by Ben Farthing
Riley leaned on the wall to catch her breath. The room was claustrophobic, but it was also safe. The thing clinging to the hull couldn’t get her in here.
Krystal wiggled into a silky purple cocktail dress. “Dinner is black tie tonight!” she sang. She saw Riley, and her jaw dropped. “Girl, you look like you saw a ghost. Did your uncle catch you?”
For a moment, Riley had no idea what her friend was talking about. “Oh. My uncle. No, he didn’t see me.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Riley plopped onto the stiff loveseat. Her back was tired. “I found Nathaniel and Wendy’s cabin. Big windows at the front of the ship. When I went outside, there was something stuck to the hull.”
Krystal sat on the bed. Their knees bumped. “Like a barnacle? Is that what they’re called?”
Riley considered that. Its skin had looked a bit like a barnacle. Skin. Was it right to think of it as having skin? “Bigger than that. And it moved.”
Krystal giggled nervously. “You’re teasing me.”
“I’m serious.” Riley fished out her phone. “I took a picture.”
Krystal put in Riley’s passcode and swiped at the screen. “Yeah. A barnacle. Why’d you take the picture so close?”
Riley snatched her phone back. The photo was crisp, but the clinging thing was too close. No context for size. It could have easily been a closeup of normal-sized sea life. “I’m telling you, it was bigger than me. And it moved. It was climbing up the ship.”
“Was your margarita actually virgin?”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Okay, I’m just saying.” Krystal stood up. “Zip me up.”
Riley obliged. “We should tell somebody, right?”
“If you think so. We’ll find a crew member on the way to dinner. Show them your photo.”
Riley thought about leaving their cabin. That thing could be anywhere on the hull right now. It could be inside the ship. She didn’t know what it was, but deep inside, she knew it was unnatural. It was dangerous. “Maybe we should skip dinner tonight.”
“Not a chance. Get dressed. Don’t freak out so much. We’re here to have fun and steal your watch back from your uncle.”
Maybe Nathaniel was involved. This could be connected to the weird dripping mirrors on Deck One, and whatever was going on behind the locked door on Deck Two. All part of his scheme to destroy the earth for money.
She couldn’t hide in their cabin. She had to report what she’d seen.
“Okay, I’ll get dressed.”
12
Riley was about to lose her mind.
“It’s just not a clear photograph.” Bobby the porter cupped her phone in his hands, zooming in and out of the photo.
Riley and Krystal had found him in the hallway leading to the dining room. Glistening wood trim and plush red carpet offered an aura of luxury. Old people in tuxes and shiny dresses ambled by on their way to the cruise’s first meal.
Bobby was muscled enough to haul suitcases around, but Riley wasn’t impressed so far with his mental abilities. “What did you say this is?”
“I don’t know what it was. Something on the hull of the ship. Bigger than me.”
“It looks small.”
Riley swallowed a scream. The photo was a closeup of the thing’s skin. It didn’t look big or small. “I’m just saying what I saw. Can you go look?”
“Deck Nine, you said?”
“Eight.”
“I’ll check, but I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe something dead in the ocean splashed up onto the ship.”
Krystal scoffed. “That’s like a hundred feet.”
Riley felt thankful that her friend was sticking up for her.
“It’s probably a bunch of barnacles all close together,” Krystal continued. “That’s my guess.”
Riley rolled her eyes. So much for solidarity.
“I’ll have someone take a look.” Bobby touched Riley’s arm softly. “Go eat your meal. The crew will do the worrying, so you can enjoy your vacation.”
“And you’ll let me know what they find?”
“Promise.” Bobby crossed his heart with his finger and walked off.
“I think he’s cute.” Krystal tugged Riley into the dining room. “At least compared to all these nursing home residents.”
Despite everything, the dining room impressed Riley. A happy buzz of conversation paired nicely with a live jazz pianist. The maitre d’ checked their key cards and invited them to follow him, past tables of gray-haired guests in black ties and evening gowns. The dining room was over two stories, with the upper level around the outside of the room, so the center remained open to the main floor. Riley and Krystal followed the maitre d’ up marble stairs and to a small table by a window.
They thanked him and took their seats.
“I need this luxury all the time.” Krystal sipped her water glass and checked the wine list. “Uh oh.”
Riley didn’t know whether to turn around or hide her face.
“You’re uncle’s down there.”
Riley looked down past the marble staircase to the main floor.
Nathaniel and Wendy sat at the head of a long rectangular table. She counted eight other people with them.
“Who are they with?” Krystal asked.
“I’d say it was his business partners, but that looks more like a church group.”
The guests with her aunt and uncle ranged from one foot out of high school to one foot in the grave.
“You never said they were religious,” Krystal said.
“I don’t think they are. But that’s a strange group.”
“It must be random seating.”
“No, look around.” Most tables only seated six or fewer guests. “Their table is the only one that big. It’s intentional.”
“So what?” Krystal set aside the wine list to look at the menu. “It’s a club or something. Ooh, shrimp cocktail for an appetizer.”
Riley didn’t bother trying to convince her. Nathaniel was on this ship for a reason. His career destroying the earth, plus the weird stuff happening on Decks One and Two, suggested this was some sort of underwater mining exploratory trip.
He put some fancy equipment on the bottom decks, the cruise line swapped out the ships, and now Nathaniel would run his tests to see how much money he could suck out of the ocean.
She’d felt so sure about that.
But then, who in the world was he with?
Wendy sat next to a woman in her thirties. She was blonde and wore a sparkly blue cocktail dress. She was overweight to the point that even from across the room, Riley could see that dress straining. Wendy and Nathaniel were vain enough that they judged anyone for being out of shape. Rich people paid personal trainers and private chefs in order to avoid such embarrassing body shapes.
And the guy next to Nathaniel had a walking cane leaning on the table, and he had gray hair tied back in a ponytail. His tux was originally black but had faded to a charcoal color. And Nathaniel was sitting next to him, happily chatting, as if he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen next to someone who couldn’t even afford a new tuxedo.
“Ew,” Krystal said, “one of the entrees is a lamb. Have you ever had lamb?”
“Once,” Riley said as she stared at Nathaniel’s table. “It’s like steak but greasier.”
“Baby killer.”
Riley noticed something else. Across the open area in the middle of the floor, at a table with five guests, one younger man was also inspecting Nathaniel’s table. The man was maybe ten years older than her, so in his mid-thirties.
It was the guy she’d ran past outside on Deck Eight.
Why was he interested in Nathaniel?
Riley made a mental note to talk to him when she got the chance. He was probably FBI or EPA. If he was going to arrest Nathaniel, maybe she could convince him to get Dad’s watch for her.
Whatever Nathaniel’s group was, Riley hoped they had regular meetings. The more he was out of his cabin, the
more chances she’d have to steal the watch.
In fact, if everyone was attending the formal dinner each night, then this could be the perfect time. No crazy plans, no pickpocketing—just wait until dinner time, check that Nathaniel and Wendy were in the dining room, then force her way into the room. She could find something to use as a crowbar.
This was going to be easier than she’d thought.
Tomorrow, she’d skip dinner and get her watch back—her fifty-thousand dollars.
Then she could kick her feet up and enjoy the rest of the cruise, watching the mysterious EPA agent take down her selfish uncle.
In six weeks, she could go home, quit driving for UberEats, and start nursing school.
This was happening.
Riley ordered the lamb.
13
Micah’s cult had been easy to spot.
The rest of the guests in the dining room were older couples or groups of geriatric siblings or friends. They sat at small tables of two or four or six, laughing like they’d known each other for years.
Chris thought vacationing with your elderly friends was nice, but he hoped in the future his vacations would be with Eddie and future grandkids.
He stopped his mind from wandering away.
The cult was at the largest table, and they didn’t fit the demographics of the rest of the cruise.
Of course, they probably didn’t think they needed to hide. Who would they be hiding from?
After the other guests at his table had left, Chris still sipped at his lemonade. He couldn’t afford anything else.
The dining room was gaudy and made him uncomfortable. He wore a blazer and tie—the clothes his parents had bought him when he went for the substitute teacher interview. His other dress clothes were old and ratty.
He watched Micah’s cult.
As the tables emptied one by one, the fourteen people around the largest table stayed and talked.
Chris had no doubt they were Micah’s people. It was a six-week cruise—you had to be retired or a trust fund kid to have six weeks to spare. And trust fund kids weren’t spending their time on cruise ships relocating across the Pacific, operating with only half their amenities.
The group at the large table all listened intently to the older man at the table’s head. He wore his shiny gray hair slicked back like he thought he was Steven Segal. His high cheekbones made Chris think of an undertaker. The tall woman to his right periodically reached over to squeeze his hand.
Chris scanned through the guests to guess at which was the one who’d contacted him.
Not the elderly frumpy man—his contact had found him online. So he’d guess one of the younger cultists.
A skinny twenty-something in a blue shirt and Star Wars tie sat next to the leader’s wife. He laughed genuinely at something she said, then glanced briefly at the leader. Everyone at the table followed his lead.
When Micah disappeared, that’s the guy they shifted their devotion to.
Chris wondered how Micah had gathered them all, whether they’d independently developed a belief in the Deviser and then found each other. Or whether Micah had converted them because they were each useful.
Chris’s waiter came and asked if he needed anything. He asked for another lemonade to have a reason to still be sitting here.
He’d asked for a beer, but it wasn’t included unless he shelled out more cash. As it was, it’d already take him two years to pay off the credit card bill.
The waiter left, and Chris looked back down to the main floor.
The cult leader was standing up. The man was freakishly tall.
Everyone at the table shuffled to their feet.
Chris did the same. One part of him said he should avoid the cult—stay out of their sight. His intent was to sink the ship. He didn’t need to know anything more about them in order to achieve that goal.
But they were here for a reason. They didn’t have any more knowledge about the purpose of this overnight ship than he did. In fact, he had more, since he’d actually been inside the overnight building. If they were like Micah before she entered the building, they still thought the Deviser was an extra-dimensional Santa Claus. They were probably here hoping for gifts.
Chris’s contact had thought Chris would want to witness something. Maybe they were all here just to observe. But Micah wouldn’t have gathered a cult of passive observers.
Chris was certain they had their own plans. Those plans could get in the way of his plans. Or they could inadvertently put the ship in danger with their naive understanding of what they worshipped.
Either way, Chris needed to know more.
He followed them out of the dining room.
The attendant at the door offered him hand sanitizer and wished him a happy evening. The dining room doors closed behind him.
Chris scanned the gaudy hallway outside the dining room. The cult bunched around the elevators. A blonde woman in her thirties let out a chirpy laugh at something the old cult leader said.
Chris froze. He hadn’t thought this through. At least some of this cult knew who he was and blamed him for Micah’s death. They wouldn’t be happy to see him.
He couldn’t exactly sneak after them down an elevator. Or tiptoe behind them in an empty hallway.
But they were too caught up in their own happy conversations that nobody looked at him.
The invitation he’d received said to keep a low profile. So only one of them knew he was on board. They likely wouldn’t notice him unless they had another reason to give him a close look.
Like if he were standing awkwardly in the doorway, staring at them.
He casually walked to another elevator, turned his back to them, and pressed a down button.
He heard the other elevator doors behind him slide open. He kept his eyes straight ahead as the trivial conversation drifted away and then went quiet as the doors shut.
Chris felt his shoulders relax. He wasn’t cut out for this. He was a substitute teacher, for crying out loud, not a spy. He shouldn’t be sneaking around anywhere.
For the millionth time, Chris wished there was some government agency he could have passed this off to.
A nasally voice behind him made him jump practically out of his skin. “You’re not being careful enough.”
14
Chris spun around.
In the middle of the luxurious hall, one of the cult members leaned toward Chris.
The kid in his young twenties. Up close, Chris could see a wisp of a mustache and chin beard. His eyes were a rare gray-blue, and they betrayed an anxious concern.
“I sent you the note to keep a low profile.” He held his hands at chest level, expressing his anxiety with awkward gestures. “I’m Pete.”
Chris couldn’t pass up the opportunity to question a member of the cult. But Pete was right—Chris wasn’t being careful enough. “Help me understand something,” he said and then walked away.
The kid followed him down the hallway. “You should stay in your cabin. My friends are really angry at you.”
“I’m not afraid of them,” Chris lied. He’d learned from Micah that fanatics were dangerous.
The hallway took them past an empty guest services counter and then through glass doors into the shopping mall the cruise called the “Promenade.” The walkway was open and lit, but only a handful of guests were there. An old couple sat on a wrought iron bench between two ferns. A trail of four women hobbled quickly past the dark jewelry shop and the shuttered art gallery. Each shop had a false front that extended from the room’s outer walls. They were all painted different bold colors, but inside they were dark. Only the ice cream parlor was open and bright.
Above, guest cabin balconies overlooked the shopping area. Chris decided he should have at least sprung for an interior balcony to have two exits from his cabin. It was all going on a credit card anyways.
Chris looked around for a private place to have a conversation.
Pete grabbed his shoulder. “I invited y
ou onto this ship as an act of generosity.”
Chris stopped in his tracks. He looked at the kid in his freaky pale eyes. Surviving the overnight building hadn’t left Chris impervious to fear, but inside he’d gone through enough scuffles that he was aware of how competent he was in a fight. He wasn’t concerned about the scrawny kid.
The kid got the message. “Sorry.” He pulled away his hand. He looked down at his feet. “You’ve obviously been closer to the Deviser than any of us, except maybe Nathaniel—"
Chris cut him off. “Who’s that? The tall old guy you were all fawning over?”
Pete huffed. “Respect is earned, and he’s earned it. You have, too, at least in my eyes.”
“Because I survived the Deviser’s skyscraper?”
Pete waggled his spindly index finger. “See, I do want to ask you about that. What happened to Micah? My friends suspect that you violently stopped her from learning the Deviser’s next secret. They’re waiting for you to reveal that you’ve claimed it for yourself.”
The only secret of the skyscraper had been that the Deviser was done gathering humanity and was ready to start harvesting. But the cult didn’t know that. Chris assumed they still believe the Deviser was benevolent. “And what do you think happened?” Chris asked Pete.
“I think Micah saw a limited chance to escape this world to commune with the Deviser, and she took it.”
Chris thought of the mess of flesh and wire and bone and steel that had chased him and Eddie through the top floor of the skyscraper. That’s what Micah became. “We should find a quiet place to talk. I’ll tell you what happened to your old leader. And you’ll tell me your cult’s plans for this ship.”
“Outside where the wind will hide our voices,” Pete suggested.
They left the Promenade to return to the elevators. They rode to the top deck. They passed through sliding glass doors and into the pool area.
Chris thought he could get used to the evening ocean air. It was just warm enough that the breeze felt nice.
Electric lights lit up a huge swimming pool. It was forty feet across, and extended half the length of a football field. In the middle, concrete piers with planters offered a divide. On normal cruises, maybe one side was for kids. But on this cruise, with mostly retirees, Chris suspected that after dinner, most of the ship would be abandoned except for a few nightclubs and the casino. That left the swimming pool empty and inviting.