The first thing it became aware of was that the ground didn’t move right, as though the earth itself were unstable. Though the rocking, shifting environment was a distraction, the wolf discerned no immediate threat.
Next it sniffed around the room, on all fours, picking up the scent of a man… a man it had a vague sense of animosity toward.
Feed.
Hunger gnawed at its insides, an insistent, uncompromising famishing. The beast spied something shiny on the floor, something that it perceived as… a threat. It drew nearer and sniffed at the silver-coated blade, growled low, then quickly pulled away.
It stood on hind legs, shakily at first, to its full height of seven feet, its ears flattening as they touched the ceiling. It observed the space around it, taking in the surroundings through a lens of variations between yellow and blue, a lens of muted delineation between light and dark.
Whatever deficits the beast suffered in vision were more than made up for in auditory and olfactory senses. There were voices, smells of others. Many, many others. Some far away, some closer. One very close. Then, more came.
Others are food.
Stepping over the blade, then dropping back to all fours, the wolf stalked to the barrier where it smelled others who were very near, pressing its nose to the space beneath, taking quick deep breaths. The beast sensed malice, harmful intent. A low growl rumbled from its throat. It pulled back. This place called up dim recollections of the dark place. The wolf remembered how much it hated the dark place. It rose to a stand once again and pressed its clawed forepaws against the barrier. It gave slightly. The beast reasoned that it could break through this barrier, get to the others. Then it could feed. Then it could drink.
Blood is life. Blood is the divine essence.
The beast dropped to all fours again, circled and walked to the middle of the open space. It knew now what it must do.
***
After radioing his security agents, Poonyeah contacted the ship security officer, Gavin Findlay, and reported what he knew. Gavin ordered Poonyeah to clear the halls, shut the fire doors and put the animal down. The chief security officer knew that most of the passengers were at the show, “Rockin’ Through the Ages,” in the main theater. It was very likely that there was almost no one inside their cabins, except for…
Poonyeah knocked on the cabin door two rooms forward from one one four seven. The heavyset lady answered, and when she did, Poonyeah asked if she would mind staying inside her cabin until he gave her the all clear. When she demanded to know what was going on, Poonyeah said that there was nothing to be alarmed about and that they were handling the situation. With an indignant huff the lady shut the door.
Just then four Gurkha security agents joined Poonyeah. He ordered the youngest of the men, Rajan, to retrieve the net used to cover the kids’ pool. Two of the others closed the fire doors at either end of the hall while Poonyeah returned to cabin one one four seven.
Whatever animal was inside came to the door, sniffed, and growled. A second later the door bowed slightly outward. He shouted for the others.
Poonyeah carried his khukuri with him at all times, in the small of his back. He withdrew the blade now and held it in his right hand. The remaining three men stood in a semicircle before the door to one one four seven, their eighteen-inch blades also drawn and held ready.
Standing near a door marked “crew only,” Poonyeah notified the others that they would enter the cabin as soon as Rajan returned with the net. The hallway fell quiet, pitching slightly from the rough seas. The three men before the door watched it closely.
The assistant chief security officer, Sanjay, was facing away from Poonyeah. He screwed his head around to look at his superior, communicating with a glance that they were ready for whatever might happen next. He turned back…
And that was when the door to cabin one one four seven exploded outward.
***
Gavin Findlay was a survivor. Always had been. He had always done whatever needed doing in order to stay upright and breathing. Fierce tenacity and hardy resilience were as deeply entrenched in his blood as they were in the soil of his homeland.
He hailed from a long line of proud Scots. The Findlays were shipbuilders, and theirs was a fine proletarian heritage, a line traceable all the way back to the Davidian Revolution. Gavin’s ancestors helped build ships used by the Glasgow Tobacco Lords at the time of the American War of Independence. His great grandfather and great granduncle constructed steamships in the latter half of the nineteenth century, and each shed blood and sweat in the manufacture of ships used in the First World War.
Gavin’s grandfather endured the squalor of the Glasgow slums and struggled to provide for a wife and three kids during the hard, lean years of the 1920s. Gavin’s father benefited from the city’s resurgence in the wake of World War Two, and suffered its subsequent decline throughout the sixties.
As lads, Gavin and his brother Clyde had run with a Glasgow street gang, carving out names and reputations as brawlers not to be trifled with. Gavin’s life could have gone straight down the pan had it not been for a horrific wake-up call: the killing of his brother by a rival gang. The incident had served to alter Gavin’s worldview for good and for all, and once bloody retribution had been exacted on Clyde’s murderer, he left the gang and set to plotting his future course. There had been a certain sentimentality to serving on board a ship that appealed to Gavin’s sense of familial pride.
So he had gotten himself a proper job and focused his efforts in school. He had excelled; attended the College of Glasgow Nautical Studies. There he attained his master’s degree in criminology. When the opportunity with Fiesta came around, he had jumped at it.
He had served on several ships throughout the years, made a good run of it; proved himself to be tenacious and resilient, and somewhere along the way he had gotten married and had two kids…
Now here he was, just a few short weeks from returning home after a six-month absence. If the proper stars aligned, it was Gavin’s dear wish that he would stay home a bit longer than circumstances had allowed over the last several years. In fact, he hoped it wouldn’t be too long before he might stay for good. The sea was just about done with him, and he with it.
Or so he thought. As he stood now with other crewmembers around a paper-littered table, listening to the somber conversation between the chief, Armando Alisante, and Captain Gentili, he wondered if perhaps the sea wasn’t quite done with him just yet.
Not only were they all awaiting a report from Poonyeah regarding the possible animal on board, but the storm was shaping up to be a real piece of work—powerful enough that the Chief was notifying the captain of his intention to fold in the ship’s stabilizers. The resulting increase in the vessel’s rolling motion might cause seasickness among some passengers, but the squall was likely to be on top of them in less than a half hour, and the Chief wasn’t keen on risking damage to the valuable and expensive apparatus. It was the Chief’s way of battening down the hatches.
The Rapture’s inability to steer a course that would allow for the waves to hit the side of the vessel rather than straight-on added to their overall misfortune. The ship would not only be rolling something fierce, but pitching like hell as well.
With the storm fast approaching, the best option was to make for Ketchikan as quickly as possible. At full thrusters Chief Alisante estimated they could reach the island within three hours.
The navigating bridge was a long, transverse viewing and operations station mounted at the bow of the ship, jutting out on both port and starboard sides. The entirety of the outside perimeter consisted of large square windows, angled down and in so that the occupants might view not only what lay ahead, but also whatever was taking place beneath.
Gavin glanced to a nearby screen at a satellite image of the supercell storm. He then walked to the observation windows and looked out. There were flashes strobing through the roiling, blackened sky, and below and to the fore, the frothing waves cast spi
ndrift high up over the bow.
Suddenly Poonyeah’s urgent voice broke through on the two-way. Gavin’s eyes widened. First of all, Poonyeah’s voice never sounded urgent; second, he was blurting one of the ship’s codes, used in emergency radio transmissions…
The code for multiple fatalities.
Chapter Fourteen
Poonyeah had thought a bomb went off, such had been the force of the cabin door blasting apart. A dark shape then hurtled into Rishav, who had just joined the security force last year.
The force of the impact had slammed the young man into the bulkhead. The hairy thing on top of him then bit down on his neck and twisted. There had been a wet, crunching sound, and the beast stood.
Throughout the course of his violent life, Poonyeah had been confronted with death many times. But what stood before him now was some creature out of legend, a scary folktale come to life. Poonyeah had never feared pain or his own demise, but what sensation other than terror might a man experience, when faced with a thing that simply should not exist? He stood rooted to the spot, mouth open. There were parts of the beast that looked still vaguely human, but the eyes that glared at him, they were most assuredly the eyes of a wolf.
Just ahead and to Poonyeah’s right, a cabin door opened. The heavyset lady took one look at the expression on Poonyeah’s face and the eighteen-inch blade held in his shaky right hand, squeaked, and shut the door.
Whirling at the wolf’s side, brave Sanjay collected his wits, cried out and drove his khukuri in between the beast’s ribs and upward toward its heart. The creature reached back with its left hand to hold Sanjay in place as it spun, whipped out its right hand, and with its thumb impaled Sanjay’s skull through the left eye. The other fingers of that hand gripped the left side of Sanjay’s head and flung him. He flew backward over the still form of Rishav and landed in a heap at the base of a cabin door. With the handle of Sanjay’s blade still jutting from its left flank, the beast looked over its shoulder at Chandra.
Act, now, move!
Poonyeah gathered himself and rushed forward. With a speed that belied his larger size, Chandra dropped and sliced down through the Achilles tendon on the creature’s left leg. The beast yelped and lashed downward with a backhand that sent Chandra careening down the corridor.
At the same time the wolf was swiping at Chandra, Poonyeah uttered a yell in his native tongue and leaped over the body of Rishav, arm cocked for a slashing attack down and across the beast’s neck. Incredibly, just after the wolf backhanded Chandra, without even looking, its right hand flew and clamped around Poonyeah’s neck, catching him in midair.
The wolf turned to the security officer, regarded him with its lustrous, almost hypnotic eyes, and bared its crimson-coated fangs. Blood matted the fur of its muzzle and its nose. Poonyeah was sure that he was staring into the face of death, and he prepared himself for the end. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a human form appeared on the beast’s back. It was Chandra, who had hopped up and locked his legs around the wolf’s torso, his left arm under the armpit of the creature, his right hand snaking around for a position from which to slit its throat.
The wolf dropped Poonyeah even as Chandra completed the slicing motion. Bleeding from its neck, the beast reached down and with its right hand seized Chandra’s left ankle. The creature turned, close enough to the bulkhead that Chandra couldn’t turn with it; the wolf rotated to a position facing Chandra and with its left hand took hold of Chandra’s right ankle. The wound across its throat had closed, and though not fully healed, was no longer gushing blood. The wolf stepped out, spinning, dropping Chandra onto the floor. Then with magnificent force it hefted him up by the legs so that his entire upper body slammed into the square ceiling lighting fixture. The plastic covering shattered and the fluorescents inside exploded. Sparks flew as Chandra’s body fell limply onto Poonyeah’s legs.
It was then that Rajan returned, stepping through the door marked Crew Only, carrying a thick white net. Poonyeah yelled for the man to run, but it was too late.
The Achilles tendon slash dealt by Chandra had produced little effect; the wolf had no trouble covering the distance to the crew door in one leap, driving forward even as its head lunged down and sideways. It locked massive jaws on Rajan’s neck, and the two disappeared from Poonyeah’s sight. A second later Rajan’s head sailed through the opening to bounce off the opposite bulkhead just before the crew door closed.
***
While escorting her to her room, the security officer Chandra had asked Ginny a few questions, which she was fairly certain she answered unintelligibly. Her mind had been stuck in an infinite feedback loop focused on one single image: the Chewbacca-like thing she had seen inside Brandon’s cabin. After a few minutes Chandra had received a call on his radio and told Ginny to stay in her room, that he would be back to talk to her again.
She sat on the edge of her bed now, knees pressed tightly together, head in her hands. The image played and replayed, along with Brandon’s voice: These pills are the only things that prevent me from becoming a beast once a month. An apex predator. An unthinking, unfeeling, raw force of nature.
Her rational brain simply wouldn’t allow for the existence of werewolves. Or vampires or Loch Ness Monsters or Yetis or any of that shit. It didn’t make sense.
But you saw it. If you can’t trust your eyes, what can you trust?
I saw something. Something I can’t explain.
She expected to hear some kind of announcement over the speakers at any moment. The more she waited, the more she felt the undeniable urge to go back. To see for herself. Answer the question once and for all.
And if he’s really a werewolf, you’re going to, what? Swat him on the nose with a newspaper?
Stay put.
Ginny got up. Poured a glass of water. Set it down without drinking. Paced. Sat on the bed. She kept thinking… what about that other guy? Who the fuck was he? Did he do something to Brandon? If so, why?
Too many questions, not enough answers. Ginny snatched the room key from her nightstand and bolted toward the door.
I have to know.
***
The bones hadn’t broken through the skin. That was good.
Alexander was sitting on a hospital bed in a little room packed with medical equipment. The physician feeling his forearm was from the Ukraine—Yuri Vovchenkin—and was asking about Alexander’s medical history.
The Nepalese man, Sanjay, had received a radio summons and departed swiftly. He had been asking questions as well: who Alexander was, why he was in the room, what had happened… given the circumstances, the hunter had found it prudent to feign relative incoherence and mild shock. He had mumbled something about a strange man pulling him into a cabin, just to appease his interrogator for the time being. He needed to recover enough presence of mind to formulate a new strategy. His quarry was, it now seemed abundantly clear, shifting form. Exactly how that situation came to be would bear scrutiny at a later time. What was of paramount importance at this particular time was terminating the beast before all hell broke loose.
“We’ll get some x-rays, then have you check in at the medical clinic in Ketchikan,” the helpful physician said. “You wait here, please.”
Alexander had already been examining the room to observe where certain items were located. He hadn’t seen what he needed yet, but a quick search of nearby cabinets yielded a forearm splint. He didn’t have time to search for a sling, and pain medication was something he had quite an abundance of… though more often than not, he preferred to forego such medicines. Pain was both a reminder of costly errors and an affirmation of life. Just as scars were testaments to a worthy existence.
The nonplussed nurse stammered, “Sir?” as Alexander made his way out. The infirmary was on deck A, below deck one, near the forward aperture where passengers disembarked while the Rapture was in port. With the cobwebs now mostly cleared from his head, Alexander bounded up the metal stairs until he reached deck one. He then opted for the neare
st elevator. Inside he strapped the splint onto his left arm…
And seconds later, stepped off at deck four and proceeded to his room. There he retrieved the duffel bag that harbored his hunting equipment. He inserted a pre-loaded magazine in the rifle, dumped the rest of the silver bullets into his pocket and grabbed the satellite phone, which he dreaded answering when news of the situation reached his father and the Network. The security officers were probably already dead. He would know soon just how far things had devolved. Alexander stuffed the rifle back in the duffel bag, slung it over his good shoulder and made his way to the stairs, where he began descending to deck one.
***
For the moment, Poonyeah had to put all questions, all doubts, out of his mind. It did not matter that he was facing a mythical creature that should not exist. He must trust his own senses and believe that it did exist; once this was accepted, his mind was freed to focus on the greatest priority: protecting the passengers. Poonyeah radioed officer Findlay with the code for multiple fatalities, even as he tore after the wolf.
Security Chief Findlay asked for a count—meaning how many casualties. Poonyeah replied, “Four. Zone three. The animal’s heading for the I-95.” The creature had entered the crew stairwell and was descending toward the I-95—a long, single walkway that ran the entire length of the ship from bow to stern, used by the crew to access all other areas of the vessel. There would be staff members and officers throughout the I-95, entering or leaving cabins, traveling from one area of the ship to another, shuttling laundry bins or eating dinner in the mess.
Poonyeah maintained radio contact as he tried desperately to catch up to the beast, but the animal-man was incredibly fast, leaping stairs an entire flight at a time. It was down and onto the I-95 before any warning could be given.
The Turning (Book 1) Page 16
