by M. L. Banner
He really wasn’t scared of crowds. In fact, at this moment, in front of this large audience, he felt damned good. Having TJ here would have only made it better... And taking down this little prick with the Ferrari shirt.
“What’s your answer?” demanded Ferrari Shirt.
Ted focused on the man now, and his question.
When Ted had first opened up the room to questions, there were side conversations, like little brush fires that erupted around the room. At times, the room had become so loud and electric, Ted had to stop until the din quieted down. It was understandable, as everyone had their own opinions about the seemingly apocalyptic events they’d all experienced, and feeling more at ease, they wanted to share their opinions, sometimes at the same time. Now, the room fell back into its natural state of nervous silence. Literally, Ted thought he could hear a pin drop, if it weren’t for the puke-colored carpet. All eyes were on Ted as he considered his answer.
He didn’t want to let on that he wasn’t yet convinced that this thing was over, any more than he didn’t want to mute the possibility that it might be. But this guy was a heckler calling into question his abilities at getting the science right, and Ted knew the science that went into his book and the reasons for the animal population’s madness were correct.
“Imagine”—he looked around the room as he spoke—“that a single-cell organism could take control of an animal’s mind and reprogram it so that the only purpose of its host’s existence was to kill, feed, and propagate for that organism.
“Imagine further that this organism could live dormant in the animal’s brain for as long as the animal is alive, just waiting for the right stimuli to then take control of the animal and demand that it attack and follow its new programming.
“Finally, imagine that these protozoa had already infected as many as three-quarters of all animals on the planet.
“This isn’t fiction, folks. This is real. That protozoa is called T-Gondii, and this puppet master has already been proven to be behind the aggressive behaviors of both animals and even people for many generations. Further, I believe, it’s the root reason why animals appeared to be more aggressive recently.”
Ted paused momentarily to study his audience. All faces, without exception, were serious and staring at him. Husbands and wives clutched each other's hands; tears streamed down the faces of some of the children; one individual literally shook with fear. Ferrari Shirt had found his seat and was attempting to disappear.
Ted had gone too far to make his point. He’d allowed his own pride and excitement at conquering his greatest fear to trump what the captain had asked him to do for the good of the ship.
His book Madness theorized what would happen if a small protozoa, which already infects most of the Earth’s animal population, made its hosts insane. But it was still fiction. It had to be. And there was something big that he had failed to mention.
“But this was just a novel, folks! A fictional assumption of what could be. Yes, there has been some strange behavior from animals in Europe. We’ve even experienced it on this ship, but I’m not sure that that has anything to do with what I wrote about in a book.
“Besides, my book had anarchists manipulating the T-Gondii to make its host animals crazed, so as to usher in the downfall of humans. That’s not what is going on now. It made for great reading and sold a lot of books, but it’s no more real than the evil clown in a Stephen King novel... That’s a bad example: some clowns are evil.”
He could see some of the same people who looked terrified moments ago now wrestling with their smiles. They wanted to believe that the danger was over. And so did he.
“You’re telling me that you believe that bloody rats ripping out some poor mate’s eyes out of his skull is just fiction?” This came from an overly rotund bald man wearing a Manchester - MANC AND PROUD T-shirt and shoving potato chips into his mouth.
A young woman with puffy red eyes, being comforted by a man of similar age with his arm around her, squeaked, “I heard on a newscast that there was a pack of dogs in Paris attacking people in the Latin Quarter,”
A teenager grasping a hardback copy of T.D.’s book featuring the object of the Williamses’ own nightmares, stood up and bellowed, “I saw some birds attack someone in Malaga.”
Ted thought of when the publisher’s cover artist and he went to blows over the cover. Ted wanted something scarier than what was offered. A week later, it was perfect, and almost exactly what was on the current published book: a crow with red eyes and a bloody, severed index finger held in its beak. Talk about fiction coming to life. This was the real-life image he had seen in the Alcazaba palace, the image that caused him to shiver when he’d recall it. As it was doing right now.
“Well?” bellowed Manchester, crumbs tumbling out of his mouth. “What about the bloody birds?”
He so wanted to be calming, for his audience and himself. But he was the “Authoritative Author of the Apocalypse,” as he was described by his agent and the media. He was paid to think up the scariest shit and make it real, to cause people to lose sleep over thoughts of their own mortality. He wasn’t someone who dished out calm, and why the captain thought he’d be able to was beyond him. But he also knew that a panic wasn’t going to benefit this ship. His ship. So he tried to think of something positive to say.
“Yeah, what about the birds?” another voice warbled.
“Ahh, sorry,” Ted said, snatching the rolled-up report from under the podium. “I, ahh... I mean, my wife and I saw the same thing at the Alcazaba palace in Malaga, three days ago. And I have to tell you, that was terrifying.
“But again, we now have proof that this aggression doesn’t last.” He held up the report he had mangled and rolled into a tube. “Until we know—not guess—otherwise, I think we have to assume that we are now out of danger.”
Ted flashed an image of his dead wife and child. And a gnawing anxiousness about finding TJ and making sure she was safe burned in his stomach.
It was time to finish this talk.
“I’d suggest that all of us, me included, take advantage of today’s drink special, two zombies for the price of one, and we soak up the sun, which the captain said we’ll be able to see today for the first time on our cruise.
“What I am saying is, we have very little time on this big blue ball. Let’s go and enjoy it.
“Thanks for being such a great audience, the largest I’ve ever had the privilege to speak to. I almost feel like one of the Beatles.
“God bless!”
Ted waved once and made his way back out the way he had entered.
In front of the theater was the display for him to sell his books—he’d forgotten completely about this and the long process of scratching personalizations inside the cover to each and every person. He glanced at the growing line of people already snaking from the front of the table, along the hallway, around a corner, and out of sight. One of the crew waited for him at the table, ready to ring up sales of his pre-signed books.
Conspicuously absent was his wife. TJ had said that she’d miss only part of his talk, not the entire thing. Now he was getting worried.
Before proceeding to his table to give a feeble excuse why he couldn’t stay to the clamoring crowds, Ted snatched the radio the captain had given him, attached to the back of his belt. He flicked it on and turned up the volume so he could now hear the chatter, in case something important was reported.
A raspy voice interrupted, “Mr. Bonaventure?”
Ted looked up and then lowered his gaze to find an elderly woman held up by a carved wood cane looking at him over wire-rimmed glasses. Even measuring to the top of her wild hair, she wouldn’t have made it to five feet nothing. He guessed she didn’t want to wait in line with the others.
“I’m so sorry to be disruptive, sir. Besides being a fan of your work, I am a microbiologist—well, retired, technically. I believe you did a fine job in your book regarding toxoplasmosis.”
“Thank you,” he said,
looking past her at the many expectant faces waiting for him to finish this business and move on to his table.
“I know what has caused the T-Gondii to do what it is doing, and it certainly was not anarchists. Moreover, I’m afraid the vet’s thinking that this is over is terribly wrong.”
A panicked voice called out on his radio, over-modulated and unclear. Ted wouldn’t have heard what was said, if he had held the radio’s speaker directly to his ear. He let it pass.
“What is it?”
“Thermophilic bacteria!” she stated resolutely.
For the first time, he seriously considered this woman while she readied herself to give details, her face turned up to Ted's, intense blue eyes amplified through thick lenses. It was a face carpeted by a lifetime of wrinkles. Her whole persona spoke of wisdom and decades of scholarly research. She seemed sure about what she was about to tell him.
“You, sir, I believe are completely correct on the toxoplasmosis! But the T-Gondii was hijacked by thermophilic bacteria. You see, these bacteria love it hot, and can even be found around volcanic vents. And as we all know, there have been an irregular number of volcanic eruptions lately. I believe that a strain of thermophilic bacteria has been released by volcanoes, and because this bacterium is wired to look for warm-blooded hosts, it sought out the warmest blood available. And that would be birds, which have an average body temperature of 104 degrees Fahrenheit. It then has been working itself down the warm-blooded mammal food chain.
“With each host, the thermophile triggers the T-Gondii in its host to do what it had, as you said, already reprogrammed the animal to do: attack without any personal regard for its own wellbeing.”
Another voice on the radio screeched something like, “Where is it?”
“So you believe that birds must have been the first animal genus affected and they spread the thermophilic strain to other animals?”
“That’s one possibility.”
Ted pursed his lips, about to ask another question, but he stopped when the radio blared again, this time with a panicked woman’s voice. The voice said two words that made Ted take notice: “monkey” and “killed.” He held the radio to his ear.
“Hoy,” a voice from the book-table line yelled out. “Excuse me, but we’d like to meet T.D. too, and get to the pool before the sun sets.”
Ted turned to the voice, then back to the elderly woman, and to the radio in his hand.
“Go on, Mr. Bonaventure—”
“Please, Ted. And you are?” Ted held out his hand.
“Dr. Molly Simmons. It’s my pleasure.”
The radio blared, “It’s been spotted on deck 8...”
Deck 8? TJ was supposed to be on that deck.
Ted lifted the radio and barked into it, “This is T.D.—ah, Ted Williams, consultant to Captain Christiansen. Are the staff captain and Mrs. Williams up there, on deck 8?”
“Mr. Williams? This is Intrepid Security... I haven’t seen the staff captain or Mrs. Williams up here. And I recommend you don’t come to deck 8, either. There’s a wild monkey up here. In fact—” The transmission stopped.
Ted clipped the radio back to his belt. “Thank you, Dr. Simmons, for the info. I really have to go. Can we talk later?” He moved away from her, as if a force at his book table were magnetically pulling him toward it.
“Yes, Guest Services can look me up for you.”
Ted nodded and dashed over to the table. He quickly gathered in the clamoring line of people. “I’m sorry, folks,” he hollered so that they could all hear him. “Something came up for the captain. I’ll try to be back. In the meantime, all my books are half-off, they’re all pre-signed, and this gentleman can take your payments.” He pointed to the crew member, who looked a little panicked.
Ted didn’t wait for a reply. He slid behind the table and darted down the long hallway of people waiting in line, away from the theater. He had to get to the forward section of the ship on deck 8 and warn his wife.
34
The Monkey
“Don’t puke. You are not going to puke!” Lutz Vega of Lisbon told herself again.
It was no use. Something had gotten to her. She’d been feeling yucky all morning, and the feeling had been getting progressively worse as each minute slowly ticked by. As the guard who was stationed at the bridge’s only interior entrance—for the next four hours, she confirmed by her watch—she could not leave her post, no matter what. Even if she were puking toenails. But wouldn’t she get into trouble if she puked up her breakfast right in front of the bridge? It was a “lose-lose proposition” as her good-for-nothing boss Robert Spillman liked to say.
Lutz tried to consider her options, but there really weren’t any good ones. Then she remembered the assistant director’s report this morning. Included in the report was the status of rooms for each deck assignment, including vacancies. She pulled out her folded page, which listed the names of each occupant and the vacant rooms. She glanced at the starboard side, down the small bisecting hallway, and knew that cabin 8504 was right there, just out of eyesight now, but there. It was vacant. If she had an uncontrollable bout of nausea, she could just run down the hall and puke in the unused washroom, and be back before anyone noticed she was gone.
The more she thought about it, the better it sounded. She might even go there now. She could drink some water and splash some on her face, and she’d feel better. Maybe she’d even just force herself to puke up whatever was bothering her, and be done with it. Back in her bulimic days, when she was trying to fit in with her police department, she could do it on command. And although now it was more difficult, the way she felt, even without the bout of nausea, she thought it would be easy.
She looked aft, down the long highway, and then starboard again, at her destination, and didn’t see anyone coming. Further, the captain’s meeting in 8000 was expected to continue for at least another half hour. So this might be the best time to time go. She hesitated, and then another wave of nausea rocked her body. She ran.
Fumbling with her key-card, Lutz turned the corner and held up right at the door, card out and ready to deploy. She was a mere second or two from puking. But she stopped, the wet hairs on the back of her neck prickling. She swung a glance back forward and saw that the Royal Suite’s door was propped open. Then she saw why.
She doubled over and heaved violently, tossing the remnants of breakfast, then her dinner, and probably every other thing that ever visited her stomach. A disgusting mix of yuck spilled out of her, all over the already puke-colored carpet. And then, while she was retching, she started to laugh a little at the thought that that’s probably how they made this carpet: thousands of workers puking up colors that didn’t belong together into one carpet. Be serious, girlfriend, Lutz told herself, and then stared again at what lay in the doorway of the Royal Suite.
It was Catur. The room attendant who always smiled at her in the crew mess. He was... It was too ghastly to even look at his injuries. He was literally ripped apart.
She jumped when the door to cabin 8504—her destination before she puked—shook from someone pounding and scratching on it. But this room was supposed to be empty.
“Who’s in there?” she called to it.
More banging, and something else... it sounded like moaning.
“Are you all right?” She became sure that someone else was injured by whatever did that to Catur. But just in case...
She lifted the long Maglite wand from her belt and held it like a baton with her right hand while she slipped her key-card into the lock with her left. The lock flashed green, and she clicked the handle down, but hesitated. The Maglite lifted higher into the air, ready to come down on whomever or whatever, might come out.
“I’m opening the door now,” she said into the thin, dark opening.
She pushed a little more and saw five hairy digits crimp around the door’s edge and pull inward. The thing vaulted at her with an ear-piercing screech.
She tilted sideways and swung the Maglit
e, connecting with the monkey’s skull, sending it hard against the hallway wall.
She spent no time contemplating the oddity of a monkey in the hallway of her ship. Having heard about the carnage in Gibraltar, and knowing she’d lose a battle going to toe-to-toe with this beast, she did the one thing that came to mind.
She dove into the cabin’s darkness and simultaneously kicked the door shut. It slammed hard and continued to shudder, as the monkey, now on the other side of it, pounded on it, shrieking its anger at her through the two and a half inches of steel and plastic.
Two things occurred to her as she huffed and puffed, on her back, in the dark. First, she was sure the door would give way, as the beating it was taking was incomprehensible. Next, she realized that the inside of this room smelled so putrid that the nausea that she had momentarily forgotten about was back again in full force.
“Oh God.” Something or someone else was dead in this cabin. Her skin cooled and she started to shiver, even though the air was decidedly muggy.
The pounding outside had stopped, and so did the beast’s howling. She sat up and leaned forward until her ear was pressed against the door, doing her best to ignore the rancid smell. She heard the monkey breathing and something else. There was the sound of scraping against carpet, like something heavy was being dragged across the floor. The noise grew and then trailed off, becoming softer. Another revolting image popped into her head: the monkey was dragging Catur away. She was instantly sure this was true.
Although a part of her breathed a sigh of relief at knowing the killer monkey was not after her any longer, she knew she had to do something to stop it. It was wrong.
The radio!
Between her panic and desire to get away from the animal, she forgot she had a walkie. Using the door handle, she hoisted herself up to her knees and yanked the radio off her belt. Adjusting the squelch till voices could be heard, she clicked transmit and spoke over whoever was talking. “Hello! We have an aggressive monkey on deck 8. It has already killed a room attendant.” She paused a moment, but still held the transmit button down. “Repeat, very dangerous and strong monkey on the loose on deck 8.” She let go of the transmit button and listened.