by Winona Kent
There are no fucking lifejackets in this cabin.
“Get topside. Now, Jase.”
She’s disconnected.
Katey’s looking at me.
I know where we are. It’s just past two in the morning and we’re nowhere near any sort of land. The closest civilization’s 200 miles away, Sitka.
The ship’s pitching. I can hear waves crashing into her hull. She’s groaning and complaining. Creaking. Crying.
Katey looks frightened.
Someone’s pounding on my door.
I pull it open, expecting a crewmember in a safety vest with orders to evacuate. Instead I find Rick. Falling down drunk.
I drag him inside. God knows how he found me. How did he do it last time?
“What the fuck are you doing down here?”
“Carly’s thrown me out. She’s divorcing me.”
“She’s got excellent timing,” I tell him. “You do know there’s a fire in the Engine Room?”
“Is that what all the commotion’s about?”
Blind, staggering, oblivious, pissed.
I haul him over to the sink. Plug it up and run the tap. Immerse his head. I don’t care if he drowns. “Sober up,” I tell him.
I’m trying to think. Phone. ID. My guitars, my laptop, my life. Everything’s replaceable except the last.
“Come on.”
I grab Katey by the arm and Rick by the hair.
BANG! B-A-N-G!
Jesus fucking Christ. The whole ship has just shuddered. Something’s exploded behind and below us. We’re all on the floor. I crawl to the door. I pull it open. The hallway’s filling up with black, rolling, acrid smoke. I slam the door shut again.
Katey looks really really scared. “I don’t want to die.”
“We’re not going to die.”
This fire will not have its way.
I’m phoning again. But I can’t get a line to the Bridge.
And suddenly, I can hear it. Not hear it. The hiss of the ship’s air conditioning. It’s stopped. The cabin is deathly quiet.
Rick has a look of utter confusion on his face. His eyes are wild. I have no idea if he actually realizes what’s going on.
I have two towels. Two more, small ones, if we count Katey’s animal origami. I grab all of them from the rack beside the sink and twist on the taps again.
No water pressure. Nothing. But there’s still a small puddle in the bottom of the sink where Rick’s face was. I press the towels down, saturating them. That’s all there is.
I’m not sure I can find my way around down here.
Phone. ID. Wallet. At least if they discover our bodies, they’ll know who we used to be. Assuming we’re not incinerated.
I pull the cabin door open again, and a wall of hot black smoke hits us. Holding the wet towel over my nose and mouth, I drop to the floor. Invite Rick and Katey to do the same. The air’s a little cleaner down here. Much cooler.
I’m leading the way forward. Crawling. Rick’s grabbed my belt. Katey’s got his shirt.
The smoke’s burning my nose and throat. Stinging my eyes. I can’t keep them open for much longer.
I’m coughing. All of us are. I can’t get my breath.
Bells. Bells. Continuous signal. Crew Alert.
“How much further?” Katey gasps.
“Around the corner.”
Fire screen door. I struggle to get it open. Smoke pours out of the stairwell from below.
Fuck.
“Turn around,” I say. It’s difficult to talk. “There’s a watertight door. Back the other way.”
It’ll get us to the next compartment. Maybe there’ll be less smoke. The bells have stopped.
The Captain’s talking. His voice is up in the smoke. Far away. “May I have your attention please.” I keep crawling forward. “Attention ship’s crew. This is not an exercise.”
You can bloody well say that again.
“Ship’s company are ordered to their emergency stations. I’ll repeat. This is a Crew Alert. This is not an exercise. Ship’s company are ordered to their emergency stations.”
“Abandon ship,” Rick says, slurring. “Abandon ship.”
“It’s not fucking Abandon Ship. It’s Go to fucking Muster Stations.”
Rick thinks this is funny. He’s laughing. I’m getting dizzy. My brain’s getting fuzzy. This is not good.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is Jemima Vickers, your Cruise Director, speaking to you from the Bridge.”
Bloody hell.
I’m feeling my way along the wall. I’m not sure how much further it is to the watertight door.
“No doubt you’ve heard a bit of a commotion. Some banging about on the lower decks. And possibly you’ve smelled some smoke.”
You couldn’t make this up. I want to laugh along with Rick. Some banging about? The possibility of smoke?
“The Captain has now issued a Crew Alert. This doesn’t need to concern you at the moment. Nevertheless, Captain Callico has asked me to suggest that you please assemble in your Muster Stations as a precautionary measure to ensure your safety and comfort while we continue to assess the situation on the lower decks.”
We’re dying down here on the lower decks, Vicks. That’s the situation.
“Abandon ship,” Rick says, again, behind me.
“Katey,” I say, and my voice is hoarse. “You still there, love?”
“Still here,” she says. Her voice sounds worse than mine.
There’s only so much smoke you can take in before your body starts to stop working. There’s only so much you can take in before you surrender to the poisons. I’m getting tired. I’m coughing so much, I can barely breathe. My head’s pounding.
This is what Emma must have gone through. This is what it must have been like before the carbon monoxide made her unconscious and she dreamed her way to death.
I’m focusing on the floor. Lino. Tiles. Hands. Knees. Crawling. I’m dimly aware that Rick has let go of my belt. That I’ve moved far ahead of him.
I turn, scramble back. Find Katey, crouched over and hunched up, face buried between her arms. Towel over her head like a shroud.
Find Rick, in better shape than both of us. He has no blood. His heart is pumping neat Glenfiddich.
“Keep going forward,” I tell him. “As far forward as you can.”
He goes. Disappears into the smoke.
I hit Katey. Hard. Between the shoulders. Hard enough to shock her back to life. I grab her wrist and pull her after me.
Bells again. Seven short. One long. Now it really is Abandon fucking Ship.
But we’re there. I can see the yellow and black striped sill crossing the floor in front of me.
I sag down. My breathing’s ragged. My lungs are aching. My throat’s burning. I’m not thinking straight. Where’s Rick?
I feel around. Find his leg. “You OK?”
“Yeah, mate. Yeah. Couldn’t be better.”
Katey. “You OK?”
“Can’t breathe.”
Maybe we’re already dead and this is the bit in between Here and There.
One last effort. There’s the handle that makes the door open. It’s an electric lever. I push down on it. Hard. Give it everything I’ve got.
There’s a deep rumble. And a hurricane of cool, fresh air whistles past my head. It blasts the smoke away. The door slides all the way open.
“Go through! Now! Go! Go!”
I’m leaning on the handle, keeping the door from closing.
Katey’s through.
The lights are flickering. No. Not now…not now…
Rick’s through.
I can’t let go of the handle. The door will slam shut on me.
I struggle to stand. My head’s clearing. I’m following procedure. Hold lever down with left hand. Reach around to other side. Find lever. Hold down with right hand. Step through. Let go.
I’m safe. I’m on the other side. The door’s crashing shut.
There’s s
moke here too. Not as much. But it’s seeping in, a grey, dense fog. We can’t stay here long. Our towels are black. Our faces are black. Our clothes are black.
There go the lights again.
I’m trying my phone one more time. If the generators go, there won’t be any signal.
Bridge. I’ve got the Bridge.
“Sal…”
“Where are you, Jase?”
“I don’t know. Forward. The stairs are full of smoke. We got through one watertight door.”
“We’re abandoning ship, Jase. The fire’s spreading up through the air shafts. We’re starting to list quite badly.”
It’s what I imagined. The nightmare scenario. It’s what we practiced.
“Stay on the phone with me, Sal. Just till we get topside. Please. We’re trying the next stairs now.”
I’m on my feet. I’ve located the fire screen door. I’m pulling it open.
Black smoke rolls out. I slam it shut.
“It’s no good, Sal. Smoke in that stairwell too. What’s forward of us?”
Sal’s looking at the ship’s diagrams. She knows where we are. When I opened that door, a light blinked on the panel. “One more watertight compartment, Jase. Crew Access in the middle, two thirds of the way along.”
The lights are going. I’m losing the signal.
“May the angels fly with you, Jase.” Sal’s voice is fading. “I’ll monitor your progress as long as I can…I…”
There go the lights. Sally’s gone too. We’re plunged into sudden black.
I think she said, “I love you.”
And I know she’s watching. It’s oddly comforting.
My phone’s still on and it’s throwing an eerie white light onto the walls. And all along the walls, at floor level, and again at waist-height, I can see thin strips of luminescent tape, glowing bright green. I tear the strips of tape from the walls, stick them to my shirt. To Katey’s dress. To Rick’s jacket.
“Come on,” I tell them. “Forward. One more door.”
It’s very hot. And it’s getting harder and harder to breathe. Deep inside the ship, I can hear banging. Shrieking. Buckling. Fire noise, as it thunders beneath us. My lady’s heart is breaking. Perhaps, after all, this is what she wants. Not led to her death, abandoned by everyone she loves. Taking her own life, before it can be taken from her. Death by her own hand.
One more door. I’ve found it, outlined in luminescent paint and tape. There’s an emergency hydraulic lever. I have to work it manually. The door’s heavy, but it’s inching open. It’s so agonizingly slow. And this space is filling up with smoke.
Working the lever’s draining everything out of me. There’s just enough room for one person to squeeze through.
“Katey. Go. Rick. Follow Katey.”
Rick’s looking at me through bleary eyes, trying to process what I’m saying.
But he understands.
“If I stop working this lever, the door will slam shut. Just go.”
He’s going. After Katey.
“Find the lever on the other side,” I tell them. “Work it. Give me time to get through.”
She’s through.
He’s through.
I can’t do this anymore. I’m letting go…The door’s closing. Closing. Closed. I slip down to the floor. There’s air down here. Just enough…
Please find the lever. Please make it work. Please…please…
“Please…”
There’s a noise. The door’s inching open. A little bit more…Just a little bit further…There’s enough room for me…there’s just enough…I drag myself through. And collapse on the other side. The door crashes shut, missing my toes by fractions of inches.
I just want to lie here. I just want to sleep…The air on this side’s a lot cleaner. And it’s cooler. But there’s still smoke. I can feel it. Taste it.
The luminescent tape on the wall points the way forward, into the darkness. This way to the stairs. Our last way out.
Fire screen door. Handle outlined by glowing tape. Unlatch it. Pull it open.
But as I drag it back, another wall of thick, acrid smoke billows out from below. I slam it shut. We’ve nowhere to go.
Katey’s lying on the floor, gasping for air, looking up at me. “I’m going to die,” she whispers.
“Don’t you bloody dare!”
But her eyes are closing. And I don’t know where Rick is.
I hold up my phone, so I can see where we are. We’re far, far forward. As forward as you can go. The floor slopes up from here. The walls splay out, making a V.
I’m slipping…it’s too hard…there’s no air…
And I can hear water, outside, lapping against the ship’s blistering skin.
I just want it all to stop.
There’s a scorching, acid taste in my mouth and throat. There’s a searing pain in my chest.
What was that?
Something faint, something white, has just drifted in front of me.
Did I imagine it?
Oh…
I see her. Wafting gently beside me. I feel her. The merest stirring of wind.
Hello…
The gentlest of whispers against my cheek. A fluttering of gauze.
This way. Come this way.
I hear her.
I’m following her. I’m crawling forward, on my hands and knees. Into the middle of the black void. One hand. One knee. Other hand. Other knee.
I’m following her voice. I’m following her beautiful, familiar scent.
Something solid ruffles my hair. My head. Ow. I reach out. A step. No…Not. I touch it. A ladder? I pull myself up. There’s a flat step. It is a ladder. Up. Up. Up. Up up up. I’m climbing, following the floating white whisper. Up into the blackness. Holding my breath.
The top of my head hits something hard. Ceiling.
I aim my phone light up. It’s a metal hatch. With a latch.
Got it. Release…and…push. Push. Push!
The hatch is heavy. Its hinges are old and rusty and corroded. But it creaks open. And cool clean magnificent fucking fresh air rushes down through the hole.
I tip my face into it, sucking its sweetness deep into my lungs, coughing up God knows what foul substances in the process.
I shove the hatch all the way open as my head begins to clear.
I slide down the ladder, my feet not even touching the rungs.
I rip a strip of luminescent tape off my shirt and stick it to one of the vertical sides. X marks the spot.
And I plunge back into the hot black unbreathable hell to find Katey and Rick.
I’m feeling my way along the floor. Along the ribs. I discover Katey’s foot. Her leg. She’s crumpled against the bulkhead, face down. Rick’s just behind her, his hand on her ankle. She’s lost her shoes. They’re both still breathing. Just.
I shake them. Hard. “There’s a way out. Up there.”
But they’re limp. There’s no response.
I pull Katey up by the arms and drag her back with me, back to the strip of glowing green tape. I lift her. Push her arms through the spaces between the rungs.
“It’s about ten feet up,” I tell her, burying my mouth and nose in her hair, not knowing if she can even hear me.
I’m behind her, propping her unconscious body against the ladder. I put my foot on the first rung. Lift her leg. Plant her foot beside mine.
“Come on.” Now I’m getting angry. I’m not going to allow her to die. “Move your bloody legs. Come on.”
Something shudders back to life inside her. Weakly, she raises her other foot, and flops it onto the bottom rung of the ladder.
“That’s it. And again.” I wrap her fingers around the vertical sides. “One more. One at a time.”
Katey’s foot moves again. Then her leg. Up another rung.
I’m hugging her tight and can feel her lungs trying to work. I can hear her struggling to breathe.
She raises her foot, and I slide her hands up, clasping her fingers inside mi
ne, supporting all of her weight against my legs and chest.
She’s coming back to life.
“Come on, love. Up we go.”
The shimmering scented white gauze drifts in front of me again. Touches my cheek. My lips. Touches my fingers…Waits…until we’re safe…and…is…Gone…
29
Thursday, Gulf of Alaska
Rick’s still alive. Still breathing. I drag him through the darkness to the green glowing strip marking where the ladder is. I put his hands on the steps, his feet. I stand behind him, all the way up, pushing him, till he’s at the top. Then I shove him through the opening.
I drag myself through.
And clang the hatch door shut behind me.
So here I sit, in total darkness. I don’t want to waste the battery in my phone. I think five or six minutes must have passed. I’ve coughed up so much foul tasting grime, I have no idea how my lungs are even functioning anymore.
I’ve left Katey and Rick lying in the recovery position, one on either side of me. I can hear their wheezy breathing. It’s the loveliest sound in the world. We’re all still alive.
Though I haven’t a clue where we are. And I have no idea where we’re going next.
I switch my phone on, and do a quick sweep around. I can see the ribs of the ship rising up around me. Not much else. It smells like rusty steel, seawater and old ropes.
The air’s clean. There’s no smoke. And it’s cold. Really really bone-chillingly cold.
The sea outside’s rough. We’re pitching and rolling. I can feel it. And I can still hear the waves, crashing into the hull.
And my lady’s creaks and groans and shudders, as she rides it out.
Are we sinking? We could be halfway underwater and we’d never know it, up here in the bow.
I’m trying the Bridge on my phone. I know Sal said they were abandoning ship, but still.
No. Nothing. No signal.
But…I have to look again. There is a connection…to the internet. To Twitter. That’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. How can the WiFi still be working? There’s no power on the ship. Unless it’s the emergency generator…? Still pulsing, still alive?
There’s a DM from Jilly. Sweetie, are you there? I know something very bad has happened…
You’re 100% right, Jilly. There’s a fire. Engine Room. We’re safe…for now…