by Kyla Stone
Amelia crouched over the body of a man—Kane. He moaned in pain, clutching at his face. She stabbed him with something as she screamed in outraged terror. He shoved her off with a flailing arm, but she hurled herself at him, stabbing him again and again in the neck, chest, and shoulders.
Silas ran to her. He grabbed her under her arms and lifted her off Kane.
She howled, turning and lunging at Silas, her weapon clutched in her hand. Silas caught hold of her wrist before she could stab him, too. “Amelia! Stop! It's me! It's me!”
Her scream died in her throat. She blinked, recognition dawning in her face. She sagged against him. They collapsed to their knees, Silas drawing her close, murmuring something into her hair.
Micah’s own heart throbbed in his throat, but he dared not intrude. Amelia needed Silas, now. Micah was just glad that she was alive. “Music off.” The menacing tones of the violin faded away.
Silas pulled his sister back at arm's length to examine her. Her dress was torn in several places and ripped off her shoulder. Deep bruises shaped like handprints marred her neck. Blood bubbled from a shallow cut at the base of her throat. A purplish bruise formed over her right eye, her teeth smeared bright red.
To Micah's surprise, Silas grinned at her. “What a mess you are, princess.”
She half-laughed, half-choked. Her face contorted, like she was about to dissolve into tears. But she didn't. Her mouth flattened, her eyes going hard. “He was going to kill me.”
“I know.”
“I stopped him.”
“You did.”
She pulled away from him and stood, swaying on her feet. Silas jumped up and steadied her. “Come on. Let's go.”
She shoved her hair out of her face. “He needs to die.”
They both looked at Kane, bloodied and unconscious. Micah kicked at the man's arm, knocking it away from his face. Blood and clear goopy liquid oozed out of his right eye.
“You did that, sister?” Silas said in awe.
“I did.” Her voice grew stronger. She lifted her chin and stared at her brother. “I'm going to kill him.”
“No, you're not.”
“Yes. I am.”
She tried to pull away, but Silas gripped her upper arm. “You've been through enough. Let me do this.”
They stared at each other for a long, silent minute, so much passing between them that Micah felt like an intruder. He glanced away, his gaze landing on Kane. “Silas!”
Kane writhed on the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head, white foam bubbling out of his mouth. After a moment, he went still, his body twisted grotesquely.
Amelia stared at the body, her face white. “Is he dead?”
Silas checked, pressing his fingers against Kane’s neck. He nodded.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Good.”
Acid roiled in Micah’s stomach, but he fought it back. He had no idea what was in the syringe to kill a person like that, but it didn’t matter now. Amelia had done what she needed to do. Now Micah needed to be strong, to be brave. They weren't safe yet. “It’s time to go.”
“Micah, help Amelia. I’ve got the gun.”
She allowed Micah to put his arm around her shoulders. He tried to be as gentle as possible, but she still winced. The ship lurched, and they staggered. Micah steadied her. “I’m sorry.”
She looked at him for the first time, a fragile smile tugging at her lips. “Last time we met, didn't I say that to you?”
He pressed her black purse-thing into her trembling hands. “About that. I never should have left you. I should've—”
She shook her head. “It's done and forgotten.”
Deep shame filled him, as if he alone were responsible for his brother's actions, for all the terrible things that had happened, for what Kane did to Amelia, for all the dead mothers and fathers and children. Because in a way, he was.
He let his love blind him. He’d believed in the goodness in people, in his brother. And now, surrounded by all this death and darkness, he didn’t know what he believed anymore.
He led Amelia out of the captain's quarters and into the hallway. “I should've done things differently. If only I—”
“Micah.” Her voice softened. “I trusted him, too.”
He nodded grimly, but the shame didn’t dissipate. It never would.
Before they reached the stairwell, another massive explosion rocked the ship.
48
Willow
Willow stepped in front of her brother, shielding him with her body. She lifted the rifle with both hands, gripping the barrel and raising it like a club. “Run!”
A bang exploded in her ears. She screamed.
The terrorist stumbled, his face contorting in a stunned grimace. His gun wavered as he stared down at the red spreading across his chest.
He staggered, then fell to the floor.
A moment later, a guy dressed in black combat gear stepped out from around the corner. He had a long, wolfish face and a sour expression. He smirked, cradling an automatic rifle in his arms. “You do know that’s not how you’re supposed to use a gun, right?”
Her legs turned to water, and she crumpled to her knees. Benjie raced back to her, bursting into tears. She dropped the gun and wrapped him in a fierce hug, both their bodies trembling.
She looked up at the guy. “Thanks for the tip. And, you know, saving us.”
He looked down at the body, nudging the guy’s arm. “I needed the target practice.” His voice was light, but his face paled, his lips a thin, bloodless line.
Benjie coughed, wheezing for air as she stroked his hair. “Here, get your inhaler from your backpack. It's okay, everything's okay.”
“Technically, it's not.” He reached down and grabbed the dead terrorist's rifle.
Two other people limped around the corner behind him, one in the standard dark-clothed terrorist garb. She leapt to her feet, pushing her brother behind her.
The first guy rolled his eyes. “Relax. I’m Silas Black, by the way. Meet my sister, Amelia, and I forgot this one’s name.”
“I'm Micah,” the second guy said. Willow recognized him from the Oasis dining room. She’d noticed his boyish handsomeness in his tux and white gloves. Now, he was covered in smudges of dirt and blood, his expression strained.
Micah’s arm looped around Amelia Black's shoulder, holding her up. Her face was bruised and bloodied, her hair a tangled mess around her face.
“Is she okay?” Willow asked.
“None of us are okay,” Silas said.
“I'll be fine.” Amelia’s voice was raw, but she lifted her head and met Willow's gaze.
“We need to go, guys,” Micah said. “We’re headed for the lifeboats. Come on.”
“Just a second.” Willow called for the rest of the kids and the caregivers to come down the stairs. Several small, terrified faces peered around the corner of the stairwell.
Silas scowled. “You've got to be joking. There's no way in hell we're babysitting a bunch of snotty-faced rug rats on a sinking death-ship. Just, no.”
“We can't abandon little kids,” Micah said. “We'll figure it out.”
“They'll slow us down and make too much noise. They'll get us all killed. There are still psychopaths all over this ship.” He kicked at the dead man's body at his feet. “Enter exhibit A.”
“You're the psychopath!” How could someone think that way? He was just another rich asshat, a pompous elitist with no compassion, no conscience.
Silas's face darkened. He took a menacing step toward her. “You forget just who knows how to use a gun here.”
“We’re taking them with us,” Micah said. “No discussion.”
“Fine.” Silas sneered. “We’ll leave you with the brats. Have fun.”
“Silas.” Amelia's voice was hoarse. Her brother stopped. A look passed between them. “We're going. All of us.”
The PA system cackled. “This is CSO Schneider. We are abandoning ship. I repeat, abandon sh
ip. Please follow standard evacuation protocols—”
Another explosion trembled the floors, the walls, the ceiling. A couple of the kids stumbled and fell. Willow leaned against the elevator for support. The floor seemed to slide beneath her feet. Not rolling. Tilting.
“I smell smoke,” Benjie said in a quavering voice.
He was right. They all smelled it, a stench like burning rubber, something foul and dangerous.
Fifty yards down the Royal Promenade on the right, the heavy fire-resistant door that led to the next section hadn’t closed properly. Fire burst into the promenade, black smoke billowing toward them. Flames licked the walls, the floor, the ceiling. “Time to go!”
A loud groaning, scraping sound filled the air. The floor tilted again. The ship listed. Willow grabbed Benjie’s hand. “Run!”
The group half-ran, half-staggered left along the Royal Promenade, toward the aft stairwell. Shards of glass and chunks of wall and ceiling littered the floor. Bullet holes punctured the gold mermaids in the fountain.
Behind the fountain, the grand staircase had fractured, the glass spidered with jagged cracks. Several stairs were missing, the others shattered.
Smoke clouded the air in a murky, deepening haze. The stench was stronger now, stinging Willow’s nostrils, gagging her throat. She stepped over a splintered, gilt-framed painting, what was once an authentic Jackson Pollock.
They edged around an enormous fallen chandelier, a motionless body trapped beneath the broken crystals. The group reached the closed fire-resistant door separating them and the aft stairwell. Micah pushed the green button. A red light over the door flashed, and the alarm blared.
Willow turned to Micah. “Didn’t the Grand Voyager holo ads promise to make all my wishes come true?”
Micah snorted. “We might have oversold ourselves a bit.”
“So did the Titanic,” Amelia said.
Willow grabbed Benjie with her free hand and pushed him through the opening. “Dream vacation, my ass. Let’s get the hell off this ship.”
By the time Willow and the others made it to Deck Four, dozens of panicking passengers crowded the deck, impatiently waiting to board the lifeboats.
Several officers and a few men in plainclothes flanked either side, weapons up and ready in case of another attack. Crew members prepared the lifeboats and handed out life preservers.
The slick deck pitched beneath her feet, tilting downward. The rain battered her head. It should have been dark without lights, but tongues of fire burned through the outer decks on the floors above them, casting everything in an eerie orange glow.
Flitting, shouting shadows surrounded them. Willow gripped Benjie's hand tighter and stumbled through the surging crowd, searching every face she passed for her mom.
But she wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere.
Instead, Willow bumped into Celeste. The girl just stood there, her wet hair curtaining her face, her eyes shiny with terror.
“Get in line for a lifeboat!” Willow shook Celeste's shoulders. Celeste nodded dully.
“They won't let us through!” Nadira said.
Micah helped them shove a path through the panicked, jostling crowd to the closest lifeboat.
“Children first,” the crew member manning the boat ordered, stopping a blonde, middle-aged woman from climbing aboard.
“Do you know who I am?” she sputtered. Her mascara dripped down her cheeks, her hair plastered to her skull. “I’m Meredith Jackso—”
“No one cares.” Willow pushed the woman aside and lifted Benjie onto the boat.
The ship shifted with a great groan, tilting at a steeper angle. Benjie's legs slipped into the gap between the lifeboat and the side of the ship. He jerked out of her grasp. She grabbed at his arms, but her fingers couldn't grip his slick skin.
“Benjie!”
From inside the lifeboat, someone lunged forward, grabbed Benjie by his Star Wars backpack, and hauled him up and over the lip of the hatch. He fell in a heap on the floor of the boat.
A familiar face peered out at her.
“Finn!”
He grinned crookedly. “Come on in.”
“Hurry up!” someone shouted.
“Let us on!” Bodies jostled her. Someone elbowed her hard in her spine. Hands clawed and shoved at her back.
Then Micah was there, standing between her and the crowd. “Go!”
She nearly slipped as she and Nadira helped the rest of the children. Finn leaned out of the hatch and grabbed each kid, lifting them to safety.
“Climb in!” Micah pushed Nadira into the boat and turned to Willow.
“But my mom—!” Could Willow escape not knowing if her mom was dead or alive? Her mom could still be on the ship. What if she was trapped somewhere and needed help? What if—
Gunshots blasted from somewhere above them. Everyone screamed. The crowd throbbed, slipping and skidding across the slanting deck. Several people knocked against the railing, lost their balance, and fell, plunging into the ocean below.
“There’s no time!” Micah shoved her. “Go!”
Maybe her mom had made it onto one of the other lifeboats . . . but her hope dwindled with every explosion that rent the sky.
Benjie. She needed to stay with Benjie. It's what her mom would want. She took a deep breath and climbed into the boat. When it was full, Micah released the gripes and securing wires. He guided two crew members onto the lifeboat and started to close the hatch.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I'll take the next one.” The hatch slid shut. The shouting and the roaring wind dimmed. Everyone huddled together on the benches, soaking, trembling, terrified. Benjie and one of the little girls buried themselves against her sides.
The boat swayed as it lowered toward the sea. It released, dropping the last few feet to the water. A wave swelled beneath them, and the boat bucked as the crew started the engine and motored away from the sinking Grand Voyager.
“Mom!” Willow twisted around, searching the passengers’ strained faces. “Has anyone seen Marisol Bahaghari?”
But no one answered. Her mom wasn’t here. Dread settled in her stomach, hard as stone.
A few benches over, someone vomited. The sour stench filled her nostrils and she clenched her lips, willing herself to hold it together. She needed to be strong for Benjie.
Another crew member bustled around, handing out Dramamine and bottled water. When the lady next to her tried to wave it away, the girl insisted. “It's to keep you from becoming dangerously dehydrated.”
“That and the smell,” Finn said.
Willow tried to smile, but she couldn’t. Her face felt like a mask, skin stretched over bone. After they'd gotten far enough from the ship, she dared look back.
The Grand Voyager looked like a ghost ship. The once magnificent white hull listed to the side, alight with the hungry, flickering glow of the flames chewing through the middle decks. Black smoke billowed up into the sky like the breath of a great dragon.
But the water would swallow the dragon. The ocean didn’t care how mighty and splendid the Grand Voyager was, how wealthy and powerful its passengers. The ship would go down, every inch of it, devoured by the cold, indifferent sea.
Willow tore her gaze from the sinking ship. A second lifeboat headed toward them. A third boat released from the cradle too early. Instead of lowering on the cables, it dropped the last fifteen feet. But they were all free of the ship.
Another explosion ripped the top decks, fire and smoke spewing into the darkness.
Finn sat across from her, exhausted, his eyes as scared and lost as her own. But he was alive. Whatever hell he'd been through, he was alive. They both were.
“Where's Mom?” Benjie sat up. “Where's Zia?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to be strong. She pulled him close and rested her forehead against his, the way her mom always did whenever one of them was frightened or sick or sad.
Her mom might be in another lifebo
at. It was possible. But somehow, she knew. She felt it deep in her bones. Her mom was gone, just like Zia.
“No one can hurt them now, I promise,” she said to Benjie. “You don't need to be scared anymore. I’m going to keep you safe.”
He nodded and nestled himself in her lap like a puppy. In moments, he fell asleep.
If only she could sleep, too. Her eyes were gritty, her thoughts thick and foggy. Every muscle in her body ached. But Benjie slept the sleep of the innocent.
She wasn't innocent. The memory of her sister's eyes, blank and empty as marbles, burned through her. Zia had died because of her. She'd died alone and terrified. All because of Willow's selfishness. She’d spent all her time and energy resenting her family instead of loving them.
What she wouldn’t give now to hear Zia’s donkey laugh or listen to another of her mom’s lectures on family responsibility. Her mom, who always sacrificed her own needs for her kids. Her mom, who only worked so hard to take care of them.
She stroked Benjie’s hair as she blinked back tears, her heart aching with grief and regret. She couldn't cry. Not for herself. She didn't deserve it.
49
Gabriel
Jericho shoved Gabriel through the crowd, the gun pressed against the small of his back. His hands were bound in front of him, the hard plastic digging into his wrists. Rain pelted him. The wind battered him against the railing.
The blazing fire above them battled the lightning forking through the clouds. The sky seethed like a living beast swooping down to devour them all.
“Move it!” Jericho herded him past the first line of people shoving and jostling to board the lifeboat. The understaffed crew couldn’t manage the calm, orderly emergency evacuation they'd trained for. The repeated shout, “Please remain calm!” was lost in the din. The storm, the boiling sea, the listing deck, and the flames transformed the passengers into a writhing throng of panic.
The ship tilted. Everyone screamed, stumbling and slipping against the railing. Several of the barrel-shaped life raft canisters popped loose from their storage on the deck. Gabriel leapt aside as one bounced past him and crashed over the railing.
