Marco screamed. The creature had a short trunk-like protrusion on the front of its head that ended in a flat disc-like surface, and this appendage stretched forward towards him. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in many decades said a short prayer to whatever Gods lurked high above to welcome his incoming immortal soul.
Ten seconds passed. Then another.
Marco slowly and carefully opened his eyes. The creature's snout was mere inches from his face, and he could see thick bristle-like hairs rising from a profusion of wart-like growths and other excrescences on its veined surface. He stared as its flat tip quested closer, then irised open to reveal clusters of even white shark teeth.
He raised his hand to ward it off.
The creature bit him. The creature bit him. The motherfucking thing BIT HIM!
He screamed, and not so much because of the pain, which was extreme, a bright flash of light accompanied by a roaring blast that quickly rose to a crescendo of pain. He screamed because of the dismayed surprise he felt that this could be happening to him. He had always been the aggressor, the one who inspired terror in others and who almost always got his way. To feel so helpless in the face of this aggression was beyond his ability to imagine.
“You...you...” He stammered angrily, an upwelling of indignation at this attack on his person momentarily eclipsing his terror. “You bit me you shit!”
He wrenched his arm free from the thing. Bright droplets of blood dripped down his arm and pooled below his elbow before splattering on the clean deck as he pulled the arm back, then swung wildly at the creature. In the back of his head he realized the wound was quite shallow, more a graze than anything else, and he wondered at this unexpected fortune.
His fist connected solidly with the creature's bulbous proboscis, and it jumped back, probably more in surprise than actual pain. Marco gazed at the thing's face and saw specks of his own blood, and this infuriated him even more. He took a step toward it, balling his fist in readiness for another go at the attacker.
That's when he first saw it. The creature's skin was sizzling where the tiny specks of his blood had touched it. It was like the fizz on a can of soda that had been opened while too warm. Marco could almost hear a faint hiss as the skin on the thing's face erupted in a bubbly froth.
“Ha! That'll teach you to bite me!” He yelled at the thing, and took one more step towards it.
Marco's peripheral vision caught movement behind him. The second creature had materialized as if by magic, and he turned to face it, but oh so slowly, and he knew he was too late. In his anger to confront the first attacker he had stupidly exposed his rear. In the next few milliseconds he knew he would feel its teeth on his neck, or cracking through his thick skull.
A sudden blast of warm air blew behind him. He whirled, just in time to see the second attacker crumple to the ground, its body twitching with suppressed energy. Behind it and striding towards him were four people, and Marco stared as he recognized the stowaway, though this version had somehow shucked off his old age like some simple worn out clothing.
The stowaway gave a slight nod in greeting to Marco, then pointed behind him.
“To your back Lord Marco,” the man said calmly. Marco whirled back again. He was starting to feel like some spinning top, one of those toys he used to play with when he was little.
The creature was swinging at him with one taloned hand.
Marco yelped and stepped back, but one clawed finger traced a fine arc on his shirt. The shirt parted slightly, revealing pasty white flesh. Then he was going down butt first as his legs tripped over themselves. He raised both hands this time in one final desperate effort to protect his face.
Whooosh. Another blast of wind and suddenly the air was filled with sparkling dust particles. Marco sneezed. The creature's head was gone. Vaporized. Blown to smithereens. Vanished into thin air, so to speak. Its body stood for a second as if wondering what to do next, the the legs folded and it thumped to the ground with a faint sigh. A thick black liquid oozed out of the terrible wound and pooled around the corpse. He couldn't believe it. What sort of insane nightmare was this?
The stowaway leaned forward and gripped his hand. He hoisted Marco's 275 pounds up with fluid ease, then refused to let go when Marco tried to disengage from the calloused iron grip. The three others also came up from behind, their eyes wide and disbelieving. The boy and old man were unfamiliar to him, but Marco recognized the woman, since most attractive women in the cruise staff had been subject to his careful appraisal at one time or another. She was one of the cleaning staff, some Filipina nobody who would not have rated a second glance but for her curvaceous figure and a full body of long raven hair that topped a strikingly arresting face.
“What the hell were those?” Marco wheezed. He was slightly out of breath from his exertions. The stowaway was still gripping his right hand tightly, and Marco decided he would wrench it away from the man in a moment. Gratitude only went so far.
“They're called the Risen,” the stowaway said. “We believe them to be shock troops for the first wave. These are basic types, relatively unevolved, but very fast and mean. Unthinking.”
He nodded, thinking to himself.
“Hungry. It's the hunger that drives them. But it's also the hunger that is the greatest weakness of these types. Their Achilles Heel. They depopulate the prey population so fast that once it's gone, to the last individual, they lose their reason for being. They dissolve into the surroundings until the scent of new human prey cause their self-assembly.”
Marco had finally gotten his breath back. He gripped the man's shoulder with a strength that should have brought the latter to his knees, but which did not seem to faze him at all. His shoulders felt they were hewn from stone.
“But what are they?” Marco demanded. “Where did they come from?”
The man smiled back at him.
“Why, they are you of course,” he said, and suddenly a flash of light overwhelmed Marco's senses and his grip on the stowaway faltered. He reeled backwards, but was saved at the last moment by the other man, who gripped his shoulder in turn and steadied him. It was several long seconds before Marco felt stable enough to stand on his own.
“Welcome, Lord Marco,” The man, who Marco now knew as Richard finally said. “We have much to do in the next few moments. Will you come with us?”
Instead of answering, Marco cocked his head, and with his peripheral vision he noticed that the woman had a quizzical look on her face, though the boy and old man were still clueless, their faces filled with anxiety but nothing approaching the fear and terror that they should be feeling at this time.
He snorted in disgust. They were sheep. They were prey. They were red meat for the things that were coming at them from the ship. He had no desire to be their protector, their bulwark against the rising storm. He contemplated leaving them all and going off on his own. Now that he had the power. Now that he had an idea of what was going on. Now that the shackles of proper civilization had finally been lifted.
But then something stopped him. He was not in any way a social man. Loneliness had never been something which troubled him, nor did the prospect of spending time by himself pose any problems. But he was at heart a man who thrived on power, and in his case the defining feature of such power was his control over other people. What is a king without his subjects? How sad the celebrity who has lost all his admirers and fans? How pathetic the bully who does not have underlings to cringe and run to do his bidding?
Marco made up his mind. He would play along with this charade for now. The stowaway intrigued him for one thing. This man who seemed to be aging backwards and came from who knows where might be a
problem later, but for now he seemed to know the most about this current situation. And he addressed Marco in a way that was almost reverential; face it, he liked being called a “Lord”, no matter that it came from some freak who came from nowhere. Marco mused that he could get used to people calling him that.
The young boy screamed. Several elongated and fast moving creatures hurtled into the lifeboat. Marco and the woman, and no doubt the strange stowaway, had been expecting them and they turned to face the incoming threat.
There was another whoosh and a blast of wind claimed two of the monstrosities. The rest came to a sudden stop, as if confused. They milled about, looking at the group, and Marco stepped forward and kicked at the nearest one, landing a solid blow to the thing's lower leg.
The thing fell to its knees as its leg snapped in two. It raised its two taloned arms towards its tormentor, perhaps asking why he had done such a foul deed. Marco gaped. It had been a satisfyingly strong blow, but nowhere near enough to cause such damage to the diamond hard bodies of the attackers.
But then he saw the stain spreading on the creature's stricken leg. Pale sickly-looking gray waves that radiated out from the broken end and slowly moved up the creature's body, as flakes of gray pattered down like ashes from some radioactive storm, and he realized what was happening. His touch, perhaps his very presence, had somehow transmitted something to the thing....something which rapidly gnawed and devoured the otherwise invulnerable flesh of the monster.
Meanwhile the stowaway had quickly disposed of the remaining creatures, their bodies collapsing in the awkward poses of death as the man flicked his hands almost languidly at them. Marco felt a twinge of jealousy at the ease with which the man wielded his power, but he consoled himself with the fact that he was of course a neophyte at this, and perhaps with time he would grow and even surpass this Richard's capabilities.
But that was in some future and distant day. Marco looked with disgust at the creature he had struck. It had crumpled to the ground, and both of its legs had been reduced to a soft looking mushy mass, but it was still feebly trying to raise its body off the ground using its muscular arms.
