by ML Banner
There were hundreds of stories, and he scanned through several of them.
“Good morning!” blared Captain Christiansen’s voice from the loudspeaker.
Ted shuddered and then reflexively examined his watch. It was 6:45 AM.
“We should be letting all of you loose in a few minutes. You’re welcome to proceed in that direction.
“I would ask that you return a little earlier than planned. We’d like you back on board by 3 PM. This is one hour earlier than we expected. Again, 3PM is now the time you must be on the ship.
“Have a wonderful day in Gibraltar, before you return to the most wonderful ship in the Mediterranean, Regal European’s Intrepid.”
Ted considered the captain’s rosy message for a second, then returned his gaze to his tablet’s screen and refined his search to “animal attack Gibraltar.”
The first story in the results demanded his attention and so he opened it and felt an electric shiver crawl up his spine with each word he consumed. On a hunch, he refreshed his search and a new article popped up which he opened in a new tab. Halfway through the article, he slapped his iPad and keyboard closed, grabbed his key-card, and dashed out of the room.
He had to see the captain, and he had to see the captain now.
16
Bollocks
“Hey, little guy. What’s your name?” asked Boris, a Brit with a pale face that resembled a plastic bag stuffed with dinner rolls. He offered the visitor a wide grin.
Boris carefully balanced a plate loaded with six chocolate croissants stacked up like some monument to the God of Chocolate Gluttony. In fact, they were a favorite of his wife of ten years—one of many surprises he’d planned to bring her during their anniversary cruise. He shot a quick glance at the monument, glad he hadn’t attempted to make it bigger with one or two more on top of the pile. He didn’t want to lose the whole lot and spoil his surprise.
He hesitated for just a second, and then carefully plucked a small morsel from the chocolate tower to offer up to his new friend.
He didn’t want to scare the little bugger away, so he clenched his teeth and carefully bent his knees to get closer to the ferret, who seemed to be patiently waiting for its prize. Boris feared that he might not be able to get back up if he crouched down any farther—his knees weren’t used to many, if any, ups-and-downs and he’d already accumulated some extra pounds since their holiday had begun. So he struggled to push back up, tensing the muscles in his face. As if on cue, both his knees buckled. The plate of pastries tumbled toward the ground and so did he.
Boris attempted to slow his fall, using his right elbow against the bright colored carpet and his right shoulder against the wall.
He came to rest in the middle of the hallway, like a jackknifed tractor-trailer blocking a large roadway. Thankfully this roadway had no traffic, minimizing his embarrassment. Unfortunately, his load—the appetizing morning snacks he’d secured for his wife—was now spilled all over the carpet.
Not one of his finer moments.
“Bollocks!” Boris grumbled under his breath, mad that he’d tasked his already shaky knees too much. “I hope you’re happy, mate.” He scowled at the ferret, who just stared at him with its creepy red eyes.
Funny, Boris thought. He didn’t remember ferrets having red eyes. His brother in Camden had a ferret, and its eyes were brown, not red like this one.
A moment of panic set in as Boris realized that he really was utterly alone, as everyone was trying to get off and see the sights in Gibraltar. His wife would not come to his aid, and the ship’s crew might not come across him on the floor for a while. He glanced past the ferret, down the hall, and then tried to turn his body around so he could look the other direction, but he couldn’t twist far enough.
“Double-bollocks!” He looked back at the ferret. It had moved closer to him. With Boris’ own face almost ground level, the ferret was literally staring at him red eye to bloodshot eye.
Still, the ferret didn’t move, as if it was considering its options.
“You know it’s rude to stare, mate? Here, take this morsel.” He shook the piece of Danish he still clutched in his right hand. Maybe he should save it, since it was the only piece of Danish that hadn’t touched the carpet. He glared back at the glorious chocolate croissants scattered over the carpet, taunting him. The five-second rule had long since expired.
He glanced back at the ferret, who was sniffing him, like a blooming dog. It opened its little mouth—he was glad it was little because it was filled with lots of ferocious-looking teeth. Just then it looked like the little guy was planning to take a chunk out of his nose. Instead, the ferret reared back on its hind legs and peered over Boris’ head as if it saw a better offer behind him. Then the little thing hissed, turned and quickly scurried away.
At the end of the hall, the ferret turned back and looked once more at the silly human dumped all over the hall, hissed again, and then disappeared out of sight, where the hallway veered off to the right.
This was all very strange behavior for a ferret, not that Boris was any expert. Although at this point he recalled when one of the neighbor’s dogs once stuck its wet nose up against the front window to inspect his brother’s ferret, which was running around the living room while they were watching the telly. His ferret—named Charles, after the Prince of England—hissed at the dog, just like this one did.
He had a horrific thought, which he knew was incongruent with reality: what if a dog was behind him? That was, of course, ridiculous because pets weren’t allowed on cruise ships. Though he was also remembering something his wife had said on the day they boarded. It was right before the craziness with the rats happened, she said, “Look there, Boris, among all the hand luggage: there be pups in those crates.”
The three-tone chime of the ship’s intercom rang out loudly, startling him.
“We are all clear to Gibraltar, and we’ll be releasing everybody in a few minutes on deck 1. Please have your sea-pass ready as you visit the land of the Barbary apes.”
The rumble of the ship’s engines had stopped some time ago, after they had made port—and yet, it sounded like there was a rumble, almost like a growl. But this wasn’t coming from below him. It was coming from the hallway behind him.
The skin on the back of his neck crawled and became prickly. He let go of the bit of croissant that he’d been holding this whole time, and threw his arms around his head in an attempt to roll around in the other direction, knowing he couldn’t just turn his head. He grunted at the effort and felt a shot of pain pierce his hobbled knee. He waited for the pain to subside, his face contorted—the rolls in his cheeks sucked in as if they had been eaten—and then he opened his eyes.
The pain had made him forget for a moment why he went to such effort to turn around, but when his eyes opened, they instantly focused only a few meters ahead, fluttering several times to bat away any foggy obstructions. He could see that his situation was much worse than he had thought.
A little white toy poodle, covered in blood, like some miniature hound from hell, stood a few feet away from him. Its eyes glared an angry red, and then it leapt at him.
“Oh, bollocks.”
~~~
“I need to see the captain, please,” Ted pleaded as he bounded down the hall, toward the bridge.
A Brazilian member of their security stood between Ted and the entrance to the bridge.
“I’m sorry, but the captain is very busy right now. If you want to see him, please go to Guest Services. They will arrange a tour fo—”
“—Look...” Ted cut the man off and took another step closer, almost in his face. “I appreciate what you’re doing, but I really need to see Captain Christiansen now.” Ted looked down and patted his pocket for the captain’s business card, only remembering at that instant he’d been given one and could have called ahead first. But Ted was in such a hurry to personally share what he’d learned with the captain... He looked up and realized his stance appeared too aggr
essive to the security guard, who had adjusted his posture. He risked landing himself in the ship’s brig, assuming they had one—not surprisingly, that wasn’t part of the ship’s tour. He took a step back and said, “Tell him it’s Ted Williams, or maybe you should say, T.D. Bonaventure. He asked me to contact him if I found something. Please!”
The man wasn’t moving.
Better the brig than to do nothing.
“Tell him every passenger on this ship may die if he doesn’t act right now!”
The guard’s eyes grew wide, and without hesitation, he yanked out his radio, mumbling some words in Portuguese, and then in English, he blurted, “Code Alpha! I repeat, Code Alpha!” The Brazilian fixed a stern gaze upon Ted, but it was masking the concern that he had just encountered a madman. The guard thrust a palm into Ted’s chest and shoved him backward, away from the entrance and back down the hallway.
Ted knew he pushed it too far, but continued his pleas, while being forcibly moved backward, farther away from the bridge entrance and the captain. Several more reverse steps down the halfway, Ted backed into a human wall of very substantial proportions. The wall clasped him on the shoulder, and a hand like a vise clamped down uncomfortably hard.
“Come with us, sir,” said the booming voice that belonged to the hand, thick with a harsh Slavic overtone.
Ted felt something hard press against his side. A quick downward glance confirmed it: a stun gun.
He regretted his decision altogether now, wondering if he could get out of this. “I’m sorry, I have the captain’s business card. I’ll go back to my room and call him directly.”
The two guards continued to firmly pull him down the hall, one step at a time, not answering or even acknowledging his new request. In fact, the Slavic guard squeezed harder, if that was possible. Discomfort was fast turning into pain.
“Captain Christiansen knows me and will want the information I have. Please, I’m begging you. Let me go back to my room and I’ll call him.”
They nearly had him out of the hallway and into the aft stairwell.
“Ted? Is that you?” the captain called down the hall.
They all stopped and gazed forward.
“Captain. Oh, thank God. I need to talk to you,” Ted bleated.
“Code Blue, gentlemen. I repeat, Code Blue,” Jörgen bellowed.
The giant Slavic security officer opened up his mitt, releasing Ted. The Brazilian moved out of the way. “We’re sorry, sir. We were just following orders.” His voice had turned timid.
“It’s all right.” Ted pushed past the Brazilian and dashed back toward the captain.
Overhead, the loudspeakers announced that passengers could now start leaving the ship and enjoy the warm hospitality of Gibraltar.
Ted was face to face with Jörgen, the two guards trailing not far behind him. “Captain, please tell your security not to let anyone off the ship. They’re not safe in Gibraltar.”
Jörgen shot Ted one glance. It was quick, but for a man who seemed to rely on his crew and making quick decisions, Jörgen only needed a second for this one. To the guards behind Ted, he barked, “Tell Patel to hold up the passengers until further notice from me.”
The Brazilian, who must have been senior of the two guards, repeated the message on his radio.
“Please come in and tell me why we’re going to ruin our passengers’ day in Gibraltar.”
17
The Barbary Apes
Over three hundred Barbary macaques of Gibraltar represented the sum total of the wild monkey population on the entire European continent. Only today would the town realize how wild they’d become.
Because they were tailless, they were often referred to as “apes.” The Spaniards called them monos or monkeys, which was technically a more correct identification. Regardless of their label, for years they’d been favorites of visitors, who reveled in the monkeys’ acumen for stealing bags belonging to selfie-focused tourists from park benches and unattended food plates from tables at nearby cafes.
For the most part though, the Barbary apes stayed out of the town, choosing to remain at the Gibraltar Nature Reserve as the star attraction. And other than some occasional petty theft and a few cases of minor property damage, the monos had been good neighbors. They didn’t fear humans, learned through their daily intermingling, and were never considered a menace. Yesterday, that all changed.
One of the apes attacked a tourist. Then, another attacked and killed a British pub-owner. This morning, there was another attack. And because it was still too early for the rumor mill to fan the flames of worry, residents and tourists continued their activities as if nothing had happened.
It wasn’t until the Intrepid, Regal European’s shining star of the seas, pulled into Gibraltar’s port and announced its arrival with its throaty horn that all the apes appeared to go crazy.
Each ape, having ten times the strength of a human, easily tore through people and property, without pause. Most bit wildly at anything with a pulse: store owners, just starting their day; residents and pets enjoying a walk during the morning coolness; and visitors, eager to consume their first espresso at a street-side cafe. Most of the town’s occupants seemed unaware of the approaching ape mob until a wave of screams hit their ears.
When the apes entered the more populated areas, some stopped to take larger chunks out of their victims or just tore at limbs, which came off easily. Although they acted crazed and independent from one another, all the apes seemed to be charging through town in one direction: toward the port and the only cruise ship currently docked there.
The mass of apes wasn’t yet visible through Captain Jörgen Christiansen’s binoculars, as he scanned for some visual vindication to his decision. Moments ago, he had made the announcement to cancel this port of call, explaining to his frustrated guests that it was just too dangerous, and that they’d be leaving port shortly. Ted, who had just left the bridge, made far too compelling an argument. Still, Jörgen scanned the farthest reaches of the town with his binoculars, both wanting and not wanting to find visual verification. And while his crew busied themselves, they anxiously glared at their captain’s head and awaited his next order.
“Do we still have the refueling ship available?” Jörgen barked at Jean Pierre, who was standing patiently beside him. The staff captain hadn’t agreed, but backed the captain’s decision.
The refueling ship was still tied to a berth on the other side of them. They had waved it off earlier, with their plan to refuel in the Canaries. But that was before Ted’s report and their decision to leave.
“Yes, sir.” Jean Pierre snapped to attention, repeating the information they had already discussed. “They only have heavy fuel and it’s heated higher than your preferences. And I have confirmed your calculations with the chief engineer that we’re already 20% over needed heavy fuel until the Bahamas.”
“JP”—the captain rarely used first names, much less nicknames on the bridge, without titles—“I fear we might need more fuel than we’re guessing. Please fill us to capacity. If I’m wrong, we can replace with MGO before we pull into US waters, and still satisfy their environmental standards.”
“Aye, Captain,” Jean Pierre confirmed, and then quickly turned and picked up the outside phone line to the harbor master. He wasn’t sure what the captain was thinking, but he trusted his judgment.
Captain Christiansen didn’t know what lay ahead, but he was going to ensure they had more supplies than they needed. He had learned this back in 2005 when twenty-eight hurricanes hit during the season, cutting off supplies and stranding them at one or another of their ports while they waited for a refueling ship. Generally, he kept his ship’s fuel supply at 20% over the calculated maximum needed amount for their long route, in case he had a problem with a supplier. This afforded enough leeway to move to the next port and refuel there. It wasn’t hurricane season, but with everything going on, a voice inside told him he’d need every drop he could get right now.
Jörgen w
atched from the swing deck with controlled nervousness as the refueling barge sidled up to their ship’s port side, while remaining tied to the berth. It only had to move a few meters before it was in position. It was maybe half the length of the Intrepid, but only a couple of decks above water level. It was completely full of heavy fuel, something akin to crude oil. He kept one eye on his crew and the tanker’s two crew members racing to connect the giant hoses; with the other he gazed at the digital fuel gauges, mentally pushing them upward. Deep down, in the pit of his stomach, an apprehensive worry burned like fire. A part of him felt sure they had very little time left.
~~~
Nigel James blew warmth onto his hands and vigorously rubbed them together in a vain attempt to get feeling back to his digits. It wasn’t the abnormal temperatures outside; the pipe fittings were ice cold. Touching them seemed to leach the coldness directly through the thin material of his gloves. Then almost instantly the reverse happened, as the heated fuel cascaded through their barge into the ship. He felt the fittings change from cold to warm and then to hot. Now he started to sweat and stepped back to wait until he was told they were done. He looked at his mate manning the controls, who nodded at him. Then Nigel gave thumbs up to the two crew from the cruise ship, who were already stepping inside their hatch, eyes wide, like they were worried they were going to get docked pay for cavorting with sludge-sloppers like him. Most crew from cruise ships were cordial. The Intrepid’s was not, which was very strange.
Nigel glanced up at the top decks of the sparkling cruise ship, admiring its recently painted hull. Several decks had lines of balconies, some with passengers—no doubt on holiday—luxuriating. His eyes scanned for a pretty female until he found one in a sumptuous bathrobe. Then he imagined himself in that very room with that pretty lassie. He remained fixed in her direction, not so much as leering, but watching his mind play out the narrative of his daydream...