by A. R. Daun
But that was in some future and distant day. Marco looked with disgust at the creature he had struck. It had crumpled to the ground, and both of its legs had been reduced to a soft looking mushy mass, but it was still feebly trying to raise its body off the ground using its muscular arms.
A feeling of rage engulfed Marco and he stepped forward and brought his foot down on the back of the thing's head. He felt a temporary resistance, then it yielded completely to his weight and his foot punched through the skull as easily as a bullet through paper, though the arms kept clawing blindly as if trying to reach its unseen tormentor. Marco continued stomping on it, his rage a white hot searing light that blinded him to everything but this damned thing that wouldn't die.
Something touched his shoulder, and Marco whirled, ready to do battle. Aching to prove himself. Hungering for something to kill, destroy, wipe off the face of the fucking earth.
“It's time to go Lord Marco,” Richard said gently, concern written on his now-youthful face, and Marco realized with a start that the creature was now definitely and undeniably dead, a squashed heap that lay bleeding a black viscous goo at his feet. Marco grinned at him and the others, and his grin grew wider as he saw the young boy and old man recoil from the intensity of his visage. He stepped to one side, the black goop on the sole of his shoe making clear footprints on the non-skid coating of the lifeboat floor, and gestured for the stowaway to take lead. There would be time enough later for him to become ascendant. To take his rightful place in this new and wonderful world that was coming to life around him.
They passed the threshold and crossed back to the Odyssey proper. Behind them the sun dip slowly into the welcoming sea, and they knew that a long night would be following.
CHAPTER 23
Year 1 A.R.
Extract from the journals of Ammara Lewis
I could tell he would be trouble the moment he started addressing the crowd.
We had lasted the night, and as morning came filtered sunlight struggled through the few windows situated high up in the whitewashed walls of the large warehouse. Row upon row of blue-painted racks lined the vast spaces of the building from one end to the other, the wooden pallets that adorned the racks bulging with cardboard and other boxes. Up in the ceiling, high bay LED lighting fixtures scowled back down at us from 30 feet up, though the lack of electricity robbed their accusatory glares of any power. I could also see a couple of bright yellow forklifts in the distance, their silhouettes made insignificant by the spacious surroundings.
I was dozing fitfully when a booming voice rose up and startled me awake. I yawned and stretched, the muscles of my back giving off bolts of pain in protest after spending the night against the hard and unforgiving floor. I could smell myself, a potent mixture of sweat and general body odor from the sudden flight yesterday night, and my throat was dry. I was definitely not in a Mr. Rogers kinda mood, and the pompous sounding voice that blared out was not improving my morning.
I opened my eyes, wiped the eye boogers from said organs to clear them, and saw that the orator was a chubby man in a white polo shirt and brown canvas short pants that reached all the way to his bony knees. His florid face had the constipated look of someone who was a type-A personality, and sweat glistened on his broad forehead, on top of which perched a mop of brown hair that looked too full to be anything but a wig.
He had lawyer written all over him, and he was denouncing the cruise line with a fervor that bordered on manic. The words lawsuit and reckless endangerment and negligence flowed out of him like melted butter on a heated skillet, and he was exhorting everyone to join him in marching back to the ship and confronting the captain. Most of the survivors had by now woken up, and I saw many of them nodding their heads in agreement.
He was trouble alright.
I glanced around, looking for Diwata or Marco, and saw the former huddled in one corner. A young Hispanic-looking kid was curled against her with his head on her lap, and she was tenderly stroking his hair while whispering in his ear. She glanced meaningfully in my direction, and I nodded back. I guess this was my job. I was about to leverage my poor body up when I heard another voice rise up to drown the lawyer's manic tirade, and I saw Marco striding purposefully towards the man from behind one of the tall pallet racks.
“Stop your babbling,” Marco ordered, and when the other man sputtered indignantly, Marco surprised the hell out of everyone by placing both of his palms on the man's chest and shoving him backwards. The lawyer flew back, then landed smack on his ass, the impact making a sound halfway between a smothered fart and the noise a plushy pillow makes when suddenly compressed. I figured Mr. Lawyer would come up swinging, but I was wrong.
He may have been a big shot lawyer, but Marco was a huge man.
“I'm going to sue you for that,” Mr. Hot Shot Lawyer said in a somewhat higher register than before, as he backpedaled away from Marco before lumbering to his feet and continuing his spiel from a safer distance. “I'm going to sue your company, and then I'm going to personally sue you, and before I'm finished you'll be lucky to have a job as one of those illegal cabin boys sweating for minimum wage.”
Marco came forward and the man cringed.
“Listen here,” Marco started. “What's you name?”
“Christopher Lambert III,” the man replied, the jowls on his face quivering. “I'm a partner at Hollington, Smith, and Lambert in Manhattan. And you are royally fucked for mistreating a paying passenger. These people saw what you did!”
Marco moved closer and leaned over the shorter man.
“You don't seem to realize what's going on here, Mr. Lambert,” he said, and shoved the startled lawyer back as if to punctuate his point.
“You don't seem to get that we are not...how do you put it? We are not in Kansas anymore.” And he again shoved Lambert back, this time more roughly.
“Maybe you didn't get the memo, Mr. Lambert,” he continued, and I could hear the contempt in his voice. “But the Captain has been canceled, as has the Odyssey.”
Shove.
“And I have a feeling, Mr. Lambert. Just a little feeling mind you, but one that I believe will be borne out as true later. I have a feeling Mr. Lambert that the human race has also sadly been canceled.”
Shove.
Tears had started to roll down the lawyer's face as he protested this treatment, but Marco ignored them and continued shoving him backwards until the blubbering lawyer's back connected against one of the outer bay doors of the warehouse.
“Hey man, I think you should lay off on the guy,” someone from the crowd shouted, and there were murmurs of agreement from all around, but Marco ignored them.
The door rumbled open. It was about 9 feet wide and almost 12 feet tall, and as it rolled up to let the morning in I could feel the fear and pessimism drop as bright sunlight flooded into the warehouse. The warmth of the sun on our faces and bodies was almost sensual after an entire evening spent in the cold and dark, and people pressed forward as if drawn to the light.
“There you are, Mr. Lambert,” Marco pronounced slowly. “You wanted out. You wanted to go see the Captain. Well, be my guest.”
The lawyer glanced back and looked longingly outside, then turned to Marco and swallowed. I could see hope in his eyes, though mixed with that feral suspicion about good fortune that people in the legal profession seem to frequently develop after years of backstabbing, legal maneuvering, and courtroom brawls.
“You...you won't stop me?” He asked tentatively, and Marco nodded encouragingly.
I had enough, and stood up.
“No, don't do it,” I said to the lawyer, and he looked at me as if startled. “You can't go out there. You won't make it to the ship, and even if you did it's probably crawling with those things that were after us last night.”
I saw fear creep back into his eyes, and he licked his lips slowly. I could almost hear the gears whirring in his little lawyer mind as it quickly weighed all the pros and cons of leaving the perceived safety of
the warehouse.
“Go on now,” Marco suddenly said, and he started pushing the man towards the open door. Lambert yipped shrilly and tried to go around Marco, but the bigger man held him at bay. “If you don't go on your way I'm going to throw you out. So, you make your decision, and you make it now.”
“Stop it Marco,” I said, but he ignored me and continued staring at Lambert. There was a drop of about 50 inches from the lip of the loading dock to the ground, the clearance necessary for the unloading of container trucks. It was not a steep drop, but you could hurt yourself falling from that height.
The lawyer whimpered softly, then knelt down and used the molded dock bumpers to clumsily lower himself to the ground. He looked up at Marco, who made shooing motions with one hand.
“Is...is there anyone else who would like to come with me?” Lambert asked the crowd, who had gone completely silent as they watched the drama unfold.
When no one said anything, he seemed to slump for a second, then gather himself with some effort. I could see his old arrogant demeanor coming back to the fore, and he turned his back on us and walked steadily away to the east, and back towards the Cape Liberty Cruise Port and the Coral Odyssey, as the skyscrapers of New York loomed over the intervening river and watched over us like blinded sentinels.
I moved forward to call him back, or perhaps even go down and help him. I'm not sure what I was thinking. But a large meaty hand clamped onto my wrist and pulled me back, and Marco growled into my ear, his breath a fetid mixture of fermenting food bits and alcohol.
"You stop that," he said, and tightened his grip, grinding my wrist bones so hard I winced, and preventing me from doing anything long enough that it became too late.
Lambert got farther than I thought. He was one hundred yards away when he suddenly whirled and started running back towards us, his arms reaching out as if imploring, his rotund belly flopping up and down, his face a mask of stark terror. Behind him, two figures detached themselves from the shadows of another one story white-painted stucco warehouse and arrowed their way towards the retreating lawyer.
"Run!!!" A woman screamed behind me, and others took up the chant, while the rest uttered soft moans or watched silently in horror as the demonic apparitions gained steadily on the already panting man. It was the first time anyone had seen the things in broad daylight, and if there were any doubts among us about their existence, they were solidly put to rest by this encore performance.
They got him less than 40 yards away from safety. One of the pursuing demons leaped into the air and came down on Lambert's back, driving him face-first onto the hard pavement, the lawyer's wig flying from his bald pate to land in a messy heap a few yards away like some hairy road-killed vermin. Screams of horror from the watching crowd pierced the still air as the lawyer's bloody ruined face looked blindly towards us, while his legs jerked and thumped against the ground as if they were still trying to keep running forward. Then the demon took his head into the large elongated proboscis that dominated its face and squeezed, cracking the skull open, and sending brain juice and shards of skull flying in a wide circle, as Lambert's body went rigid before relaxing in death.
The second attacker moved past the gruesome feast. Its movements were careful and deliberate, and its rust-red body, greyhound lean, a hellish construct of perpendicular planes and edged angles, swayed slowly from side to side, as if dancing to some inner rhythm. It raised one taloned arm and raked the air, then flared the flat tip of its own proboscis to bare a multitude of even triangular teeth.
But it did not move any closer.
I wrenched my hand away from Marco and slapped him as hard as I could. The sharp sound echoed flatly, robbed of its power by the crunching noises of the monster feeding on Lambert's mutilated body, but the people behind us turned to stare at this new altercation, their shocked and teary eyes wide and disbelieving.
“You bastard,” I hissed at Marco. “You killed him.”
He ignored my accusation and turned to the other people, gesturing at the macabre sight outside, where both demons were now burrowing into the opened torso of the unfortunate lawyer. I glanced at Diwata and she too was staring in disbelief at Marco.
“Anyone else want to leave our group?” He asked, and eyed the silent crowd. He pointed to a burly man in his thirties whose body strained a dark blue muscle shirt, the same guy who had earlier asked him to “lay off” on Lambert.
“What about you?” Marco said. “Care to add something to the conversation?”
The man muttered something under his breath as he shuffled his feet, but looked away, then down. He could not meet Marco's eyes.
Marco waited for several seconds, then hit the controls behind him. The aluminum bay door whirred as it slowly lowered then closed, mercifully shutting out the scene outside. Darkness descended, and in the dim light people shuffled their feet and coughed as the seconds dragged by, the silence a thick blanket that had draped itself over us.
Marco stepped forward, and started.
“I'm sorry you had to see that. I truly am.” He began, although the half smile that played on his lips and which only I could glimpse belied his assertion. “Mr. Lambert chose to strike it out on his own. He chose to leave the safety of the group and forgo the protection that I and Ms. Lewis and Ms. Vega offered.”
He stopped and looked at them as a wave of confusion passed through the crowd, and whispered questions rippled through the group.
Marco raised his hands palm up, and the murmurings ceased.
“It's a brand new world out there, ladies and gentlemen,” he continued. “As I said earlier before our debarkation, I don't know what happened, nor do I know of anyone in the ship's crew who does. But I do know one thing. If we are to survive, if we are to get out of here alive, then we have to rely on each other and help one another. We can't have trouble makers or dissenters like the unfortunate Mr. Lambert.”
“Now, you may be asking yourself why you should listen to someone like me, and I'll tell you why.” He ticked off the reasons with his fingers. “First of all, I am the ranking officer from the Odyssey, which I should remind you is reason enough for me to assume command. If any of you disagree with this, then by all means, you are free to join Mr. Lambert outside.”
He made a sweeping gesture towards the outer bay door, and his smile widened into a predatory grin that chilled me, because I had the distinct feeling Marco would have loved to demonstrate his authority one more time.
“Second,” he continued. “Due to some unusual circumstances that developed in the ship prior to our...ah...hurried disembarkation, it seems that myself and two other people from the ship have become, through some unknown means, immune to the deprivations of these creatures, and that in fact our mere presence is enough to deter their attacks.”
This caused some consternation in the crowd, which surged forward as the people in back strained to hear Marco.
“What do you mean, you have some special powers?” An overweight woman in a too-tight lavender blouse and garish orange shorts asked in a shrill voice, but the rest of her comments were drowned by the growing hub-bub.
“What are those things?”
“Have the authorities been notified? Is there anyone out there who can help us?”
“Where can we go?”
“What happened? What in God's name happened?”
Marco raised his arms, and the crowd immediately quieted down. No more questions or doubts about his authority were raised that day nor the days after. The lesson of poor Mr. Lambert had been learned, and learned well. I'm not usually a cynic, but one thing I found out that day is that people are all-too willing to give up their freedoms to anyone who will keep them safe.
“No more of this commotion.” Marco gently chided them, as if they were little children. “Unfortunately, the cause of this disaster...and have no doubts about this, we are in the midst of a catastrophe unprecedented in the annals of human history...the cause is as much a mystery to me and was to the officer
s of the ship. It is my understanding that we lost communications with the rest of the world a few days ago. The whereabouts of the people who have disappeared, and the origin of these creatures are not known.”
He paused, as if in deep thought.
“Now let me tell you a story,” he began.
CHAPTER 24
Day 4 (6:59 pm EST)
Cape Liberty Cruise Port, Bayonne , NJ
We are all butterflies. Earth is our chrysalis.
- LeeAnn Taylor
Annika wept.
Tears streamed in thin rivulets down her face, which was obscured by straggly locks of thick blond hair. Snot run from her nose and hovered precariously along her upper lip, before she absently wiped it off with the back of one hand. Her shoulders sagged, her arms hang limply by her sides, drained of all strength as she sat on the bridge floor and gazed with red-rimmed eyes at the devastation before her.
The color scheme of the large room had undergone a drastic change. What had once been a utilitarian checkerboard of simple whites and grays, now had mutated into a riot of bright reds and muddy browns and other organic colors. The severed limbs and beheaded torsos were not the only remnants of the deck crew. There were deflated bags of flesh that only vaguely resembled human internal organs, and shredded pieces of skin that stuck to the ceiling and walls and floor, the whole ensemble careening into a gruesome pastiche of abstract art.
Gani's head lay on her lap with his eyes closed and his face relaxed. He looked so peaceful that Annika could almost imagine him sleeping, and a smile flickered briefly on her own face as she tenderly caressed his cheeks.
“Hush love,” she whispered. “Rest. I'll be here when you wake up. I'm so sorry about this, I'm so sorry I got here too late. But I won't leave you. I promise.”
And she broke down in a new fit of sobbing. Fat droplets of tears plopped down on Gani's face, but he was long past caring, or even noticing. Below the immaculate uniform jacket that he wore was nothing. He was gone from the waist down, cut neatly in half by some inhuman force that sliced through flesh and cartilage and bone as easily as a hot knife through butter.
