by Kyla Stone
Passengers tried to rush the terrorists three different times. Once someone had a pocket knife, another time two security officers had tasers. Three times they failed, the bodies left where they dropped. A middle-aged brunette lady started a terrible keening wail that wouldn't stop. An armed man stomped up to her, shouting. He thrust his rifle in her face.
Everyone watched in mute horror. Willow wanted to look away but couldn't, her mind screaming, stop, stop, stop.
But the crazed woman kept wailing. The terrorist pulled the trigger. Two shots slammed into her. The woman's body jittered, then slumped over.
The little girl in the yellow bathrobe moaned deep in her throat and went still in her mother’s lap. After that, no one screamed anymore. Once the screaming ceased, the terrorists stopped shouting. An eerie calm descended over the room.
Willow listened to the strangled whimpers and hushed crying, the gurgle and spit of walkie-talkies, and the constant thud of black boots. And every few minutes, the distant chatter of gunfire. With it came screams so muted they could've been any other low sound, like muffled shrieks at a party.
Willow shivered uncontrollably, tried to close her eyes but couldn't. All the dead bodies wafted in front of her vision like those light bursts when she pressed her fingers against her closed eyelids.
She wanted to cover her ears, curl into a ball, and push out every horrible sound and image. She longed to be back home, where at least she had her own bed and her own comforter.
Where at least she and her family were safe, where she still had her mom and Benjie and Zia.
Find Zia.
She sat up straighter, pushing down the horror and the shock. Somehow, someway, she had to find Zia. Her mom would know what to do. She'd know how to find Zia and rescue Benjie. She’d know the best places to hide. She knew this ship.
But her mom wasn't here. There was only Willow.
She was Ate, the eldest, the one in charge of her siblings. She was supposed to keep them safe. They're your responsibility. Take care of them. She hadn't. But she could make up for that now.
She had to act, had to do something. She needed to find Zia first—Zia was the one she’d abandoned. Then she’d go from there.
She took a deep breath. She turned to the woman next to her. The woman's name was Ji-Yun. She was Korean, in her mid-thirties, with her hair cut in a bob like Willow's mom. “Have you seen a tiny Filipino girl?” Willow asked.
Ji-Yun stroked her daughter's hair. The little girl, Mi-Na, still wasn't moving. “I saw a girl with short turquoise hair. I remember wondering where she came from. She was on the far-right side, near the front.” Her expression darkened. “But when the terrorists first rushed in, there was so much shooting . . . It was chaos.”
“Was she hurt?”
“I'm not sure. But—” The woman hesitated. “A lot of people died. They shot into those first rows, and those people had no protection . . .”
The iron knot in her stomach tightened. “But you didn't see for sure—”
“Be quiet!” The man on her other side hunched in one of the orange loveseats, his hands splayed on the coffee table in front of him. He was a big white guy, his gut bulging against his tuxedo.
“Calm down, Marx,” said an older Latino man with white hair. “They can't hear us unless they're close. Don't tick them off or draw attention. There won't be any second chances.” He rubbed his jaw. “I’m Enrique López. This is Bradley Marx.”
None of them mentioned their fancy titles or positions. None of it mattered any more. Everyone just wanted to stay alive.
“They're going to kill us.” Marx’s eyes were pinched and desperate.
“We don't know that,” Willow said.
“Hell yes, that's their plan.” Marx paused while two armed men passed by the center aisle, turned, and marched back the other way. “They're breaking us, just for fun. They're going to line us up against the wall and blow our heads off.”
López tilted his head. “If they wanted everyone dead, they would've kept shooting. Those are high-powered automatic rifles. There are enough bullets for every person in this room. They have a plan.”
Ji-Yun rubbed Mi-Na's back, her face a mask of fear. Mi-Na stared at Willow with dull, unfocussed eyes. Mi-Na had gone somewhere else inside her head. Maybe it was for the best.
Tears stung her eyes, but she fought them back. She would not cry. The terror rearing up inside her was harder to restrain. “What do we do?”
“They're pirates, not terrorists,” López said. “Look. They're taking people one by one. They're collecting money and jewelry. They need our biometrics to access the safes. When they get what they want, they'll leave. All we have to do is sit here.”
Two armed men flanked an old man in an expensive-looking tuxedo and led him out the side entrance to the left of the stage. López was right about the stealing, at least.
“No way, man,” Marx spat. “I'm not sitting here like bait.”
“Keep your voice down,” López said. “We do what they ask. We trust the system, and we wait for Navy SEALs to come for us. Don't be stupid. Stupid gets people killed.”
“Who the hell are these people?” asked a skinny white guy with a goatee next to López. “North Korean? East Asian? Or is it another home-grown terrorist group?”
“Which one?” Marx gestured wildly, his voice rising. “The National Pride Defense League, Soldiers of God, the crazy Earth Liberation Army? If they can take down a luxury cruise liner—no one's safe!”
“Keep your voice down!” López glanced warily toward the stage. Two guards watched them with impassive expressions.
One slung his rifle over his shoulder and headed their way.
Ji-Yun pulled her daughter to her chest. The girl moaned.
“You got something to say?” the guard said in perfect English, with no hint of an accent. In the holes of his mask, his eyes glinted dark brown.
“You're the same terrorist scum we should've strung up thirty years ago!” Marx spat, half-rising from his seat. He never got a chance to stand.
The shot blast was so close it thrummed in her teeth. She pressed her hands over her mouth, somehow managing to keep the scream inside. It echoed in every cell of her body, shattering her bones.
22
Micah
“You don't have to do this,” Micah said.
Gabriel only grunted, tightening the straps around Micah's wrists. He bound Amelia’s and Micah's hands behind their backs. They sat against the bottom row of seats, facing the platform and the massive viewing window.
Beside him, Amelia didn't say a word. She didn’t move, her shoulders slumped, her head down. Shimmering blue whales and manta rays drifted on windless currents above them. The dark, angry sea lashed the windows.
“Please.” A thousand thoughts crashed against his skull. How was this happening? Where was his brother, the guy he'd grown up with? Who'd cared for him, teased him, protected him? Who was this grim-faced stranger? “Are you—are you one of them?”
Gabriel stood and wiped his hands on his pants. “I am a Patriot. We’re taking back our country. A new revolutionary war begins today.”
“I don’t understand. This is political?”
“No!” His mouth twisted. “This is life. Innocent people's lives. And innocent people's deaths. Hundreds of thousands, millions of lives. All dead or suffering because of a callous, corrupted government which no longer serves the people.”
“No.” Disbelief choked Micah’s throat.
“The people have been groaning under oppression for decades.” Gabriel paced the narrow platform. “Everyone knows we're sick with all sorts of cancers because of the toxins these corrupt politicians release into our dwindling water supplies. Everyone knows you get less and less food for more and more money. The planet is poisoned. Everybody knows, everybody talks, but no one acts.”
“The drugs.” An awful blaze of clarity struck him. “You used the drugs to—”
“We smuggled the gun
s in beneath the drugs. That’s why we needed them. I told you it was for a good cause. The drug ring has been set up for years. It was simple to sneak the guns in. We’d already paid the right people off. They never looked too closely. They never considered they might be letting in something worse than drugs.”
Micah could’ve done something. He should’ve stopped this. Would have, if he'd reported the drugs to the captain. The investigation would’ve revealed the guns, too. If the bridge had been alerted to a possible internal attack six days ago, none of this would have happened.
Guilt and grief strangled him. He’d turned against his own conscience. He let his brother off the hook. And in doing so, he’d doomed dozens, if not hundreds, of people to death.
The images of the sprawled and broken dead in the Oasis dining room ripped through his mind. “They're killing people.”
A shadow passed over Gabriel's face. His mouth tightened. “All wars have casualties.”
“This isn't war! This is terrorism.”
Gabriel shook his head. “The loyalists called the Sons of Liberty terrorists in the seventeen-hundreds. Now we call them our forefathers.”
“I understand. I do. But violence isn't the way—”
“You've never understood, Micah. You’ve never tried to understand.”
“That’s not fair.”
Gabriel squatted in front of him. “This is why I couldn’t tell you before. But Micah, we’re making a difference here. We’re going to change everything. This is the beginning of a rebellion that will be heard around the world. The people will stand up. Don’t you see?
“The Unity Coalition is strangling our people to death. They already stalk us with their surveillance drones and cameras. Now they want to chip us, monitor our every movement, trap us in poverty-stricken ghettos under the guise of quarantine, all in the name of our own health and well-being? No. We will not allow it. We’re taking back our country.”
“But why here? Why now?”
“It’s symbolic. We take down the shining symbol of the elite’s waste and excess. While the country is starving, they’re eating caviar! It’s Declan Black and his Unity Coalition behind all this. His cancer cures and flu vaccines are just a cover for their power grab.
“We destroy him and we destroy the head of the Unity Coalition and all they stand for—greed, corruption, hubris. The people will see that we can win. We can fight back. They will rise up behind us. And a true revolution will begin.”
“What about the rest of the ship? Did you plan to kill everyone?”
“Of course not. We’re taking the ship hostage, making ransom demands, raking in billions for the cause. Only a few will die.”
‘But that’s not happening! You didn’t see Oasis. You didn’t see the dead.”
Gabriel’s mouth contorted. “If this is the price for freedom, true freedom, then I’m willing to pay it.”
“And who else will pay with you?”
Gabriel reached out and touched Micah’s face. “You don’t know how much I wish you were here beside me.”
Micah flinched. “What would Mom think if she saw you like this?”
“If not for these people and their greed, she would still be here. I’m doing this for her. And for everybody else like her. Those elitist asshats don’t get to decide who lives or dies. Not now, not ever.”
“Mom would never approve of this and you know it. She taught us to turn the other cheek.”
“Her faith made her weak.”
“No.” Micah shook his head fiercely. “Never say that. Her faith gave her strength. She died with dignity.”
Gabriel clenched his jaw, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “She died needlessly, pointlessly, her life not even valued above an animal’s. That’s not dignity.”
Micah tried a different tack. “And Dad?”
“Dad would’ve been a part of this.”
“How can you say that?”
“Why do you think he was such good friends with Simeon? He joined the New Patriots when it was just a political protest group. You were too young to remember. He was angry, too—until Mom died. Then he just gave up. But I’m not Dad. I’m not giving up.”
A dull roar filled Micah’s ears. His dad would never be part of something like this, no matter how angry he was.
Gabriel believed whatever he wanted to believe. The truth didn’t matter. Who knew what lies Simeon had filled his head with all these years? “Gabriel, please. You can still stop this.”
Gabriel shook his head. “Not this time.” The walkie-talkie strapped to his waist spat static. He turned and strode up the center aisle, out of earshot.
Micah jerked his arms, trying to pull free. The straps dug into the skin over his wrists. He adjusted his weight, a sharp pain jabbing his thigh. The knife. Gabriel hadn't bothered to frisk him.
Amelia remained silent. Her legs stretched out in front of her, the silken fabric of her dress bunched around her knees. She hung her head, unmoving.
“Miss Black,” he whispered. “Amelia.”
But she didn't answer.
He fought down a burst of panic. He had to think. He had to be smart. His brother wouldn't hurt him. But the other terrorists would.
Gabriel had always been naïve like that. If someone else shared his ideology, he didn't bother to look any closer. He didn't know what these people were capable of. But Micah had seen it. They intended more death and destruction.
“I saw your mother in the Oasis dining room,” he said, soft and urgent. Gabriel would only be out of earshot for so long. “Terrorists attacked. They took your parents hostage.”
Her head moved slightly.
“They're taking over the ship. That's why all the communication went down earlier. But there are still ways we can call for help. The lifeboats have GPS distress signals we can activate, if we can reach them. And the emergency mayday signal locations. But we need to get out of here. I need your help.”
“We're prisoners,” Amelia said dully.
A holographic dolphin swam in the air above their heads. The ocean outside the windows hurled itself against the hull like a huge, powerful beast desperate to claw its way inside.
The boat rolled and pitched, knocking Micah's shoulder against hers. She was trembling.
“I have a knife in my pants pocket. If you scoot over, I think you can pull it out and cut the straps.”
She lifted her head, blinking as if coming out of a daze. “You want me to help you escape.”
“Both of us.”
“I heard him on the walkie-talkie,” she said slowly. “Talking about me.”
“They want something from your father. Do you know what it is?”
“No.”
“Gabriel isn’t a bad guy.” But suddenly he wasn't so sure. How could Gabriel stand by and watch people die? How could he possibly think killing civilians would solve the nation’s problems?
A line from Heart of Darkness ran through Micah’s head: The mind of man is capable of anything. No. No matter how much darkness surrounded him, Gabriel wasn’t evil. Micah wouldn’t believe that. He couldn’t. Not about his brother. “These are bad people. But Gabriel—he wants to change the world. He's a true believer.”
Her mouth contorted. “And this is how he does it?”
“I didn't say I agree with him. I don't. But he still has goodness in him.”
“Not from where I’m sitting.” She took a deep breath. “How bad is it up there?”
“They stormed the ship and came barreling into the Oasis dining room. They had people on the inside. One of the waiters. Some security. My brother. Who knows how many others.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
He considered lying, softening the blow, but she was looking at him now, her steady gaze searching his.
“I asked because I want to know,” she said.
He remembered how she played the violin in the Oasis dining room that first day. He’d been mesmerized as she drew the bow across the strings, the exquisite note
s flowing over him, around him, through him.
The song had been sensuous, dark, soulful. The music evoked the same soaring sensation he felt when he read Thomas, Plath, or Cummings.
He’d watched the tension in her face fade as she played, lost in the concentration of her art, her fingers moving with a beautiful fluidity and grace. Long after she finished, the deep, sonorous notes still vibrated in his bones.
This girl wasn’t weak. There was strength written in her face, her determination reflected in her eyes. He took a breath. “They killed at least fifty people in Oasis. They took the captain's table hostage.”
She swallowed. “And my brother?”
“I didn't see your brother. I'm sorry.”
She nodded to herself, as if deciding something. “Okay.”
“The knife. Can you reach it?”
“I'll try.” She wriggled closer, twisting her body at an awkward angle to grab the knife handle from his pocket. “Got it.”
The blade slid along his hip bone. As the floor moved beneath them, the edge sliced through the thin fabric into his skin. He sucked in his breath.
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault. Whatever you do, don't drop the knife.”
They scooted around until they sat back to back. Amelia's fingers scrabbled over his hands and wrists, fumbling for the zip-tie strap.
“Don't cut my fingers off.”
“Not planning on it. But I can't exactly see what I'm doing.”
She sawed into the strap. The knife point jabbed into the tender flesh of his wrist. He bit the insides of his cheeks, wincing.
“Sorry, again.” She adjusted her body. “I'm not trying to hurt you.”
“I know.”
A metal door banged open to their left. Gabriel's voice echoed in the cavernous room.
“Faster.” He closed his eyes, tensing for the next cut.
Amelia made a desperate noise in the back of her throat. She pressed harder and faster, slicing the top of his thumb. Pain stabbed through him, warm liquid dripping down his palm. Finally, the strap broke and he was free.