A Sea of Shattered Glass

by Kyla Stone

“Do you know they have a name for the virus now? The Hydra Virus. Fitting, yes? The many-headed beast whose poisonous blood was so virulent even its breath could kill you. Cut off a head and two grow back. Death coming at you from so many directions at once. Virtually impossible to destroy.”

  “I don't understand what—”

  “Enough!” barked one of the terrorists in combat gear. He wasn't wearing a ski mask. He was East Asian, with malevolent, raven-dark eyes and a scar down one side of his face. He stood with his feet spread, shoulders taut, weapon at the ready.

  Simeon removed the gun from her side and placed it against her temple, the metal like cold fire against her skin.

  “We've gone through this whole rigmarole so many times,” Simeon said. “Cheng's tired of this. I'm tired of this. Are you tired of this, Kane?”

  Kane grunted. “How about we gut her and see how she squeals?”

  “Too messy.” Simeon nodded at Kane.

  In one smooth movement, Kane pointed his gun at the group of hostages against the wall and shot twice.

  The bang exploded against her skull. She clapped her hands over her ringing ears. Someone screamed.

  “I apologize, my dear,” Simeon said. “A gunshot is loud at such close range without ear protection, even with a suppressor.”

  She couldn't tell at first who was shot. Someone was weeping. A woman. Her mother lifted her head, awake now. But the man next to her wasn't moving. Red bloomed like a flower across his chest. Relief mingled with guilt flooded her. Her mother was still alive, but Ferguson wasn't. Not anymore. A second man groaned. Beside Ferguson, Tyler Horne clutched his shoulder, blood pooling beneath his fingers.

  “You monster!” her mother cried.

  “I was aiming for you,” Kane said to her mother, but he was looking at Amelia, his lips peeled back like a dog baring its teeth.

  “I also have poor aim,” Simeon said amiably. He could have been discussing tomorrow's tee time. The cold barrel of the gun pressed harder against Amelia's temple. “Unless, of course, I'm close enough to the target.”

  Her mother shrank back against the wall, her eyes wild with terror. “Don't hurt her, please! Take me instead. I'm begging you!”

  “Sorry, lady,” Simeon said. “We tried that. And if you don't shut up, I'm going to have to let Kane shoot you, too.”

  “Hostiles on Deck Four.” The terrorist next to the security monitors pointed. “They're wearing our gear. And they just took out two of our guys.”

  Cheng's walkie-talkie hissed static. A deep male voice sputtered something. Cheng's face darkened, his scar pulsing purple. “They're headed for the lifeboats. Go.”

  Two of his men sprinted to the starboard bridge wing. Muzzles flashed in the darkness.

  Cheng's scowl deepened. His scar bulged like an angry worm. “Enough with this foolishness.”

  “We're almost done.” Simeon grabbed Amelia's shoulder and shoved her into a kneeling position. “Now, where were we? Gabriel?”

  “The cure.” The sound of Gabriel's voice twisted like a knife in her gut.

  “Ah, yes. We need the cure now or everyone dies, starting with your daughter.”

  “What cure?” Amelia whispered.

  “And I kept hearing how clever you were,” Simeon said. “What do you think happened?”

  Something sprouted to life, some small niggling thought in the back of her pulsing, aching brain. It was hard to focus, to clear her jumbled thoughts. “There was a mistake, an error. The vaccine doesn't work like it's supposed to.”

  Simeon grabbed her hair with his free hand and wound it into his fist. He whispered in her ear, “Wrong answer.”

  42

  Willow

  It took Willow the better part of an hour to escape Deck Ten and make her way up to Fourteen.

  Like Eleven and Twelve, it mainly consisted of staterooms on both sides of the ship. But the bow of Fourteen contained the Kid Zone.

  Someone shouted above her. A bullet struck the wall less than a foot from her head.

  Willow sprinted down the nearest hallway, her knife gripped in one hand. The corridor was long and narrow, the stateroom doors all on the left side. Each doorway offered only a shallow alcove. There was nowhere to hide.

  More shouting behind her. A flurry of gunshots. Bullets peppered the wall above her head. They weren't bothering with the ruse of hostages anymore. They were shooting to kill. If she wasn't so short, she'd be dead already.

  She cut to the left, then the right. Screw it. It was only slowing her down. She lunged left and slammed into a stateroom door, thrusting her mom’s wristband at the scanner. It beeped and the door released. She fell into the room just as another bullet whizzed over her head, so close she felt it in her hair.

  She leapt up and hurled herself at the door, locking it with shaking fingers.

  “Welcome, Guest!” the room AI system said in that same calm, irritating voice. “Your stress indicators are elevated.”

  “Nothing gets past you, Sherlock.” Willow scanned the room. Bed. Couch. Desk. Closet. Bathroom. The exact same furnishings as her own stateroom, only larger and fancier. Hiding was futile. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to escape.

  “May I suggest a relaxing rejuvenation facial to lower your biostats to a comfortable and pleasant level? A personal beautician can be delivered to your room in—”

  “Just shut the hell up!” Willow hissed.

  Someone banged on the wood door, angry male voices shouting curses. She had only a few moments before they shot or rammed their way in.

  A strong breeze tousled her hair. Rain spat through the opened sliding glass door.

  She ran for the veranda.

  The rain hit her like a slap in the face. Lightning stitched the sky. She was drenched instantly, her dress sodden, her hair plastered to her scalp.

  She inched across the veranda and forced herself to lean over the glass railing. Vertigo rushed through her. The seething sea was well over a hundred feet down. From up here, the waves lashed the hull like heaving mountains.

  Her heart stopped beating. Her legs turned to lead. She gripped the railing with whitened knuckles. No, no, no. Don't look down.

  More shouting.

  It was either jump, climb, or die.

  Willow chose to climb.

  She moved to the left side of the veranda on wobbly legs. A thin metal wall separated the balconies. The wall didn't protrude any further than the railing itself. She felt along the edge. It was slick, but several large two-inch bolts stuck out on either side.

  “Oh, hell.” The wind snatched her words before they'd left her mouth and hurled them down, down, down. Into the abyss. Her stomach lurched. Don't look. Don't look.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath.

  She had to move fast. No hesitation. And no mistakes.

  She grabbed a patio chair and wedged it against the side wall and the railing. She slipped the knife carefully inside her bra and hiked her (stupid, ridiculous) dress over her hips, tucking it into her underwear. She imagined Zia laughing at her, doing that weird shoulder-hunch donkey-laugh thing she always did. The pain struck Willow between the ribs: sharp, almost unbearable.

  She couldn't think about that now. First, she had to survive.

  Willow stepped on the chair and grabbed the inside bolt on the wall with her left hand and the outside bolt with her right. She swung her leg over the glass railing, past the wall, and over the railing on the next veranda. There was no chair on that side to rest her weight. She pressed her body against the wall, bending her knees to wrap her legs around the top of the railing. She clung to the bolts with all her strength.

  Her terror grew talons and fangs and wings. Vertigo surged, pulsing through her in swooping, dizzying waves.

  The wind lashed her, whipping thick strands of hair into her eyes. Rain pelted her like stones. Thunder crashed so close it was like a supernova exploding inside her, trembling every cell in her body.

  The ship rolled. Her right hand
slipped and her body started to sway. She clutched frantically at empty air.

  She shifted, sliding backward. Her arms flailed, her fingernails scraping the slick, wet metal.

  Time slowed. The chair slid across the veranda, struck the opposite wall, and tipped over. She was going to fall. She was slipping, falling, about to plunge over the side—

  Her fingers found purchase, gripping the bolt so tightly, a few of her fingernails cracked.

  At her back was only infinite space, like a black hole waiting to swallow her up. Don't look down.

  She didn't want to die. Not now. Not like this. Her fear beat at her with frantic, savage wings. If she moved, she would fall. She was certain of it.

  She wasn’t sure God existed, but she prayed anyway. To God, to Buddha, to Poseidon, to any deity who might listen. Don't let me die. She breathed through clenched teeth, every muscle quivering. She had to move. She had to move now.

  The ship pitched again, but she was ready this time and moved with it. She scooted her butt on the railing as far as she could to the side while still gripping both bolts. She rocked herself to the right, pushing hard against the glass panel of the railing with her left foot to give her momentum.

  Willow launched herself to the next veranda.

  She landed hard on her side, smacking her right hip, forearm, and shoulder against the floor. Her head hit the patio table leg, but she welcomed the stab of pain. She felt every stinging drop of rain striking her skin. She lay on her side, trembling and weak, gasping in great gulps of sweet, beautiful air.

  She made it. She made it and she was alive. Short, chubby Willow Bahaghari was a badass, after all. She wanted to whoop and holler and shout with joy.

  The voices came from the other side of the wall. They were on the veranda she’d just come from. She leapt to her feet and shoved herself flat against the wall. She pressed her hands over her chest to still her wildly beating heart, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

  The rain fell in gusting sheets. Thunder crashed and the ship rolled so deeply the patio table and chairs scraped across the floor and tumbled against the railing.

  “She ain't here!” one of the terrorists yelled. “Must've jumped!”

  The other one said something in another language, too quiet for her to make out in the storm.

  “Too bad!” the first one said, and laughed.

  Finally, they left. She was alone.

  Rain ran in rivulets down her cheeks, dripping off the tip of her nose. Lightning shattered the sky. And hundreds of feet below her, the sea writhed, still ravenous.

  Not today. You won't get me today.

  She untucked her dress and pushed it down around her thighs with trembling fingers. Goosebumps peppered her flesh. All the black hairs on her legs she always missed while shaving stood on end. Her nails were ragged and torn, the muscles in her hands throbbing. She hugged herself to keep from shivering. It was useless. The wet chill leeched into her bones.

  She'd be cold for the rest of her life.

  But she was alive.

  And she had an idea. She crept back to the glass railing and leaned over the edge, squinting through the pouring rain. The Kid Zone deck was directly to her right. Only three verandas from her own.

  The thought of climbing the outside of a storm-tossed cruise ship—again—stole the breath from her lungs. But this was the best way. Possibly, the only way. For Benjie, she would do anything.

  Something took shape inside her, alive and winged and fearless.

  43

  Amelia

  The storm roared outside the bridge windows. Rain hammered the glass in gray, slashing sheets. Thunder cracked, lightning splitting the sky into jagged pieces.

  The ship rolled. Simeon stumbled. He regained his balance, tightening his grip on Amelia’s hair. He jerked her head back. Her scalp blazed with pain. Several strands of white-blond hair drifted to the carpet.

  “Please stop! You're hurting me!”

  “Simeon—” Gabriel said from behind her, his voice strained.

  “You going to tell her or should I?” Simeon asked her father.

  Declan's swollen lip curled. “I'll burn in hell before I give a thing to a bastard like you.”

  “I guess I'll just have to do it.” Simeon jerked her head back, exposing her neck. “Declan Black, CEO of BioGen Technologies, has conspired to commit a heinous act of class genocide upon his own people.”

  “You're not my people,” Declan spat.

  “The BioGen vaccination actually contains a virulent strain of recombinant DNA from the H17N10 bat strain of influenza and another pathogen, possibly engineered,” Simeon said. “Certain members of the CDC and the Department of Health and Human Services were paid not to look too closely, under the auspices that the vaccine be rushed to the people who needed it most in a highly-publicized display of good will, which would bode well for the reputations and media coverage of all involved. In reality, National Health Day was simply a means to disperse the bioweapon quickly and efficiently to the target demographic.”

  Cold went through her all the way to her bones. The room pulsed, all the oxygen sucked out of the air, out of her lungs. “No.”

  “The BioGen-engineered vaccine was designed to wipe out forty million people. Every single one of them a burden to the government, all refugees or illegals or poverty-stricken families out of work for years due to the above-mentioned government giving them to the metalheads.”

  “It is God who sends plagues to punish the wicked,” Declan said. “The famines, the droughts, the crop blights—all signs of the wrath of God moving over the land.”

  “Enough with the wickedness and wrath nonsense.” Hollis grimaced. “No deity is destroying the earth to punish us. We screwed up all on our own.”

  “Not us.” Cheng pointed his weapon at Declan. “Assholes like him.”

  Willow looked at her father. “Is—is it true? What they're saying?”

  “Of course not.”

  She'd spent too much time and energy studying his facial expressions, anticipating his moods, to not be able to read him now. The tick beneath his left eye. That extra hitch to the swallow in his throat. “You're lying.”

  Simeon laughed. “She is her father's daughter, isn't she? Remember, you're the one making me do this.” Simeon yanked her hair, knocking her off balance. She toppled to the floor. He aimed a savage kick at her stomach.

  Sharp pain shot through her ribs. She curled into a fetal position, gasping for breath. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back fiercely. Don't cry. Don't let them see you cry.

  “Stop!” Gabriel cried.

  “Hollis, put your gun on him,” Simeon ordered.

  “Happy to.” Hollis moved from the other side of her father and stopped a few feet from Gabriel.

  “Leave her be.” Declan's face darkened.

  “You want me to stop? Start telling the truth. Now.”

  Declan glared at him.

  “Are you really going to sit there and let us hurt your own? First your wife, now your daughter. What kind of man are you?”

  “You're the one beating up a harmless child,” Declan spat, his tone venomous. “I should ask you the same question. But I know what kind of man you are.”

  Simeon's mouth pressed into a thin line. “I'll gladly spare her. That choice is up to you.” He bent down, yanked her head up by her hair, and struck her in the face with the butt of his gun. Agony exploded behind her eyes in a flurry of stars.

  Kane slid a knife out of a scabbard at his belt. “Maybe we take a finger or two. That'll put a dent in her fancy-ass Julliard plans.”

  “Don’t you dare touch her!” Declan roared.

  Dimly, she heard her mother weeping. “Declan, please! Just tell them! Give them whatever they want!”

  “If you're going to cry,” Simeon said, “cry for the forty million dead and dying souls back home. It's too late for them.”

  Declan squared his shoulders, his eyes flashing. “They will find peace.
Which is more than they had in life. It is a mercy.”

  “A mercy?” Simeon asked, scowling.

  “You did this on purpose?” Amelia whispered. White noise filled her head.

  “Not alone, I assure you.” Her father raised his chin defiantly. “It's been done a hundred—a thousand—times before. The U.S. government has pursued policies of depopulation for years. We have merely accelerated those policies to track with the current dwindling agricultural yields and scarcity of resources. To protect the chosen, to ensure our survival—yes, a few were sacrificed to save the many. God will always make a way for America to survive.”

  “And that way is to kill millions of people?” Simeon asked.

  “In a word, yes.” Declan glared at him. “God ordered the wholesale slaughter of entire nations to protect the Israelites. Moses destroyed every person in Heshbon and Bashan, including women, children, and infants. It was a moral imperative.”

  Amelia couldn't comprehend his words. All her conflicted emotions knotted up inside her. He was her father and he was a mass murderer, and she loved him and hated him like she'd loved and hated him her entire life.

  “Moral?” Simeon spat. “You're justifying your actions as moral?”

  “Aren't you?” Declan's face turned a fierce, ugly red. “We acted to save millions more from starving to death. The world is dying. Just as God directed Noah to save only eight before he destroyed the earth, few will be spared. If we must sacrifice some to save the chosen, that is a choice I readily make.”

  Hollis grimaced. “You're insane.”

  “Not insane. Pragmatic.” Her father leaned forward, his eyes bright. He spoke with magnetic intensity, like he was convincing his board to take on a promising new acquisition. “We are the only ones with the strength and courage to do what the current, ineffective leadership is not.

  “The famine rumors are real. Just like the potatoes and rice in China, the soybeans in Argentina, and the African wheat, pathogens and parasites are decimating crops across the country. We’ve run out of reserves. We cannot sustain ourselves, nor purchase what we need from countries on the verge of collapse themselves. Our modeling forecasts indicated that a fifteen to twenty percent contraction, along with rationing, would alleviate food insecurity. A swift, immediate reduction in population ensures our survival—and prosperity—as a nation.”