by Meg Mundell
The tattooed sailor kept glancing back to check she was following. They went down several narrow passageways before he swiped a security panel, shoved against a heavy door, held it open as he waited for her to catch up. Authorised Personnel Only, said a sign.
Billie stopped. ‘What’s this about?’ she said. The cool tone deliberate, no sign of nerves.
Len blew an impatient breath. ‘Don’t ask me, I’m just following orders. Rounding up the troops.’
‘For what? Where are we going?’
He wasn’t a big man, mid-fifties maybe, but he was wiry. If need be, she might be able to fell him with a well-aimed kick. She tried to read his eyes, could spot no recognition there, nor any obvious threat. But this didn’t feel right.
‘They’ll explain. I’m not to say anything, just fetch you lot.’ Len seemed annoyed, like she was wasting his time. Through the doorway she glimpsed a flight of stairs leading down to god knew where.
She planted her feet. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, exasperated. ‘You want me to tell them you won’t come? Because none of us has a choice here. Let’s go. Brass will explain.’
They followed a maze of passages to a grubby door marked Equipment. It opened onto some kind of storeroom, full of people, fifteen or so passengers seated on rows of plastic chairs, as many crew standing around the walls. There were ropes and plastic bins stacked in the corners, notices stuck to the walls, a roster scrawled on a board.
Up the front Billie saw the first mate, Cutler, sitting with two offsiders, the trio holding court behind a table draped with a British flag. Heads turned as Billie and the crewman entered, the passengers wearing apprehensive looks, the crew bored or grim. She found a seat near the back, out of Cutler’s sightline.
Mostly women, the assembled passengers, and most her age or older. Some were murmuring to each other, indignant, but others stared fixedly ahead, their faces fearful or defensive. The air was charged with tension, as if the crowd was braced for trouble, accusations set to fly. Billie spotted Marshall up the back, scanning the room in anxious leaps. Catching sight of her, the chief steward quickly looked away. She felt a new prickle of unease.
When the last arrivals locked the door behind them, the room fell quiet. Cutler took the floor, threw back his epaulettes and addressed the room in a tone charged with a cold authority.
‘You are here under strict legal confidentiality,’ he told them. ‘Nothing said in this room today will be repeated outside these walls. We will provide an official story before you leave, and that is the explanation you will use to respond to any enquiries – from your fellow passengers, your family, your loved ones. Anyone.’ He glared around for emphasis. Snagged Billie’s gaze, held it.
‘This ship is now under Maritime Emergency Law. I will assume that this situation is, quite understandably, outside the experience of most of you here, so let me explain what that means.’ A theatrical turn, hands clasped behind his back. More targeted glaring, like a prison warden scanning would-be escapees.
Billie got the sense Cutler had dirt on everyone in this room, was privy to information both private and compromising. But this, of course, was the intended effect. All bluff, she told herself. Just bully tactics.
‘Our captain’s word is now law,’ the first mate continued. ‘My word, and that of my officers, is now law. I have the power to deputise crew members, and their word, too, is to be regarded as law. All passengers will obey instructions, without question, or face immediate imprisonment, followed by rigorous prosecution dryside. The charges will relate to treason, and will carry a maximum penalty of nine years’ imprisonment.’
The only motion in the room was the gentle synchronised sway of bodies, moving in mute obedience to the ocean swells.
‘You may be aware that we have an outbreak of serious, potentially deadly illness on board.’
Billie took this in, the implications dawning: this was not about her, not about her past. Or not entirely.
An outbreak, he continued, of an unspecified and evidently highly contagious disease. Despite exhaustive screening measures, despite thorough bio-vetting of every person permitted to board this ship. Despite the company sparing no expense, no effort, to implement the most rigorous world-class bio-scans, designed to rule out the faintest possibility of infectious disease coming aboard. The superscreening protocols devised by international experts and guaranteed foolproof by governments on both sides.
‘Personally,’ he spat, ‘that strikes me as distinctly suspect. But I will leave that particular investigation to the forensics team that now awaits us dryside.’
This speech was not all bluff, Billie saw. The bitten-off words, the rigid posture, the air of contained rage: the man was genuinely angry. Fearful too, perhaps, although he hid it well if so.
‘You are here’ – another calculated pause as Cutler surveyed individual faces – ‘because you have been selected to be part of the emergency response. Let me emphasise something: this is not optional. Not voluntary. Under the legal framework now governing this vessel, you do not have a choice.’
Now there was movement in the room. Bodies shifting, brief snatches of eye contact. A woman in a headscarf raised her arm. The first mate ignored her, continued speaking.
‘There will be an opportunity for questions before you are permitted to leave,’ he said. ‘For now, your role is to listen. This situation could not be more serious. At this stage we don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with. But Captain Lewis has issued orders: this disease must be contained, at any cost. Losses must be minimised. The sick must be immediately isolated and nursed, to the best of our abilities, to maximise survival rates.’
Billie felt something inside her drop. Please, no. Not this.
The death toll, Cutler went on, now stood at four. Eight others had been identified as ill and isolated below decks in a provisional sick bay, a hastily converted section of the hold. The ship was not ideally equipped to deal with an outbreak of disease: given all the precautions that had been taken, nothing like this could have been envisaged. A work detail was currently fitting extra sick-room beds and building an antechamber, to be used for decontamination purposes.
He picked up a device from the table, flicked through screens. ‘The passengers in this room have been identified as possessing skills related to medicine, hygiene or personal service industries. Shortly I’ll hand over to the ship’s doctor, who will outline rostering arrangements, care regimens, and isolation and decontamination procedures.’
The wards. The death wards, all over again.
But first, Cutler continued, he wanted to assure them of three things. It was imperative that they themselves did not fall ill, or contaminate other passengers. They would work under strict quarantine and decontamination protocols, to be outlined shortly. A blonde woman next to Billie sank her head into her palms.
‘Second, under Maritime Emergency Law, you will be compensated for your work through payment of extraordinary wages. These are generous rates – over-generous, perhaps, but that particular decision is out of my hands. A small stipend will be paid weekly, and the remainder logged and paid out to you in full on arrival dryside.’
Billie sat there, numb, as she listened to the rest of Cutler’s spiel, a series of threats, warnings and ultimatums. They were duty-bound to ward off speculation and panic amongst the passengers, and legally compelled to disclose nothing of what had occurred in this room, besides the officially sanctioned version. The pay rate he outlined was a surprise – almost five times what she’d earnt back home, before being unceremoniously sacked. She focused on that figure, tried to keep images of the death wards at bay.
A crew member manoeuvred a board into view. Billie saw columns of names, rows of neat capital letters. Spotted her own name at the top of the last row. Shift teams: a hospital roster. People shuffled, those near the back craning to read
the board, and Cutler held up one hand, a command for stillness. Arms were waving now, but he ignored them.
‘I promise you this: should anyone here breach these conditions – or disobey orders in any way – they will find themselves spending a long and very unpleasant stretch of time inside a maximum-security prison.’
Failure to cooperate would mean prosecution, jail, ruin: the room was silent as he let this sink in. Then he motioned a short black man forward. Grey-haired, dressed in a white lab coat, his glasses slipping down his nose, he gripped a folder and looked distinctly anxious.
‘I’ll now hand over to the ship’s head doctor, Jim Kellahan, for a medical briefing. Questions will follow. Then you’ll be fitted with wristbands that allow access to the controlled zone.’ Cutler resumed his seat, and Billie saw a scarcely perceptible wince cross his face. The man deflating slightly in that moment.
The doctor stepped forward, opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a sharp screech, the sound of a chair abruptly shoved back. Then a male voice from the back of the room: ‘Fuck this.’ A man was on his feet, weaving between the chairs. White guy, early thirties, dark curly hair. English. ‘Fuck this,’ he said again, louder, making for the door.
A solid crewman blocked his way, took a grip on his arm. ‘Steady, mate,’ he said, a warning. ‘Nobody’s leaving.’
The curly-haired man examined the meaty hand clamped to his bicep, then appealed to his fellow passengers. ‘They can’t do this,’ he said to the room, casting around for backup. He addressed the first mate. ‘You can’t force us to do this.’
‘Sit down,’ said Cutler. He remained seated but removed his cap, set it on the table beside him. His hair stuck up on one side, and fatigue was evident in his whole bearing. He spoke with weary impatience, the anger gone. ‘The criminal charges I mentioned are a promise, not an empty threat. The jails where we’re headed are nasty places. We can lock you up right now, if you’d prefer, but it would be much smarter to cooperate.’
The passenger threw a final pleading glance around the room. ‘Let go of my arm,’ he said quietly, and the crewman did.
As the objector sank into a chair, Billie tried to send him a look of solidarity, but his head was down, shoulders hunched in defeat.
The doctor took this as his cue, drew himself up to his full five-foot-nothing, and delivered the room a watery smile. ‘Now then,’ he said in a bright voice, Brummie accent. He gestured at an anaemic-looking young guy skulking behind him, also dressed in medical whites. ‘This is Doctor Owen Price, my deputy. Let’s run through how we’re going to tackle this.’
TOM
From bad to worse, that was the unmistakable direction. While I was chewing my nails over the remote possibility of shipwreck, a much more insidious horror had been brewing in our midst.
I’d barely begun our morning class when a messenger pulled me out, announced that school was cancelled for the day, and hustled me off to an urgent meeting in the captain’s quarters, with a handful of senior staff – Captain Lewis, the doc and his deputy, officers, managers in charge of various sections.
Evidently my rank had climbed a few notches, but the change was far from welcome.
The captain’s face was grave, no trace of his professional twinkle. He left it to Cutler to deliver most of the bad news.
Four dead so far, Cutler announced bluntly, and more than twice that number sick.
The head doctor chipped in, reported that details were scarce: they didn’t know what the sickness was, or how it was spread, but clearly it was both lethal and highly contagious. We all had to be vigilant for signs of illness, fever, confusion in fellow passengers or crew – and, he added, in ourselves.
The sick had been isolated, their clothing and bedding burnt. The dead were on ice down in the hold, awaiting the pathologists and virologists once we reached dry land. All scheduled stop-offs in foreign ports were cancelled. Both governments had been informed. We would be held in quarantine when we arrived at our destination.
Fear was palpable in that cramped room. Beneath it ran a frantic subcurrent, a tally being conducted in every head: who coughed in my vicinity, used the wash cube before me? Who leant too close, whose stale air did I inhale? How clean was that doorknob, the breakfast cutlery, my own hand? What did I touch? Who did I touch?
Disbelief and shock were plain on people’s faces. All those tests and protocols and scans, all those assurances: they’d promised we’d be safe. A sterile zone, guaranteed risk-free.
When Doctor Kellahan finished his grim summary, Captain Lewis took the floor. ‘Tomorrow there will be a mass decon up on the main deck.’ He made it sound routine, but the details were unsettling: every soul on board herded into makeshift cubicles, stripped to the skin, and foamed to within an inch of our lives. All chemmed in one fell swoop, including the captain and his officers, a show of solidarity to head off any accusations of unequal treatment. Crew would be on hand to assist, Cutler added. Unrest, perhaps even resistance, was anticipated.
‘We must all play our part,’ said Captain Lewis, regarding each of us in turn. ‘Follow the containment protocols strictly. Enforce the rules, report any breaches.’ He adjusted his mask. ‘But morale is also crucial. The passengers will take their cue from us. Be stringent, but aim to carry on as usual. We need vigilance, not hysteria.’
The message was clear: we must toe the sanctioned line, placate a shipload of frightened people, defuse anxiety before it bloomed into full-blown panic.
Just being in that stuffy room, with its sharp undercurrent of fear, made me feel faint.
‘What are the symptoms, exactly? How does the illness manifest?’ An intense dark-haired Scotswoman, addressing the captain, no kow-towing. A passenger, but not intimidated by the company.
Captain Lewis deferred to the head doctor, who recited an alarming list: headache, nausea, aches and pains, high fever, vomiting and diarrhoea, coughing and wheezing, rash, blood nose, possible delirium and hallucinations.
I recalled that crazed man slashing the air with his broomstick, fighting off an invisible enemy.
The Scotswoman fired out more questions, then outlined a series of steps that should be put in place. Clearly she knew this territory well. When Cutler tried to interrupt her, she spoke over him; the captain held up a hand, silencing his offsider, granting her leave to continue as he scribbled notes.
‘Do we have PPE on board?’ the woman asked. An awkward silence followed. ‘Personal Protective Equipment,’ she enunciated.
The answer, it seemed, was no. At this news, the Scotswoman swore under her breath.
They kept us there three hours, planning the response. The captain’s announcement, made over the PA during lunch, was couched in tones so reassuring that at first it drew scant reaction. People continued to chew their food, murmur banalities, clink cutlery. Laughter rang out, then was abruptly cut off by an elbow.
There were shushing noises as the message landed. Forks were lowered, heads raised.
‘It is important that we all remain calm,’ Captain Lewis was saying, his voice low and steady. ‘My staff have the situation in hand. But from this point on, when a crew member asks you to do something, that should be taken as an order.’
Eyes drifted to those of us already wearing masks: me, the kitchen staff, the crew guarding the exits. Frightened glances: what did we know?
As the facts sank in, a pulse of dark energy swept through the mess-room. A collective intake of air, a stifled sob. Crew members walked the rows, dispensing masks, my handsome sailor amongst them. He caught my eye – just briefly. We’d planned another rendezvous, but that seemed unlikely now.
Crew commenced a ferocious regime of scrubbing and swabbing, the chemical reek of bleach and decon drifting through the passageways. A delegation of passengers was soon demanding an audience with the captain.
My brain fuzzed by anxiety, I struggled
to sleep that night. I felt raw, frayed, emotionally threadbare. Had to keep reminding myself to breathe.
The whole ship was now officially a crime scene. There were rumours the outbreak had been deliberately induced. ‘Been done before,’ I’d heard a crewman mutter as we left the captain’s rooms. ‘Rabbit fever. Malpox, Chimera 9. All those airports.’ The last round of attacks, the final straw before they shut down Heathrow, was blamed on biovigilantes – anti-migrant hate groups, raving nationalists hell-bent on closing all borders in both directions. But why target us? A single ship, a harmless herd of labourers? It made no sense.
Surely now, I thought, there’d be no shame in approaching Doctor Kellahan – or trying my luck with Owen Price, his deputy? Explaining how my medications had been stolen, assuring them I’d always stuck to the prescribed dosage.
Classes were suspended until further notice. I worried about the children: how frightening this would be for them. What might lie ahead for them, for all of us. Surrounded by that alien tract of ocean, more than a month from land, caged in with an invisible killer.
Staring into the darkness I felt weak, jittery, unprepared. And fearful, knowing that fear was now the logical response.
6
CLEARY
Night had fallen hours ago, but he must be patient. He’d only get one chance. Crouched shivering behind a pile of ropes, he watched the door that led to the sick room, the crewman now guarding it. Danger: No Admittance.
When a bundled figure approached, wheeling a trolley wreathed in hazard tape, the guard scanned their wristband and stood aside to let them pass. The door cracked open, light spilling out across the deck.
Cleary picked his moment: the guard holding the door wide, his attention elsewhere, as the trolley lumbered through. He dashed forward, shoved past the trolley, went flying down a ramp and along a corridor, making for the door at the far end: STOP! Biohazard – Restricted Area – Do Not Enter.
But the door was locked. Fists pounding on metal, he opened his mouth and screamed for his mother.