“Doctor, there has to be some way to stop this virus.”
She shakes her head. “No, there doesn’t. Not anymore.”
Markham shakes his head sympathetically. “Dr. Sondheimer, I appreciate how wearying this discovery has been for you. Finding that your entire facility has been infected has to be…”
Sondheimer slams her hand down on the desk. “You still don’t get it! It’s already too late! Maybe we could have stopped it a month ago, or maybe even as little as a few weeks ago. That’s assuming we would have recognized it for what it was, and been able to find an anti-viral that was effective on it. But not now. Now it’s too late.” She looks intently at him. “Don’t you see? We’ve had this disease for weeks now, and we never even knew it. All of us! How many times a week do you get a headache? Three? Four? More?
“Well for the last few weeks, maybe longer, any number of those headaches could have been this thing winding its way through your brain, rewiring you without your knowledge.”
The man pushes his chair back and stands. He leans in close to the glass. “You aren’t just talking about the ship. Or the hospital. Or even your facility here. You’re talking about the world?”
Sondheimer sits back in her chair and nods, beginning to smile at Markham. “Finally! Now you understand. This thing has been in the air we breathe for some time now. We just didn’t know it. Some people will exhibit symptoms sooner than others, some will be more resistant. Hell, some might even be immune. Some people with certain mental conditions have reduced dopamine levels, so that might make them more resistant. But the fact is, it’s all guesswork at this point. And it’s too late to do anything about it! We’re all screwed.” Dr. Sondheimer begins to laugh. “All of us, all over the world. Screwed!” Her laughter continues, and the cameraman, realizing something is wrong, zooms in on her face. The look of terror in her eyes is at complete odds with her maniacal laughter. The screen freezes on her expression of horror.
THURSDAY
NOVEMBER 24
THANKSGIVING DAY
Chapter 38
Charles Griffe
“A Waste Of Perfectly Good Booze”
“Hey, Charlie. You awake?”
“What?” He hadn’t even been aware he was falling asleep.
Chris’s voice came from the darkness behind him. It sounded like he was on the floor, too. “You awake?”
“Yeah. How long was I asleep?”
“I don’t know. I fell asleep, too. You all right?”
Charlie could hear the other man shifting in the dark. “No thanks to you,” he growled.
“What do you mean? I saved your damned life!”
“Which wouldn’t have needed saving if you had left her there like I told you.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m really grateful that you didn’t.” The woman’s voice caused Charlie to open his eyes and squint into the darkened room. He thought he could see a slight movement in the dim light, but gave up trying to see any details. He felt a moment of guilt at what he’d said, then shoved it aside.
“Yeah? You have one hell of a way of showing it. You trying to gut me, or what?”
“You scared me! I thought you were one of them!”
Charlie let his head drop back and closed his eyes. “Whatever.”
A few seconds later, “Well, I’m sorry.”
He heard her move toward him. Suddenly light flared in the room as Chris turned the flashlight back on.
“Good! I was afraid you left it.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess this is yours.” The light shifted from Chris to the woman. She stepped over in front of Charlie, and reached toward him.
“What the fu…?”
“Shh.” He felt her pulling gently at his shirt. “Don’t be a baby.” As she spoke, she tugged the shirt free of the dried and drying blood on his chest.
“Ouch!” His shirt was stuck to the wound in places, and extremely tender. “What the hell did you cut me with, anyway?”
“I wrapped a piece a broken mirror in some cloth and sort of made a knife out of it.”
Charlie looked down at the cut across his chest, seeing the wound for the first time. He winced, “Guess it did the job.”
She poked lightly at the wound. “Sorry, but I think you probably need some stitches.”
Chris knelt beside her. “You a doctor?”
“Nope. My mom is a retired nurse, though.”
Charlie snorted. “Got that on your resume, do you?”
“I watched her treat every bruise, cut, and concussion me and my brother had when we were growing up.” She gently peeled more of his shirt away. “I even saw her save a man’s life on the street after he got hit by a car.”
Charlie hissed as the shirt and dried blood tugged at the edges of the cut.
“Can you move your arm?”
He raised his right, wincing as he did. “Yeah,” he hissed. “Hurts like hell, but I can move it.”
The light in his face faded as she and her flashlight moved to the faux wood dresser where she began going through the drawers. “If I can find a first-aid kit…” She began pulling out clothes and other items, tossing them unceremoniously onto the bed. After a moment, she sighed. “No such luck.”
Charlie heard her open and close the cabin’s mini-fridge and sat up, wincing as he did. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll survive.” Chris helped him to his feet and the two of them walked over and sat on the bed.
She stepped back to them. “Hold this.” She handed the light back to Chris and laid a few folded T-shirts on the bed beside Charlie. She held up a small glass bottle, opened the lid, and poured the amber liquid onto one of them.
Charlie knew what was coming, and attempted to make light of it. “That’s a waste of perfectly good booze.” He smiled.
Without warning, the woman slapped his face. “What the hell was—?”
“Don’t smile. Don’t laugh. Don’t even think about anything funny!”
“What?”
“We don’t know what’s making everyone go crazy here. We don’t know if it’s something in the food, in the water, in the air… if it’s a bacteria, or a virus, or a curse from God Himself. All we know is that the crazy people are the ones who are laughing. So don’t laugh. Got it?”
Fuming, Charlie rubbed his cheek. “You seriously think I’m going to go crazy if I just smile?”
“I don’t know. And that’s the point. None of us knows.”
You gonna let this bitch talk to you like that, boy?
Charlie started to snarl back at her, but Chris piped up. “She’s right.”
“What? You’re seriously buying into this shit?”
“I’m buying into the fact that we don’t really know what’s causing this…” he waved his hand, “whatever it is. And she’s right about the fact that the crazy people are the ones that are laughing. We already talked about that. So what does it hurt to be extra careful?”
Charlie shook his head. “You’re both nuts.” But the woman had succeeded in changing his mood. He no longer wanted to smile. He turned back to her, nodding at the whiskey-soaked T-shirt. “Fine. Do it.”
She leaned in. “This is probably going to sting a bit.”
It did, but Charlie’s anger at her overrode the pain. He ground his teeth and glared at her.
Chris broke the silence as she wiped at Charlie’s wound. “So what’s your name?”
“Tabatha Haddix. Tabby.” She wiped more blood away, dabbing at the open cut.
“Good to meet you, Tabby.” Chris said. “I’m Chris Tallant, and the guy you slapped—”
“And tried to cut open,” Charlie added.
“…is Charlie Griffe.”
Tabby nodded. “Well, thanks, Chris.”
“For what?”
She turned to face him. “For not listening to your friend here and leaving me to die on the stairs.”
Chris nodded. Charlie simply grunted.
Tabby finished cleaning his wound and tore the
other two shirts into wide strips, ripping carefully in a spiraling strip that reminded Charlie of the way he’d seen his father peel an apple. When she was finished, she began wrapping the strips around his chest and over his right shoulder. When she was finished, the cut was covered. “Like I said before, you really need some stitches, or at least some butterfly bandages. But without a first-aid kit, this is the best I can do.”
She took the light back from Chris and turned to the closet. After a moment of rummaging, she pulled something off a hanger. “Here we go.”
She held out a blue denim button up and helped Charlie slip it on. “How’s that?”
The sleeves were a little short, but Charlie figured he wasn’t going to be posing for a fashion magazine anytime soon. He eased his right arm up slowly. “Hurts, but I’ll make do.”
Tabby nodded. “Good.” Her eyes narrowed and she looked unflinchingly at Charlie. “Now, Charlie? I’m only going to say this once. I’m sorry I cut you. I panicked, and I reacted. But I’m not about to walk on eggshells around you. And I’m not going to spend any more time apologizing. So I need to know right now, are we all right? Or do I need to leave you two and find my own way once we leave this room?”
There she goes again. Woman’s too damn pushy. You need to put her in her place, boy.
Charlie sorted his thoughts from his father’s words for a moment. Then he nodded at her. “Far as I’m concerned, we’re good.”
Pussy!
Tabby nodded. “Good.” She walked back to the mini-fridge and pulled out two bottles of water. She tossed one to each of them before grabbing a third one and twisting the cap open. She took a swallow and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “So what’s the plan, then?”
“We’re trying to get Charlie back to his cabin on Deck Seven. He’s got… someone… that we think might be trapped there.”
“Wife?”
Charlie rolled his eyes and Chris waved him off before he could say anything. “Just call her his girlfriend.”
She was silent for a moment. “How do you know she’s still alive? Or that she’s not…” Her voice trailed off as she apparently realized what she was saying.
There was an awkward silence as the three of them stared at the floor before Charlie cleared his throat. “We don’t.” He looked up at her and set his jaw. “We don’t know if she’s dead or alive… or a fucking laughing lunatic like the others. But I have to find out.” He took a swig from the water bottle. “Chris says he’s coming with me, so that leaves you. Are you in or out?”
“I’m in. But that brings us back to my original question: what’s the plan?”
“We’re on Deck Nine.” Charlie turned to Chris. “Right?”
Chris nodded. “Port side. We need to get to starboard, up most of the length of the ship, and down two more decks.”
“How?” Tabby clearly wasn’t willing to let them skate by on the matter.
Chris looked at Charlie, evidently willing to let him take the lead on the matter.
Charlie shrugged. “You remember where you were when we ran into you?”
“In the emergency stairwell?”
“Yep. Between Decks Eight and Nine. We started on Deck Eleven.”
“So down the stairwell, then across the width of the ship, and along almost the entire length of the ship? Are you crazy?”
Bitch, bitch, bitch… all she wants to do is complain. Just like your mother. Nothin’ but a whinin’—
“So don’t come.” Charlie was gruff, angry at his father, angry at Tabby, and especially angry at the pain the cut across his chest caused him. But he was also tired of being put on the defensive again. First, Chris had questioned his motives, now Tabby was questioning his methods. If they didn’t like his plans, they could quit their complaining and offer up a better suggestion. Otherwise, they should just shut the hell up and get out of his way.
You tell ‘em, boy!
“Shut up, old man.” The words were out before he could stop himself, and both Chris and Tabby looked at him askance.
“What?”
“She reminds me of my old man,” Charlie covered. “Always complaining, but never offering up any better solutions.” He faced their newest companion. “Do you have a better idea?”
Tabby appeared to be taken aback. “N-no.”
“Then how about you shut the fuck up and get out of my way.” With that, Charlie pushed past them and went to the cabin door.
Chapter 39
August Grappin
Hunger
Other than pleasure/pain, hunger seemed to be the only recognizable sensation in his life now, and the smell of chocolate made Gus’s stomach growl loud enough that some of his friends had laughed and pointed. He giggled with them as they ran through the demolished area that had only days before been a huge dining hall. Reaching the source of the wonderful smell, Gus yanked the glass doors to the large pastry display open hard enough that the one on the right snapped off its hinge and fell to the floor, bouncing once on the carpet before it broke. Chuckling his pleasure to the group, Gus snatched at the object of his immediate attention and began answering the need of that most primal urge, hunger.
He’d been giggling and moaning with pleasure as he stuffed handfuls of chocolate cake into his mouth for a few minutes when he looked up to see a blond woman crouched beneath a table about thirty feet away. She stared at Gus and his friends through wide eyes. Unmoving as she was, Gus almost missed her amidst the tangle of overturned tables and chairs. Her eyes darted from Gus, to his friends, to the food, then back to Gus. Gus guffawed, pointing and slapping chocolate smeared hands at his companions, drawing their attention to the woman.
“Waldo!” he wheezed.
The woman leapt to her feet, clutching something in her hand and threw it at them as they started moving toward her. The dinner plate struck Gus in the shoulder, and the sensation sent a thrill through him. He laughed and chased after her, hoping she would do it again. His nervous system had been so corrupted by this time, that it interpreted any feeling at all as pleasure. The more intense the stimulus, the greater the pleasure.
As he ran, he rubbed the bruise where the plate had struck him, shoving his thumb into it in an attempt to squeeze out more pleasure as he ran after the woman. But there was no more feeling to be had. He chased after her. The woman slung chairs behind her, tripping Gus, and many of his friends. She slammed through the double doors at the entrance to the dining hall and turned left down the first hallway. Gus was back on his feet in seconds, chasing after her.
He ran through the doors, turning to follow as she raced up the corridor. She was fast, but Gus was faster. He easily outdistanced his friends, gaining quickly on the woman. He was only seconds behind as she turned right at the next intersection. He could hear his friends hooting behind him as they followed.
Gus staggered as he tried to negotiate the corner, his feet clumsier than they had been before everything had become so funny. His shoulder hit the wall of the hallway as he turned after the woman. He righted himself and kept going, but he had lost ground. She was farther ahead now, and the light this far away from the outer windows was dim. He stumbled again, tripping over the body of a man. Caked blood covered the face, and the mouth was oddly contorted. Gus slowed, stuck his tongue out at the dead man, and laughed even louder. He turned his full attention back up the dim corridor to see the woman had pulled ahead again. His friends came up the corridor behind him.
Far ahead, well beyond the woman he chased, Gus could hear even more laughter. More friends were coming. The woman cried out, and her high-pitched wail was comical in Gus’s ears. He could hear her sobbing as she ran.
She put on a burst of speed, and Gus could see her shine a light at a door. She ran a few doors farther and stopped. Slipping something from her pocket, she slipped it into the door, opened it, and slammed the door closed scant seconds before Gus got to her.
Slapping his palm loudly against the door, he heard her scream inside. He gigg
led. Misfiring synapses vaguely reminded him of a similar situation he’d been in recently, and he stopped for a second struggling again for the memory. Laughing aloud, he recalled the line.
“Little pig, little pig, let me in!”
Laughing and hooting, his friends arrived, and together they all began beating down the door.
Chapter 40
Linton Bowers
“I Truly Hope I’m Wrong.”
Picking Michelle up from her red-eye had put them getting home at well after one in the morning, and they were exhausted. Linton didn't even remember setting the alarm on his phone until its irritating beep woke him at ten-thirty. Groggy, opened his eyes and immediately shut them against the blindingly bright morning sun that streamed in through the bedroom windows. Eyes still closed, he slapped blindly at the nightstand until he found the phone and shut the alarm off. “Michelle? Time to get moving, babe. Let’s…” His groping hand found that the spot in the bed beside him was empty. He forced his eyes open to find that his wife wasn't in the bed. “Michelle?”
“I’m gettin’ too old for this.” He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to gather the willpower to get up. He remembered pulling all-nighters in the past, or nights when he’d stayed awake into the wee hours of the morning, only to get up after two or three hours of sleep. Now, only a decade or so later, he was beginning to feel the ache in his back when he didn’t get at least six hours. He’d barely slept since he’d heard from Emmet, unable to relax until he got Michelle home. He never slept well when she was on tour, but ever since getting word that they had a bugout scenario, he hadn’t been able to relax at all.
Last night had gone a long way to catching him up, and he was only mildly exhausted. Nevertheless, it was better than he'd felt in a few days. Rubbing his face, he swung his feet out of the bed, groaning as he stood up. The faint sound of the television drew him to the den where he found Michelle standing in front of the flat screen. She held a cup of coffee as she watched one of the cable news channels. “There you are. I was looking…” His voice trailed off as she turned toward him.
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