Chucklers (Book 1): Laughter is Contagious

by Jeff Brackett

  “Tell everyone…”

  Linton opened the glove box again and pulled out a prepaid cell phone. He knew it wasn’t truly untraceable, but it would take more trouble to track than there was any reason to suspect anyone would put forth. At least, that was the idea. He dialed the number he had long ago memorized. A woman answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Lima Bravo.”

  There was a slight pause. “Echo Kilo.”

  Linton felt a little silly with the security designators, but he was the one who had set up the protocol. “Start the phone tree. Bravo, hotel, mike, three, four, eight.”

  Another pause. “You realize it’s just a few days before Thanksgiving, right?”

  “Yeah. Can’t be helped. This is serious.”

  “Not a drill?”

  “I only wish.”

  “All right. What branches of the tree should I shake?”

  “All of them.”

  “All of them?”

  “You heard me. All Hive members.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah.” He could hear her tapping keys on a computer in the background.

  “Got it. Three, four, eight. What is it?”

  Linton sighed. “Just pull the manual and look it up. Send me the confirmation list by six o’clock.”

  “Will do.”

  “All right. I’ll see you soon.” He started to hang up.

  “Hey, boss?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This really isn’t some kind of drill, or a test or something, is it?”

  “I don’t think so. The intel is from a trusted source.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “I think we already covered that.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’ll start making calls.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up.

  Sitting there on the side of the road, Linton stared for a while into space. Finally, he looked into the rearview mirror at the haunted eyes staring back at him. “God help us,” he told his reflection. “It’s really happening.”

  * * *

  Erin Kazmark, security designator Echo Kilo, looked up scenario three four eight as she’d been told. A minute later, her hands were shaking. Confirmed Global Pandemic, Extreme Mortality Rate. “Holy shit,” she said for the third time in as many minutes. She turned to the last page in the manual and called the first number in the list.

  A woman answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

  “Echo Kilo.”

  “Romeo Papa.” Her voice sounded weary and irritated.

  “Bravo, hotel, mike, three, four, eight.”

  The woman on the other end of the line sighed, then broke protocol. “Seriously? It’s Thanksgiving week. Besides, we just had a drill two weeks ago. Jesus, Erin. Some of us don’t have the resources to keep this stuff up.”

  Erin understood. Membership in the Bee Hive was a commitment. There were annual dues, required training sessions, internal testing, minimal gear requirements, and a commitment to serve at least one weekend per quarter on maintenance and upkeep on the group’s gear. It wasn’t for everyone. But it looked like they were at the point where it could all prove its value.

  Erin wasn’t supposed to say anything that might risk the group’s security, but she sensed that Rita’s resolve was about gone, and it was more important than ever that she stick it out a little longer.

  “Rita?”

  Rita chuckled bitterly into the phone. “Don’t you mean ‘Romeo Papa’?”

  “No, I mean Rita Post,” she said. “I’m talking to you as a friend now, Rita. This isn’t another drill. This is where all the drills pay off. It’s big. I can’t say anything more than that over the phone. Hell, you and I both know I’m not even supposed to say that much, so please just check the manual. The code again is three, four, eight. Look it up before you make any decisions.”

  There was a short pause.

  “It’s really not another drill?”

  “Looks like it’s real enough that I’m scared to death. Please don’t quit now, Rita.”

  Another pause, and Erin wondered if she’d managed to reach her friend in time. Finally, Rita answered. “All right. Romeo Papa. Message acknowledged.”

  The line went dead, and Erin breathed a sigh of relief. She looked at her list. The next name was Peggy Bisard. She dialed the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Echo Kilo.”

  “Papa Bravo.”

  “Bravo, hotel, mike, three, four, eight.”

  “Message confirmed. Scenario three four eight.”

  Chapter 28

  August Grappin

  Feeling

  Gus ran through the hallway leading his group. They had found so many new friends. Some joined them. Others didn’t. But even those who didn’t join contributed to the euphoria that was feeling. The big man with the metal thing had given such exquisite feeling that Gus felt compelled to seek him out. He had found many others, but so far none who had given him such sublime pleasure/pain.

  He vaguely recalled some modicum of pleasure when his mom told him about the cruise. Even more when he had groped black bikini girl and seen her breast. But the closest he felt to the new pleasure/pain ecstasy was in the heat of fighting. Those were the times when his heart pounded, pumping euphoria through his veins.

  Of course, there were still things that bothered him sometimes – quiet nigglings in the back of his hindbrain that sometimes made him think that something was missing. Like the fact that he kept trying to do things with his hands that it seemed they should be able to do, but the dexterity was no longer there. And there was a concept that bounced around in his head… the paradoxical idea that he didn’t remember things like he should, but couldn’t remember why it was important.

  But he could use his hands well enough to wield the length of wood—to impart pleasure/pain to those he came across—to grant them feeling. And he could still understand some of the old words and concepts from before. Many of his troop couldn’t. They were reduced to pummeling and clawing with their hands, and biting when they could get close enough. Somewhere deep within, Gus knew he would eventually join them in this primal frenzy of anger and delight. He didn’t know if one way was better or worse, but for now it didn’t matter. All of it was secondary to the drive for feeling.

  Chapter 29

  Charles Griffe

  Rag Doll

  Wake up, asshole!

  Charlie started at the voice and realized he had fallen asleep. He winced at the painfully bright flood of sunlight pouring into the cabin through the shattered balcony door. It had been the only way for him to get in, and while he had feared the sound of breaking glass might draw attention, he had feared being caught out on the open balcony even more. He’d reasoned that he could easily escape into the hallway if Purple Hair and his gang figured out where he had gone, and so he sat on the floor by the cabin door watching and waiting for gang bangers to come climbing down from the balcony above.

  Now, sunlight in his eyes let him know that exhaustion had finally overtaken him, and he stood stiffly from where he leaned against the door. He checked his watch.

  Two fifty-six.

  He’d slept through the morning and into the afternoon. Stretching his back, he looked around the cabin. A softshell suitcase lay unzipped, but closed on the bed. He walked over and flipped the top open. It was a woman’s suitcase, filled with nice clothes, makeup, two bikinis that hinted at a nice figure, and slinky lingerie. He picked up a frilly bra that left little to the imagination. Nice, but the owner obviously wasn’t as well-endowed as Felicia.

  Charlie was startled to realize he was genuinely concerned about her, his anger from the night before completely gone. He wondered whether or not she was still alive.

  You should hope so. It would be a real shame to lose a hot piece like her.

  “She’s not just a piece of ass.”

  True enough. She’s got a helluva rack on her, too.

  Charlie could practically hear Dad smile. �
�Fuck you, old man. She’s better to me than you ever were.”

  Aw, poor Charlie. Did I hurt your feelings? I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you really loved the stupid cow.

  “I’m not having this conversation with you right now.” And no matter how much his father provoked him, Charlie ignored the jibes. Checking around the cabin proved fruitless as far as providing any sort of weapon, though he did find two small bags of trail mix in the suitcase. He shoved one in his pocket, and the second one lasted all of thirty seconds as he ripped it open and shoved its contents into his mouth. It was only a few handfuls, but at least it quieted the growling in his stomach for the time being. He’d been making do with pretzels, peanuts, and whatever other munchies he could find in bars or vending machines since this insanity had started. He went to the sink in the restroom and turned on the faucet, cursing when all he got was a tiny trickle of water that lasted about three seconds and then was gone. He cracked the door open, peeking into the corridor.

  The scene outside was a stark contrast to the night before. Sunlight streamed in from the open atrium in the upper decks, illuminating the horror of death and destruction spread as far as he could see. There were bodies and worse, body parts, strewn about as far as he could see. Thick, black smoke filled the corridors, and through it all, he could still hear the screaming and laughter that told him the rampage was ongoing. He thought again of Felicia and wondered how difficult it was going to be to get to her. Their cabin was on Deck Seven. He was startled to realize that he wasn’t sure what deck he was on at the moment.

  “Nine or Ten, I think. Should only be a few decks away.” Three decks would normally be a matter of walking a few minutes down a couple of staircases. But it had taken him more than twelve hours to travel half a dozen decks. Travel time under these circumstances was subjective, to stay the least.

  He eased out of the room, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. He soon came across a directory sign that confirmed he was on Deck Ten. Charlie trotted carefully through the shadows toward where he thought he remembered the stairwell was, but screams and laughter from that direction stopped him. He hugged the wall and eased forward slowly, so as not to attract any attention. There was an open area ahead, brightly illuminated by the sunlight streaming in from above. For this stretch, there were no inside cabins and there was no way he was going to be able to make it across unseen. He could see over the railing to the Promenade Deck, two levels below. Straight ahead, past the open stretch was another darkened corridor, but Charlie could see several people milling about, dancing and laughing.

  “Damn.” Hugging the walls, he headed back the way he had come. Along the way, he stopped at the directory sign again, looking for another route. He traced his finger along the corridors away from the stairwell, recalling as his fingers hit it that there were another pair of stairwells at the fore end of the ship. With a goal in mind, he increased his pace.

  It took him nearly fifteen minutes to travel from shadow to shadow to the forward stairs. Along the way, he dodged two groups of thugs, but eventually he saw the foredeck ahead. He knew from the diagram that the forward stairwells were just around the next corner, but the sound of laughter told him that there was more than escape waiting for him ahead.

  Charlie crept slowly to the corner, peeking around, ready to run in the opposite direction if there was any sign of discovery. His eyes were drawn immediately to the sight of a group of teen boys shoving a young girl around their circle. Her left eye was bruised and swollen, and her bottom lip was split. Blood poured from her nose onto her Bahama Queen T-shirt. One of the boys giggled, slapped her in the face, and kicked her to another of his buddies. The girl staggered, so abused and bedraggled that she barely even groaned as she was beaten.

  Charlie’s heart dropped as he saw that they were near the far emergency stairwell. There was no way he was going to get past them and through the door. By the sunlight coming in from above, he saw one of the large, sweeping intra-level staircases that flowed from one deck to another. He could probably get there and make a dash down those stairs before they got to him, but he knew they would be right behind him, and he had no idea where he would go once he reached the bottom of the stairs. Plus, kids that age were almost certain to be faster than he was. No, his best chance for survival wasn’t in speed, but rather in stealth. He had to make his way by hiding, or by tricking the killers.

  He brought the directory sign back to mind. There was the main staircase, restrooms, and the port and starboard forward stairwells. Port and starboard. He could see the main stairwell, and the door to the emergency stairwell behind the thugs. The port stairwell. That meant the starboard stairwell was just around the corner from him. He couldn’t see it because he was behind it, and he could probably make it before the thugs could get to him, but there was no way he would make it without at least some of them seeing him.

  Again, stealth, not speed. A rise in volume pulled his attention back to the gang across the causeway. The girl they were brutalizing suddenly lost her apathy and started screaming at the top of her lungs, while the boys all bent over her doing something. Charlie watched while they shuffled about, heads bobbing as they grabbed the girl, struggling to hold onto her as they lifted. The girl managed to kick one of the boys in the nuts, dropping him to the floor. Charlie winced as the boy doubled up into a fetal curl, facing away from the action. The others ignored him, and as Charlie watched in horror, they raised the girl over their shoulders and tossed her over the rail.

  The girl’s screams rose in pitch for a second, then she was gone. The boys all stood, hanging over the railing, pointing and laughing, and to his horror, Charlie could still hear the girl crying, though now her voice carried more pain than fear. He remembered that the Promenade was only two decks below, so it wasn’t surprising that she had survived the fall. But her voice told him she was definitely hurt. The boys rushed to the main stairway, obviously intent on reacquiring their play toy.

  This was his chance. Watching the boys head down the stairs, he waited until the last in line rounded the corner, passing out of sight. He crept to the banister and peeked over. The girl lay on the wooden surface of a shuffleboard deck, right leg twisted at an unnatural angle. She was dragging herself across the floor trying to escape. Then the first of the boys reached the bottom of the stairs and slowly approached her.

  “Please,” she begged between sobs, “no more.”

  The smiling boy chuckled. "More-no-more-no-more…" His raspy mutter faded into insane titters. He reached out and stroked her hair tenderly. Her sobbing diminished as he continued to stroke her hair, chuckling the entire time. As the other boys arrived, they slowed, gathering around her. At some unspoken signal, the first boy grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked. The raucous laughter was back in an instant, and the others roughly pulled her to her feet.

  Staggering on the broken right leg, she fell into one of them. Charlie winced as the boy kicked her in the stomach. They laughed and shouted as she screamed, until Charlie couldn’t tell the screams from the laughter.

  Suddenly, there was a crushing weight on his back and he fell forward, hitting his head on the railing. He saw stars for a moment, but struggled against his attacker, the hoarse laughter an incessant and terrifying soundtrack in his ear. Stunned, dizzy, and if he were to be completely honest with himself, terrified of dying, Charlie thrashed as his attacker squeezed. He heaved himself up as the arm tightened around his neck, and his vision began to swim.

  Come on, boy. If there’s one thing I taught you, it’s how to fight.

  Throwing himself backwards, Charlie landed on the floor again, his entire body weight landing on his attacker. The arm loosened, and Charlie dug his chin into the crook of the elbow and bit.

  The laughter in his ear became shrill, and the arm loosened enough for Charlie to get a good grip on it. He yanked and spun to face his attacker. It was the kid that the girl had kicked and left rolling on the floor. Charlie had forgotten him as he watched the at
tack below. Now the kid launched himself at Charlie again. Charlie swung. It wasn’t pretty. There was no finesse to his punch. But it was the punch of a frightened, two hundred thirty pound man hitting the jaw of a kid about half his size.

  His attacker dropped like a lead balloon. Charlie panted and his hands shook from the adrenaline rush. His heart pounded in his ears, and it took several seconds for him to realize that the kid, even while unconscious, was still chuckling quietly.

  Well, that’s more than a little disturbing.

  “You think?” Cries from below interrupted his argument with his dad, and Charlie ran back to the railing. The gang below was still beating the poor girl.

  Ain’t nothing you can do, boy. Get the hell out of sight.

  Charlie turned toward the stairwell and stopped at the sight of the unconscious thug on the ground. He grinned, and he felt his dad’s approval.

  Well, there might be one thing you can do.

  Charlie heaved the kid over his shoulder and walked to the railing. Taking careful aim, he shoved his burden into the empty air, just as they had done to the poor girl. The kid rag dolled as he fell, limbs flailing limply until he hit three of the kids below.

  Good shot, boy! That’ll teach ‘em you don’t fuck with the Griffes.

  “Shut up, Dad,” Charlie muttered for the umpteenth time. He looked over the rail. Two of the kids he hit weren’t moving. Neither was the kid he had tossed. The others pointed up at him, and a second later they were rushing for the stairs. “Oh shit.” Charlie bolted for the stairwell, starting down. He briefly entertained the idea that they would go up the main stairway while he passed them in the enclosed emergency stairwell. Unfortunately, the thugs had other ideas. Evidently, not all of them had gone up the main stairs. Laughter below told him that there were several of them in the stairwell below him.

  Charlie turned and headed back up the stairs. His father’s voice chided him as he went. Aren’t you getting tired of hiding like a scared little pussy?