Waves of Fate | Book 1 | First Fate

by Talbot, Kendall

“Yep. I spent our wedding night alone in our fancy hotel hoping she’d at least have the decency to explain herself in person. She never turned up. So, I figured we’d already paid for our honeymoon cruise; I might as well take it. Unfortunately, none of my friends could join me on such short notice. So it’s just me. All alone.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible.” But it didn’t sound that terrible. Not the alone bit anyway. Being alone sounded perfect. That was all Madeline wanted. To be alone. It was why she’d taken this job. So she could get a deposit together to buy her own little apartment. All by herself.

  He huffed. “I’ve spent twelve days trying to figure out what went wrong.”

  Madeline knew the pain of a broken heart. “Did you get your answer?”

  “No. The only answer I got was that it’s time to move on.”

  She understood that plan. Working on cruise ships had been her new beginning. “How long were you together?”

  “Eleven years. We met in high school.”

  “Wow.” When Madeline had been dating Aiden, she’d thought he was the love of her life. He was the first man she’d let into her heart. The only man. She’d thought they’d get married. Have children.

  She’d been wrong. Madeline smacked those thoughts away. Aiden didn’t deserve even a second of her precious time.

  “Yeah, you’d think you’d know someone after eleven years. Apparently not.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Nothing she said would ease his pain. But his story proved what she already knew. . . it was impossible to ever really know someone.

  He sighed. “I guess it’s a good thing. Better for it to happen now than in a few years’ time, or worse, when we had kids.”

  “That’s true.”

  With each pause in their conversation, the silence somehow intensified. A trickle of sweat trailed down her temple and when she swiped it away, she realized what else was wrong. “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  “The air-con has stopped too. It must be really bad.”

  “What would make everything shut down like that?”

  She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  “They haven’t sounded any alarms or anything, so it can’t be a total catastrophe, like hitting an iceberg.”

  She chuckled. “Not likely. We only left Hawaii yesterday.”

  “That’s true. Now that you mention it, it is getting hot. How long do you think we’ve been here?”

  “Too long.”

  “No, seriously. How long?”

  She heaved out a sigh. “My guess is an hour at least. Check your phone. What time is it?”

  “Oh.” Sterling brought the phone’s screen to life. “Shit, it’s six-forty. We’ve been in here about forty-five minutes. Someone should’ve come for us by now.” He frowned at the screen and moaned. “Bugger.”

  “What?” The screen glow highlighted his corrugated frown.

  “My phone’s nearly flat.” He pushed up from the floor and banged on the door. “Hello! Can anyone hear us?”

  She joined him, and together they screamed and hammered the door for help until her throat burned and her fists hurt. Giving up, she slinked back against the wall, slid down it, and hugged her knees. As the minutes ticked on, she tried to ignore the pressure in her bladder.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  The phone’s light went out. Madeline gasped.

  Thousands of gnarly fingers reached out to her in the blackness.

  They crawled along her skin, up her neck, through her hair.

  Madeline curled into a ball and screamed.

  Chapter Eight

  Zon had thought the day he’d won the cruise ticket in a poker game was the luckiest one of his life. He’d been wrong. Today, right now, was his luckiest day. He’d nearly got the whole fuckin’ casino to his-self. There were just a couple of losers who were still sticking by their slot machines, waitin’ for the stupid things to turn back on.

  Then there was the old bird crying over the dude on the floor. He was dead. No amount of crying was gonna bring his sad ass back.

  Zon had seen dead people before. Especially old ones. They turned so white their skin was practically see-through. And they always died with their mouths open, like they were about to start yabberin’ again. When his grandmama had kicked the bucket, she’d been dead a long time before his mama noticed. Zon had seen when she’d taken her last breath; she’d gasped for air like she had a giant wad of wet pastry or somethin’ stuck in her throat. But he didn’t bother telling no one. He figured they’d learn it soon enough. His grandmama had been dead a full three hours before his mama started screaming. It would a been longer if them damn flies hadn’t started buzzing around his grandmama’s mouth.

  His granddaddy, though—when he’d kicked it, he’d done it all dramatic-like, just like he did with everythin’ in his life. He’d had a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other when he fell face-first into the griddle they’d had over the fire, cookin’ up some crawfish. Ruined the whole fuckin’ meal. While his mama was screaming, Zon’s daddy had been cussing over wasting his good beer on trying to put the old bastard out.

  So yeah, Zon had no issues with seeing dead people.

  First thing he’d done when the fat guard had nicked off was scope out the casino. It’d felt mighty fine striding through the shadows knowin’ nobody could see him. Once he’d done a lap, he’d moved to the bar and waited a whole minute before he went around the other side and helped his-self to some whiskey. And not just any old liquor either. The one he’d picked needed the ladder. It had to be expensive when it was on the top shelf. When he saw the label, it was like it’d been sittin’ there waiting just for him. Whistle Pig—The Boss Hog. Yep. Damn straight. He was the boss hog now.

  Tasted sweet as honey too.

  Especially with the packets of pork rinds he’d nicked.

  He liked being behind the bar, knowing that he could take whatever he wanted. Years back, he’d considered workin’ in a bar, but then he’d thought about all them pricks who’d be getting pissed and havin’ a good ol’ time while he’d be working his ass off for minimum wage. Fuck that. He’d rather be out gator hunting.

  Zon took his time chompin’ on the pork rinds and swigging the whiskey. All the while, he was waiting for them slot machine losers to leave. About a dozen or so had, but there were still six sitting in the dark. The woman had stopped crying and when she’d got up and left, she hadn’t even looked in his direction.

  It was like he was invisible. It felt so fucking good.

  He was down half the bottle when he climbed up and grabbed the remaining three Boss Hog’s from the top shelf. They were for later. He tugged the trash can out from under the counter and tipped all the fruit and shit into a corner. Then he started fillin’ it up with the good stuff. Whiskey. Rum. Tequila. Nuts, and not them cheap beer nuts either—he grabbed the entire rack of cashews. He took the tip jar, a dozen cans of beer, and all the pork rinds. With the trash can nearly full, he put the lid back on, and stepped out from behind the bar.

  He strode toward the nearest poker table and just about went ass over tit when he tripped over his own size-thirteen boot. It wasn’t too often that alcohol messed him up. But either that expensive shit was more potent than he’d figured or the boat was startin’ to do some serious rocking.

  Zon was near on chuckling to himself as he wobbled across the room. “Whoa.” He felt the need to put his hands out and laughed as he waddled around the dealer’s side of the table. He’d seen her put the tray of chips into the compartment beside where she’d been standing. The key she’d used to lock it had been around her scrawny neck.

  He bent down to look at the compartment. It was near impossible to see in the darkness. But one rap on it with his knuckles confirmed it was metal. Not much chance of kicking his way into that one.

  When he stood, his fingers slid into the slot where the dealer shoved the money after changing it into chips. It was like the poker gods were showin’ him the way. He f
elt around beneath the table and found where that money went. Beneath the money slot was a container about the size of a shoebox; it too was metal. But the stupid dipshits who’d designed it didn’t account for what they’d screwed it into . . . the wooden tabletop. His lucky streak kept getting hotter and hotter. He reckoned a good ol’ kick would dislodge that piggy bank just nicely.

  He glanced around. Other than the dead dude on the floor, he couldn’t find nobody. He checked again ’cause he didn’t remember seein’ ’em all leave. Yep, he really was alone. Zon lay on his back beneath the table and put his right boot up on the money box, testing the distance. After a couple of beats listenin’ to hear if any of ’em fuckers came back, he gave the box a full-on kick. The table splintered like kindling, and with one more kick the whole thing came away.

  Zon didn’t bother countin’ the money; he just shoved it in his pockets and moved onto the next table.

  He repeated the process with all six poker tables, and the four blackjack tables. The one at the roulette wheel was chocka-block full a chips. He’d had to resist hollerin’ for joy over that find. But he had a new dilemma. It was a mighty nice one though. He had so much money and chips that he needed a way to carry them.

  He found a carton of Coke cans behind the bar. After tipping out the contents, he poured in the chips. The cash he shuffled into neat piles, folded over and shoved into all four pockets of his jeans. It wasn’t ideal, but there weren’t no way he was letting that loot outta his sight.

  A woman ran past the doorway, and the way she was screaming he expected a zombie to be on her ass. He stared at the entrance, waiting for that miracle, but after a while he gave up. Deciding his looting had reached maximum capacity, he hefted the Coke box under one elbow and grabbed the trash can, but it didn’t budge. Fuck it was heavy. All he could do was drag the damn thing across the carpet.

  If he had to make a run for it, he was screwed. Especially as he couldn’t really run no more. Not after his daddy had chopped off his little toe. Now that had been pain. Zon had come to accept punishment when it was deserved.

  But choppin’ off his toe. . . that had been fucked up.

  It wasn’t his fault the baby gator had bit off his sister’s finger. If he’d known that was gonna happen, he’d a brought home a bigger gator in the hope it’d eat Bitchface’s whole fuckin’ hand.

  It had been fucking funny when the gator did it though. Her own fault for trying to pat it. Who in their right mind patted a gator? Stupid shit deserved it. His daddy didn’t see it like that though, and Bitchface had smirked through his punishment like she was the fuckin’ queen.

  The wound never did heal properly though, on account of ’em never getting him medical attention. From that day onward, he’d changed the way he walked. And runnin’. . . well, that was near on impossible.

  He lugged the bin and the box to the double doors at the entrance to the casino and stashed them to the side. Zon strode out onto the promenade deck like he owned it and a huge blast beneath his feet had him tumbling forward. Every window exploded outward, showering him in glass.

  He caught the railing just before his ass went overboard. If it wasn’t for the life raft, he’d be swimming right now.

  He turned to survey the deck. Glass and shit was all over the place. He checked his arms, his face, his shoulders expecting to see blood everywhere. But there was nothin’.

  Zon roared with laughter. Damn it felt good.

  Dumb luck sure was lookin’ after him tonight.

  Chapter Nine

  An explosion resonated deep in the ship, knocking Gunner sideways. His elbow cracked on a railing as his knees hit the decking. “Shit! What the hell was that?” He scrambled upright and scanned for danger, expecting to see the ceiling crashing down. His brain slammed between running back to Petals and confirming Jae-Ellen and Pauline were okay, and committing to his decision to inspect the damage.

  Was the ship sinking?

  A vision of water pouring into the lower decks flooded his brain.

  It was the boot Gunner needed to get his act together.

  The sliver of moon that had been providing the only natural light was useless once he passed through a set of fire safety doors. Using precious battery life on the phone he’d taken off one of the deceased was not ideal. But he had no choice. It was pitch-black in the internal passageway.

  He turned on the torch and out of the darkness, a man staggered toward him, blood pouring from a head wound and oozing through his fingers. Gunner raced to him. “Hey, you okay?” It was a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t okay.

  “Yeah.” The man cringed. “Hit my head. I’ll be fine. But what the fuck’s going on?”

  Dodging his question, Gunner said, “There’s a triage set up in Petals. Use the outside deck and head to the back of the ship.” He pointed at the doors and tapped the man’s shoulder. “The crew will help you.”

  Gunner sprinted away, heading for the main stairwell that traversed from the running track on deck twelve right down to the lowest passenger cabin deck . . . deck four. Although he’d been on the ship for just a dozen days, he’d made it his mission to study the layout from day one and was confident he could make it to the lower levels without an elevator.

  The elevator!

  His heart lurched for those poor people stuck in there. They’d be trapped in complete blackness. Just like the injured passengers he’d left in the dining hall, Gunner had to block them from his mind and stay focused.

  At the end of the corridor was a soft glow, and hoping it meant a light was working, he picked up his speed. But there was something else coming from that direction. A strange sound, like a pack of trapped animals, wild and forlorn.

  He turned the corner and his heart thudded to a stop.

  It was a scene from The Walking Dead.

  The stairs were jam-packed with people scrambling upward, a couple of phones lighting their way. Some were injured with bloody flesh wounds. Some were covered in debris and what looked like plaster dust. Some of the women were crying. All of them looked terrified.

  Their attire—men in dinner suits and women in expensive evening wear—indicated they’d come from the à la carte restaurant, Lily’s.

  Gunner should put his head down, push through them and continue onto priority one. But he couldn’t do it. He leaned over the railing. “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. Keep coming up this way. Go to the buffet restaurant. We’ve set up an emergency room.”

  A burley man in a designer suit who stood at least a foot taller than the rest pushed past an elderly couple and clutched Gunner’s arm. “Hey! What the hell’s going on? Why are all the lights out?”

  “Sir, we’re having some technical difficulties. You need—”

  “Technical? Bullshit!” he blurted.

  “What about the explosions?” someone yelled.

  “We saw that plane crash into the ship,” a woman shouted out from the crowd. “Was it a terrorist?”

  “No. It wasn’t a terrorist.” The crowd closed in around Gunner, trapping him on the landing.

  “It’s just like nine-eleven. We’re under attack.”

  “Are we going to sink?”

  “Should we go to the life rafts?”

  “Okay. Okay!” Gunner held up his hands. “Listen up. I’m Captain Gunner McCrae.”

  “You’re not the Captain.” The big man loomed over Gunner. “We sat at Captain Nelson’s table two nights ago. Who the fuck are you?” He leaned in, and Gunner reeled at the yeasty beer on his breath.

  The crowd continued to multiply, circling him like hungry hyenas. Phone torches were aimed at him, thrusting him into the spotlight. He squinted against the glare. His brain flashed back to the police interrogation room he’d endured all those years ago, with one very bright light that had been aimed right at him. He’d been terrified then. He was close to that now.

  His stomach twisted. A bitter taste flooded his tongue. Pain flared behind his eyes. He wanted to say he was just Gunne
r McCrae who, until a few hours ago, was the newly promoted staff Captain. He wanted to say he didn’t deserve to be in charge.

  He wanted their understanding.

  But when his gaze fell on an impeccably dressed elderly woman who was dabbing tears from her eyes, he realized they didn’t care about him. They didn’t want a sob story; they wanted a man in charge. A man who knew what the fuck he was doing.

  Swallowing back the self-pity, he planted his feet on the ground and raised his arms. “Quiet! Listen up.” His heart thundered as he waited for their mumbling to settle. “I’m sorry to say Captain Stewart passed away, and I am now—”

  “Jesus! What happened?”

  “Was he murdered?”

  “Are we under attack?”

  A wave of agitation raced through the throng.

  “Please!” Gunner raised his voice. “Please just listen.” Although he had to yell over the crowd, he forced authoritative calm into his voice. “Listen to me, please.” He waited a few beats and the crowd hushed. “Captain Stewart died from a suspected heart attack. Now remain calm, and make your way to the buffet restaurant. The crew are waiting for you there. Please! Please go. And keep calm.”

  The murmurs hit fever pitch. Some started moving. Most didn’t.

  But he couldn’t waste another second.

  Gunner pushed through the crowd, forcing his way down the stairs. “Go to the buffet restaurant. Deck eleven. Remain calm.” He repeated the orders over and over. “Go to Petals restaurant.”

  The crowd reached out to him, fired questions non-stop.

  “What happened?”

  “Are we sinking?”

  “What was that explosion?”

  But he ignored them all. He had questions of his own that needed answers.

  Shining his phone torch at each landing, he counted the decks as he went. Eight. Seven.

  “Go to deck eleven.”

  Six.

  “Remain calm.”

  The lower he went, the less people he encountered, which was understandable. The timing of the attack meant that the bulk of the passengers had been either in the restaurants or on the party decks.