The Final Outbreak: An Apocalyptic Thriller

by ML Banner

  Passable.

  Next, she examined her figure, wonderfully accentuated by the dress. She stood up straighter still and held her hands below her bust, pushing up and letting go: the dress didn’t have any bra inside to lift and support, although, after the $30,000 augmentation by her plastic surgeon, her puppies held firm.

  More than passable.

  Just then, she caught a glimpse of her hand, her clutch dangling from her wrist. It throbbed worse than before and now a large red stain glared back at her.

  She reached into her clutch, considered the four pills she’d had earlier, hesitated, then yanked out another three Valium and dry-swallowed them. She was tired of the pain.

  It then occurred to her that this was one of the reasons why she was down on deck 1: to see the doctor again. But there was another reason, and it was related to her hand. What was it?

  She couldn’t seem to hold her thoughts as the night dragged on. Maybe it was the alcohol or the Valium or that she was second-guessing herself about killing Edgar. She just felt off tonight.

  Then, she remembered: her dog bit her. That’s why she was bleeding... And, what?

  She was going to see if Monsieur was okay. That’s also why she went to deck 1. And what?

  To tell the little man... Al something... That’s it! She was going to give Al a piece of her mind for letting her dog get injured and go crazy.

  She was startled by the clip-clop of her own heels on the hard floor, surprised both by the clatter it caused—it was the only guest floor in all the ship, besides the outside decks, or the dance floors, that wasn’t carpeted—and by not remembering that she had started to walk.

  And I’m here because why again?

  She had forgotten already.

  Eloise found herself standing—no, swaying—in front of the Regal European Pet Suites door, scowling at it, as if it were alive and she was daring it to talk back to her. If it did, she’d rip the door’s head off... but that’s silly because it doesn’t have a head. What the hell is wrong with me?

  She turned the doorknob and pushed open the door, expecting to find that silly little man on the floor again, but instead the giant mug of a German shepherd was right there at face level. Its dirty paws punched against her clavicle, knocking her backward onto her keister. Husband Number Two, the first Brit she’d married, always called her rear her keister. And so there she was, tumbling hard onto her keister.

  Her world crept into slow motion as the massive mutt leapt over her, screeching and whining, as if in pain. The other dogs immediately followed, jumping over her, en masse. She had been falling slowly, but these dogs were moving like the wind, treating her like she was the stationary center of some cruel dog-trick, as part of some dog show: the “watch the dogs jump over the flailing lady on the floor” routine.

  For a moment, she thought the lights had gone out. But then she realized the dogs had blotted out the ceiling lights above as they passed over her field of vision.

  The horde bounded past her, trailing a single long leash, and then down a side hallway, which she could swear hadn’t been there before, opening into the crew-only area.

  Another much smaller dog sprang out of the room. Like the others, this dog bounded over her. The realization of which dog this was struck her like a cold slap across her face: it was her little baby, her Monsieur—that’s why she was here, to check on her little Monsieur!

  The cruel dog show continued as Monsieur bounded down the same side hall, less than a dozen steps behind the others.

  “Monsieur? Are you all right, my baby?” she called out to her white toy poodle, covered in red splashes. He didn’t even stop to acknowledge her, instead chasing the other dogs while growling viciously.

  She watched the pack scamper into an opening and then veer into a wide hallway out of sight, their yelping and cries of fear following them. Several crew members braced themselves against the hallway wall, trying to avoid the frantic animals. Little Monsieur furiously scratched his way around the same corner, growling behind them, seemingly determined to close the distance.

  Adding to her insult, Al was out of the pet spa next, leaping over her. “So sorry, Mrs. Carmichael,” he said, while dashing into the crew area. “I’ll get Mon-sewer,” he huffed, before he disappeared out of sight.

  It was her husband’s fault that they chose this discount cruise line over the QE2, because he was too damned cheap. He was the reason she was lying there on the ground, in her favorite gown. Her chest filled up with air like a giant dirigible until it reached its limit and she let loose with a roaring scream, as she had never done before. It was an exhalation of all the built-up frustration and anger, and something more primal that she neither understood nor cared about. She knew one thing: she was more determined than ever to kill her damned husband, and she wanted to do it now.

  She attempted to jump up, but something was holding her legs to the floor. This incensed her even more. She thrust out her legs much harder this time, pulling with all her might on the hall railing until she felt something give. It was just a little at first, as when a stuck zipper lets go and then slides all the way down to open effortlessly, like a knife through butter. In this case, there was a rude ripping sound. But she was standing.

  Eloise attempted to move forward, but her ankles felt restrained and she was falling forward, a return run to the floor. Before she tumbled, she grabbed the railing, with both hands this time, dropping her purse in the process. She then glanced down her legs and saw that the lower part of her dress at her waist had ripped completely off, and it was still wrapped around her ankles. A thought flashed in her mind—she should have worn underwear. But that wasn’t important now. Her legs just needed to be free.

  She scissor-kicked the fabric away and then stood upright. Seeing that nothing else was keeping her from her needed chore, she thrust forward, high heels clacking.

  A few guests, walking up or down the aft stairwell from decks 6 through 2, swore that a half-naked woman in high heels, somewhat conspicuously covered in white lace, was running up the stairs between 10 and 11 PM, growling the name Edgar.

  But most who heard this story attributed it to that evening’s two-for-one Long Island ice tea special.

  DAY FOUR

  THE CAPTAIN’S MORNING ADDRESS BLARED ONCE AGAIN RIGHT AT SIX O’CLOCK. THIS TIME I WAS READY AND I TURNED THE VOLUME CONTROL TO THE MAX SETTING ON THE LITTLE SPEAKER BOX, WHICH WE HAD GUESSED EARLIER WAS THE SHIP’S INTERCOM SYSTEM FOR DELIVERY OF THESE KINDS OF MESSAGES.

  “GOOD MORNING, INTREPID,” THE BOX ANNOUNCED, “THIS IS YOUR FRIENDLY CAPTAIN, JÖRGEN CHRISTIANSEN, COMING TO YOU FROM THE BRIDGE.

  “WE ARE PRESENTLY AT A HEADING OF 36 DEGREES, 8 MINUTES, 44 SECONDS NORTH AND 5 DEGREES, 21 MINUTES, 47 SECONDS WEST, OR MORE COLLOQUIALLY, WE’VE ARRIVED AT THE PORT OF GIBRALTAR, WHICH THE CUTE AND LOVABLE BARBARY APES CALL HOME. WE’LL START THE DISEMBARKATION PROCESS IN THIRTY MINUTES ON THE STARBOARD SIDE OF DECK 1.

  “IT’S A COOL 9 DEGREES CELSIUS OR 48 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT OUT THERE TODAY. SO BRING YOUR JACKETS AND DRESS WARMLY. THEN DRINK A PINT FOR ME AT ONE OF THE MANY FINE PUBS THE TOWN HAS TO OFFER. BUT DON’T STAY TOO LONG, BECAUSE WE WILL BE PULLING OUT OF THIS PORT AT 4 PM AND HEADED OUT TO SEA, AND WE DON’T WANT YOU TO HAVE TO SWIM AFTER US.”

  I REMEMBER HEARING A COUPLE OF LAUGHS IN THE BACKGROUND. WE SNICKERED, TOO. IT WAS THE LAST TIME I REMEMBER LAUGHING WITH TJ.

  “HAVE A FANTASTIC DAY, AND WE’LL SEE YOU BACK ON THE GRANDEST SHIP ON THE OCEAN, THE INTREPID, REGAL EUROPEAN’S SHINING STAR OF THE SEAS.”

  15

  TJ

  TJ adjusted her compression shorts and started a morning run that she would never finish.

  The ship’s outdoor trek stretched one quarter-mile around the main pool, the most popular area on the ship at midday—at least on sea days—when the sun’s rays would normally have warmed the sea air to a satisfying 22 degrees centigrade. That was when the weather was normal. Nothing seemed normal in the last few days, least
of all the weather.

  It was downright cool out. The sun, a bare ghost in the sky, appeared more distant today, as if it were embarrassed to be seen. TJ rubbed warmth into her arms.

  Menacing clouds undulated above and around her. They weren’t the typical storm clouds, heavy with water and ready to burst. She tossed a glance behind her to confirm they weren’t the plumes of smoke from the ship’s single giant smokestack blowing onto its decks. They weren’t. She peered then to her sides and saw that these clouds were everywhere: out to sea, around the port, blanketing the sky, covering the top of the Rock of Gibraltar, overlooking the town.

  These clouds were also astringent, rather than water vapor, biting at her lungs, causing her to involuntarily gasp. The smell gave it away: it was sulfur. She instantly flashed to their time at Yellowstone when she labored to breathe the foul air.

  She also hadn’t noticed, until now, that a gray layer of dust coated the track, the chairs, maybe even the people. It muted the color out of everything, like death.

  TJ ignored these unpleasantries and focused her attention on the near-empty running track before her.

  Even without the weather anomalies, she knew early morning above deck was usually a ghost town. And during days at port, like today, even those hardy few who would otherwise be up here were most likely already queued up and waiting to leave the ship. Because of her husband’s phobia, she and he would be the last to leave. To be honest, she preferred avoiding the crowds too.

  Only a few walking dead stumbled about the track. In her previous cruises, those usually using the track at this time of day were the ancient folk barely able to walk, or the excessively obese. The obese were the most common, fooling themselves into believing that walking a few steps around a rubberized track constituted exercise. Most barely expended a dozen calories in the process of trudging their ballooning bodies around the small oval, just before heading inside to one of the fifteen restaurants, ready to start the first of their half-dozen daily ten-thousand-calorie meals. The gluttony of a cruise ship often got to her, especially when she worked so hard to keep her own weight off.

  She sprang forward, her muscles instantly feeling tight from the cold. She should have worn warm-ups.

  As if on an obstacle course, where the obstacles were moving in slow motion, she darted around multiple targets, each seemingly tasked with slowing her down: a fat man wearing a straw hat and muscle shirt that said “Grand Cayman”; a beach ball-shaped woman wearing overly stretched-out running shorts, hiked up to just below her mountainous breasts; and then there was an elderly couple, walking hand in hand. A juxtaposed reflexive image hit TJ just then, a brick wall that blunted her energy.

  After gliding past the couple, she stopped and stared back at them, rubbing her watering eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep, bad dreams, or just the growing feeling of utter terror: these two looked exactly like the couple they had seen at Alcazaba two days ago, and then more prominently in recurring images from horrific nightmares.

  This same couple was getting pulled to pieces by wild seagulls. She’d always wake up when one bird started snacking on an eyeball.

  TJ shook the nightmare away. That’s all it was, she reasoned with herself.

  She watched the old couple hobble by, their heavily lined faces carrying their own share of worry. Upon closer inspection, she realized they weren’t the same couple she had seen. And she was merely reflecting her own worry on them. Their lines were softer, and looked less like concern and more like contentment. Their facial creases folded into their smiles. It was joy they exuded, buttressed by a mutual understanding and an unflappable peace. No doubt all of this was born from their many years together. Oh, they looked physically feeble, but they were undoubtedly strong in their resolution, as if they could deal with anything, as long as they were together.

  What the hell is going on with me, and with the world?

  Although she was prone to psychologically analyze people—her job demanded this—she never personalized her targets, not that this couple was a target. She approached everything from a fair and analytical view. But lately, she’d felt very... Emotional!

  She shook her head in disbelief at her own obtuse thoughts. Were not the events of the last two days enough to make anyone emotional? She reasoned.

  Like one of Rodin’s marbles in his sculpture garden, she remained a statue, contemplating the old couple’s life and her own. Now she had become the obstacle in the middle of the track to the oncoming zombies. Her eyes remained fixed on the backs of the old couple, until they disappeared around the bend of the jogging track.

  Worries about her mom sprang up again. She’d always looked after her mother, ever since her father’s violent death, before she left for school. Last night they had talked for a couple of minutes—at ten bucks per minute she kept it short—and she sounded fine, but she still worried about her.

  TJ jumped to attention as if she’d been defibrillated. She was here for two reasons.

  A quick twist of the wrist to check the time. Her watch said it was 6:28 AM. She’d still make her rendezvous, but the run was out of the question now.

  She jogged a few dozen more steps before finding the stairwell Jean Pierre had told her about, a little farther forward, “just past where the jogging track turns...”

  She ducked into an alcove, underneath an outdoor stairwell that led to another sun deck, if she remembered the ship’s map correctly. This area wasn’t viewable by anyone else, unless they walked up on her, while she waited for him.

  Less than two minutes later, Jean Pierre—also dressed in running gear—jogged down the same track. He looked nervous, checking both sides, to see if anyone—guest or crew—saw him. He even wore a hat, pulled low on his head so that he was less conspicuous, what with his polished dome being so recognizable.

  Just before the alcove, Jean Pierre stopped and reached behind a towering steel beam to stretch a cord out and across the walkway, connecting it to a concealed hook behind another beam on the other side. It clicked home, effectively blocking anyone from walking their way and ensuring that they wouldn’t be interrupted.

  Jean Pierre immediately saw her turned away from him, behind the stairwell.

  He stood before her while she was straightening her little jogging outfit and flashed him an embarrassed smile.

  “We don’t have much time before the captain needs me back. I’m sure you can guess we’ve been a bit busy up there.”

  “No problem. What do you have for me?” she said with a smile and a wink.

  ~~~

  It was a jarring screech. If anyone was around him, on another balcony or in another cabin, they would have no doubt compared it to nails on a chalkboard. On a normal cruise, to Ted, this would have sounded like music.

  Other than yesterday’s All Access Tour, this was the other activity Ted had longed for.

  The veins on his head bulged as he dragged the heavy table closer to the balcony railing, until it clinked metal to glass, announcing it had reached the balcony’s limit. Next, he pushed the mesh chair closer to the table. Both were now ready to accept him. He then ducked into their cabin to retrieve and lay out the rest of what was needed: his iPad tablet, the Internet passcode in an envelope, a pot of coffee (ordered the moment they had awoken), creamer and a cup, and finally his iPhone containing some notes he’d dictated to himself earlier.

  Except for the briny air and clatter from the port, this setup was not unlike what he had at home where he’d do his writing in the morning. He’d envisioned doing quite a bit of writing at this very spot while on this trip. He had imagined the inspiration that would be fostered by gazing out across the water as the ship’s screws churned up the seas, leaving a white foamy wake. Even parked at one of the two ports on their itinerary, he had looked forward to his creative juices flowing, unleashing a flurry of words.

  There would be none of that today.

  He needed to know more about what was going on in the world and to do that
, he needed more information. From all he had witnessed or heard, buttressed by the knowledge he had gained while researching his second-to-last book, Ted thought he might know some of what was going on. He hadn’t let on to the captain, when Christiansen asked if he thought that the story of Madness could be coming to life. His answer was “I don’t know.” But he thought he did know.

  And if he was correct, what that might mean for their lives and the lives of everyone on this planet absolutely terrified him.

  His wife kept insisting on talking to him about the animal attacks, but that was the last thing he wanted to do. Talking about it would only make it real. Similarly, his fictional tales, floating around in his conscious brain and his subconscious nightmares, became real—at least to his readers—only after he wrote them down. That was fiction.

  This was not.

  If he was being honest with himself, he’d have to admit that part of this research effort was to avoid dealing with the consequences of making this real. But he knew it was also wise to double check his information before panicking the whole ship. So he’d excused himself from discussing this with TJ once more this morning when she brought it up, until after completing his research review. But he really didn’t need to, because the more he thought about the whole concept of Madness and the research behind it, the surer he became that he was correct.

  He was just going through the motions now.

  First, he’d check his email, and procrastinate even more.

  He logged into the ship’s WiFi network, another freebie because of his upcoming lecture on the ship; he would never have paid the twenty dollars per day they charged for this service. He paused before clicking open his email program app and instead opened a browser and pulled up Google News. On a hunch, he typed “animal attack” in the search box, and tapped the ENTER key.