The Turning

by Micky Neilson

  There had always been something inside of Alonso, a hair-trigger that went off and put plenty of shit-talking punks in their place. He was always in “fight” mode. There was no flight. With a barbaric yell he finally summoned his muscles to action. His thick arms shot out and his ape-like hands clamped on the thing’s neck. The two of them spun in the small space. Alonso stumbled on the body of the Mom but he held his grip on the throat of the animal that stood easily a foot taller than him. Both of them tripped on the body of the headless kid but regained their balance as Alonso drove all of his weight forward and succeeded in forcing the beast out of the elevator.

  ***

  It was impossible. The sight which greeted Petty Officer Dominguez upon stepping around the elevator lobby corner, shotgun held before him, was simply impossible. He had found what was left of Ocampo and the remains of what had apparently been a passenger in cabin seven two three zero. Dominguez had been just about to radio in his discovery when he heard the screams. He had come running and now he was faced with something straight out of a late-night horror flick.

  Dominguez stood and watched, mouth open, shotgun slowly descending.

  A tall, muscular man in an orange tank top and baggy workout pants had his left hand around the neck of… something. It was taller than the muscleman by a good foot and a half, and it looked like a dog. A thickly-muscled dog walking upright like a man, its dark fur sleek and wet in some places, matted and clumped in others.

  The muscleman was driving the dog thing back and punching it repeatedly in the left side of its head. The Coast Guard motto was “Always Ready.” How the fuck could anyone be ready for something like this?

  You’ve been drugged. Some aerosolized drug got piped into the ventilation system and you’re hallucinating.

  Yeah, of course. Sounded a whole lot better than any other alternative Dominguez could come up with.

  Okay, so are you just going to stand and watch?

  “You two! Down on the ground now!” Dominguez shouted in his loudest, most authoritative voice… and received absolutely no reaction.

  Then the dog thing turned its head and closed its jaws on Muscleman’s wrist, timing the incoming punch of the right hand perfectly. It bit down. There was a series of loud cracks and a wailing scream from Muscleman. The dog rolled its muzzle back and forth clockwise and counterclockwise quickly and then whipped its head away, taking the still-closed fist with it. Muscleman dropped to his knees, bawling, left hand clutching the right arm just beneath the stump.

  Petty Officer Dryer entered the scene then, from the opposite side of the elevator lobby. He stopped also, staring wide-eyed at the shit going down before him, and Dominguez wondered if he looked as stupid when he first saw the dog as Dryer looked now.

  Muscleman was bent forward, blood dripping from his shattered wrist onto the carpet. The dog leaned, growling, reached out, grasped the man’s head in its massive… paw? Hand? And twisted until the man’s horror-stricken features were facing the ceiling.

  Dryer was the first to completely gather his wits. He looked quickly at Dominguez, positioned himself so his teammate would not be in the line of fire, approached the dog at point blank range, and…

  Before he could fire, the beast moved unnaturally fast, discarding Muscleman and lunged, its clawed hands seizing the shotgun and yanking it from Dryer’s grasp, throwing it into the closest elevator doors. Dryer immediately drew his sidearm, backpedaling. The beast advanced as Dominguez stepped forward, yelling, “No! Hey! Here, look here!”

  Dominguez couldn’t fire the shotgun with the dog this close to Dryer. “Dryer, get clear!”

  Dryer leveled his pistol at the thing’s head. The dog’s left hand shot out and across, seizing the gun-hand at the wrist. The animal stepped back and yanked the arm in the opposite direction, ripping it nearly free of the shoulder socket. Strands of tendon still held it, but just barely. One more tug from the animal and the tendons snapped like rubber bands. The thing discarded the limb and lunged in, chomping down on the left side of Dryer’s neck.

  “Sonofabitch!” Dominguez shouted, firing the shotgun. The dog let go of Dryer as Dominguez racked the shotgun. It took one look at him and then ran in the opposite direction, around the glass elevator bank and toward the fore of the ship.

  Dominguez followed.

  ***

  The ship was now docked and tied off. Ketchikan firefighters were on board and being led by Chief Alisante and the Red Team to the aft engine room.

  On the heels of the firefighters’ arrival the Ketchikan Coasties escorted the passengers who had been in the theater to the ship’s rear hatch to await disembarkation. Given the unknown status of Ocampo, the order had once again been given that all passengers excepting the possible heart attack victim were to be held pending an all-clear. Local law enforcement was standing by if needed, but for now everything taking place on the ship was still under the jurisdiction of Homeland Security, and by extension Customs and the US Coast Guard.

  And so far they had done a terrible job of shouldering that responsibility. What really shook Lieutenant Blackwell was the fact that he still had no clear idea of what they were dealing with. He had never in all his years of service seen or heard of anything like the situation they now found themselves in.

  Just then a frantic voice shouted through the lieutenant’s radio: “This is… Bravo Three. We’ve lost Brav—fucking Dryer! Repeat, we’ve lost Dryer AND Ocampo! I’m in pursuit of whatever this thing is, heading forward on deck seven, port.” In between the words were sounds of exertion. Dominguez was running. And he sounded completely terrified.

  The bridge fell silent.

  Tony was stunned. Ocampo was… dead? Dryer as well? On top of that, Dominguez sounded like he was about to lose his marbles. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. The animal was eliminated. Ocampo had said the animal was eliminated…

  Pull it together.

  All eyes were on Tony. Sweat was running from his crew-cut hair down onto his face. He swallowed and punched the talk button. “All Away Team personnel close on deck seven forward.” He made a very conscious effort to keep the fear he was feeling from creeping into his voice. He needed to be a rock, for his team, for everyone on this ship. “Watch each other’s backs,” he continued. “Be advised there may be enemy personnel in play. Keep your heads on straight and put an end to this. Out.” He didn’t say “over” because he didn’t want them to waste time responding to him.

  Although Cutter Liberty had no doubt heard the radio communications, Tony sent them a very clear message as well: “Cutter Liberty, this is Away Team requesting additional personnel. I have two officers down and I need whatever help you can send me. Over.”

  There was silence, followed by:

  “Roger Away Team, stand by,” came the reply.

  Tony considered calling the men back to the bridge until backup arrived, but lives were still in danger as long as that thing was loose, and no one was leaving the ship until it was taken out.

  But maybe it’s not too late to save at least one life.

  Tony got back on the radio: “Petty Officer Taormina, you are clear to disembark your passenger. Repeat, clear to disembark.”

  Tony looked around at the faces and into the sympathetic eyes of the Rapture crew. No one knew what to say or what to do. And so they waited.

  ***

  Alive. He’s still alive.

  Ginny felt sickened that despite all he had done, there was some tucked away corner of her soul that was glad to hear the news of Brandon’s survival.

  There’s no fixing this. Any of it.

  It was true; there was no fixing the mess he had made, but she still held out hope that maybe there was a way to fix him.

  A frenzied voice came over Taormina’s radio saying that they lost some men, that they were pursuing the animal on deck seven. Taormina didn’t try to mask his shock at the mention of his teammates’ deaths, but he quickly glanced over at Ginny and regained compo
sure, as if he’d reminded himself that he must be stalwart, even in the face of the unthinkable.

  “I’m sorry,” Ginny offered. Taormina simply nodded and went about checking Vera’s vitals again. Moments later another voice, the one Ginny had come to recognize as the guy in charge, said that Taormina was clear to disembark his passenger. The guardsman leveled his ice-chip eyes once more at Ginny.

  He left the room without a word, and returned shortly thereafter with a ship’s crew jacket and gloves, which he held toward her.

  “Found these. Go ahead and put them on.”

  “What? Why?” she blurted.

  “It’s gonna be cold out there.”

  “But—”

  Taormina thrust the jacket and gloves into her hands. “As long as that thing’s still running around, I’m not leaving you here alone. And I have no intention of letting anyone else die on board this ship.”

  Ginny looked down at the items, then started slipping on the gloves.

  Once she had gotten on the jacket, Taormina positioned himself near Vera’s head and said, “Help me wheel her out.”

  ***

  Dominguez heard a shotgun blast just ahead. He had raced down the next long section of hallway on port side, deck seven. As he rounded the corner to the next elevator lobby, he saw Electrician’s Mate Second Class Marston bolting up the stairs onto seven and continuing upward toward eight. Dominguez fell in behind him.

  “Pursuing to deck eight,” Dominguez radioed. He heard movement behind him and looked back to see Boatswain’s Mate Third Class Carmine. The two men continued on.

  Marston hit deck eight and didn’t stop. Dominguez followed.

  “Deck nine…”

  On nine Dominguez broke from the staircase and proceeded through the automatic doors out onto the main pool deck. Snow fell softly onto the retractable “sky dome,” the glass roof above him. There was a pool and circular spa in the center of the large space, surrounded by tables and chairs.

  The pool and spa combo backed up against the Bon Voyage Bar which normally served drinks on either side of a clear partition that bisected the sun deck. Through another set of automatic doors Dominguez arrived at a pool and spa that mirrored that which he just passed.

  Here Petty Officer Marston was stopped near the pool, looking down at a severed radio cord and transmitter. Just over the short wall that bounded the pool, a shotgun lay submerged in what little water was left after the tossing of the storm.

  Marston reported: “This is Petty Officer Marston. Evidence of an attack on one of our own. A shotgun, radio…”

  Bangan arrived on the scene, followed by Lorenzen and Becket. At that moment three small-arm gunshots rang out from further forward of their position.

  “Shots fired, forward on nine. Evidence of blood. Alpha Three is our missing guardsman,” Marston concluded heavily.

  As the second in command, Chief Warrant Officer Bangan moved to a lead position, raised his shotgun in the direction of the spa and called over his shoulder. “I’ve got point.”

  The team “stacked” into a tight line behind Bangan. Dominguez fell third in line, weapon oriented to the port side. He waited for the shoulder squeeze of the man behind him and then squeezed the shoulder of Marston with his non-firing hand to indicate his readiness. Marston repeated this action with Bangan and the team set off.

  Bangan led the team forward through the automatic doors to the port side of a bulkhead that demarcated the enclosed forward section of deck nine. Doorways were known as “fatal funnels,” the point of entry where any shooter could pluck off the members one by one. The objective was to clear the fatal funnel as quickly as possible, which Bangan did, rushing in and charging forward. Marston trained his weapon and moved to the right of Bangan, ready to acquire a target. Dominguez did the same to the left side.

  Within seconds all six members had entered, accounted for individual areas of responsibility and cleared the elevator and stair lobby. Just ahead of them in the center of the space was an open entry to the spa, with its many beauty stations—chairs set before lighted mirrors in a small horseshoe configuration. Bangan, Marston and Dominguez cleared the spa in seconds and rejoined the team in the lobby.

  There were droplets of blood on the carpet leading to the port side and men’s entry to the sauna and steam rooms. A bloody hand print coated the large button to the left of the threshold, and the fire door there was open. The team immediately re-stacked; as they did so two more gunshots sounded from beyond the door.

  “Shots fired. Proceeding to sauna port side,” Bangan reported. He pointed to Carmine, then indicated the closed fire door at the starboard, women’s side entry to the sauna.

  Carmine nodded and took up a position beside the door. Dominguez understood: the steam rooms, sauna massage rooms and gymnasium all occupied the forward-most section of deck nine; like the spa, the facilities were configured in a horseshoe shape. By taking a post near the other door, Carmine could cover the animal’s only other means of escape.

  Now it was time for close-quarter room clearing. Bangan led the way as the team rapidly breached the sauna entry. As they did so an agonized cry intensified before being cut violently short.

  The team quickly filed into the tighter passageway. Bangan kicked in the door of the first massage room to their right. He and Marston entered and cleared the small space while the others covered the hall. This process was repeated with the next massage room; then it was on to the swing-door for the men’s room on their left.

  Bangan was the first one through. The first half of the room where the team gained entry housed two toilet stalls to the right side and a row of sinks to the left. The second half of the room featured a host of lockers and a single bench.

  Deposited onto the counter and sinks was the body of Damage Control Third Class Didier. The presence and proximity of his mangled form had activated the automatic faucets, which ran continuously and were overflowing onto the tile floor, mingling with Didier’s blood.

  Marston had stopped near the corpse and was barking into his mic: “We’ve lost Alpha Three. Repeat, Alpha Three’s down. Deck nine sauna men’s room.”

  Dominguez fought hard to keep the contents of his stomach in place. There was a bloody void extending from Didier’s crotch halfway up his stomach. His left leg cocked sideways, hanging over the counter, attached at the hip by a few strands of ligament.

  Jesus, he got his balls chewed off.

  Didier’s firearm was lying on the floor. His right hand was mangled, and in his left he clutched an opened lockback knife.

  A noise of frustration and borderline hysteria burbled from Bangan’s throat. He kicked open both stall doors, finding nothing. Lorenzen entered and took a position at the corner leading to the lockers after looking at Didier and quickly looking away. Becket maintained his spot outside the men’s room door, covering the hallway.

  When Lorenzen moved forward to clear the locker space, all Dominguez saw was a dark blur. Lorenzen was a big guy, six-two, two hundred and sixty pounds, but this thing flattened him against the bulkhead like a pancake. Bones crunched. The thing held onto Lorenzen and spun, flinging the guardsman into Dominguez and pinning him to the floor beneath the larger man’s weight. Blood gushed over Dominguez’s face and into his eyes as he felt the chaotic force of Lorenzen being savaged on top of him.

  Next came the deafening report of two shotgun blasts, the sound of the swing door crashing open and then an outcry followed by Bangan shouting, “Are you okay?” to which Dominguez managed: “Yeah, go! Go!”

  ***

  Taormina was leading the way, walking backward, pulling the IV stand with one hand and steering the wheeled bed with the other while Ginny guided the back end. Vera was moaning louder and louder into the oxygen mask.

  There was a mob of passengers thronging the tender access on the port side. Ginny and Taormina passed a Ketchikan Coast Guardsman involved in a heated argument with a dark haired woman who kept repeating, “When the fuck are we getti
ng off this ship?” jabbing her pointer finger closer and closer to the man’s face.

  For a moment Ginny didn’t think the angry horde would let anyone through, but Taormina was forceful, shouting, “Make way! We’ve got a heart attack here!”

  Finally the sea of bodies parted enough for the two of them to maneuver to the open hatch and onto the gangway. A fat bald man yelled, “Hey, why does she get to leave?” and was pushed back by a Fiesta cruise worker.

  The cold hit Ginny like a mac truck. Her face immediately went numb. There was a small madhouse of activity on the Ketchikan dock: emergency medical responders, local law enforcement, more Coast Guard, a large red fire truck, a smaller fire truck and an ambulance. All covered in white powder, all vaguely obscured by the thickening snowfall.

  They had to lift the gurney slightly to get its wheels through the light layer of snow, but they managed.

  The EMTs collapsed the gurney and loaded Vera into the back of the ambulance. Ginny said her own silent goodbye, hoping very much that she would see the old gal again alive and well somewhere down the line.

  Taormina quickly relayed all of the information he had gathered, speaking in a convoluted jargon Ginny didn’t understand. The guardsman did communicate his suspicions regarding “broken heart syndrome” (though he called it something else) but stressed that it was just speculation.

  When he was done, he turned his sky-blue eyes to her and placed one hand on her shoulder, asking, “Are you alright?”

  The ambulance whooped its sirens, flashed its lights and pulled away.

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Ginny said, her breath fogging in the frigid air.