The Final Outbreak

by M. L. Banner

  She was an amazing woman, especially now, with everything going on.

  If she were not married, he would have been interested.

  He stopped this line of thinking. This is what got him into trouble years ago. It’s why he told everyone he was gay. And why he pretended to live that life. The company was tolerant of everyone’s lifestyle, but it was a big no-no to fraternize with the crew, and most especially the passengers. And women all loved the uniform. So he thought it was just easier to tell everyone he was gay. From that moment forward, women treated him different than the other male officers, thinking he was no longer a threat. The fact was, he loved women. And he especially loved driven women like Theresa Jean.

  He noticed she was out of sight, so he double-timed it until he saw her again. She was there at the Wayfarer Lounge entrance, back to him, focused on something in a dark corner of the floor.

  Jean Pierre was about to say something when she held up a hand to silence him. It was then he noticed she wasn’t trying to focus on the floor, but something else. She beckoned him forward.

  When he was beside her, she leaned over to him and whispered. “I think they’re here. Please go back there.” She pointed to some place diagonally across the hall. “I’m going in, but prepare to run back to that last restaurant.”

  He nodded, and stepped backward quietly, not moving his eyes from the dark opening of the lounge. He couldn’t see in, but he thought he could hear something now. Some guttural sound. And while he was thinking of it, he caught a whiff of the most horrible smell. Like a slaughterhouse.

  Once TJ saw he was at the place she had suggested, she turned and walked inside.

  It felt like she was gone for an eternity, but he knew it was only a few short moments. She appeared out of the shadows, looking calm but focused. She reached to one side of the hallway and gave a short tug at one of the two double doors. Then she tugged at the other. Both began their slow swing inward, guided by her, until both were closed. She held both of the handles, her biceps and shoulders tensing.

  She turned her head toward him, threw a scowl and mouthed the words, “Come here.” She wanted him to lock the door.

  There was a thump on the other side of the door. And then another.

  He jogged over, his right hand in his pocket, feeling for the keys. Like the other main public spaces, this door required an old fashioned metal key. The restaurants were on one electronic master key, and the lounges and theater were on another.

  There was another deep thump on the door, followed by several more.

  He had the keys out and then fumbled with the first, which he knew wasn’t the right one because of its shape. It was one of the four longer ones—he couldn’t remember which one it was.

  “Would you mind hurrying? They’re there, and they’re waking up now.”

  “Merde!” he mumbled, his hand shaking.

  He slipped in one and turned.

  Wrong key.

  Almost in response, the doors thundered; their vibrations caused more tremors in him.

  He slammed in the next key and turned.

  Nope!

  “Please hurry,” she said. Her shoulders were hunched and she was digging her heels into the carpet. The doors moved back and forward.

  They were pulling from the other side.

  The next key slid in and it turned slightly, but no further.

  The doors rattled hard. And TJ grunted. He could tell she couldn’t hold it much longer.

  Then he remembered this door’s lock was backwards. It was the only one in the ship like this. He slammed the last key back in again, but this time he turned it the other way, just as the doors were being pulled inward. The lock started to engage, but stopped short. With the two doors opening and now at an angle, there was no way to fully engage.

  He grabbed her wrist and the handle with his free hand. “One more tug,” he said and they both pulled, while he put pressure with his other hand on the key.

  The doors gave in their favor, just a little. It was all they needed.

  Finally, it clicked home.

  TJ let go of the door and they both fell backwards onto the carpet, breathing heavily.

  “Oh merde. That was close.” He huffed. “How many are there?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Her chest rose and fell rapidly like a sleek ship in rough seas. Finally, she gave him a grin. “All of them.”

  Jean Pierre detached his radio from his belt, put it to his lips and whispered, “We have found the parasitics. Repeat, we found all of the parasitics. They are in the Wayfarer Lounge. Repeat, commence Operation Deep Freeze on just the Wayfarer Lounge.

  He put the radio down on his lap and smiled at Theresa Jean. “Merci!”

  The Journal of TD Bonaventure

  DAY TEN

  I AM UTTERLY EXHAUSTED.

  THE PLAN, OR WHAT WE CALLED OPERATION DEEP FREEZE, WENT OFF WITHOUT A HITCH... WELL, MOSTLY.

  WE WERE ABLE TO FIND MOST OF THE HIDING PARASITICS—THAT’S THE WORD MOLLY GOT US TO USE WHEN DESCRIBING THE FULLY SYMPTOMATIC INFECTED, AT LEAST THOSE WHO APPEARED TO BE COMPLETELY CONTROLLED BY THE T-GONDII PARASITE.

  WE WERE INCREDIBLY LUCKY: MOST OF THEM WERE IN ONE LARGE LOUNGE THAT WE WERE ABLE TO LOCK UP. WE GOT TO THEM JUST BEFORE THEY WERE GOING OUT TO HUNT. THEY WERE JUST WAKING UP WHEN TJ FOUND THEM.

  THE REMAINING PARASITICS WE ROUNDED UP CABIN BY CABIN, KNOCKING THEM OUT AND THEN TRANSPORTING THEM TO THE WAYFARER LOUNGE WITH THE OTHERS.

  AND WE’VE BEEN ABLE TO KEEP THEM THERE THESE PAST FIVE DAYS. AND AS LONG AS THE AIR-CONDITIONING HOLDS UP, WE CAN KEEP THEM UNDER CONTROL.

  BUT EVEN COUNTING OUR MANY BLESSINGS, OUR LOSSES WERE STAGGERING.

  BARELY FIVE HUNDRED GUESTS AND CREW SURVIVED, MANY OF THEM INJURED, SOME SERIOUSLY. THE REST ARE EITHER PARASITIC OR DEAD. OUR BEST COUNT OF THE DEAD WAS OVER THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY. IT’S MIND-NUMBING TO EVEN THINK ABOUT. WE’LL HAVE TIME FOR THAT TOMORROW MORNING, WHEN WE HOLD THE BURIAL AT SEA AND MEMORIAL SERVICE.

  AND YET IT COULD HAVE EASILY GONE THE OTHER WAY.

  WE ARE AT LEAST ALIVE AND WE HAVE CONTROL OF THE SHIP AGAIN. MOST IMPORTANT, MY WIFE IS ALIVE, EVEN THOUGH SHE IS PARTIALLY SYMPTOMATIC FROM THE PARASITE.

  SHE CONTINUES TO CHANGE: GETTING STRONGER, SEEING AND HEARING BETTER THAN EVER BEFORE—SHE COULD BARELY SEE PAST HER FEET BEFORE ALL OF THIS. BUT OTHER THINGS HAVE CHANGED IN HER AS WELL, MANY NOT GOOD.

  SHE’S DIFFERENT IN WAYS I CAN’T POSSIBLY EXPLAIN. IT’S AS IF A PART OF HER PERSONALITY HAS LEFT HER, EVEN THOUGH SHE SAYS SHE HAS THE SAME FEELINGS SHE DID BEFORE.

  YET BECAUSE OF WORRIES ABOUT MY SAFETY, WE SLEEP IN SEPARATE CABINS.

  AND SO, EVEN THOUGH I LONG FOR HER, WE SPEND ONE MORE NIGHT APART.

  I DO NOT KNOW WHAT THE FUTURE HOLDS FOR TJ AND ME, FOR OUR SHIP, AND CERTAINLY NOT FOR OUR WORLD. SO WE WILL TAKE IT ONE DAY AT A TIME. GOODNIGHT.

  79

  The New Normal

  He scratched around the bandage covering a large portion of his forearm. The bite wound itched like crazy now, which was a far cry better than how it felt a few days earlier.

  Nurse Chloe had told him that bite wounds would hurt more than any other cut or wound he’d sustained before, because of the amount of skin surface broken and possible nerve damage.

  Pain was not part of his worry. Of course, it hurt. But he’d felt much worse from many previous injuries, including a bullet to the brain, which still caused him migraines. What Flavio feared more than anything, was what would happen after the pain went away.

  Would he become infected, and if he did, would he turn into one of those damned parasitics, as Dr. Molly called them?

  No matter how much the nurse tried to reassure him that he was most likely not infected, he became sure that it was just inevitable.

  With each flash of anger or each moment he wanted to slap someone for being stupid—this happened daily—he’d stop himself and wait for some sort of change to begin. But it never came.

  And when he�
��d see Mrs. Williams, during their daily campaign to root out any other parasitics hiding in the ship’s shadows, he’d pull her aside and ask her to smell him. It sounded strange when the request came out of his mouth, but he saw what Hans could do and knew she could do this as well.

  He didn’t dare ask Hans for the sniff-test, because Hans was feeling all high and mighty about his status as one of the few people on the ship who could recognize the difference between an infected and a non-infected. He didn’t want to add to that man’s ego. And he just didn’t like him. Mrs. Williams was more discreet, and like him, less emotional about such a request.

  Yet each time she would grant him a sniff, she’d shake her head, telling him, No, you’re not infected. But her reassurances didn’t assuage his anxiety about becoming one of them.

  He glanced up and scanned the crowd attending the service and saw Mrs. Williams standing back in the far corner of the open forecastle. Her arms were folded around her chest, nose-plug clipped to her nose—too many non-infecteds for her to smell—and her normal-looking sunglasses covered up her abnormal eyes.

  Mr. Williams stood nearby, but they almost didn’t seem together.

  “And now we take a few moments of silence to honor our friends, our family, and our crew members we lost in the attack.”

  Flavio pulled his gaze away from Mrs. Williams and visually addressed his staff captain, who had just lowered his own head. Everyone else did as well. He searched the faces of his fellow crew members and passengers, feeling the weight of the pain of their losses.

  Vicki, who stood beside him, also lowered her head. She reached up with both of her hands and grabbed one of his, squeezing it tight. Tears slid down her cheek, serenading her quivering chest. She was a big crier.

  She was one tough lady, but the death of the captain and her close friend Zeka were very difficult for her to take. This was hard on all of them: they all lost someone they knew or cared about.

  Everyone did but him.

  Flavio had been purposely detached from most people. It was the thought of losing people he cared about that drove his personality. It was much easier not to care. And ever since he’d lost much of his family to a war, he had made the decision to just turn off his feelings for other people.

  He had always smiled and was cordial to the passengers and crew, when it was appropriate. But he rarely asked anyone anything personal. The less he knew about people personally, the simpler it was to remain detached. This detachment worked well for a long time. Then Vicki came into his life.

  Vicki Smith from England was the first woman in a long time that he gave a damn about. And it was obvious that she liked him...

  What are you thinking, Flavio? he scolded himself.

  There was no time, especially now, for relationships.

  He told himself to let go of her hand, but he couldn’t. She needed someone’s hand to hold onto. And if not his, whose would it be?

  A light bell-chime rang out from the ship’s loudspeakers.

  All their heads rose. Vicki released his hand and then wiped more tears away, smudging her thick mascara even more. She looked so sad.

  The bell-sound rang again.

  She flashed a smile at him. It was a facade. She was genuinely hurting inside. And because of this, he started to hurt as well. She returned her gaze to the staff captain, who was finishing up the service.

  “Almighty God, we commit the remains of our brothers and sisters to the deep, for their eternal sleep. Protect their immortal souls. Amen.”

  Dozens of crew and passengers followed the staff captain to the port-side rail of the forecastle. Each held boxes of various sizes, which contained the remains of one or more family members, friends or crew. Once at the rail, each dumped the cremated remains over. Like clouds of chalk, billows of gray rained down onto the frothy waters below, and then disappeared, as if they never existed before this.

  Meanwhile, the bell rang every five seconds.

  Vicky startled him by wrapping her arms around his trunk. “This is so bloody hard,” she sobbed.

  Flavio hesitated, and then reciprocated, squeezing her back. It felt good to give comfort to someone... Someone he cared about.

  He held her tight against him, while her body trembled in his arms, not even caring if she spotted his uniform with her mascara.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of someone running. It was Mrs. Williams. She pushed through the exit, with Mr. Williams chasing after her.

  ~~~

  Not everyone attended the burial at sea services. A few of the passengers still didn’t seem to understand that their luxury cruise had permanently ended days ago.

  Josef Rauff was emblematic of this mindset. Each day, while many of his fellow passengers chipped in to help the crew, he chose to lounge in his own ignorance, bathing in the blissful sun’s rays. And at least until four days ago, he had drowned himself in generous helpings of the ship’s alcohol. That was until the staff captain cut him and everyone else off.

  And what right did he have to do this, when they paid big money to go on this cruise? And that wasn’t the only thing now lacking on their ship.

  Normal services were now nonexistent. Restaurants were closed, there were no shows playing at the theater, their Internet and satellite TV didn’t work, and finding someone to serve them even a soda was impossible.

  “Where the hell are the servants?” he croaked to no one in particular.

  Apocalypse or no apocalypse, the crew’s job was to wait on him and his fellow passengers. It was what he paid for. Yet the service now was inferior even to those big cruise lines serving the masses.

  “Dammit!” Josef pounded his lounger’s armrest, generating tsunamis in the flab of his belly. “I want some damned service.”

  A shadow appeared in front of him, blocking his sun. So he shot a scowl of hatred at the silhouette.

  “Get out of the way,” he spat. “If you’re not here to get me a drink, I don’t want what you’re selling, Grunzschwein.”

  “Hey, dude,” said the young American, his high-pitched voice thick with scorn. “You know people died?” He pointed forward, in the direction of the burial at sea service he’d just attended. “And most of the crew is out there—”

  “Get out of here, you idiot. Before I...” Josef shot his fist in the air to finish his sentence.

  “German prick,” quipped the American, who turned to walk away.

  Josef snapped. He bounded out of his lounger, tripping over an empty table next to him. He tumbled, but remained vertical just long enough to tackle the American’s legs. Josef bellowed his anger, in a combination of screams and growls.

  Other passengers, having been attentively watching Josef and the American’s interaction, assumed it wouldn’t go too much further. That was until they saw the big German tackle the other man. Most still remained in their seats, but a couple of men popped up to intervene, arriving just as the German was yelling something inarticulate which sounded like obscenities.

  The situation changed dramatically when they tried to separate the two men.

  Each Good Samaritan held onto a shoulder of the German, while the American slithered his legs out of the man’s grasp. But then the German turned to the first man, hyper-extended his neck and then sank his teeth into the man’s hand. Both yelled and attempted to release themselves from the German.

  “Oh my God,” yelled the American, now gawking a few inches away, “he’s one of them.”

  Josef responded by growling, red and foamy spittle, glaring reddish eyes of malevolence at each of the frantic witnesses, before setting his sights back on the man he’d just bitten.

  Most every passenger, at first casually watching the show, fled the sun deck. They ran break-neck for the exits, fearing a repeat of what happened here five days ago.

  The American man, who’d tried to calm the German down before getting accosted, had had enough of this. He snatched a small table, kicked over from their scuffle. And while the paras
itic German tried to lunge at the man he’d bitten, the American drove the table hard into the attacker’s skull, subduing him.

  The other passengers and a couple of crew, seeing the parasitic man was now unconscious, ran over to help out.

  They would drag the man to the elevator and place him into an ice box they’d set up just for this type of incident. There he’d remain until he calmed down. Then he would be separated and placed in with the rest of the parasitic population on deck 6.

  ~~~

  “The infected are not like any of us. We must remember that,” said the very British-sounding animal behaviorist. “They’re very much like animals, driven by instinctual needs: hunting, food, sex...” “Did you say sex?” a male voice cut in. “Why yes, of course,” responded the British woman. “The Pyschotics have a strong sex drive, and we must—”

  “—useful?”

  Ted slid the headphones from his ears and glanced up. “Sorry?”

  “I asked if you’ve found anything useful?” Jean Pierre strode through the door of their newly created communications room, formerly the master bedroom of 8000’s luxury suite.

  Ted laid the bulky headphones on the desk, pulled his blue Cubs hat off his head, and massaged his temples. He waited for Jean Pierre to settle into one of the hard chairs set up by the door, knowing their conversation would be a long one.

  After running his fingers through his hair, Ted put his hat back on. “David left just a few minutes ago to have lunch with Evie. So I’ll report what he found first.” He turned about ninety degrees in his chair to address his captain.

  “He only found one working television broadcast today. It’s RTP from Ponta Delgada. But it’s a taped talk show, being replayed over and over again. And it was in Spanish, which of course neither of us speak. More troubling, as of today, none of the satellite channels are working: even the BBC is off the air now.” Ted paused to let that point sink in. It was a shock to David and him as well.