The Last Passenger

by Manel Loureiro

  Anyone except him, he kept telling himself as he poured another shot. He took down the expensive single malt in one gulp and let his mind wander back to that horrible day.

  The motorcycle that arrived at the checkpoint carried two men and a boy. Someone must have stopped them, but the subsequent investigation found that none of his men remembered doing so. When Moore saw that the motorcycle was only six feet from his armored vehicle, his training kicked in like clockwork. Before he could even see the face of the little boy, who couldn’t have been more than three, he had already shouted “fire” three times.

  Nearly eight hundred bullets were fired at the boy, the two men, and the motorcycle. Rationalizing later, he realized it had been hard to stop pulling the trigger after the tensions of such a long day. Somehow, it had been liberating, and for that he was ashamed. But Moore realized that sometimes monsters dwell within everyone, undetected, only to manifest themselves in the most unsuspecting moments. No matter the exact reason, one thing was certain: after Moore gave the command to cease fire, the Afghans and their motorcycle were no more than a mash of steel and shredded flesh.

  One month later Moore faced a court-martial. Two weeks later, dressed in civilian clothes, with his memories of a life gone by tucked away in his bag, he walked out the door of the Black Rats’ barracks without knowing where to go next.

  That’s when Feldman had entered his life. Just like in the army, Moore rose through the ranks of the business magnate’s organization, moving from his first job as a bouncer in one of his casinos to finally winning Feldman’s confidence and being named chief of security.

  Everything had been progressing smoothly since then. During the past two years, Moore felt like he’d found a new home. That is, until they had boarded the Valkyrie. Now everything had gone to shit once more.

  You have not done well, Richard, the voice whispered. But you can still fix things.

  Moore shook his head and looked all around. He was alone in the bar, and the only light was right above his head. The rest of the bar was in shadows. The tables and chairs that supposedly would one day seat passengers were all covered in darkness.

  “Who’s there?” he said, standing up.

  Someone loves you, Richard.

  Moore looked around and stumbled to the back of the room. His headache raged so severely that he was unsure of himself, but he could have sworn that the darkest area in the shadows had just moved to another corner, running away from him like it wanted to play hide-and-seek. He walked to the other side, but he only managed to trip on a table and bump his shin.

  “Fuck,” he bellowed, grabbing his leg in pain.

  He remained doubled over for a long while. He felt completely disgraced. For once in his life, he was giving into self-pity. “Stress is starting to drive you mad, Richard,” he said out loud to himself.

  He walked back to the bar and continued to rub his shin but stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t believe what was waiting for him. The glass he had just drained moments ago was now full again, with two cubes of ice floating lazily on top.

  Moore scanned the room suspiciously, placing his hand on the pistol holstered under his arm. “Where are you?” he shouted, his speech slurring. “Kam oot madafuka!”

  The pistol danced wildly in his hand, and large beads of sweat began sliding down his temples and back. As if he’d been punched in the gut, Moore leaned forward and threw up on the floor until there was nothing left. Panting, he stood up straight and went around to the other side of the bar and found the ice machine. With a single shot he blew it open. It was empty and off.

  Looking at the perfect drink, he felt even more confused. He took it in his hands and meditated on the matter for some time before hurling it against the back wall and shouting. The glass shattered, and the wall was streaked with his drink.

  Moore was huffing and could not stop sweating. Exerting a great effort, he turned back to the bar and sat down again. That was when an uncontrollable shaking overtook him. Hysterical laughter climbed up his throat, and muffled sounds began escaping his mouth, unable to hold them back.

  Beside the bottle stood a new glass filled again with scotch and ice.

  Don’t be stupid, Richard. I only want to help you. Do me a favor and drink.

  Hands trembling, Moore grabbed the glass and lifted it to his mouth. He took a deep, prolonged swig. It tasted good, fresh. The liquor went down his throat until it felt like a burning punch in his stomach.

  You need to redeem yourself, Richard. You can’t let those bloody saboteurs get the best of you.

  Moore shook his head and took another sip. The voice was right.

  Until now they’ve been one step ahead, but now you’ve got one of the women locked up. Now’s your chance to go on the attack. To look good in front of your superiors.

  Moore nodded with a grunt of satisfaction. The voice was right. Now was the time to take action.

  If he’d not been so blinded by worry, or so drunk, he would have realized that the voice had said “superiors” instead of Feldman. But he took no notice. His mind beat to its own rhythm as the voices screeched in unison in his head and tried to outdo one another.

  You’re the head security officer on board this ship. Your men look up to you. You’re a role model. Don’t fail them.

  “No, no, I won’t.”

  He poured himself another drink and emptied it in a single swallow. He was feeling better, and his thoughts were becoming clearer.

  Who do you think they’ll follow if you fail, Otto? Who will stop those Communist spies from taking over the ship?

  Otto? A part of his mind realized that detail was out of place, but he could do no more. Before the alarms began sounding within his mind, a dark dizziness began demolishing his brain. As he drained the glass, his training with the Black Rats was systematically wiped out, along with everything else except her voice.

  I’m sure she’s a Jew, Otto. A Communist Jew. A dirty rat. An enemy of the Reich.

  “Of course,” Moore said, slamming a fist against the bar. Thunderous clairvoyance had suddenly replaced his horrible headache. He could see it all so clearly. The bar had begun to swirl with intensely vivid colors. Even his skin seemed to sparkle before his eyes.

  There’s another agent on board the ship, Otto. She’s English and dangerous. You have to stop her. You have to do it now.

  Moore stood up, holstered his gun, and rubbed his face vigorously. When he finished, the blood now running from his nose had been wiped up his forehead, giving him a demonic and savage look.

  He’d been given a mission. There was work to do.

  Another thing, Otto. There’s a crazy old man and a younger man dressed in a cream-colored suit. Don’t touch them. They’re mine. I will take care of them personally.

  Moore, fueled by inexplicable hatred, stretched his hand toward a peaked cap that hadn’t been there moments before and placed it on his head.

  Anyone who saw him at that moment would have cringed in fright. As he caressed his gun maniacally, he whistled something that sounded like the Nazi national anthem, “Horst Wessel Lied.” The man who had once been Richard Moore stumbled out of the bar, transformed into Oberfeldwebel Otto Dittmar, as blood ran down his face. Around him the shadows were much denser than those in the rest of the ship. They moved ceaselessly, voraciously.

  Waiting for those events that would inevitably come to pass.

  XLIII

  Kate looked at Carter as if he had just stepped out of a flying saucer.

  “How could you possibly know where they’re keeping Senka?” she asked slowly.

  “The brig has to be close to where Moore’s men are staying,” Carter answered and shrugged. “Forty-eight hours ago, give or take, I passed by that area. I was falling asleep, and I needed something to do to stay awake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t smoke,” he said, holding up a wrinkled pack of cigarettes. “At least two days ago I didn’t. Nicotine helps keep me awake d
espite the fact that it’s tearing up my throat. The closest thing to a smoke shop on board is that goddamn guards’ quarters. I got them to sell me half a carton for a hundred dollars. They’re a bunch of miserable thieves.”

  “So what happened when you were there?”

  “There are two rooms at the end of the hall beside the armory that are locked. There are also bars on the door. I’d bet what’s left of my sanity that Senka is being held there.”

  “We’ll never be able to get her out from there,” Kate said, feeling like her world was collapsing. “If that’s where she is, at least two guards will be on duty. We can’t just stroll up and say, ‘Hey, what’s up? Would you mind opening up that jail cell and looking the other way for about fifteen minutes?’”

  “There are other ways,” answered Carter with a puzzling grin.

  “What ways?”

  The physicist stood up and motioned for Kate to follow him. They left the great gallery without saying another word and went back to the main deck of first class near the balustrade staircase. Before reaching the staircase, they stopped at one of the elevators and went up two floors to a hallway Kate had yet to see.

  “This is where the laboratories are,” Carter said through a frown as they walked down the hall. “Or at least this is where they were yesterday.”

  The room was dark and filled with shifting shadows. Carter turned the light on, and the fluorescent bulbs blinked to life to reveal long tables covered with scientific reports. It was cold and damp, as if nobody had been there for many hours.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Grabbing a few things. Help me out,” Carter said, handing her a pair of scissors. “You see that tinfoil bowl?”

  “The one that has old meatballs covered in mold?” Kate wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  Carter nodded. “You’d be surprised how careless scientists can be about certain things. But I need you to cut that bowl into small pieces. As small as you can make them.”

  Kate nodded, emptied the bowl, and began cutting. Meanwhile, Carter searched through the cabinets where the chemicals were stored. Kate suddenly recalled the Finnish man that hadn’t recognized her on the dance floor, and she felt a chill. She knew that man would probably never again put on a lab coat.

  “Got it,” said Carter, holding two glass bottles filled with a clear liquid. Then, he grabbed a thick pair of gloves, two protective masks, and an empty five-quart plastic jar. He placed it all in a bag, wearing a confident smile. “We’re set. Let’s go get Senka back.”

  “What are we going to do,” asked Kate, hands full of tiny pieces of aluminum foil, “throw confetti on them and spray them with water?”

  “More or less,” Carter said. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

  Five minutes later, after passing through the service halls, they reached the deck where the guards’ quarters were located. They could hear quiet conversing. Then, chilling laughter echoed from the cabin. It was a strange sort of cackle, dissonant like a poorly tuned piano.

  One of the elevators was only thirty feet in front of them. Carter dragged Kate inside, and they both crouched down. Carter opened his bag, set the jar on the floor, pulled on the gloves, and filled the jar with a pungent-smelling liquid.

  “This is hydrochloric acid,” he explained as he added the aluminum shreds into the jar and closed the lid tightly. “It’s very corrosive and has the bad habit of exploding when mixed with certain metals like—”

  “Aluminum,” Kate finished with a smile.

  Carter nodded mischievously and then shook the jar. It started gurgling. The physicist bolted up and pushed Kate out of the elevator but not before pressing a button to close the door.

  They hurried into a nearby hall closet and waited. Just when it felt to Kate that time had stopped, a deafening explosion shook the elevator well accompanied by a huge fire and a billowing column of thick smoke that stung their nostrils.

  It was like kicking over an anthill. Security guards ran from their station, guns in hand, looking distressed. Kate caught a glimpse of them and was horrified to see that they no longer wore their usual blue fatigues but rather the KDF uniform with an eagle emblem sewn over the jacket pocket. All three men were pallid with dried blood on their faces. One of them was bleeding from his ear, which he did not seem to notice or mind.

  Two of the guards ran up to the elevator door and tried to open it, but it was useless. They talked on their walkie-talkies and then climbed the service stairs as the third, perplexed, turned back to his station. Stumbling, he moved as if he had bad arthritis.

  “We still have to deal with him.”

  “Yeah, but I have an ace up my sleeve,” Carter said as he took out the other bottle from his shoulder bag. He also took out the two gas masks and handed one to Kate. “Put this on.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Concentrated ammonia. Even the poorest lab in the world carries it. It’s nontoxic, but you should never breathe in its fumes. Now watch and learn. You’re going to love this.”

  Carter raised his arm and launched the bottle toward the guards’ room as if he were playing football in the backyard. The bottle spun through the air a few times before disappearing through the open door and breaking against the floor. Not fifteen seconds later the guard ran out coughing and rubbing his eyes.

  Kate stepped toward the guard, confidently holding a bronze lamp ornamented with two little Valkyries. She lifted it up and smashed it over the man’s head, knocking him out cold.

  Without exchanging a word, they filed into the guards’ room. The room was empty and had sustained no apparent damage, although the walls seemed to hum with a life of their own. It was as if the entire ship was angry and shocked that someone would interfere with the master plan. Kate suspected that the dark shadow would soon arrive. If she wasn’t already there.

  “Where are the fucking keys?” Kate circled her hands like a windmill over the table in the middle of the room and knocked over empty beer bottles, an ashtray, a pile of magazines, and a stack of radio transmitters. Even with the mask, some of the fumes had sneaked into her nose and throat. It was like breathing fire. “Where are they? Where the fuck are they?”

  “I don’t know.” Carter’s voice was muffled by his mask.

  The fumes had gotten to him, too, and he doubled over and began coughing violently. He tripped over a few chairs that were strewn about and managed to get out of the room.

  Anger once again boiled up in Kate. It could not be. So close and yet so far. But then, she looked to the door and resisted the urge to burst out laughing like a lunatic. The keys were hanging from the door lock like a handful of ripe grapes, ready to be picked. They had been in plain sight the whole time.

  She opened the door. First, she saw long, shapely legs. Then, cotton panties and a shirt stained with blood. Finally, clumped blonde hair around the bruised face of Senka Simovic, who was looking out the door, baffled.

  “Wer bist du?” Senka’s voice sounded distant, as if she’d been drugged. Blood had begun to drip from one of her nostrils.

  Shit. It’s too late. She’s completely deranged, Kate thought.

  She dragged Senka out of the room in fits and starts. She stopped a moment and grabbed a pair of sweat pants from the top of a locker. They were about three sizes too large, but it was better than carrying around Senka in just her underwear.

  The fumes were beginning to diffuse, and they were able to cross the guards’ room without a hitch. Carter was outside. He was panting, and his hands were on his knees. He looked like he was about to collapse.

  “We have to get out of here,” he gasped, massaging his temples in pain. “They’ll be back any minute.”

  “Come on, we need to get down to the cargo holds,” Kate said.

  She began walking and holding up Senka with an arm, but the Serbian woman stamped her foot on the floor and refused to budge.

  “Nein! Ich will nicht mitgehen. Ich weiß nicht, wer du bist.”


  “What the hell did she say?”

  “She said she doesn’t want to come with us,” Kate murmured. “I don’t think she knows who we are.”

  “She’s lost, Kate,” Carter said, unenthusiastically. “We should just leave her here. In her condition she won’t be of any help.”

  Kate was trying to think of some way to bring Senka back to the present. Violence would accomplish nothing. They could beat her to death, but her mind would remain detached from reality. She looked at Carter, whose skin was turning an ugly sallow color. He’d avoided the ship’s curse by staying awake all that time, but what had saved her?

  Robert.

  She blinked a few times and fought off tears, tears other than the ones caused by the ammonia fumes.

  Robert.

  Passion had turned into dull pain and then into something tangible.

  Kate’s love for a dead man had allowed her to keep sane in a world of madness.

  Passion.

  Without fully thinking it through, she held Senka’s head between her hands and looked into her eyes.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  Kate tilted her head, closed her eyes, parted her lips, and softly kissed Senka Simovic.

  Senka resisted as if a pack of wolves were attacking her, but she was far too weak to do much. She began to relax and kiss Kate back. Suddenly, the young redhead felt Senka’s tongue playing in her mouth.

  Kate pulled away from Senka and looked at her expectantly.

  As Senka slowly opened her eyes, a radiant smile filled her face. Not even Senka could have known that the last time she’d smiled like that had been when she was seven years old, only hours before her village was razed.

  “Hi, Kate,” she whispered hoarsely. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to save our lives. We need to go. Now. Senka, I need you to—”

  A muted thump cut her off. She turned around, and her blood turned to ice. The lobby was full of black shadows moving all about. Shadows that devoured the light.