The Turning

by Micky Neilson

  So he’s a werewolf?

  That was a tough leap to make. What was clear any way you cut it was that Brandon was sick; he needed help. She considered simply calling the guest services desk or the infirmary or security, but trying to explain to someone on the phone just didn’t seem right. So instead of curling up on her bed and crying, when Brandon left, she went out to the glass elevators and down to the guest services desk.

  There she briefly explained that she feared for the safety of a fellow passenger. The lady at the desk immediately called for a security officer. Two minutes later Ginny was sitting near the piano bar across from the chief security officer, a stout but short man named Poonyeah who appeared to be in his late thirties.

  He would have had a rough time of it in my high school, with a name like that.

  He had a kind of olive complexion and his features looked like a mix between Asian and Indian. Each cruise ship employee had their home country on their nametag. Poonyeah’s said “Nepal.” Ginny didn’t know much about Nepal, but this guy radiated certainty, like he could kick some serious ass if he needed to.

  As Ginny recounted how she met Brandon and how he seemed normal even though maybe he had a shady past, she felt like some kind of turncoat. As if she were betraying him.

  This is for his own good. Besides, he’s the one who said he should be locked up.

  “But then he started to act strange, and I think he… I think maybe he’s delusional. Maybe he’s supposed to be on some kind of medication and either the medication isn’t working or he’s got the wrong pills. I don’t know but I’m just afraid he might hurt himself or someone else.”

  Poonyeah had been taking notes, listening carefully, nodding.

  “Did he strike you or threaten you in any way?” Poonyeah asked.

  “He was just… I don’t know, looming, yelling, acting generally threatening.” She felt like shit for saying it, but it was true.

  “What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Brand—Eric. The name on his Sail Away card is Eric Milius.” She could have said more, about his real name… or at least what he claimed his real name was, but she decided not to, at least for now.

  Poonyeah withdrew a small two-way radio from his belt and keyed it. “Need location for passenger Eric Milius, possibly dangerous, over.” He let off the mic and asked: “Cabin number?”

  Ginny did start crying now. What were they going to do to him? Would they arrest him? Did they even have a jail cell on board? “Deck one… it’s an inside room, one-one-four something…”

  A voice issued from the two-way: “Roger that.”

  Poonyeah hit the mic button again. “Cabin is on deck one. I’ll get the number.”

  She gave Poonyeah her cabin number, explaining that he might return there. “Wait here a moment,” he said and walked back to the guest services desk. Ginny couldn’t help but wonder if she had made a big mistake, but what else could she do? The man she had met, the man she had thought maybe she was falling in love with, was a lie. This other man, the one he had become, was dangerous.

  Poonyeah returned two minutes later and said that his assistant chief security officer had checked Eric’s cabin but he was not there. He told her that someone would escort her back to her room. She said no, she wasn’t ready to go back just yet. The man nodded his understanding and said that if she got back and Eric returned, to call security. He then departed to file a report with the ship security officer.

  Ginny sat, peering out a starboard window. Outside, it had darkened; the storm was close.

  ***

  The part of him that was Brandon receded. The part of him that was the real Brandon was no longer making decisions. The other part of him was slowly awakening, stretching its legs.

  The image that replayed over and over in his mind now was the areola of the blonde in the casino. The front of his jeans bulged with the force of his lust. He moved more quickly, rounding the corner from the stairs on deck three, walking purposefully into the casino, up to the bar, grabbing the hand of the blonde in the low-cut dress, and pulling her away as her gaggle of companions whooped and cheered.

  One minute later they were in Brandon’s room, French kissing against the wall. No words were exchanged; none were needed. He didn’t bother to take off his shoes, simply dropped his pants and underwear, yanked her dress up over her head, and ripped off her panties. This last action elicited a squeal of delight from the blonde. He lifted her under the arms, pressed her back against the wall, flicked his tongue over her nipples, then faced her, probed with his penis until he located her pussy and thrust himself inside. She grunted, then moaned, open-mouthed, as Brandon began to pound relentlessly.

  Fuck her…

  The blonde closed her eyes, turned her head, bit her lip. As Brandon continued to hammer away, she moaned loudly and cried, “That’s it! That’s it! Nail me to the fucking wall!”

  Fuck her till she bleeds.

  Her neck was exposed. Saliva was pouring from Brandon’s mouth. He ran his tongue over the extended sternomastoid, opened his mouth… and froze. For the briefest instant, the real Brandon resurfaced, just enough to understand and be repulsed by what he was about to do.

  He withdrew from her violently, dropped her to the floor, stumbled back and sat on the bed. “Get out,” he said, and his voice was sandpaper on granite. The blonde stared at him wide-eyed, her eyes not leaving him as she fumbled back into her dress.

  “You got some real fuckin’ problems, asshole, you know that?”

  She backed her way to the door, still staring. “Fuck it, I came anyway. You can finish yourself off.”

  And with that, she left.

  The current was threatening to pull Brandon back under. He sat, back straight, and closed his eyes, his heart racing.

  As his focus shifted inward, he was transported to another time and place: a vast, sprawling land of fen and glade, biting wind and shadowed dale, and beneath all a thrumming, rhythmic drumbeat that mimicked the thumping of his own heart. His mind’s eye sailed over marsh and murky wood, to rise and soar and settle before a towering peak. There a great conflagration blazed as lithe, pale, naked bodies danced and writhed. One among them lingered apart, swaying trance-like. One by one the others fell to the ground, seized and rocked and transformed, man and woman to beast, all save for the one who drunkenly swooned and remained in human form. As one, the beasts fell upon the lone figure and rent it till naught remained but bloody ruin.

  A chanting voice, insistent yet unintelligible, rose and pierced the scene. Slowly, awareness of the words, despite their inscrutability, dawned; it was a single phrase repeated over and over: “The Far Reaching One is bound by the Lady of Sorrow.”

  Little by little, Brandon returned to himself, and for the moment at least, the real Brandon was at the helm. He repositioned himself so he was sitting before the coffee table, leaned over and plucked up a pen. On a piece of blank paper atop the table he wrote: “The Far Reaching One is bound by the Lady of Sorrow.”

  Suddenly his stomach twisted. Brandon rushed to the bathroom and emptied his bowels, though what he evacuated was almost exclusively liquid. After flushing he went and stared at the thing in the mirror. Fine hairs stretched up his face from his beard to just under his eyes. Thicker hair trailed down his neck, across his chest and shoulders, down his arms and legs and tangled thickly toward his crotch. His eyes were golden. The aching in his muscles had deepened now to his bones. His teeth had lengthened and the canines had grown sharper. Though he felt just a bit taller, he was stooped, his spine arched slightly. The thing in the mirror was something he hadn’t seen in a long time.

  You’re turning, the remaining part of what was the real Brandon said.

  Call… him. Ghost. Call Ghost again.

  Brandon plodded out, picked up the room phone and dialed the number.

  On the third ring someone picked up, and a sleepy voice said: “Hey B, what’s up?”

  Brandon’s own voice sounded foreign. It was a
husky, low rumble: “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “Had some shit to deal with, man. One of my distribution sites got raided by the fuckin’ DEA.”

  “The pills aren’t working. Smells, noises, it’s like when the change is coming over me.”

  Ghost started to wake up a bit. “Yeah, about that… I wanted to tell you but it would have fucked up the study…”

  “What study?”

  “Man, you don’t sound so good. Look, it’s what we call a blind study. It means you don’t know exactly what you’re getting.”

  “I’m on a ship.” Brandon’s voice was starting to sound detached, as if it no longer belonged to him.

  He heard Ghost sit up. “What? What ship?”

  “A cruise ship. To Alaska.”

  “Where’s Celine?”

  Brandon’s voice dropped even further. “Dead.”

  There was silence on the other end for a long moment. Ghost’s voice was devoid of emotion when he answered:

  “How?”

  “Accident. Tell me what’s going on with the pills.”

  There was another long moment of silence, some shuffling, followed by the tap-tap-tap of keys being punched on a keyboard. Ghost cleared his throat and said “How many’d you take?”

  “Six, eight… I don’t know. I lost count. Tell me what the fuck is happening.”

  Ghost stopped typing. “You’re on the Rapture, huh? Jesus Christ, you’re supposed to be in the middle of the fucking woods! And Celine—Jesus Christ, Celine…”

  Brandon could hear voices in the hall, and beyond, throughout the deck, behind closed doors. He could smell the disinfectants and cleaning products used by the cabin steward. His head felt as if it would split apart at any second.

  There was silence for a moment, then: “Bro, you need to listen and listen close, okay? There are people with your… condition who pay good money for pills to keep them from becoming the wolf, right?”

  Brandon waited.

  “But there are other people with your condition… lots of ’em, who are willing to pay even more… to become the wolf whenever they want.”

  Brandon felt as if the ground had been ripped out from beneath him. He dropped down onto the bed and lay his forehead on his hand. He could feel the last vestiges of his mind slipping away…

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying… that if those pills do what the fuck I think they’re gonna do, you will turn… on a ship full of about four thousand people.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ghost continued: “Somethin’ like this had to happen eventually. At some point, some… public shit was bound to go down. Maybe it’s for the best.”

  Brandon was spitting words now through clenched teeth. “The best? Are you fucking sick?”

  “There’s plenty you don’t know, bro. You’ve had your head buried in the sand for years. Completely out of touch. There are people out there who know fuckers like you exist. More and more, and let’s just say they’re not all that thrilled about it. They are well funded and well connected. I don’t even know how high it goes but I’m lookin’ into it. Those pills I told you about… well, you could look at ’em as another weapon in the arms race.”

  Brandon was shaking uncontrollably. “I didn’t ask to be part of your fucking arms race! No one on this ship did. This is on you… whatever happens next, is on YOU. If I get through this… I’ll find you and I’ll take you apart. You hear me? I’ll fuckin’—”

  “They call me Ghost for a reason, B,” was Ghost’s answer before he ended the call.

  The plastic handset split under the force of Brandon’s grip. He forced himself to ease his hold and dialed the guest services desk. The real Brandon was holding on, just barely, but he knew that it was now just a matter of moments before he was swept under again. This time for good.

  “Guest services, how may I assist?” the voice asked in an Eastern European accent.

  “First, I want you to go take a message, for Ginny Bowman.”

  “Ookay, one moment.” Silence, then: “Go ahead.”

  “Tell her that I’m sorry. And tell her… tell her that she showed me how to love again.”

  Brandon heard typing. “Okay, yes, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  “Yes.” Brandon’s voice was a guttural snarl. “I am a danger… to others and myself. I need you to send security to my room and I need you to lock me up. I need you to do this as quickly as possible.”

  The current was pulling him under again. Very soon now the real Brandon would be taking his final breaths. Stunned silence hung on the other end of the line. “Do you understand me?” Brandon asked.

  The woman sounded unsure. “Yes… yes, sir, I understand. Right away.”

  Just as Brandon hung up the phone there was a knock at the door.

  If it’s…

  Feed.

  Ginny. Maybe I can tell her I’m sorry and then tell her to leave.

  Blood is life.

  Maybe I can—

  But if it was Ginny, why couldn’t he smell her? In fact, he couldn’t smell much of anything beyond a faint scent of toothpaste…

  Brandon opened the door to see the man who had insulted him at the piano bar. The stranger was wearing gloves, holding a folded plastic bag in his left hand and something else in his right; it was a gun, leveled at his torso, and before Brandon could react, the man fired. There was a burning sensation in his stomach. Brandon looked down to see a dart, quickly joined by a second. The man shoved him backward, hard, and fired a third dart. Brandon stumbled and fell onto his side as the stranger stepped into the room and closed and locked the door.

  ***

  After speaking to the security agent, Ginny had taken a seat at the bar and ordered a drink. No amount of alcohol, however, was going to help make sense of the David Lynch film her life had suddenly become.

  Images continued to play in a loop through her mind: Brandon’s eyes, his looming, suddenly larger figure standing over her. She thought of his uncanny hair growth, of his insatiable appetite, his freakish speed in ping pong. Was his condition… what was it called, psychosomatic? Had his delusions somehow brought about physical manifestations?

  He was unstable. He had to be. The alternative was unthinkable. Her rational mind wouldn’t allow for the existence of it. She was good with numbers, logic, order. A place for everything and everything in its place. Ghouls and goblins and werewolves and vampires had their place, yes: in the pages of books and on movie theater and television screens.

  Brandon’s unexplainable behavior aside, the two of them had shared something. A connection. Not something that could be proven via scientific method, not an equation, something intangible but… real. What she had felt for him was real. And the longer she sat and thought about it, the more she understood that what she still felt for him was real. It simply was. There could be no more denying it. Maybe he was damaged; maybe his mind was broken. But she couldn’t ignore her heart, and what her heart was telling her now, over and over:

  He needs you.

  What could she possibly do? She wasn’t a doctor. Let the professionals handle it. Even as she downed her drink she realized that wasn’t going to happen. She had to know more. She needed answers. She couldn’t just turn her back on him and pretend none of this ever happened. Maybe at one time that would have been the case, but not anymore. She was taking control of her life, and somehow, she knew, this was all a part of it.

  Well, shit.

  Without any real plan to speak of other than finding Brandon, Ginny downed the rest of her whiskey and Coke and set off.

  ***

  Alexander’s foremost concern had been the possibility of having to dispatch both of them.

  As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. He had been prepared to wait outside the hussy’s room for hours. If his quarry had decided to spend the night, he would have knocked, and if the slut had answered, he would have gutted her immediately and then tranquilized the target.
If the target had answered, he would have tranquilized him and swept into the room fast enough to hopefully slice the woman’s throat before she screamed. Tricky. Not impossible, but tricky. Due to the increased risk, however, it was Alexander’s preference that he not be forced to eliminate both the man and the woman; killing one person on board would present challenge enough.

  The evening seemed to have unfolded to his benefit: not long after they had entered the girl’s room, the target exited and was met with and whisked away by an exceedingly intoxicated female, who had led him to the casino bar, where the frisky Romeo snogged another inebriate, had what one might interpret as an attack of conscience, returned to his companion’s cabin to find her missing, then decided casual sex with a stranger wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  Alexander had taken the opportunity to make final preparations. He wore a second layer of clothing—that which had been sealed in plastic and packed with the other items in the duffel bag; clothes that, as with all that he had brought with him, had been washed in special detergents so as not to give off any odor. When his work was complete, Alexander would shed the outer layer of clothing, which was likely to have blood on it, and deposit the soiled laundry, along with the murder weapon, into the heavy, opaque plastic bag he carried with him. Back at his room he would weigh the bag down and throw it overboard.

  Covering himself in masking scent, donning his clothes, and retrieving the blade and tranq gun had taken less than ten minutes. Shortly after Alexander had returned to the end of the target’s hallway, the frazzled floozy had speedily departed. The hunter had then waited patiently for foot traffic in the hall to die out.

  Now, after shutting and locking the target’s door, Alexander laid the tranquilizer gun and the plastic bag on the small couch just past the short foyer. The room was small: one tiny bed, limited counter space, and a square depression that looked like it was supposed to represent a window against the far wall. The only light was cast from a lamp atop the narrow nightstand next to the bed. The hunter dragged his prey further into the room, alongside a tiny oval coffee table, which he threw onto the bed and out of the way. The target had tried to sit up, was fighting the sedatives, but it was most assuredly a losing battle. Alexander had used enough of his special concoction to fell an elephant. After a brief bout of resistance his quarry fell back onto its side.