The Best Horror of the Year Volume Eleven

by Ellen Datlow

  I hurried my bag to my room and brushed my teeth and changed my shirt, taking a second to remind myself of the name of the British guy (Peter something-or-other, I evidently hadn’t noted his surname) so I could hail him when I rocked up in the bar. See? Totally professional.

  The bar turned out to be at the pointy end of the ship, and—wonder of wonders—featured an outside area which not only had a great view over the bay but you were allowed to smoke there while drinking, which meant there was basically no good reason for me to leave it, ever, or at least for duration of the conference. The bar wasn’t even super-crowded, because the conference didn’t start in earnest until the next day: I’d only arrived Thursday because Shannon had been able to shave a few bucks off the flights that way. Of course it meant paying for an extra night on the boat but she assured me that was actually a good thing because of some unfeasibly complex points system she’s got me locked into—and began explaining it in detail and cross-referencing it with her own plans for the weekend—but after a while I stopped listening.

  Most of the guys and girls present were from outposts in Europe, arrived early to make a head-start on recovering from jetlag, which many seemed to believe involved the consumption of alcohol at a rate some might consider injudiciously brisk. I knew most of them only by sight but when you work for the same multinational tech giant and have access to strong, relaxing beverages—and are all a little hyper as a result of being away from home and out of the normal grind—it’s not hard to get along. Peter-from-London insisted on taking me on a tour of the boat to point out the curved metal and worn wooden paneling and general faded-grandeur of the whole deal (out of Brit pride, I suspect, and also to temporarily remove himself from the sight line of a freakishly tall woman from the Helsinki office whom he’d evidently slept with at the previous year’s event, and who was drinking hard and fast with her colleagues and staring at Peter like she either wanted to bash his head in or else renew their acquaintance right away).

  Aside from that I stuck to the bar—itself no slouch when it came to looking like the set from some glamorous black and white movie where people spoke in bon mots and drank cocktails and broke into dance every ten minutes. I was all too aware I had to give a gnarly and unpopular presentation explaining why the update to our flagship virtual networking module had been delayed yet again, but that wasn’t until Saturday and hey, it isn’t every evening you got to drink heavily on a damned great boat.

  I drank. I chatted. I went out front to smoke and watch the sky darken and the lights from the city across the bay come on—and then gradually start to dwindle and fade, as a fog came in. I stuck to beer in the hope this might help the hangover remain dreadful rather than crushing, and after a while this started to catch up with my bladder. Luckily my earlier exploration of the boat with Peter (the Finnish woman was now hanging with our group, and it was becoming clear that the only vigorous acts on her mind were the kind that would have a bedstead banging against a cabin wall into the small hours) had included locating the nearest john. It was down a narrow and windowless corridor that led down the middle of the boat and seemed to have escaped the attention of most of the guys, who instead marched off down one of the much wider walkways on the outer edges, to the main restroom mid-ship that—while significantly larger and nicer—was much further away. The closer one looked like it had been converted out of a far more lavish single toilet (there was still a lock on the outer door to the corridor, and the sink, two urinals, and stall retrofitted into the space were seriously cramped) but never let it be said that I can’t make do with what’s available, especially when I really do need to take a piss.

  Coming from the sophisticated Old World as some of these people did, the proportion of tobacco users was higher than with an all-American crowd, and by nine o’clock over half of us were in permanent position out on the smokers’ deck. Peter and the Finnish chick were nowhere to be seen, suggesting that a two-person tour of some low-lit and discrete corner of the boat might be under way. A few of the others had staggered away toward other regions of the boat, looking a little green around the gills, though promising to come back once they’d had some air. The view had also disappeared, blotted out by a thick, chewy fog that was getting thicker and thicker and smelled very strongly of the ocean.

  I headed indoors—accepting in passing the offer of yet another pint of the strong local IPA from some suave dude from the Madrid office—and wobbled off down the corridor. Two collisions with the wall enroute made me realize I ought to slow the drinking down a little, and I promised my tomorrow-morning self to at least consider the idea.

  When I got inside the gents’ I saw the stall door was closed and felt the customary beat of gratitude for the fact that my digestive system decided long ago that one comprehensive defecation per day (early morning, in the comfort of my own home, right after my first coffee and cigarette) is all it needs. As I stood swaying in front of the urinal furthest from the stall (still almost within arm’s reach) I glimpsed a pair of shoes planted on the floor within, dark slacks pooled on top, a couple inches of pale, hairy calves. I coughed as I began meeting my own needs, as is my practice, to let the guy in there know he was temporarily not alone.

  Nonetheless, a moment later, there was a quiet but clear straining sound. I winced—it’s bad enough knowing there’s some dude nearby voiding ex-food out of his ass, without getting auditory updates—and tried to hurry my business.

  A moment later I heard another noise from the stall. This was more of a grunt. It was followed rapidly by another, broken in the middle by several panting intakes of breath. And then one more. Long, low and painful-sounding.

  “Shit,” the guy said, in a low voice. “Ah, fuck.”

  “You okay in there, pal?”

  The words came out without conscious thought. There was silence from the stall, and I realized the guy maybe hadn’t heard my warning cough earlier. Awkward.

  But then he made a groaning noise again. It was five seconds before it tailed off this time.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding wretched. “I’m sorry.”

  I was well-oiled enough to be breezy about the situation, and it was something of a relief to be talking to a fellow American after a couple hours parsing foreign accents. “I’m just glad I didn’t have whatever you did. What was it? An entire bowl of jalapeños?”

  “No.”

  “Hot sauce? Stick to the brands you know, is my advice. Some of those local-brand bad boys will put you in a world of sphincter-pain if you’re not used to them. I’ve been there, trust me. Avoid anything with Ghost Chili in it, for sure.”

  “Nothing like that. Just . . .”

  There was a sudden and very loud growling sound, evidently from the guy’s guts. Then a sploshing noise.

  And then—wow.

  I mean, holy cow. One of the worse stenches I’d ever experienced. Maybe the worst. There’s that saying about how your own farts never smell as bad as other people’s, but seriously. This was bad.

  I abruptly realized I’d finished pissing and there was no reason for me to be there anymore. I hooked myself back into my pants and muttered a “Good luck with that, buddy,” farewell while I took the single step from the urinal to the washbasin—again realizing just how drunk I was when I managed to bang my shoulder into the clearly visible corner wall. The smell had blossomed further and was so very bad that I considered going rogue and leaving without a hand-wash, but (though I won’t spend the ten frickin’ minutes some guys will, like they’re about to perform heart surgery and have spent the last hour with their hand up a cow) the habit’s too deeply ingrained.

  I held my breath, did a water-only rinse and grabbed a paper towel. The guy groaned again as I was making a hash of drying my too-wet hands, the paper tearing into damp shreds. There was another growling sound and I flapped off the last remnants, knowing a similar noise had prefigured the smell last time and having no desire to experience the second wave.

  Too late. This time the
sploshing noise was shorter and louder and far more explosive. I had my hand on the handle to the outside door when I heard something else, however. It was quiet, a sound he’d tried his hardest to keep inside—a kind of focused, tearful gasp.

  “Shit, dude,” I said, stepping back from the door. “You don’t sound good at all.”

  “Sorry,” he said, quietly.

  “Look, is there someone out there that I should tell . . . Like, a friend, or something? I could let them know you’re having a moment, and will be back out in a while?”

  “No,” he said, quickly. He sniffed, hard. “I’m fine. I’m just . . . it feels really bad.”

  “Definitely not a chili-related malfunction?”

  “Haven’t eaten any in days. And it’s not . . . look, it’s not my actual asshole that hurts, okay? It’s . . .”

  He broke off, and groaned again.

  The second wave of the smell had hit me now, and it was a struggle to speak in a non-strangulated tone. “Is it the Norovirus?” I’d endured that back when it was new and fashionable a decade ago, and it’s not a lot of fun.

  “I don’t think so. I had that a few years ago. It’s fast and liquid. And it sucks but it doesn’t actually hurt.”

  “This hurts?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation when there was a beer and convivial company waiting for me, but it would have felt rude to simply walk out. “Though not at the point where stuff, uh, exits?”

  “No. Inside. Like there’s a fist squeezing your fucking guts. And lets go, but then squeezes again, even harder.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “It’s really not. And it came on super-fast. I was hanging out in the bar, having a blast, and suddenly there’s this searing pain. I got here just in time. Look, I’m Carl, by the way. Carl Hammick. From the Madison office.”

  “Rick Millerson,” I said. “Boston.”

  “Oh, hey. Any update on the RX350i?”

  “Still delayed.”

  “I figured.”

  “Keep that to yourself until Saturday, though. I’m doing an announcement thing on it.”

  “Sure. Rather you than me, pal.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I was about to wish him well and get the hell out but it occurred to me that the guy could have touched a bunch of stuff on his way in. I’m never sure how communicable stomach bugs are, but—especially with the presentation to make—this guy’s problem was one I really didn’t want to have.

  I stepped back to the sink and washed my hands properly, using plenty of soap. From now on I’d be making the longer trek to the other bathroom, too. While I did this there was a grunting sound from the stall, and a sharp intake of breath. I rolled my eyes. I’d had enough of this scene now, especially the smell.

  “Another wave coming in?”

  “I think so,” he said. “Holy crap, this feels even fucking worse.”

  He made a non-verbal sound. This time it was an actual sob, hard, fast. Followed by another.

  I was trying to work out what I could possibly say that would be reassuring but not too weird when I realized my phone was buzzing. I pulled it out and saw Shannon’s ID on the screen. I was torn between not wanting to answer—especially in these circumstances—and knowing I probably should. One of the reasons I tolerate Shannon’s tight-fisted travel bookings and pay her significantly more than I have to (and in fact stole her from another office, somewhat controversially) is she’s the best PA I’ve ever had, or even heard of. That includes knowing how to deal when I’m out of the office. Reminders pre-set on my phone, remotely updated. Digest email of where I need to be and when, and with whom, and why, delivered to my inbox at 6:30 every morning. If necessary she’ll send a brief text to alert me to late-breaking changes, but she won’t call unless it’s something I’d look dumb for not being right on top of—like some fresh disappointment in the slow-rolling train-wreck that is the fucking RX350i.

  The guy in the stall grunted again, harsh and loud. There was a sudden bang on the door to the corridor. I flipped the lock before anybody could come in.

  “Busy,” I said, loudly.

  Whoever was outside rattled the handle and banged on the door once more, but then seemed to go away. Shannon went away too, so I guess it hadn’t been that important after all.

  “Thanks, man,” Carl said, between gritted teeth. “Bad enough having you in here. No offense. But I’m not selling fucking tickets.”

  “I hear you. And look, I’m going to leave you in peace, okay? When I’m gone . . . Maybe you could bunny hop out of there and lock the outer door? Give you some privacy, right?”

  “Sure, if I ever get a chance to get my ass off this . . .”

  He stopped talking suddenly, making a sound as if he’d been punched in the gut, and a moment later I heard that bad stomach-growling noise again. Shorter, but really loud.

  “Christ,” I said, reaching once more for the outer door—but my phone started ringing again. It was Shannon, again. If she was pinging me multiple times then I really had to engage. “Look, uh, Carl—I’m actually going to have to take this call, okay?”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  “Just try to . . .”

  “Try to what?”

  “I dunno. The smell, dude.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I get that. But if you can hold it back for a couple minutes that’d be super-cool.”

  “I’ll try.” The last word was strangulated, and ended in a gasp. I hit ANSWER. “Rick?” Shannon said, immediately.

  “Well, yeah, Shann, of course it is. This is my phone. Kind of caught up in something right now, though.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  I hoped I’d hidden it better. “Shannon, Christ’s sake, of course not. Well, a little, yes, obviously. Okay, I’m drunk. What’s your point? And why are you calling me?”

  “You need to leave.”

  “I need to what?”

  “Didn’t you see my email?”

  “Email? No—when?”

  “Over an hour ago.”

  “Shannon, I’m at the conference. I’m talking to people. From, all over the place. London, Helsinki, uh, Wisconsin. I can’t be checking my phone every ten minutes.”

  “Haven’t you seen the TV?”

  “The bar doesn’t have a TV.”

  “There’s no TV? ”

  “It’s not that kind of bar.”

  “Rick—you need to get on land.”

  “I’m on land, Shannon—seriously, what the heck?”

  “No, you’re on a boat.”

  “But it’s attached to the land. By . . . walkway things.”

  “It’s in the actual ocean, still, though, right?”

  “I guess, technically, but . . .”

  “On TV they said to stay away from the ocean. Any part of it. That everybody should stay away from the ocean.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Carl grunted again suddenly, far louder than before. This time the growling was coming up out of his mouth, like a long, rasping belch.

  “Oh shit,” he groaned, when it abated. “Oh Jesus fuck.” He sounded confused and desperate.

  “Shannon,” I said. “Can you give me a simple, declarative sentence to respond to? Imagine you’re texting me. Try that.”

  She said something but I couldn’t hear it because of a another sudden barrage of blows on the outer door. It wasn’t the kind of sound you get from a person requesting entry. It sounded more like someone trying to break in.

  “Busy in here,” I shouted. There was a momentary pause, and then the banging sounds started up again, even harder.

  “Tell them there’s another restroom down the boat,” Carl said. He sounded very tired. “My head really hurts. I can’t take the banging noise.”

  I opened my mouth to do that but the banging suddenly stopped. There was silence.

  Then what sounded like a scr
eam.

  I stared at the door.

  “What . . . was that?” I’d forgotten I still had the phone pressed to my ear, and Shannon’s voice startled me. It sounded as though she was right there, as if our heads were on pillows alongside each other. Which they never have been, though since my divorce she’s the one woman who’s seemed to give a damn, my mother being down in Florida and also the most foul-tempered and least maternal person I’ve ever met.

  “I don’t . . . know,” I said.

  “Was it a scream?”

  “Kind of, yeah.” She sounded panicky and I spoke as calmly as I could. ‘Look. Who is saying what on TV?’

  “It’s on all the stations,” she said. “And the Internet. Twitter’s gone insane with it. A few hours ago people posting about odd things happening. Kind of, well, nobody really seems to know. Things going weird, near the coast. And not just in one place—everywhere. Not the lakes. Just the ocean. Something’s wrong with the ocean.”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “A fog coming in.”

  “A fog,” I said, remembering how it had been on the smokers’ deck when I left it . . . what? Ten minutes ago? A dense sea fog. Getting thicker and thicker.

  “Right. But then it started to snowball and now they’re saying it’s not the fog after all, or maybe that’s part of it but not the main thing. But nobody knows.”

  “Stay on the line,” I told her.

  “Hell’s going on?” Carl said. His voice sounded weak and strained.

  “I have no idea,” I said, flipping over to Twitter on my phone. All my follows and followers are business-related—tech rivals and bloggers and a bunch of “influencers” and “growth hackers” who are super-annoying but I nonetheless track in case they start trash-talking the company and in particular the fucking RX350i and why it’s still not on the market. As a result my feed is usually crushingly dull.