The Trespassers

by Meg Mundell

  ‘Fired for what? Acting mysterious?’

  ‘You think I’m government,’ he said. ‘I’m not. Emergency management’s outsourced – we’re mostly contractors.’

  ‘Contractors for who?’

  He pointed to the logo on his grey shirt: a parachute descending into a cupped hand. ‘Pro-Tech. A national outfit. Natural disasters, industrial accidents, terrorism. As for my being here … well, let’s just say it’s not exactly legal.’ A hint of self-importance, like he wanted to impress her.

  ‘Aye, right,’ she scoffed. ‘So you’re some kind of secret agent.’

  Mitch didn’t take the bait. ‘Listen. I have a source in forensics. They suspect the virus was deliberately released. She reckons there’s no way it could slip past the bioscreens.’

  Billie dropped the flip tone. ‘That theory’s been doing the rounds since day one – border vigilantes.’

  He shook his head. ‘Forget all that. It’s a blind alley, a distraction. I’ve done some digging. The facts point to commercial sabotage.’

  He laid out his alternate theory in short, sharp bursts: three rival shipping companies were competing for BIM contracts worth many millions. There was a history of bad blood between them – dodgy deals, undercutting, claims of poached suppliers and corporate spying. If Red Star could be knocked out of the race, it would leave a lucrative gap for the other two to fill.

  ‘These labour routes are worth big money,’ insisted Mitch. ‘Land a BIM contract and you stand to make a killing.’

  A prickling unease, her head whirling. ‘But all those deaths,’ she countered. ‘Nobody will sign up for BIM now, surely. Not after what’s happened.’

  ‘There’s been a dip in applications, but people are still signing up,’ he said. ‘Just not to Red Star’s intake. This will ruin the company.’ Red Star’s line had been shut down, but the rival shippers were still operating, with enhanced protocols at both ends; the workers screened to within an inch of their lives, then hustled off to remote inland food farms, out of the public eye. Back home the shippers had ramped up their recruitment efforts, he told her, launched aggressive new ad campaigns, were loudly trumpeting their credentials – foolproof ultrascreens, superior vetting, zero risk. Million-dollar guarantees. No chance this could ever happen on one of their vessels.

  ‘But those deaths,’ she said again. ‘If this was deliberate, done to damage the company, surely whoever did it risked getting the whole program shut down?’

  ‘Maybe. But the bug looks engineered. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be fatal? It’s not a precise science, bioterrorism.’

  All those warm bodies crammed in close together, breathing the same air; that claustrophobic horror, the sense of being trapped at the mercy of an invisible executioner.

  ‘I can’t believe people would risk it. Get on another ship.’

  ‘The polls say otherwise. Look at all the push factors. No offence, but your homeland’s a basket case. Why did you leave, Billie?’ Using her name like they were friends.

  She turned away. ‘That’s none of your business.’

  He made an apologetic gesture. ‘You’re right. But the govs won’t ditch BIM without a fight. High political stakes, too much money tied up in the program. And if this whole mess can be explained away, painted as an aberration – blamed on some floating corpse, or a mid-sea transfer …’ Mitch watched her process this. ‘So you’ve heard those theories too. Far-fetched, but convenient. And they’re gaining traction.’

  Too much to take in here; a suspicion she was being manipulated. Who was this guy?

  ‘The govs can keep BIM running if they can argue this was a one-off, a freak event,’ he went on quickly. ‘Say nothing malicious went down, nothing got through the bioscreens. We redesign the intake filters. Ban cargo transfers between ships. Bingo – problem solved.’ He had this speech planned out.

  ‘You want something from me.’

  ‘I need your help. I’m leaving you a device.’ Rummaging beneath the table, a subtle motion. ‘It’s fully streamed. And you can message me, there’s a secure link. But don’t get caught with it. And don’t check your personal accounts – they’ll be monitoring them.’

  She held up her hands. ‘No, I don’t want it. This has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Billie,’ he said, urgency in his voice now. ‘It has everything to do with you. The howlers are out in force. You know who’s being blamed for all those deaths? The quote, incompetent ship medics, unquote. The so-called nurses. They’re blaming you.’

  ‘But we saved lives.’

  ‘Breach of duty, they’re calling it. Medical negligence. People do time for that.’

  ‘But the last one died right here—’

  ‘They’re out for blood,’ he interrupted. ‘I can help turn that around. Take the heat off you, shift the narrative. Work out what really happened. But I need your help. We need to find out who did this.’

  She felt it in her guts, a cold trickle of dread. What was being said about her? Who was trawling her life, hunting for dirt? Her parents: she felt sick to think of them being harassed by journalists, seeing her mug plastered across the news, copping sidelong looks from the neighbours. Saw her dad shaking his head. It’s a big stooshie, he’d say. A terrible mess. We just want her safely home. Absent-mindedly she rubbed her arm, felt the blip of the geotracker lodged beneath the skin.

  ‘It’s a bloodsport, all that public venting,’ said Mitch. Was that concern in his eyes, or something more calculating? ‘It’s ugly, but it’s not personal. The mob just wants a scapegoat. Don’t take it to heart.’

  ‘I went to that hearing,’ she said. ‘I didn’t notice anyone taking my side.’ He regarded her blankly.

  ‘You said you’d help,’ she reminded him. ‘I guess you didn’t have much sway over that judge.’

  ‘I’m sorry it was rough. But there are people fighting for you out there. Me included. I’m doing my best.’

  ‘You say you’re not government. So who are you?’ A short silence. She watched him weigh it, calculate the risk.

  ‘My job is to uncover facts.’ Then, more urgently: ‘But, please, this conversation – I’m just some nameless Pro-Tech contractor. You walked me through your quarantine protocols. Donning and doffing, contact tracing, buffer zone, all that stuff. That’s it. Nothing else.’

  She found herself nodding.

  ‘And if anyone asks, you don’t know my name,’ he said. ‘I can’t help you if I end up in prison.’

  ‘Prison?’ she echoed. ‘They threatened us with prison. If we didn’t cooperate – the nurses. We had no choice.’

  Now he was all business. ‘I’ll make sure that message gets amplified. But we need to track the source of the contamination. Work out who brought this bug aboard, and how.’

  She felt dazed, remote. A thought swam to the surface: ‘Did they check the water?’

  A quizzical look.

  ‘The drinking water. Have forensics tested it?’

  ‘Pretty sure they tested everything. Kitchen, mess, wash areas. Sleeping quarters, supplies.’

  ‘What about the kiosk? They had water tanks in there. Did they test the tanks?’

  ‘I’ll check. You think—’

  They both jumped as an alarm blared out. Security personnel to bridge, rasped a voice over insistent bleeps: Incident alert, security personnel to bridge.

  ‘I’m investigating several crew members,’ he said. ‘People who’ve previously worked for a rival shipper, an outfit called Orion. Digging into their backgrounds, finances. I’ve narrowed it down to four names, but it’s slow going.’

  ‘Four names?’

  Now Mitch was looking over Billie’s shoulder. He gave a dazzling smile.

  ‘You deaf, mate?’ said a voice.

  Billie turned to see an official standing behind her. She hadn’t heard the m
an’s approach.

  Mitch waved his device. ‘Just checking some details. Orders from above.’

  ‘Get upstairs,’ said the man. ‘There’s a code blue. Move it.’

  Mitch eased out of the booth with a quiet warning: ‘Best if we’re not seen together. Don’t get busted with that, and don’t access your accounts. Your middle name – that’s the password.’

  Left alone, Billie sat motionless, trying to process what she’d heard, to weigh it against what she knew, sensed or half suspected. She felt numb, immobilised, and it was some time before her breathing returned to its usual soft loop.

  Mitch: she’d placed it now, seen the word spelt out in print. On paper: the bylines on those articles he’d given her.

  A noisy group had invaded the saloon, the adults debating some point, kids pestering on the sidelines. Billie switched seats, dug between cushions, found the contraband device. Tucked it into the waistband of her shorts, praying it wouldn’t fall out and clatter to the floor.

  Then she locked herself in a wash cube and keyed in a single word: Grace.

  TOM

  Soon after we rejoined the Steadfast, they summoned us into the sick room one by one. God knows what possessed them to choose that particular venue. The smell of the place alone set me reeling: dizzy, breathless, chest tight, my heart hammering out distress signals.

  It was over in seconds, but more painful than your average jab. Like everyone else on the ship we were now geotagged, a tiny tracker embedded in the upper arm; you could feel the bump, like a grain of rice lodged beneath the skin.

  Cutler stood observing as the local medics did their work. He was his usual self, officious as ever, as if he hadn’t noticed his demotion. Unpleasant man, but not the tyrant he’d once seemed; his bully licence now revoked, his power dissipated.

  Shutting the door on that acrid room, I joined a group of convalescents gathered along the ship’s rail. A ragged crew, we were easy to pick out from the crowd: big heads on thin bodies, taking hesitant steps, faces tilted to the sun like flowers. Freshly released, we gravitated to the top deck, inhaling the air and view.

  After that white ward, I couldn’t get over the colours: hillsides jammed with foliage, a glimpse of jewel-toned vehicles on a distant road. A sky so huge and blue I tried to fill my lungs with it. The air thick with heat, the light so different from back home: high and stark and clear, the lens wiped clean.

  ‘That place looks like a holiday camp,’ said Max, pointing at the buildings beyond the beach. ‘When do we go ashore?’

  Drinking in the view, we heard a chorus of high voices.

  ‘Teach! Teach!’ A gaggle of red sunhats: the children, making a beeline for us.

  ‘Hey, Pied Piper,’ joked Max, ‘it’s your disciples.’ Not the best analogy to level at a male teacher.

  It lit me up, the sight of them, all wide eyes and scuffed knees. They crowded around, chattering: did I know there were war drones dropping paint bombs from the sky, and actual real dolphins swimming in the bay? I asked Emily if she’d written any new poems, let Troy marvel at my puny wrists. Avoided asking after their families. I’d requested a full list of the dead so I could start piecing it all together; match up surnames, offer solace where I could.

  ‘When do we go back to school?’ asked Tamila, squinting up at me earnestly.

  ‘Once I get a bit fatter,’ I hedged. ‘Look! Over there, on the hill – is that a kangaroo?’

  ~

  We’d been welcomed warmly back into the fold. The day the transfer boat ferried us once more to the Steadfast, people had been lined up along the rail, waving as we approached. I’d watched as Mia was reclaimed by her parents and brother, the raw relief as they clutched each other close, a circle of four; I saw families reunited, lovers back in each other’s arms. All past quibbles, all doubts forgotten.

  Back from the dead, we were minor celebrities. Passengers and crew approached us daily – although not too close, it must be said – eager to bestow blessings, congratulate us for resuming the upright position.

  But not everyone was pleased to see us. For some, we were a blunt reminder of all they’d lost. The day of our release, one fellow survivor spent several hours with a bereaved husband, recounting his wife’s final hours. I guarded my demeanour. Mustn’t walk around beaming at my own good fortune with thirteen people dead. Or fourteen, in fact: that was the true death toll.

  All clear, the doctors had promised us: that inhuman assassin zapped out of existence. But I remained on high alert, fighting a constant urge to re-wash my hands, re-san my cutlery. Alert to the threat, real or imagined, of all we could not see. Having played host to that microscopic invader, I sensed an unfamiliar presence: a hard knot of acrimony deep inside me, a wild spark of what could be hatred, ready to flare up if any proof was found.

  Talk had intensified. Could another human being deliberately unleash such grief and suffering, leave all these families bereft? It was like trying to wrap your head around infinity, or the space–time continuum. The mind just baulked.

  So strange to see everyone mingled in together, the crew’s uniforms gone, the old pecking order dissolved. We’d clocked up forty days on the hospital ship, the traditional quarantine period decreed all those centuries ago when the Black Death rampaged across Europe. Tiny robots would remain floating in our blood, feeding data to distant medics. Ally had gone home to her kids and husband. My old flame had vanished back into the crew’s quarters.

  We’d all assumed we’d be sent back home, marked as soiled goods, a contaminated shipment, unfit for service – although the prospect of a long return voyage filled everyone with dread. Instead we found ourselves in limbo, no clue as to what lay ahead.

  I knew I needed to occupy myself, turn my energy to constructive ends.

  The children: there was no structure to their days, no safe haven available to them. Left to roam the ship, they risked witnessing scenes of grief and anger: adults weeping, scuffles breaking out as protest attempts were quashed; gaunt figures stalking the deck, weakened by self-imposed hunger. Tense armed soldiers, scanning the sky for airborne assaults.

  One afternoon I saw a man teetering on the foredeck, holding a hand-lettered sign up to the empty sky: RELEASE US. One of the bereaved, his eyes dark holes, his lips a seeping tracery of rough-hewn stitches. A needle shoved repeatedly through living flesh, an outward demonstration of unspeakable pain. Soldiers hustled him away, but not before a group of kids had gathered to stare.

  This incident sparked me into action: I couldn’t leave them to languish. No longer on the payroll, I restarted school in an unofficial capacity. Lobbied the gov-liaise woman for art supplies, fresh vids, sports gear, games, sweets and chocolates for prizes. Excess sugar consumption was now the least of anyone’s worries.

  I’d never been so grateful to stand before a roomful of kids. It was like a reunion, a cadet squadron reconvening at the tail end of a war. Seeing all their faces – expectant, open, resigned, or already half-bored – I felt myself beaming like a loon.

  Then my eyes landed on Lucy: she had a bewildered, unfocused look, still reeling from the blow of losing her mother. The sight of her brought me up short, cut off that sentimental overflow. A reminder that the war metaphor was horribly apt, that none of them would escape this experience unscathed. That for some, the damage would last a lifetime: Finn and Abbie. Shahid. Lucy and Cole.

  Grief is such a dire thing. It seems monstrous that children can’t be spared.

  Each day we gathered in the schoolroom after lunch. I rested my bony rear on a desk. Cheered them on, cajoled them, tried to draw them out. Encouraged jokes and laughter, often at my own expense.

  I vetted the clips for any distressing content. Chose games with no macabre undertones. Devised activities I hoped would not trigger bad memories. Tried not to san my hands too obviously or too often, kept my germophobia under wraps. Silently wi
lled the children to hold on, to keep faith; to trust that they were now safe, that adults would protect them. That the future still held promise, and things would soon change for the better.

  ~

  One afternoon I was parked in the shade, devising a word game for the kids, when there was a ruckus further down the deck.

  ‘She’s sick!’ someone yelled. ‘Get back!’

  Adults rushed past me, kids in tow. As the crowd cleared I saw a woman slumped on the deck, her head between her knees, a circle of soldiers and grey uniforms surrounding her at a safe distance. Against my better judgement, I edged closer.

  The woman was flushed, her pupils huge and black. On the deck before her, a puddle of vomit. Kneeling at her side was the head nurse, Billie, masked up, one gloved hand resting lightly on the woman’s back. Speaking to her, the words inaudible.

  A breeze touched my cheek, blowing from the direction of the sick woman. Holding my breath, not letting a single molecule of air enter my lungs, I beat a swift retreat, making straight for the showers.

  An hour later I ran into Billie in the passageway, her face now bare.

  ‘Your mask,’ I said. ‘That woman …’

  ‘Heatstroke,’ she replied. ‘She stayed out in the sun too long, got burnt and dehydrated. Thank god. The captain’s about to make an announcement.’

  ‘They’re sure? It’s not the sickness back?’

  ‘Positive,’ said Billie. ‘She’s clean.’ Relief was written plain across her face. ‘Jesus, the sight of her. Almost gave me a heart attack.’

  I pulled my mask off. But for us, the passageway was empty, the ship eerily hushed. People had retreated to their dorms. We were standing close, and suddenly I felt awkward: this woman had seen me naked, seen me empty myself into a bedpan, had wiped my arse for all I knew.

  She asked after Cleary. Did he seem alright to me?

  ‘Hard to say,’ I answered. ‘All the kids are shaken up. They cope in different ways. Why? Has something happened?’

  She chewed her lip. ‘His mum said there’s been some weird stuff going on. He seems anxious, jumpy. Won’t leave her side. You’ve not noticed?’