“Little pig, little pig, let me in!” The door began to shake within its frame as Purple Hair, and the others with him, started pounding emphatically, yanking on the handle to get it open, all the while laughing merrily as if it were all a huge joke.
Suddenly, the rattling stopped, and for some reason Charlie found the silence in the cabin more unsettling than the rattling. What are they up to now? He didn’t know if it was him or his father wondering, and he didn’t have much time to think about it.
BOOM.
Charlie nearly screamed as the door served as a drum head to something or someone slamming into it. He jumped to his feet and started to stumble across the room when his feet tangled in something unseen in the near-darkness. He tumbled to the floor, landing in a wet patch of carpet that smelled of urine.
BOOM.
He jumped again, pushed himself to hands and knees, and gagged when his hand slipped in something that felt like raw hamburger with a thin coating of slime.
BOOM.
Sobbing now, Charlie carefully drew himself to his feet. Don’t try to hurry it. Take your time. Careful and slow is faster than falling every few feet when you trip your clumsy ass over something in the dark. Charlie was too terrified to argue at this point.
BOOM.
The darkness in the cabin was almost tangible, and he felt slowly forward with his feet. Where am I? Portside? Starboard? Is this an interior cabin, or ocean view? His foot brushed against something on the floor, and he was fairly certain it was another body, but was afraid to bend over to confirm it. Charlie had a mental image of one of those teenagers laying a trap, waiting for him to come within reach so he could reach up and lock his fingers around Charlie’s throat.
BOOM.
He thought he heard a slight splintering and kept moving, arms outstretched, feeling inch by inch with hands and feet as he made his way across the cabin to the wall opposite the door. After what felt like more than an hour, though, he knew it could only have been a couple of minutes, he felt heavy fabric against his left hand.
BOOM.
There was definitely a splintering sound with that impact, and Charlie turned to face the fabric on the wall. He felt with both hands until he found the end of the curtain and slipped behind it fumbling at the latch to the sliding glass door to the balcony. He sobbed with relief as he slipped into the morning light and welcoming fresh sea breeze.
Laughter sounded from below, and Charlie drew back from the edge of the balcony railing. Running footsteps and shouting approached from below on the right and faded after a moment to the left. He peered forward slowly and saw several people running on an outdoor track several decks below. They disappeared around the curve of the track, and he turned his attention back to the situation at hand. Screams again tore through the air interrupting his concentration as a woman’s shriek of terror turned to pain and torment.
BOOM.
Behind him, the door shook in its frame as Purple Hair and company did their best to break it down. He didn’t have much time, and as far as he could see, there was only one chance of escape. He craned his neck over the railing. Below him were several more levels of cabin balconies, stacked one atop the other like layers of a gigantic cake. All he had to do was crawl over the railing, let himself down the outside of the balcony wall, and swing himself into the balcony below.
Without missing. That was the important part. If he missed, he would have several decks to regret his actions before he splattered on the jogging track below.
The cabin door began to make splintering noises as Charlie swung a leg over the rail.
Chapter 25
Chris Tallant
Finding the Key
His head hurt, the strip of skin he’d scraped on his back burned with every step, and his stomach reminded him with a gurgle that he’d missed at least two meals. It seemed like hours since he’d rested, and he was so far past exhausted that it wasn’t funny. Chris grimaced at the poor choice of words that flashed through his mind. Despite all the laughter he’d heard, nothing about recent events struck him as funny. He would never have thought it possible, but the sound of laughter was rapidly becoming synonymous with fear and pain.
So far, he’d managed to avoid large groups of the crazies, as he’d begun thinking of them, but had to fight his way through single adversaries twice. The first time had been sometime in the night, shortly after he’d escaped the elevator. He’d been scared out of his mind, but had stumbled across the man while running from a larger group. It had been either fight the lone crazy or wait for the group behind him to catch up. He’d plowed ahead, shoving the wide-eyed lunatic against the wall and punching him with a rapid combination of strikes that had surprised him with their effectiveness.
Tallant had never been much of a fighter, but the man had gone down with hardly any resistance whatsoever. He didn’t know if he’d simply caught the man by surprise, or if he, like Chris, had no experience in the pugilistic arts. Either way, the encounter had boosted his confidence so that when he’d run across a second lone crazy, he’d barely slowed as he attacked the man.
Afterward, he’d felt the bruising on his knuckles, and determined to find something to use as a weapon. So far, he hadn’t had any luck, though it appeared several of the crazies had, as more often than not he saw them swinging chair legs, bats from batting cages, putters from the mini-golf course, and various other clubbing implements.
Now, several hours later, with sunlight beginning to peek in through various exit doors in the hallway, he flitted from shadow to shadow, keeping to cover as much as possible. He found fewer and fewer lone crazies. They seemed to be congregating together, reminding him of herds of wild animals. And he found no more normal people. On occasion, he would hear screaming somewhere in the ship, signaling to him that he wasn’t truly alone. But they, like him, were obviously hiding from the roving bands of predators.
What he did find in plenty, was bodies. Dozens—no, hundreds of bodies. They were scattered all over the corridors. Some were barely touched, but most were bloody messes of torn and beaten hamburger. The scope of the carnage shook his sense of reality. His hands trembled as he looked at the outcome of the unbelievable events of the previous night.
Laughter from behind prodded him farther aft, down the shadowed corridor. Laughter was the enemy, and he strove to avoid its source at all costs. Trotting several yards down the corridor, he dropped down to hide behind a large potted plant, waiting for the laughter to fade once more. He closed his eyes, allowing the exhaustion to have him for a moment.
***
The gurgling of his stomach brought him back to consciousness. His eyes snapped open, and his heart pounded at the realization that he’d fallen asleep. He couldn’t afford sleep right now, especially out in the open like this. It was a miracle that laughing monstrosities hadn’t stumbled across him and beaten him to a pulp. He had to find shelter. Trapped on the upper decks as he was, though, he had no access to any. No place where he could safely lock himself away from the roving bands of death that roamed the ship.
A loud growl from his stomach reminded him rather sharply that he had another priority as well. Food and shelter. Those were key.
With that thought, he suddenly knew what he needed.
Creeping quietly down the halls, he tried to avoid looking too closely at the butchery, while scanning the bodies en masse. Exhausted, hungry, and scared out of his mind, Tallant knew he had to find food and shelter soon, or his body was likely to join those strewn so carelessly about the ship. And somewhere, likely hidden in plain sight around him, was the key to finding both.
When he finally found it, he was elated… until he saw the poor man’s head.
When he’d been a child, his family had had a pair of Siamese cats. He’d been six or seven years old, and didn’t remember much about them except that they were very temperamental cats, and that they’d had a litter of kittens. One kitten in particular, he remembered very well.
He’d named the li
ttle ball of fur Patch, and unlike the adult cats, Patch was affectionate and playful. Little Chris and Patch were inseparable for weeks, playing about the yard and flower beds. Mom had fussed at both of them more than once when they’d trampled through her geraniums.
He remembered one day when the family was getting ready to go somewhere. They piled in the car to go, he didn’t recall where. But he would never forget the scream of the kitten as the car rolled over him. Dad stopped immediately, and Little Chris had jumped out before Mom and Dad could stop him. The sight of the tiny twitching form, blood streaming from its every orifice, had horrified him. But the thing that truly haunted his dreams for weeks to come, was the sight of Patch’s eyes… how the pressure of the vehicle rolling over his body had popped them from his skull so that they hung by little streamers of blood and tissue.
Now, back in the charnel house that the Bahama Queen had become, Tallant relived that horror as he looked at the body of one of the ship’s stewards. The white shirt, beige vest, and black tie gave proof to the man’s position on the ship. But his head…
Tallant vomited what little contents his stomach contained onto the carpet beside him. When he was finished, still shaking from the exertion, he forced himself to search the body until he found the treasure he sought. It was strange, how much relief such a small thing could bring. But sitting back on his haunches, Chris stared at the little plastic rectangle as if it were a holy relic. His shoulders sagged with blessed contentment, if only for a moment.
Laughter sounded once more, prompting him back to his feet… back to the horrific reality of flight. But at least now, he had an escape.
Calmly, Chris walked down the hall a few yards, unlocked the door to a passenger cabin, and stepped inside. The door clicked audibly as it locked behind him.
Chapter 26
Lt. Cdr Frank Jameson
Special Delivery
"Houston Methodist, this is Jayhawk Six One Five Two inbound. Do you read?"
"Loud and clear, Six One Five Two. We've been expecting you. What do you have for us?"
Jameson hesitated. If this was classified, then it wasn't likely that the higher ups would want him blabbing about it on an open channel. And he had no doubt the channel was being monitored. "Special delivery. I was told you knew what to expect."
The woman on the other end sounded irritated. "We haven't been told much of anything. Makes it sorta hard to do our jobs, you know?"
"Understood, Methodist. We've been told there should be a Dr. Sondheimer meeting us?"
"That's what we heard, too. But she called in. She's caught in morning traffic." The voice was clearly irritated.
"And she hasn't briefed you on what to expect?"
"Only that we need to take contamination precautions."
"Well, all I can tell you is that we have three patients from a cruise ship. We have them sedated for now, but all three exhibited altered mental states."
"Altered how?"
"Tendency for extreme violence." He hesitated, unsure how to communicate the insanity he and his crew had witnessed. "Hell, I'm not a doctor. They're bat shit crazy."
"So what… drugs?"
Jameson thought back to the hundreds of people on the Bahama Queen who exhibited the same symptoms. "Not likely. There were too man—"
There was a sudden rush of static on the line.
"Say again, Six One Five Two. You broke up."
But Jameson knew the static wasn't simple line interference. That was someone warning him, telling him he was skirting too close to the "classified" part of the mission. "We're almost there, Methodist. Have your crew meet us at the helipad. You'll need three gurneys with isolation bubbles and one body bag on hand."
There was a pause. "Isolation bubbles and a body bag? Holy shit. What the hell are you bringing us?"
Another squelch of static.
"This is Jayhawk Six One Five Two. ETA, five minutes. Out."
Chapter 27
Linton Bowers
Scenario 3-4-8
Linton fumbled in his shirt pocket for his Bluetooth as he drove down the highway. The thing was uncomfortable as hell, and he couldn’t stand to wear it all the time, but that meant every time his cell rang, he had to rush to get it on his ear before whoever was calling hung up. This time, he made it by the third ring. “Bowers here. What can I do for you?”
“Hey, Linton. It’s Emmet.”
Linton’s heart skipped a beat. Emmet Pismire’s real name was Chris Van Duyne, and he was Linton’s contact at the Office of Naval Intelligence. He had taken the unusual alias several years back, even before he’d joined the Bee Hive. He’d never explained it to anyone, only hinting that it had to do with his interest in prepping. Most people simply dropped it politely at that point, but Linton had once looked it up online. He’d found that the Emmet was actually a heraldic emblem, also known as “the ant and the pismire.” There were pictures of shields with all sorts of designs on them. The one thing they all had in common was that they incorporated the emblem of the ant somehow.
“Ant man! How are you?”
Emmet sighed. “I really wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“Yeah, whatever. Wish in one hand and spit in the other. See which one gets filled up first.”
As they spoke, Linton began negotiating through traffic to pull his pickup off to the shoulder of the road. He hadn’t heard from his friend in a couple of weeks, but that wasn’t unusual. Emmet often worked long hours and didn’t like to call people when he thought they might be sleeping. And he never had time to call during working hours. Linton knew his friend would never call in the middle of the day like this if it weren’t important. “So what time is it, buddy? Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“Just slipped out for a quick break. My watch says it’s about ten after nine. What’s the matter? You late for your mid-morning nap, old man?”
Linton chuckled as he looked at his watch. It showed nine thirteen. “Old man? I’m an old man now?” As he said this, he pulled to a stop and opened his glove box.
“Five years older than me, anyway. I can damn near hear your arteries hardening over the phone.”
Linton forced a laugh, despite the chill that went up his spine. He was actually only a year older than Emmet. “Whatever. So did you just call to insult me, or what?”
“No, I just wanted to know if that invitation for Thanksgiving dinner was still good.”
Mind whirling, Linton thought quickly. There had been no invitation, so he knew this was part of a carefully constructed conversation. He pulled the Bee Hive manual out of the glovebox and laid it on the seat beside him. “Sure. You gonna be able to make it?” He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and started scribbling notes.
9:13 - 9:10.
5 yrs. – 1 yr.
“Yep. Managed to swap my leave with a buddy.”
“Sounds great. Looking forward to seeing you again.”
“Me, too. So I’ll see you guys Thanksgiving morning sometime between seven and nine.”
“All right, we’ll keep an eye out for you.”
7-8-9. He circled the eight.
There was a slight pause before Emmet replied. “Thanks for the invite, Linton. I really appreciate it. Tell everyone I’m looking forward to seeing them all.”
“Will do. See you then.”
“Later.”
Linton killed the connection and took a deep breath.
Tell everyone I’m looking forward to seeing them all.
Heart pounding, Linton sat for a moment. Bee Hive protocol was pretty simple. It had to be, since the Hive was mostly civilians. Treat all phone conversations as if they were being monitored. When passing your information, do it in a specific format to answer four questions.
First, what kind of scenario you are dealing with? Second, do you have a recommended course of action? In other words, is it a bug out, or a bug in situation? Third, in the case of a bug out, what location makes the most sense as a gathering point? And
finally, who does the crisis affect? Who needs to take action?
The Bee Hive manual only consisted of forty-three pages divided into five sections. Sections one through four covered each of the four questions. Section five consisted of maps, checklists, rally points, and contingency plans to help keep members of the hive organized in times of crisis. Linton was pretty sure he already knew what Emmet had just told him, but he wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
What kind of scenario? He looked at his first note—9:13 - 9:10. That was a three-minute time difference. He turned to section one and went to scenario number three. The caption read Confirmed Global Pandemic, Extreme Mortality Rate.
He turned to section two, Recommended Action Plans, then looked at his notes again. “Five years older…” A four year difference.
Action plan #4 - Bug out recommended within seventy-two hours. Bug out can be recommended for any number of situations, from localized climatologically instigated emergencies, to more serious and widespread conditions. For any of the bug out action plans, see section three for a list of Bee Hive locations.
Assuming bug out, what location? Section three, List of Possible BOLs. He ran a shaking finger down the list, already knowing what he was going to see. “…sometime between seven and nine.” His finger stopped on location number eight. Bee Hive bunker retreat south of Winnie, Texas.
The bunker was a fully stocked and maintained location that was as self-sufficient as they had been able to afford. It had enough freeze-dried food to last a group of twenty for three months, a low-wattage photovoltaic system, with enough solar panels to charge the batteries from complete depletion to full charge within a few hours—not that they ever wanted to let the batteries get that low, water filtration and storage, and an air filtration system. It was the most secure location they had.
Obviously, Emmet thought things were going to get bad—about as bad as they could get.
For the last part of the equation, Linton didn’t need to consult the manual. Chris hadn’t minced any words in telling him who needed to take action. “Tell everyone I’m looking forward to seeing them all.”
Chucklers (Book 1): Laughter is Contagious Page 10
