by ML Banner
Almost immediately, the apocalyptic worries of the outside world were forgotten, or at least pushed aside for later. They were replaced by the surge of questions he and his fellow tour-takers hurled at Stephanie, their All Access Tour director, about all that went into this working ship.
The efficiency of it all was the most surprising.
Then he saw the first kink in the ship’s machinery.
Just off the main “highway,” what they called I-95, they were supposed to turn to the food-storage area. It was on their tour itinerary and Ted was anxious to see it. But as they approached, Stephanie announced that they had to skip the food-storage areas for now because of a “hazard concern.”
This struck Ted as something odd to say, and he wasn’t alone, as he saw his wife cock her brow and flash him a glance that said, “That was a bullshit excuse.” Their mutual supposition was vindicated when their group was rushed past the hallway which led to the various food-storage areas and Ted caught a glance that screamed “Problem!”
It was just a glimpse, but it was enough. An area halfway down the food-storage hallway was blocked with yellow tape, like a crime scene. The partially closed doorway to a room oozed a white mist that obstructed the view inside. If he had had more time, maybe he could have seen inside. But the oddest part of the immediately visible scene was the bloody boot prints.
At least that’s what it looked like to him: boot prints leading away from the foggy entrance. Maybe that was just Ted’s macabre sensibility. TJ always joked to him and their friends that she needed to sleep with one eye open after reading his first end-of-the-world book. Besides, it was just a glimpse.
Several steps past the suspicious hallway, Ted glanced over to TJ to see if she noticed the same thing he did, to confirm his own questions. But her pert features were entirely focused on their tour guide, who was now describing the recycling they did and how the ship used all the funds they derived from recycling to give back to the crew for new equipment for their living room and other leisure areas.
She must not have noticed what he did, as TJ seemed absorbed in the tour and what Stephanie was saying. Not bloody boot prints.
Ted immediately discounted what he thought he saw in his glimpse. And normally that would be that. But nothing was normal right now, no matter how much he wanted to not deal with it.
He gazed at TJ, now completely ignoring the tour. At least she finally found something to focus on other than the bizarre animal behavior currently going on outside of their micro-managed environment.
Ted must have become so absorbed in watching and thinking about his wife, he was startled to find that Stephanie was leading them down a small hallway of luxury cabins, with very regal placards: Princess Suite, Prince Suite, Queen Suite, and so on. They abruptly stopped at a plain entrance, whose placard simply proclaimed, “Bridge.”
Ted had completely lost track of what deck they were on. He shot a glance back to where they had been and then forward again to see if he could catch a room number or something that would indicate where they were. Then, when his attention fell back to his wife, he noticed something odd.
TJ was no longer focused on Stephanie, who was speaking to the other three people in their tour group. Instead, TJ appeared to be looking past their group to Ted’s right, at something or someone down a connecting hallway that he couldn’t see. Then she mouthed something.
Ted inched up closer until the subject of her attention was visible past the edge of the connecting hallway’s wall. It was a bald officer with four stripes, and he was mouthing his own silent words, back to Ted’s wife.
Ted must have been staring—all too overtly—at this odd spectacle, because both the officer and TJ stopped and turned to him. Ted’s cheeks flared heat, feeling like he was the one caught doing something he shouldn’t. The officer offered up a warm and practiced smile.
As if on cue, Stephanie addressed their group now. “And I’m pleased to welcome the ship’s staff captain, Jean Pierre. He is the second in command of the whole ship and we are privileged to have him, rather than one of the second officers, give you a tour of the bridge.”
All the heads of their group now turned then to the staff captain, offering a golf-clap. Jean Pierre still held Ted’s glare, for a long an uncomfortable moment, before finally turning his attention to the group. He thanked them all for coming, and for Stephanie’s contribution to the All Access Tour. Then he told them they were going to be given a special treat and warned them to be quiet while they entered into the designated public area of the bridge, as the officers were on duty working. Finally, before turning to the door, he told them that the captain would join them in a couple of minutes as well.
He opened the narrow door, and one by one, their group crossed the bridge’s thick threshold.
“Mr. Williams?” Jean Pierre whispered, just before Ted stepped through.
“The captain would like to speak to you personally right now. Could you please walk to your left”—he pointed in that direction—“and join him in his ready room? It’s the first door on that side of the bridge.”
Ted stammered, not sure how to respond, “Ah, I don’t want you or the captain to make any special arrangements for me.” Ted could feel the eyes of the other tour passengers and his wife on him.
“It’s no trouble,” the staff captain said.
Ted nodded and stepped through the metal doorway into a new world known as the bridge.
It was a vast room that felt surprisingly dark, because it was almost completely lit by the outside light pouring through the giant window-panels. Those slanted up and away, and spanned the 180-degree arc of the semi-circular chamber. Curiously, five of the most forward of the thick-looking panels had human-sized windshield wipers.
Ted’s imagination immediately played scenes of the wiper-blades furiously beating back a tempest. He’d gotten lost again in his thoughts, and looked back to his group on the right. TJ was now whispering amiably in Jean Pierre’s ear, cupped so that only Jean Pierre could hear her.
He turned toward the other direction, as he was instructed, and marched up to a line meant to block out the public. Beyond it, the only door on a wall. It was open and an older man with one more stripe than the staff captain beckoned him forward into the tiny room.
Ted stepped past the roped area.
“Mr. Williams.” The captain, distinguished in his highly starched uniform with his crown of impeccable white hair, offered his hand. “Please come in for just a moment.”
Ted proceeded forward, with his own hand extended. But he couldn’t ignore the feeling he was just called to the principal’s office for something he did wrong. He felt “off” and not entirely himself today.
The captain clasped Ted’s hand and shook firmly. “Mr. Williams. I’m Jörgen Christiansen, captain of the Intrepid. Welcome.”
When Ted entered, the captain immediately closed the door and drew the shades. Ted felt his heart start to beat faster.
“Please excuse the theatrics,” the captain continued, “but I wanted to ask you something, privately. And I would ask that you don’t mention our conversation to anyone, other than your wife, of course.” His face was stern and focused.
Ted was definitely taken aback, and now wasn't sure what to say without knowing what the captain wanted. “Please tell me how I can help, Captain, and call me Ted.” The captain cocked his head and flashed just the slightest look of confusion, as if he had perhaps expected someone different, before regaining his composure.
“Very well ... Ted. I have just been made aware of a very serious problem that affects everyone on board this ship and I think you might be able to help.”
Ted’s mind instantly recalled the bloody footprints from the misty room. “Should I sit down?” Ted asked.
“No, I don’t want to keep you from the group. I’ll be quick. I wanted to know if what you wrote in your book, Madness, is actually possible, or if it’s all just a well-crafted story entirely made up from your imagination.”<
br />
Before the captain spoke, Ted seriously thought that he was going to ask for the ship’s wine back, or to tell them that the cruise line was sorry that their bag didn’t make it, or something entirely trivial. But to be asked whether or not what they were experiencing was some sort of apocalyptic event, just like what he had written about in his second-to-last book, was the last thing he expected. And it terrified him to his core. This was no longer just his own supposition. It was real. His heart raced like an express train.
“I-Ah... I honestly don’t know.” He couldn’t think of what else to say. He was wondering this very thing, but he hadn’t come to any conclusion. It had seemed too impossible. But the very fact that this obviously sane man, who captained a ship carrying nearly two thousand people, was asking the same question he was asking himself was hard to comprehend. He felt dizzy, and drew in rapid puffs of air. He thought he might have a full-on panic attack.
There was a knock on the door, and then it opened a crack and the staff captain stuck his head in the door. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but Doctor Chettle has the autopsy results for you.”
“Thanks, Staff Captain. I’ll be right there.”
Jean Pierre nodded once and closed the door, sealing Ted and the captain back in.
“Again, keep all of this between us. There appears to be an uncanny similarity between what you’ve written about and what is going on outside of this ship. I need to know what we have to look forward to in other ports, and I wanted to know if my concerns were valid, or not.
“Please consider all of this, and if it’s okay, I’d like to call on you again during the cruise, if needed. Further, if you have any information that you feel might impact this cruise or anyone on it, would you please contact our staff captain or me?” He handed Ted a business card.
Ted almost missed grabbing it: he thought he saw two cards. He needed to get outside. Fast.
“This has my contact number on the bridge. Call it from any of the ship phones and they’ll put you through to the staff captain or to me.” Ted slid it into his pocket, without looking at it.
The captain opened the door and offered his hand again.
Ted quickly shook back, whispering, “Thank you, Captain,” and rushed past him, in his attempt to beeline it outside. He didn’t even think to talk to TJ, who was still on the bridge with the rest of their tour. He had to get to fresh air.
As Ted brushed past the security posted outside the bridge hatch and turned to the exit, all the enjoyment he had felt during the tour was forgotten. It was at that moment he knew they were all in big trouble.
11
Eloise
Eloise Carmichael made her money the old-fashioned way: she married it. The rest of the story, as Paul Harvey used to say, was that she had outlived three previous husbands, all of whom died of “mysterious causes.”
It wasn’t that she was some sort of black widow who purposely sought out wealthy potential husbands, with the plan to kill them for their money. At least the premeditated planning part wasn’t true. She just got bored with them quickly. And divorce wasn’t an option, with prenuptials and all. So she found an easier solution each time.
Months after her last husband’s death, a cloud of questions stirred up by his siblings clung to Eloise like flies to a dead body. Frustrated at their persistent haranguing and their constantly calling the police on her, she’d had enough. So she sold her last husband’s mansion and sought greener pastures in Paris.
It wasn’t that she was interested in French men. Though she did love their beautiful-sounding words—like songs—when they whispered their desires to her, she just didn’t want to have to learn how to speak it back. She was too damned old to learn another language. Yet Paris was where Eloise believed her next husband would be found.
She had read about the few arrondissements where wealthy English ex-pats often lived. So she set her sights on their Parisian haunts and within twenty days, she had already found a suitable candidate: Sir Edgar Carmichael—the title part was an extra bonus. One month later, they were married.
Like the others, just as quickly as they had wed, Eloise became tired of poor ol’ Edgar. It would be during their honeymoon that she would seek out Number Four’s “accident.”
It was purely a stroke of luck that Edgar told her of his love for transatlantic cruises and suggested that option for their honeymoon. Eloise didn’t care for cruising, but she thought the open sea would present her with ample opportunities for Edgar’s demise; after all, they were going to be in the middle of the fricking Atlantic Ocean.
While planning their honeymoon, Eloise immediately discovered a behavior that just wouldn’t work for her: Edgar was cheap, even insisting that to get what she wanted, she’d have to spend some of her own money. It was one more reason why he’d have to go.
When he first offered to buy her a transatlantic cruise, Eloise suggested the QE2 because it fulfilled her one non-negotiable: the ship had to have an onboard kennel, so she could take her “baby” with them. The second requirement, although not an absolute, was only natural for newlyweds with substantial means: they should also have the best cabin on the ship. But Edgar became furious when the agent told him it would cost him 45,000 euros per person for their Grand Duplex suite on the QE2.
When she thought her intractable demands might scuttle the whole thing, and thus her opportunities, she went along with his recommendations of Regal European, as they were the only other one with kennel services. She pressed for RE’s best cabin, even though Edgar made her pay for her share—she’d get it back from him one way or another. So for the bargain price of 10,000 euros each, his agent booked the Royal Suite for Eloise, Edgar, and Monsieur, her toy French poodle.
Once it was settled, she got to work on her plans to find the most dangerous place on the ship, or on one of their excursions. Everything was falling into place, until just before they checked into their suite on the Intrepid.
It was her little Monsieur. She was concerned because he was not acting himself lately. After their flight from Paris, just before going through customs in Malaga, Monsieur actually growled at her. She had been anxious to check on him since then and decided to do so now, before they got ready for dinner. She left Edgar at their cabin for his daily nap and set off to find the kennels.
After getting directions from one of the better-looking younger officers—she only spoke to the senior crew members and rarely dealt with the peons on the ship—she was told to take the aft elevators. She glared at the officer for this.
It was the third cruise she had been on and it bugged her to no end why they just didn’t call this “the rear” part of the ship. If you had to explain that the aft actually meant rear, why the hell not just say “rear” for the guests?
She felt her temperature start to boil a little when she exited onto deck 1, only partially accessible to guests.
The deep thrumming of the ship’s engines rumbled underneath her, adding to the already unsteady feel of walking with heels on a moving ship—another reason she didn’t care for cruises. Now, she almost felt dirty, just thinking about how close she was to the ship’s mechanical parts.
Finally, she found the Regal Pet Spa. At least that sounds better than “Kennels.”
She pushed open the door.
Regardless of where she was, whenever she entered a room Eloise expected that all men’s heads should snap to her attention. To aid in this proper response, she had donned her stilettos to announce both her approach and arrival. And to complement this effect she wore an ensemble so tight-fitting, she looked vacuum-sealed in it. All were designed to reveal her God-given—albeit often enhanced by top plastic surgeons—assets.
It was therefore almost an affront to her whole persona when the spa’s only human occupant, a small dark-skinned man, didn’t even acknowledge her entrance. Further adding to her indignity, as she waited an intolerable amount of time, the man paid her no more attention than he would to a warm breeze. He was purposely ignoring
her. She even slammed the door of the kennel to demand his consideration. Nothing.
But the sting of this personal injury quickly faded when she heard the growling and barking from the farthest kennel. The bark’s high cadence was very familiar to her. And so when the realization hit her like a punch to her liposuctioned gut, she knew it was her Monsieur.
She clip-clopped over to the small man, who was outfitted in standard worker clothes, not epauletted like an officer. She actually didn’t care about that right now. This man, regardless of his lowly status, was trying to calm her dog. However, it became instantly obvious to her that he didn’t know what he was doing.
“You’re just scaring him more,” she whined, pushing him aside and positioning herself in front of her pup’s enclosure.
Her indignation swelled to epic proportions when she saw that Monsieur’s front paw was wrapped in some sort of bandage. That meant her baby had been injured on Regal European’s ship, and most likely under the supervision of this little man.
Then she nearly fell backward, the shock rocking her whole body. Instead of seeing her normally well-mannered Monsieur, there was a terrifyingly wild animal behind the windowed enclosure. His face was scrunched up in an angry scowl; his lips and cheeks were drawn back to reveal a surprising number of nightmarishly pointed teeth; and his eyes flared a ferocious red, like blazing rubies. She shuddered.
“Monsieur?” she begged, hoping to coax her beloved puppy to come out of this horrid looking one. “It’s Mommy.”
Monsieur growled a violent-sounding warning, like he was possessed by some feral animal. It was not the loving pooch she’d known for the last five years, who had comforted her through the trauma of her last three husbands’ passings.
Eloise shot up, pulling down her skirt, which had hiked up too far, and preened over a rogue lock of her hair. “What did you do to my dog?” she barked at the little man.
