by Gray, W. S.
His neck muscles bulging, his eyes wide, Trey turned to look toward the place where he knew he’d find Melody.
Except…
Melody wasn’t there.
Her absence exacerbated his tension. His chest felt tight. His heart raced. He tried to think. But clear, coherent thoughts refused to come. Trey’s eyes darted around, trying to pierce the shadows’ veil. Unable to locate his wife, he became agitated.
Hopping down off of the bed, he went to the nearby counter. Trey pulled out one of the small drawers. Finding it empty, he grunted. He opened another, then another, moving down the line, his frustration growing with each empty drawer. Trey needed to find something, anything with which to protect himself.
But nothing was there to be found.
Leaning against the stainless-steel counter, he forced himself to take several deep breaths. Trey closed his eyes. He forced himself to slow down. He knew he needed to focus.
After several seconds, he resumed his search. As he moved along, trying to tackle the obvious choices first, he allowed his itinerant mind to wander naturally. Trey tried to remember when he’d last woken up. It seemed like it might have been a while. Following that logic, he began to wonder if maybe he might have been panicking for no good reason. After all, Melody might have departed to go get something to eat. Maybe get some fresh air up on the main deck. Whatever.
But then his mind got the better of him.
Trey conjured up all sorts of horrible hypotheticals. His wife could have been raped. Taken hostage. Perhaps she might have even fallen overboard. Or been thrown overboard. She could be confined in one of the bunk areas, held in fetters, once again tortured by merciless men with no regard for the anguish they could inflict.
This only intensified his efforts. His harried thoughts heard the bell signaling round two and went at it, fighting with each other with reckless gusto.
Smiling as he looked at the attenuated lamp hanging above his bed, Trey jumped up and began inspecting the device. He grunted as he tried in vain to break the thick, yellowish glass with his hands. “Shit,” he muttered.
Hopping down once again, Trey searched for any sign of a tool that might be used to break the glass. If he could just get a shard of that, he could fashion a crude weapon. The better to stab you with, my dear. He smiled as the errant thought crossed his mind. Then, detecting that one of the legs of the rolling chair used by the attractive nurse was loose, Trey went for it. He giggled with delight as he twisted and pulled the metal rod free, making a little squeal of exultant triumph when it finally was released.
Immediately, Trey went forward. He needed to bash out the light.
The only thing on his mind at that instant was to get some sort of weapon. Trey knew that something was wrong. Danger lurked around every corner. It was only the strong that survived. Trey’d been forced to accept that fact. He’d been given the unfortunate duty of adopting the Darwinian mantra of survival in order to protect his family.
His legs shaking, his body tingling with the effects of adrenaline- that dirty corsair- Trey tried to get up on the bed. But, for some reason, he began experiencing difficulties. He sighed the first time he failed. Then he grunted with exasperation. Finally, after four or five unsuccessful bids to do the thing he’d adroitly done mere minutes earlier, Trey got made. He surrendered to the helpless rage rampaging through the burning village of his mind.
“FUCK YOU!”
Throwing his arms in the arm, he turned over the bed. It took him almost a full minute of strained exertion to complete the task.
Jumping back when it clattered to the ground, Trey blinked, going pale at the loud, echoing noise the furniture made as it hit the tile. For some reason, the sound startled him into clarity.
But, by then, it was too late.
The sudden noise alerted the nearby guard. A uniformed French soldier, a thin mustache adorning his stern face, rounded the corner, moving through the door in an active state of readiness. When he saw Trey standing there, wearing only a thin paper hospital gown that exposed his bare ass, the soldier paused. It seemed like the man wanted to smile.
The guard issued a command in French.
“I don’t understand,” Trey said.
This only served to frustrate the guard. He reissued his directives, his tone growing louder, his words frenetic and jumbled together as he tensed.
Trey, unsure of what to do, of what dangers might lurk behind the Soldier’s two eyes, decided to attack.
He rushed forward, wielding the thin, cheap piece of metal he’d pulled from the chair. Trey swung it up in a high arc, managing to crack it into the soldier’s arm before the guard reacted.
Unslinging his rifle, the guard took the butt end and delivered a swift, ferocious blow to Trey’s face.
Trey heard a high-pitched ringing and felt dizzy as he felt himself floating backward.
Then everything went black.
Chapter 16
Trey felt cold.
He shivered.
Opening his eyes, he was confronted by a belligerent, bright light. Blinking, he licked his cracked lips and turned his head. “What…” he muttered. His mouth and throat felt so dry, it was hard to form words. Then he caught sight of his wife.
She smiled sadly when she noticed that he was awake. Placing the thin paperback she’d been reading in her lap, she got up and walked slowly to him. However, caution shone in her emerald eyes. Something in Melody’s demeanor indicated fear. Or at least apprehension.
And the existence of such emotions in his wife caused Trey alarm. It embarrassed him. It forced a sudden pang of fear and guilt to rip through his innards.
“Hi,” he said. “Water.”
Nodding, Melody instantly turned and began looking for something to drink. It took her several seconds to find a little paper cup with pink and blue umbrellas on it. Melody promptly filled it with water from the nearby sink and then offered it to her stubborn husband. “Drink up,” she said.
Trey gulped it down. He groaned. The stuff burned as it slid down his tight throat. He squeezed his eyes shut as he waited for the unpleasant sensation to subside. Then he smiled. Reaching out, he took hold of his wife’s hand. He relished the comfort and warmth of her touch. “Thanks,” he said. It was all he could think to utter, under the circumstances.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, her tone demure and guarded.
“What… what’s wrong?” Trey asked. He looked up at her. He tried to sit up, but pain ripped through him. Wincing, he laid back down, offering up a helpless sigh of anger. “What happened to me?” he asked. He briefly considered asking for more water, but Trey decided it might be better to get what little information he could before requesting any more favors. With how things had been going, it seemed things could take a drastic turn for the worse at any given second, without warning or preamble.
“Well, the two are kind of interconnected,” Melody said, laughing softly. She reached up and wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye. “You went off. I’m not sure why. Tore this place up. The guard had to knock you out,” she said.
Vague fragments of memories appeared in Trey’s mind. He closed his eyes. His chest felt tight. Trying to piece together the exact sequence of events that’d taken place shortly before he’d been sent back into the dense blackness of a near-coma, he recalled having woken up to an empty room. He remembered the panic he’d experienced at the thought of being abandoned. “That fuck hit me,” he said.
“Yes,” Melody said, again offering a sad little laugh. “Yeah, he hit you,” she said. “Because you were going crazy and wouldn’t respond to his commands.”
“I DON’T KNOW FRENCH,” Trey said, his tone full of protest. He breathed heavily and tried to get up again. He squeezed one hand into a tight fist, raising it to his mouth and biting his knuckles as he fought the anger he felt at being so helpless. “My entire body hurts,” he said.
“Well, sweetie, you have to give yourself some time to heal,” Melody sa
id.
“How long has it been?” Trey suddenly asked. His mind seized upon the question. Without precisely knowing why, he nonetheless felt the query was urgent. He knew it deep down, in the pit of being. Something about the amount of time he’d spent in the hospital room- or whatever it was- seemed pertinent to the vague plans stored in the dusty attic of his brain.
“Six days. Why?” Melody asked, raising one eyebrow. She tilted her head and squinted as she gave her husband a confused look.
“Oh, nothing,” Trey said. He managed to conceal a smile of triumph. As she’d declared the number of days that’d passed since his drugged admission into what supposed to be a glorified form of protective custody, Trey had remembered why he’d wanted to know. The Bishop had told Trey all of his troubles with the French soldiers should be cleared up in two weeks. And Trey had promised the devout religious figure that he’d keep the man to his word.
At least, that was how he remembered it.
“Anyway, thanks for being here,” Trey said. “Would you mind getting me some more water?” he asked. “I can barely move, for whatever reason,” he said. He tried once again, grimacing as pain surged through him. “Fuck,” he muttered.
Returning with the requested fluids, Melody quietly watched him as she waited for him to consume them. She crossed her arms over her chest. A thin little frown crossed her face as she became visibly more frustrated with each second that passed.
Wiping his mouth, Trey smiled. “What were you reading?” he asked.
Melody blinked. She glanced toward the abandoned paperback. Then she smiled and shrugged in response to some internal prompt. “Oh, it’s just some cheesy romance. Old harlequin thing. I’ve read it maybe five times now,” she said. She sighed. “It’s the only English book they have on board,” she said. Then she collapsed into a sullen silence, moving her lips as she tried to summon the courage to say whatever it was that assailed her mind’s walls.
“I thought you were going to die,” she said, finally. And then she fell forward, sobbing. Her shoulders heaved with the exertion. Her entire body moved. Her cries were only muffled by the thin piece of paper that covered the uncomfortable mattress.
Trey reached out with one hand, placing it on her shoulder. He patted her gently, trying to provide some semblance of reassurance. However, it all felt awkward and hollow. Trey wasn’t sure who needed strength and comfort more… her or him. After all, Trey realized that she didn’t fear his death because of him. Melody experienced anxiety at the prospect of his demise simply because it would impose upon her. It would create a series of burdens that would make her life harder. Perhaps even untenable.
Thinking that humans were fundamentally selfish beings, Trey began to reflect on the tenuous and feral, ephemeral nature of existence. One minute, you could be having a nice dinner aboard a cruise ship, enjoying a much-needed vacation. The next, some stranger could drop something in your expensive drink, ushering in the zombie apocalypse.
He didn’t know what any of that meant. Other than offering some depressing insights into the nature of life. The fact that Trey had virtually nothing to live for save such philosophical feats of nihilistic brilliance didn’t help offer any solace to him.
Slowly, Melody stood up. She ran a hand over the front of her stained, frayed old white shirt. It contained a graphic of two popular cartoon characters, a mouse and a cat. She smiled. Sniffled. Then wiped a hand across her face. Finally, she focused on him. “Hey, what are you thinking?” she asked.
Trey tried to find something to say. He knew he couldn’t tell her what had really been on his mind. “I’m just sad to see you cry,” he lied. Well, it wasn’t fully a lie. There was some truth to the statement. And he certainly hoped he’d managed to sound genuine. Yet, he still felt a twinge of guilt at the half-truth.
“Aww…” Melody said, patting him on the arm. Then she took his hand. “Sofia was down here. But she was pent-up. Didn’t like having to stay here. Said it stunk,” she said.
At the mention of his daughter’s name, Trey perked up. He knew he needed to be strong. Deriving a new wave of energy from the mere mention of Sofia, he decided to try once last time to sit up. However, rather than failing, Trey slowly managed to raise himself to a semi-upright position.
He breathed heavily as he sat there, too tired to be excited about the small victory. “Shit, I hurt,” Trey said. “What’d that fucking guard do to me?” he asked. Then he waved one hand dismissively. “It’s a rhetorical question.”
They each lapsed into an odd silence, both of them retreating into their own thoughts. Trey closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to keep himself calm. Tensing up only served to cause him physical pain. As he sat there, Trey tried to make sense of the world. He grieved for his daughter. It struck him with poignant clarity in that moment, perhaps more so that at any other time since they’d been surrounded by zombies, that his daughter would inherit a world plagued by… the plague. Or whatever it was that was causing humans to become overcome with a voracious appetite for each other’s flesh.
“What the fuck…”
“Trey? Honey? What’s wrong?” Melody asked, leaning forward, her voice panicked.
“Oh, nothing,” Trey said, waving her away. He collapsed back onto the bed with a soft thud. He released a long exhalation. “I’m just worried for Sofia,” he said. “I wonder what life will be like for her. I mean, it’s hard to even see beyond the next few hours. How will things be in a year? Two years? Assuming we make it back to dry land,” he said.
Melody went back to her chair, dragging it across the tile floor. She positioned it near her husband and then sat down, a solemn, thoughtful frown crossing her face. “Good point,” she said.
“You hadn’t thought about that?” Trey asked, somewhat incredulous. Part of him wanted to be mad at Melody for that. It seemed incredibly selfish, to not consider what Sofia’s future might look like.
“To be honest, I’ve been trying NOT to think,” Melody said. “Too much bad stuff going on,” she said, shivering.
Nodding, Trey absorbed that information. He thought it was reasonable. After all, there wasn’t much that was pleasant to think about. The ramifications of everything- no matter how banal or minute- seemed to only lead deeper and deeper into a dark, labyrinthine warren of nihilistic depravity. Life appeared to have been reduced to a perpetual struggle of near-Nietzschean proportions. It was a wonder, all things considered, that Trey had retained any capacity for rational calculation.
“How’s she been doing?” Trey asked, trying to get his mind off the future. As long as they were alive and at least physically proximate, it seemed that the best course of action was to focus not on what could be but on what was. It was a blessing to have each other. “I… I haven’t gotten to see her much,” Trey said, his tone sad. He sniffled. He felt like a bad dad. The fact that he’d been so negligent and absent gnawed at him.
“She’s been okay,” Melody said. She smiled and caressed Trey’s cheek. “Like I said, she was getting stir-crazy, being cooped-up in here,” she said. “Not a whole lot of space.”
“Yeah, but… what about when she’s not in here? How has she adapted? Are any of the soldiers giving her trouble? Has she found things to do?” he asked.
“Oh, Trey…” Melody shook her head. She patted him on the arm. “She’s been fine, as far as I know. She came rushing up, gushing about some card game some of them had shown her. She’s even picking up some French,” she said. “Harry and the Bishop have eyes on her. I don’t think they’d let anything happen to her,” she said.
Trey snorted. “But they’d let things happen to me?” he asked, cynically.
“You’re a grown man, Trey,” Melody said. “And you killed one of their own,” she reminded him.
“And I was acquitted,” Trey said. He grunted. Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried not to get mad at his wife. He had to remind himself that none of this was her fault. Nonetheless, his subconscious conspired against him
. Part of him didn’t want to make it easy. A dark part of him enjoyed dredging up old memories whenever such moments of ire hit. As Trey recalled how his wife had aced toward Sofia and how she’d confessed to fellating the undead, he had to force himself to calm down.
“You really sucked a zombie dick?” he asked. He couldn’t help himself. The idea seemed so… odd.
“Wow, that was random,” Melody said, getting up abruptly and beginning to pace. “Thanks so much for the reminder, sweetie.”
“Sorry…”
“No, it’s okay. Just remind me of how I was raped. Want me to provide all the gruesome details? Want to know if a zombie dick can even get hard? Maybe how a zombie dick tastes?” Melody asked. Her tone was acerbic. It contained none of the softness previously on display.
“I didn’t mean it like that…”
“Oh, how did you mean it? Let me see…” she pivoted sharply and put a finger to her chin. She gazed up at the ceiling pensively. “Let me see. How else could I construe ‘you really sucked a zombie dick?’” she asked, her tone only slightly snarky. “Maybe put the emphasis on sucked. You really SUCKED a zombie dick?” she asked. “Or, perhaps we should put the stress on you. YOU really sucked a zombie dick? Hey, maybe we should put the emphasis on really. You REALLY sucked a zombie dick?” she asked.
Then she stormed forward, slamming her foot into the chair. It toppled over, making a racket as it hit the tile floor. “God, you are dumb,” she said.
“Honey…”
“Do NOT honey me right now,” Melody said. She turned and glared at her husband. “Don’t you dare patronize me, you pretentious shit,” she said. “Tell me why I shouldn’t just shove a pillow over your invalid face right now. Just end it all,” she said.
“What did I say?” Trey asked. Then he realized it was bad as it soon as the words escaped his lips.
“What did you say? WHAT DID YOU SAY?” she asked.
Suddenly, the doors whizzed open. A French soldier poked his head in, interrupting the burgeoning fight.
“It’s nothing,” Melody said, waving her hand.