The Final Outbreak

by M. L. Banner

  ~~~

  Asap jumped again at the screeching sound, somewhere close, out in the hallway. Between the crazed dogs and rampaging monkey earlier, his skin crawled with each new sound that didn’t normally belong on a cruise ship. To make matters worse, he was way behind on his duties. He needed to stop being so damned jumpy and focus on getting all of his port-side rooms cleaned. He had maybe half his normal time to get his rooms clean because he spent so much time consoling his roommates over the death of Catur. It was still weird to think that someone he knew got killed on this ship.

  Yacobus and Jaga were more affected by their roomie’s death than him. Asap figured Catur probably did something stupid to get himself killed by that monkey. He would miss him, at some point. But he wouldn’t mourn him. This thought felt... foreign, like it wasn’t his own. He used to be more caring. Now it just didn’t seem to matter.

  He fumbled with his key card, almost dropping it. The lock clicked open, but Asap didn’t move. His eyes found the green sticker, confirming what he had thought he’d forgotten to check. The green-stickered rooms were the ones cleared by the crew hours ago. And as his roomies reminded him, it was a non-green room that supposedly contained the crazy monkey that had leapt out and killed Catur. All of Asap’s rooms now had the distinctive green stickers on them. So they were clear of any crazy monkeys. Further, he should have been lucky as all of his cabins should have been empty, since all passengers were supposedly topside, enjoying the pools. Of course, he wasn’t that lucky.

  Several of his guests were ill from something they ate, and some were in their beds or in the bathroom, puking toenails; often they missed their toilets, which meant he’d have to clean it up. But as much as that annoyed him, what was most disconcerting were the others.

  Some of his passengers were in a weird state, like a drunken daze. They were either confused, babbled some gibberish, or they were completely out of it. He could slap them and they’d do nothing. The weird ones were now taking up two out of every three of his cabins.

  He knocked again on the cabin door in front of him and listened. This was taking too damned long and he didn’t want to see another one of those weird ones!

  The only consolation was that he couldn’t clean the rooms the passengers were in. So other than a little puke, he didn’t have to do much more with these. He’d freshened up their towels and let them be. With each cabin door he closed, he was one step closer to being done with his mid-day duties. That’s at least how he should have felt. But really he thought he’d never finish. And that pissed him off.

  “Better to be pissed off than pissed on,” Catur used to say. Thinking of this incensed him even more. Asap felt his anger reach a boiling point, to the point of it becoming overwhelming. He couldn’t remember feeling uncontrollable rage before, like he was feeling now.

  And with each room, his rage grew, now manifesting itself in a desire to commit violence to whomever was behind this door, if only because they didn’t answer him. More than wanting to tell his needy guests to stuff their requests for more towels, or tissue, or lattes down their fat traps, he now wanted to rip their sniveling throats out or break things over their heads.

  When an image of what this might look like came to mind, Asap was taken aback. He was always frustrated by others, but he rarely thought of violence as a response. Now that was all he felt: an absolute need to commit violence.

  His shock slowly bled into a feeling of empowerment. It was as if he was no longer a pawn of this ship and its owners, and the guests he had to incessantly coddle. He felt like he could finally stand up for his rights. He could finally do something about the injustices constantly poured out on him.

  His fists were balled up, waiting to pounce on something, but he couldn’t remember what. That was something else going on recently inside his head, and it too bothered him.

  He was forgetting things. Lots of things. And he never forgot things before. This was just another example.

  He stood in front of this cabin door, and tried to remember why he was in front of this one... He also couldn’t remember if he had one more cabin or two to finish after this? Then, was he going to report all of his sick rooms to Chettle, or just let them die? He was leaning toward the latter: if they were dead, he didn’t have to service their rooms again.

  Oh God, what’s going on?

  He glanced at the door, and then the placard that told him the cabin number. You’re on Deck Eight, he mentally yelled at himself, momentarily wondering this because he wasn’t sure.

  What was I supposed to do next?

  The door rattled, almost in answer.

  He violently pushed in the heavy door, as if it were the reason for his memory lapses. It clanged off someone standing behind it.

  What an idiot to be standing behind the door.

  He remembered the cabin belonged to a single man—Asap couldn’t remember the man’s name anymore—who stumbled back a little from the impact. The man glared at Asap, his eyes full of fury. Then he screamed a jumble of unintelligible words and ran through the doorway, knocking Asap down. Then the man dashed down the hallway.

  As Asap prepared to push himself back up, he realized that there was lots of screaming and other noises everywhere, including much door rattling.

  He righted himself and watched with fascination as a guard ran his way. Asap started to move out of the guard’s way, so the man would have easy passage, but then stopped. He had as much right to the hallway as this guard did. So Asap stood his ground, facing the guard head-on.

  The guard ignored Asap and punched past him, almost knocking Asap down again. The guard was grunting and groaning and seemed fixated on the loud voices he heard coming from within the bridge, just out of sight at the end of the hall.

  That’s it. I’m done with my work!

  Asap was now standing before another cabin door, feeling his anger grow even more, but part of him knew he needed to figure out what was going on. Something bad was happening around him and maybe even to him. He could feel he was different inside, but he didn’t want to think about it.

  The cabin’s door was ajar, kept open still with the life-preserver wedged in it, as was advised by the staff captain last night. That meant this cabin was empty: perhaps its occupants—again, their German names escaped him—were in the infirmary or topside on one of the decks. He could only hope.

  There was a scream (he guessed) from inside the bridge. The voice sounded familiar. It was Jessica Something, the real pretty bridge officer so many of his male crewmates spoke of when they were talking about female crew they’d like to have sex with. He then heard some sort of struggle.

  Asap decided to take himself out of this. He kicked the life-preserver out of the door and shut it behind him. Bent over and out of breath—why am I breathing so heavily—he looked up, saw himself in a mirror and gasped.

  He took great pride in keeping his complexion perfect by using the right soaps, rinses and conditioners. And he kept his hair carefully groomed. The man that looked back at him was pale, almost to the point of death. His hair was standing up and out in all sorts of directions. “And my eyes,” he whimpered.

  There was a grunt on the other side of the cabin.

  Asap turned and for the first time saw he wasn’t alone.

  A thick German, face covered in blood, eyes matching the rest of him, stood over the lifeless body of what Asap guessed was the German’s wife.

  The German man screeched a horrible-sounding cry.

  Asap screeched back.

  48

  Bridge Troubles

  “Be OOD for a moment, would you?” Jessica asked. “I need to use the head.”

  “Sure,” said Ágúst, her only other bridge mate, and the ship’s Safety Director. He then grinned wildly. “But don’t be gone too long, or I may steer us to Barbados.”

  “Maybe I’ll take my time then,” she said, loosely manufacturing a smile as she dashed through the door closest to her.

  The smile immediately
slid off her face once she closed the door to the bridge’s only bathroom. She stared at the light pouring in from the gap below the door. It was far from an air-tight hatch; this was just an area built into the bridge for the officers’ convenience. Being only separated by thin materials off the bridge, it offered little protection to life’s need for private moments like this one. But there was only one head for the entire bridge crew, set up so they could remain on a secured bridge until their shift ended. A slight convulsion jolted her.

  With her head drooped, she let her slacks slide down to her ankles and waddled over to the toilet, attempting to muffle the sobs breaking free from her palm. When seated, she held her phone up to her face and gazed at its screensaver: a selfie with her husband and child, taken five months ago, just before she boarded the Intrepid to start her most recent ten-month contract. It felt so long ago. Much too long. A few of her tears splashed the screen, but she didn’t wipe them away. She continued to stare at the glistening picture, willing it to come to life in her mind.

  There had been no word from them since they’d left Malaga. Were they alive, and if so were they still at home? She had no idea. Meantime, there had been no emails or texts from them either. And the two times she tried to call them, a computerized voice told her the circuits in Reykjavik were busy.

  She kissed the screen, clicked it off, and flushed the toilet. After splashing some water on her face she opened the door back onto the bridge. She pushed the pain deep down. Immediately, she was alerted to an alarm coming from her console, bringing her back from her momentary respite with her family. It was a navigation alarm she had set for herself: a reminder to reset their coordinates.

  To stay on the path somewhat cleared of volcanic ash carried by the jet-stream, as the captain requested, she had to get creative with her navigation. The captain’s plan made sense, as he’d felt sure that getting out of the ash clouds was paramount to mitigating their exposure to whatever was infecting most of the animals.

  Her solution was a course that required corrections. First, they’d set in their coordinates to Sao Miguel in the Azores. This took them into the middle of the jet-stream’s cone, with volcanic clouds to the north and the south of it. Once in the middle of the area free of the clouds, she could set a straight heading to Nassau, Bahamas, their next port. They were now in the center of this area.

  She’d also calculated that this was the most fuel-efficient point to reset their coordinates. And efficiently using their fuel was important to corporate’s bean counters.

  At this point, all she needed to do was enter the new headings and then tell the ship’s computers to follow the new coordinates. She set the alarm because if she forgot, and they didn’t correct their path, they’d ultimately crash into their current set destination of the Azores in a couple of hours. Not that she would have forgotten.

  “My turn,” Ágúst announced, practically running to the head. He’d had an upset stomach all day, but didn’t want to leave his post, especially in light of all that was going on. Unfortunately for him, he had the same stomach bug afflicting many others, from what was believed to be accidental food poisoning by their British chef. He should have told the captain and have been relieved by someone else. But she understood his dedication. It was one of the many reasons she liked working with Ágúst.

  Jessica nodded at him as he breezed past her, and she moved to her console, pulling up the coordinates she had worked out. Just two more key strokes to get the Intrepid pointed in a more south-by-southwesterly heading. But before she executed the new commands, as always she would recheck her numbers and make sure they were absolutely correct.

  Another alarm rang out, making her jump. But this alarm was more like a buzz. And then she understood it was just the intercom. She glanced at the door to the head, hearing Ágúst puke again through the paper-thin door. There can’t be anything left inside the poor guy, she thought. She’d have to deal with the intercom first, then her calculations. She had plenty of time.

  As she made her way to the hatch, one of the many ship’s rules sprang into her brain: it was the one where the OOD always had to have their eyes on the console and their bow. Because she was the ship’s OOD at this moment, she was breaking that rule by answering the door.

  The intercom chimed again, and this time she heard a voice. “Help! Please! They’re coming to get me.”

  “Who is this?” she hollered into the box that was fixed a few inches above her mouth, forcing her to stretch up to the box. She had projected her voice loud enough so that Ágúst could hear what was happening as well, and hopefully finish his episode.

  “This is Second Officer Brian Murphy. Please let me in. They’re attacking us.”

  That was all she needed. She saw what was going on outside through their screens. She put her body into the locking latch, clicking it home, and then tugged on the hatch. The Second Officer was obviously helping, because it became instantly light.

  When it flopped open, Brian rushed in and brushed past her before he turned and puffed out, “Oh thank God. I thought I was done for.” He bent over, holding himself up at his knees, not looking up while he collected needed air in short breaths.

  While he did, he gazed at her. The fear hadn’t left his face, but he looked like he was starting to feel safe. Then his face twisted up and he yelled, “Close it. They’re here.”

  Jessica turned away from Brian and flashed a look into the doorway. It was filled with a guard, who barreled through the hatch and crashed into her, knocking her onto the deck.

  49

  Flavio

  Flavio was beyond upset: Jumpsuit Man had piled on top of him and was attacking him for reasons he didn’t know; his sleep was interrupted; and to top it off, he had another splitting headache.

  He tried to push Jumpsuit Man off him, but the crazy guy kept thrashing, and something so strange... It appeared as if the man was trying to bite him. Why would someone from engineering try to bite him? The man was obviously insane, but why the biting?

  Flavio braced himself and then when Jumpsuit Man lifted up to get a better angle of attack, Flavio placed a foot under the man’s stomach and shoved with all his might, sending Jumpsuit across the room with a crash.

  Flavio fixed his gaze in that direction, but he could barely see the man, because his cabin lights were still off. The only available light was coming from the hallway, through his open door. He was thankful that he’d taken the spring off the door, or it would have shut off all light.

  He had heard the man’s head hit the floor and the opposite wall hard, and now the man was spasmodically flailing around, just as he was before in the hallway, trying to right himself. Flavio could also feel the crazy guy glaring his weird red eyes at him. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes, but he could feel them. He knew the man was going to attack again.

  Flavio had enough of this shit. He spun around and reached up above his desk, snatching from the wall his employee of the year award that he’d received for saving a guest from drowning. It was a useless piece of wood and a thin piece of metal, which only graced his wall for that occasion where a senior officer might visit his room, though that had never happened. It served no other purpose, but it did have some heft to it.

  Flavio spun around, just as Jumpsuit was coming at him. Extending his arms back, while clutching the award, Flavio swung just before the man was upon him, connecting directly with the man’s head. The award split in two, just like he suspected the man’s head did as well. The man now lay in a heap beside his bed, the hallway light illuminating enough for him to see blood trickling out of a good-sized gash to his forehead. He was unconscious but not dead because Flavio could also see the man’s chest rising and falling rapidly.

  Flavio squeezed his eyes shut, a weak attempt to push away his migraine. Then he opened them back up and huffed a huge sigh, glaring scorn at the unconscious man bleeding on his floor. Another annoyance he didn’t want.

  And who would clean up the blood?

  F
lavio popped up, stepped over to his bed and flipped the light switch on, while keeping his gaze on the man. He humphed at the growing pool of blood being soaked up by his carpet. That was not going to come out easily.

  He glared at the man, trying to decide what to do with him, and then made up his mind. He needed answers, which meant waking the guy while he still could.

  He yanked off a pillow case from one of his six pillows—he needed many pillows to help him sleep. Then from a drawer, he pulled out some paracord, and using one of his many knives, he cut off two separate two-foot sections. Grabbing Jumpsuit’s legs but avoiding the man’s broken foot—he didn’t want to wake him yet—he gave a hard tug. Then, with the precision of an American cowboy roping a steer at a rodeo, Flavio hog-tied the man’s legs and then his arms. The pillow case slipped over the man’s head was a final measure: he did not care to see the man’s eyes until he had to.

  He stood up and padded over to his open cabin door, but hung in the doorway. He poked his head out into the hallway, for one final confirmation of what he thought he had seen: that it wasn’t some sort of weird flashback to his time in the army. With the headaches often came flashbacks of that day the Russians invaded his beloved country. But there was no time for this.

  The overturned cart was still there, along with the garbage strewn in the hall. And although he could hear a commotion in the distance, out of sight, he didn’t see any more crazy people.

  Then he heard it.

  It was the same angry bray he’d heard from the crazy man on his floor. Something had happened. It wasn’t just this one crazy man; others were crazy. He knew it wasn’t just the crazy rats and dogs; this was bigger. But was it the whole ship or just his area here? He needed to find out more, and find out if the captain was still in control of his ship.

  His migraine crashed an agonizing drum-beat inside his head, as if to answer him. “Have you forgotten about me?” No, I have not, he thought, while rubbing his temples. It would be so easy to cast Jumpsuit out of his door, close himself in and go back to sleep. Whatever was going on was going to continue with or without him. Especially if some plague of craziness had struck the ship.