by Steven Till
As the ferry moved into the channel proper, the water got rougher, sending the ship into a rhythmic rocking. Marc noticed his vision began to blur, getting darker around his peripheral, tunneling until blackness consumed him.
As his vision left, his hearing tunneled, muffling the world as if someone was placing sound-canceling headphones over his ears. Just before his hearing left him, Marc thought he heard something. Was that a scream? He didn't care. All senses fizzled out, like a candle deprived of oxygen. Marc Chevalier was dead.
CHAPTER 3 RUN AGROUND
Dover, England
December, 13 2014
Manny walked along the Dover-Calais dock, and awaited the arrival of the Molière. A third-generation dockworker, Manny never been anxious about an arrival, until now. The ferry was overdue by about six hours. Mr. Collins, the harbor master, had attempted to hail the ferry over the radio, but received nothing but static in response. The port at Calais even confirmed to Collins that the ship had departed on schedule.
Manny paced back and forth, his thoughts racing. The weather was turning sour fast, as an Arctic storm was blowing in from the north.
Perhaps the ferry had issues with the bad weather? he thought, as he checked the mooring lines that the ship would use to tie off the vessel once it docked.
The thought was ridiculous, of course. Although the English Channel was notorious for being a rough body of water to cross, the Molière was SeaFrance's newest ship; its crown jewel of the fleet. He knew the boat was equipped with the latest navigational and imaging equipment, making bad weather a moot point. Besides, she was also the largest ship in the fleet, which would make traversing the choppy waters easy. There was no reason why they should be this late.
The wind kicked up as snow flurries began to fall. He continued to pace up and down the dock, glancing at the adjacent dock where the P&O ferry Spirit of Britain resided. The snow fell harder and now began to accumulate on the moored ferry to his left like powdered sugar on a gingerbread house.
"Oi, Manny, ay-up!"
Manny jumped, turning to the young dockhand Billy who had just walked up behind him.
"Bugger off, Billy. We got a bit of a cock-up here and I don't have the time for ya now." He brushed by the way-too-eager greenhorn and continued on towards the end of the wharf.
"Aye, what's got ya so cheesed-off, mate?" Billy asked, not accustomed to seeing his boss so agitated.
Manny was a laid-back salty dog, who always enjoyed a good laugh. He never missed an opportunity to weave a tale from his days in the Royal Navy.
“The Molière never made it to port. We've tried repeated attempts to hail her, but with no luck. Mr. Collins has already checked with Calais, and it seems as though she left port on schedule and with no incident." Manny paused and turned to Billy.
"If ya wanna do some good, ya can hand over those bins of yers," he said as he outstretched his hand.
"Right, mate," Billy replied as he fished out a small pair of binoculars from his pea coat.
Manny took the specs and put them in his pocket. "Alright, off with ya now. Go find Mr. Collins and ask him if there's been any word about that ship."
Billy gave a nod, spun on his heels and dashed down the wharf towards the harbor master's office. The middle-aged ex-navy officer turned and continued walking to the end of the dock. The snow was falling at a steady clip now, and the wind gusts had gained strength. He estimated the strong ones at about thirty to thirty-five knots, which whipped the falling snow sideways.
Manny reached the end of the dock and stood about four feet from the edge. He pulled out the small binoculars and peered through them, sweeping them in one-hundred-twenty degree arcs. He knew exactly the position the ferry would be travelling from. If the ship was off-course, he needed to keep a vigilant watch. After four sweeps with the specs, the only thing he saw was the black-gray sky and inky waves of the water.
He reached into his jacket and liberated a much needed cigarette and lit it. The hot smoke filled his lungs and he exhaled in a long, slow, breath. The wind penetrated his thick, wool nautical pea coat. A chill rattled his bones. He was no stranger to brutal winters in the north Atlantic, but tonight was different. The cold which gripped Dover was colder than he had ever felt. It carried on its icy fingers, the ominous smell of tragedy.
Where the bloody hell was this boat?
He continued to scan the horizon with his eyes as he paced the end of the dock, pausing every few moments to peer through the binoculars. On his seventh intermittent sweep he froze. There, on the horizon, was a dark shape on the water. A chill ran through Manny's spine, not from the biting cold, but from the image that appeared through the spectacles. A ship.
It's her, he thought, but the chill came from what he observed. He saw no cabin lights from the bridge. Not a single deck or running light was lit. No movement on any of the decks from what he could see.
He heard footsteps crunching snow behind him, but he didn't move. His eyes remained fixated on the abandoned ferry. The footsteps continued to draw near.
"Oi, Manny, Mr. Collins said that he's sending out the whirlybirds for a search and rescue," Billy said, out of breath from running.
"That won't be necessary," he replied. "She's here."
Manny turned and grabbed Billy by the arm. "We gotta hustle mate, that boat's gone derelict." The two men ran as fast as they could without wiping out on the slippery, snow-covered dock. "You run ahead, lad, and tell Mr. Collins that she's moving dark. We need emergency crews on hand. No telling what kind of trouble she's in."
Billy took off ahead. No doubt Mr. Collins had the Molière on radar by now, but he doubted that Collins knew of her status. He glanced back over his shoulder; shocked to see the ferry was so close. Way closer than she should have been. She was clocking full speed. Manny reached the control room's exterior steps and took them up two at a time, wishing that he had quit smoking years ago. By the time he made it up the two flights, he was gasping for air.
A flurry of activity met him as he entered the control room. Mr. Collins was on the phone to the emergency crews, barking orders, a second phone receiver rested on his shoulders. The radio man was in a near panic, as he attempted to hail the bridge of the ferry. The radar operator was now screaming out distance and speed as the ship powered towards the port.
Billy stood motionless, staring out of the observation windows at the runaway ghost ship. "Five hundred yards and closing fast," yelled the radar man.
"C'mon Billy, we got work to do!" Manny bellowed as he opened the door.
Billy snapped out of his daze, shot past his boss, and disappeared down the steps towards the emergency crews. As Manny turned to follow, he caught the eyes of Collins. Things were about to get bad and they both knew it. Collins nodded, beads of sweat ran down the harbor master's gaunt face. With that, the old sea dog left to join the young greenhorn on the wharf.
The ferry churned past the outer break walls, and continued towards the docks. On shore, emergency crews had arrived, showcasing a sea of red and blue emergency lights. Tugboats had approached on both the starboard and port sides. They attempted to match speed and slow the ship by boxing it in, but the ferry was too powerful. At full speed, the tugs didn't have the bulk to put a dent in the much bigger vessel's momentum. Lights on the shore grew bigger and brighter. Emergency horns sounded. The docks were abuzz with activity, preparing for the inevitable.
Billy and Manny looked out past the docks in disbelief as the Molière approached. One hundred yards. Fifty yards. Then, without warning, the ship listed hard to its starboard side, causing the ferry to turn. An ear-splitting crunch sounded as the French vessel slammed into the Spirit of Britain. A shriek of metal sounded as the smaller boat glanced off the bow of the larger British ship. It gouged a long gash along its side as it continued its path towards the back of the berth.
"Run, Billy!" Manny screamed as he sprinted as fast as his old sea legs could take him.
They dashed to their left as
the ferry slammed into the shore. Concrete erupted skyward as the damaged bow of the Molière cut into the dock. The noise sounded like an explosion as debris rained down onto the two dock hands. The boat continued to plow through the dock, its engines still powered up full blast.
Fire trucks overturned, men pinned underneath, concrete folding over onto them like a cement wake. Men screamed as they were overtaken by the runaway ferry. Finally, the boat ground to a halt, engines still churning as they tried to push the boat onto ground. The plume of dust and debris from the impact hung suspended in the air and mingled with the falling snow.
Manny picked himself up off of the ground. He bent down to help Billy up, but then stopped. Billy laid motionless in the snow, a three foot length of rebar protruding from his chest. A red pool of blood spread from his body, turning the snow crimson.
Aw kid, Manny thought as he stood there staring down at the lifeless greenhorn; forgetting the catastrophe in front of him.
Emergency crews that weren't pulverized by the beached ferry began to approach the vessel. Just then, Manny heard a strange noise coming from the ship. The engines finally gave out, overheated from the effort of moving a boat through solid ground. The dock fell silent as the boat bellowed again. A low growl, this time much louder. Manny looked at the shipwreck and could see movement on the bridge.
"There are survivors on board!" he yelled. "Let's get some ladders up on that deck lads and get medical personnel on that boat now!"
The workers moved as one towards the wreck. As Manny approached, he saw more movement on the lower observation deck of the ferry. Passengers began lining up along the railing. They stood motionless, staring down at the workers below. A man climbed up onto the railing of the upper deck, and perched there like a gargoyle above the growing mass of passengers below him.
This is wrong, Manny thought. They should all be panicking or crying or injured. None of these people should be this calm.
Something about the way the passengers looked struck him as odd. He remembered that he still had Billy's binoculars and he pulled them out and looked up at the crowd above. What he saw made his heart skip. Rows of faces stared out over the railing, but they weren't the faces of scared passengers who just survived a horrific crash. These faces were pale; so pale that they almost blended into the thick flakes of snow that continued to fall. Mouths turned up into a crazy snarl, showing dark red stained teeth. The eyes burned into him with blood-red gazes, the whites of every eye replaced with a crimson color. As he looked on, he noticed that they were all covered in blood. Lots and lots of blood.
"Get away from the boat!" he yelled as he threw the binoculars aside. "Get the hell away now! There's something wrong with those people!"
But it was too late. The perched man on the top deck let out a blood curdling screech. The passengers began to hurl themselves over the railing, falling to the crumbled rubble below. They poured over the side like water, with complete disregard for their bodies. The first ones to land crumpled under the weight of those falling on top of them. Those who didn't break a leg jumping off, immediately got up and ran towards the confused rescue workers.
Screams ensued as passengers attacked the stunned firemen and paramedics. One woman latched onto a man and began to tear his ear off with her teeth, chomping at his flesh. A fat old man in a wool overcoat tackled another worker, pinning him to the ground. He buried his fist into the poor man's chest, pulling out what appeared to be a lung and then shoving the organ into his gaping jaws.
Everywhere he looked blood flowed and spurted from the doomed dock crews. A severed head flew through the air like a beach ball, landing a mere five feet from Manny. All he could do was stare at it, as its eyes continued to blink and look around, the mouth opening and closing as if to say 'help.' Manny doubled over and retched, expelling his dinner onto the ground en-mass. When he looked up, he saw an old woman in her eighties standing there staring at him.
She smiled a big, red, toothy smile at him and then opened her jaws. Her tongue slithered out like a snake. It had to have been twice the size of a normal tongue. It swayed back and forth in front of the woman, the tip split down the middle, exposing what appeared to be a single, long, sharp tooth.
“Oh bugger," he muttered as she lunged at him, striking him in the neck with that wicked tongue.
Marc Chevalier let out another loud screech as he jumped down from his perch atop the ferry and joined the others in the feast below.
CHAPTER 4 TURBULENCE
Logan International Airport
Boston, Massachusetts USA
December 15, 2014
Eleven-year-old Melissa Reynolds stood in front of the large observation windows of the US Airways terminal and watched the planes move back and forth on the runway. She twirled the tassel of her knit hat. The yellow happy face sunshine that adorned the front of the cap reflected back at her in the window. In her other hand, she clutched her favorite teddy bear. Although she felt too old to be lugging a teddy around, she still carried it on important trips, especially ones as momentous as this.
Melissa loved airplanes, the way they made thunder in the sky as they flew above her house. She couldn't believe that she was going to be able to finally fly in one. Her excitement was almost overwhelming, especially for her father. Melissa bombarded him with questions about anything relating to planes, airports, pilots, airline food, and of course, airplane toilets were among the topics of inquiry.
"So when I flush, does my poop land on somebody on the ground?" she asked her dad.
"No sweetheart, I told you, it's all kept in a big tank inside the plane," answered Kyle Reynolds, weary from the constant interrogation.
"But what happens when the tank gets full?"
"Then the plane has to poop it all out," he replied.
"Does THAT land on people?"
"Sometimes it does," he said with a mischievous smirk. "Why do you think dirt is brown? It's all the poop from hundreds of airplanes flying overhead."
"EEEEEEEEEWWWWWWW DAD!" Melissa exclaimed, scrunching her nose and shaking her head back and forth. "You're nasty!"
Kyle burst out laughing; grateful that he was able to gross out his daughter long enough for her to forget any other questions she might want to ask. They had another two hours before their flight left for Pittsburgh and he wasn't sure if he could hold out that long with the little inquisitor.
Melissa returned to gazing out the window at the various planes taxiing to and fro. Kyle took out a bottle of water from his backpack and took a sip. He reflected on the recent events that had transpired over the past three months. His wife Terra had left him after thirteen years of marriage, not only abandoning him, but their daughter as well. Kyle had tried to be the best husband he could, but it was hard with Terra's job. She was a partner with an international law firm and had just landed an enormous whale of a client; a Saudi prince.
The prince had hired Terra and her firm to handle some large real estate transactions, both here in the States and in Dubai. The prince insisted on meeting in person for all business matters, and had demanded Terra fly to Dubai every other week. Each trip seemed to last longer. At first it was two days, then three, then five. When she wasn't abroad, she worked endless hours at the office on Boylston Street; often coming home well after Melissa had gone to bed.
Kyle tried to be a good husband. Tried to be supportive. He knew that this client alone could keep Terra's firm in business for the next six years. The managing partner was counting on her to follow through with whatever it took to keep the Prince happy. He tried to be understanding, but Terra was drifting away and missing Melissa grow up. He was getting tired of having to make excuses for why mommy wasn't coming to her piano recital, or why she couldn't go to the zoo with them. Then one day, it happened.
Kyle had come home after taking Melissa to a Bruins game and had found Terra in their bedroom packing in a hurry. At first he thought that she was preparing for another trip, but he realized that she had packed everything.
She had pulled all her clothes from the closet; her dresser drawers pulled out and empty. Three large suitcases were agape on the bed, piled with her belongings.
"What are you doing Terra?" he asked.
She looked up at him through wet eyes. "I... I'm leaving Kyle. I'm moving to Dubai." Her voice was quiet and shaky, as if she were going to cry at any time, but the crying never came.
"The Prince wishes me to be his bride. He said that if I refuse, he would break the contract with the firm. I have to go." She picked up an envelope from the nightstand and tossed it on the bed in front of Kyle. "He wanted me to give you this."
Kyle opened the envelope and looked at the check inside. Two million dollars. "Is this a joke?" he asked, trying not to raise his voice and wake Melissa.
"No. This is not a joke. I'm sorry." She finished jamming her clothes in the suitcases, closed them, and began hauling them out of the room.
Kyle froze where he stood; the shock of the situation preventing him from running after her. Their entire marriage, he had tried to be everything that Terra needed and wanted. In the end, he couldn't compete with a prince. Two million dollars was apparently the going rate for an American wife in Dubai. For two months Kyle had kept the check in the top drawer of his nightstand. The thought of spending that money made him ill. He finally gave in, since money became tight now that he couldn't rely on Terra's salary being there anymore.
Melissa had taken the news of the divorce better than he thought. It seems the one good thing about Terra's long hours was that it conditioned his daughter to be without her mother for long periods of time. This time though, it would be forever.
