Sea Sick: A Horror Novel Part 17

Jack sighed. "Just...if anything happens tonight, around eight-o-clock, at the first sign of danger...

Oh, I give up. Look, just contact the mainland the moment you think anything is wrong. Keep an eye on the pa.s.sengers and in a few hours you'll be wis.h.i.+ng you'd listened to me."

Jack examined the exit door to the room and saw that it opened from the inside via a round push b.u.t.ton on the wall beside it. Jack raised a foot in the air and hoofed his heel against it. The door unlocked itself and the plastic b.u.t.ton ripped from its casing. Jack opened the door and slid back into the corridor, satisfied that the broken b.u.t.ton on the other side would be enough to buy him some time.

1800hrs Time was running out fast. Jack raced out onto the Promenade Deck and was faced with a setting sun above a dark blue sea. If Jack didn't do something soon, this would be the final sunset the world would ever get to enjoy before things went downhill. He had two hours left. Just two hours. Jack prayed to G.o.d that Joma's vision of the future had been wrong, because it was starting to feel very certain that failure would be the only outcome of trying to stop the virus.

There's nothing I can do. Tally got away, Marangakis won't listen, and the pa.s.sengers were infected yesterday. What the h.e.l.l can I do? I've tried everything and nothing works.

Jack didn't know how much more he had left in the tank; maybe not even enough to make it through the next two hours. He was tired, broken, and bleeding. His back throbbed where the pencil had speared him and as he reached his hand around he felt cold kiss of blood against his skin. He brought back his fingertips b.l.o.o.d.y and stared at them for a few moments, realisation setting in that the wound would not simply go away as soon as midnight hit.

This time it's for real. Dying isn't an option anymore.

Jack headed down the Promenade Deck and pa.s.sed by a table and chairs. A half-empty bottle of water lay discarded there and Jack picked it up, unscrewed the cap. He poured the tepid liquid onto his hands and begun rubbing them together, was.h.i.+ng away the drying blood on his fingertips. As he did so, something seemed to click into place at the corner of his mind. As his wet hands rubbed together, Jack was reminded of something. He was reminded of the day he'd boarded. There had been a man at the entrance to the s.h.i.+p, dispensing alcohol rub to the pa.s.sengers.

But it wasn't alcohol rub, was it?

Suddenly Jack found the answer. He knew how the virus got aboard. He knew that Claire had not been infected because she hadn't boarded with her boyfriend, Conner. Only Jack's boarding party had been infected because the man with the dispenser had been there to greet them. Poor little Heather got a double dose, thanks to the extra squirt her dolly got on its plastic hands (which explained Joma's vision of a doll). That's why she had gotten sick so quickly. The contaminated substance must have had a short exposure time, but she had been clutching the doll close enough that she would have breathed in or absorbed the additional dose. Jack was uninfected because he had dodged by the man with the dispenser. He hadn't gotten a dose himself.

Jack shook his head. I never had a chance to stop this. The people responsible for this never even boarded the s.h.i.+p. They're still out there now, hundreds of miles away in Majorca maybe even further and they have the deadliest virus known to man sealed up in a bottle of rubbing alcohol. They could release it again, anywhere, anytime. It probably won't even matter if I stop the infection on this s.h.i.+p or not. We're all doomed as long as they're out there.

But Jack was d.a.m.ned if he was going to give them an easy ride. If infecting the pa.s.sengers on this s.h.i.+p was their Plan A, then he was going to do his very best to make sure they were going to have to come up with a Plan B. Hopefully there would be somebody else willing to f.u.c.k that one up, because Jack was done after this. At least, he would be if he went through with the idea that was forming in his head. The world might still have one last chance if he could do what needed to be done in time.

With a dry mouth, and a heavy heart, Jack headed for his cabin. There was a bottle of Gen Grant there with his name on it.

1900hrs Jack had retrieved the bottle of scotch from his luggage and brought it down to the Orlap Deck. He'd also brought with him a blanket to cover Donovan up with. It felt good to share one last drink with his drinking buddy, who had just been a man caught up in a bad situation, no different than anybody else on board. Donovan was not an innocent man by any stretch of the imagination, but he was not responsible for anything that had happened since the Spirit of Kirkpatrick had set sail from Majorca. Jack was not an innocent man either. He had been a man consumed by rage, and perhaps always would be. But at least now he had the chance to make up for his past mistakes, to atone for the lives he had taken, by doing something to save others. Despite all that he had been through, starting with the loss of his soulmate, Laura, and ending with what he was about to do this very hour, Jack still valued human life. Not everyone was evil like the thugs terrorising the streets of Britain or the terrorists that released the virus. There were also good people, like Ivor and his family, Claire, Joma, and even Doctor Fortune. It was for people like them that Jack was willing to give his life.

He took another swig of the whisky and enjoyed the taste one last time. The bottle was almost empty and Jack had drunk it so quickly that he was yet to feel its full force. He figured being drunk would make things easier.

"Well, pardner," he looked down at Donovan beneath the blanket. "If there's an afterlife and you're already there, get me a drink ready."

"Seems like you've already had enough to drink," said Tally, appearing from behind the pallets of blue, plastic cash crates.

Jack stood up, unsteady on his feet from the whisky. "Tally! I ought to wring your b.l.o.o.d.y neck."

"Try it," she said. "But I promise that this time the bullet will kill you permanently."

Jack looked at the pistol in her hand and immediately recognised it as Donovan's. "How did you get that?"

"What? This?" Funniest thing. When I first...dealt...with Donovan, I took his gun for protection in case you came after me, but I woke up the next day and it was gone. Guess where I ended up finding it. Right back in Donovan's holster. Weird, because he wasn't under the spell like we were, was he? He stayed dead when I killed him, but I guess the fact that the gun didn't belong with me meant that Joma's spell kept having to make a slight adjustment and put the gun back where it came from. Interesting stuff, really. Would be fun to learn more about it, you know? Pity Joma's not able to give any more lessons."

Jack shook his head. "Why, Tally? Why kill them? Why keep trying to set me up for something I never did? I thought we were friends."

"A friends.h.i.+p forged through fire is brittle, Jack. We are not friends; we are just victims of the same fate. My true friends, my family, my...daughter...they are waiting for me someplace else. You won't stop me seeing them anymore."

"What are you talking about? I thought we were both looking for a way to end this. Donovan was too."

Tally laughed and lowered the gun slightly. She was too far away for Jack to reach her before she could raise it back again, though. "Donovan wanted to end it, alright. He wanted to end it all."

Jack wanted to keep Tally talking so he remained silent, trying to inch towards her slowly.

"The night Donovan shot you, he took me hostage. He knew all about the day resetting, and that he hadn't really killed you, but he wanted to know who the h.e.l.l we both were. We spoke for the rest of the night and I told him what I knew, about the spell and a pathwalker being on board. It seemed to be a relief to him that there were others besides him that knew what was happening."

"Of course it was a relief. We were all in this together, I thought."

"Me too," said Tally, "but then I found Donovan drinking himself to death in the Casino one night and he told me something. He told me that he was going to carry on drinking and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g as many women onboard as he could, but that when the whisky stopped tasting good and the s.e.x stopped being fun, he was going to sink the s.h.i.+p in order to kill the pathwalker and end the spell. He wouldn't tell me how; just said he had a plan. I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't stand around and wait for him to kill me and everyone else."

Jack took a step towards her. "So you killed him first?"

Tally raised her gun. "And you'll be next if you don't step back. I thought about killing you before now, but I guess I took pity on you and decided to stick Security on you instead. I couldn't risk you finding the pathwalker and making rash decisions. I knew if I could just hold you off long enough the candle would eventually melt and the spell would end. Then I could go home to my daughter, along with as much of the cash in these crates as I can carry."

"Is this what this is all about? Greed?"

"No, not at all. That's just a bonus. This is about me being with my daughter again, plain and simple. You finding the pathwalker would put that in jeopardy.

"But I found Joma. He told me what was at stake. You don't know what you're doing."

"I know that you found him. I was watching you on the security cameras in the room where I was sitting. Once I knew Joma was the one, it made it much easier to expedite things. Now the spell is broken and you and I are going to sit tight until we reach sh.o.r.e. I am going to see my daughter again. Now back away, Jack, before I change my mind and just shoot you."

Jack did as he was told and stepped back. There would be no chance of him grabbing her before she could get a shot off. She was too in control and he was beginning to feel sluggish from the booze in his system."If this s.h.i.+p makes it to land, the whole world is going to be wiped out."

"You don't know that for sure. Joma's dream could have been wrong. I'm not about to throw my life away and never see my daughter because of the nightmares of an old shaman."

Jack shook his head. "You know it's true. You were the one who told me about pathwalkers and their abilities in the first place. You told me they were protectors. Joma gave his life so that billions others wouldn't have to. Your daughter included."

Tally seemed to hiss as she spoke. "I can keep my daughter safe, don't you worry, but I can't do it stuck on this G.o.dforsaken boat."

"You don't get it, do you? The virus on this s.h.i.+p is unstoppable. If it gets off there'll be no hope for anyone. It's up to us to make sure that doesn't happen. You must see that?"

Tally shook her head. "I'm going to see my daughter and you're not going to stand in my way."

Jack glanced at his watch. It was just after eight. The infected would be attacking any minute. The lives of the pa.s.sengers above were about to come to an end, and this time there would be no coming back. Jack felt sorrow for them, but he now knew that their deaths had always been inevitable. There'd never been any chance to save them. What he needed to do now was make sure that their deaths were the only ones caused by the virus. Tally was the only obstacle currently in his way of achieving that goal.

Jack turned and ran, hopping between pallets as the sound of gunshots rang out behind him. If there'd been any doubts that Tally was prepared to kill him, they vanished now. Jack peeked out from behind a stack of boxes and was met by another gunshot. The bullet hit only inches away from his face and sent shards of plastic up in the air.

Jack crouched down and hurried toward the back of the cargo area. Tally had said that she didn't know what Donovan's plan had been to sink the s.h.i.+p, but Jack was pretty sure he knew. He reached the rear pallets of the cargo area and slid around behind them, using them for shelter. Tally had stopped shooting, which made it impossible for Jack to pinpoint her location without breaking cover and exposing himself.

Have to work fast.

Jack took out the keys he'd taken from Donovan before he'd draped the man with a blanket and inserted them into a nearby footlocker. He opened it up to reveal a collection of American a.s.sault rifles. Jack had never fired an AR-15 before and he hoped his military background was enough to help him through. He opened up a small green box on an adjacent pallet and pulled out a handful of rounds along with a magazine to load them into. After a quick look over his shoulder, Jack thumbed the rounds into the magazine and slammed it into the base of the rifle. He managed to locate the safety and disengaged it. Finally he pulled the charging handle and primed the weapon to fire.

Time to go to war.

"Don't move, Jack. I don't want to kill you, but you know I will."

Jack had his back to Tally and was pretty sure she knew nothing about the rifles in the footlockers or, more specifically, the loaded one he was now holding in front of him. "If you kill me," he said, "then you'll be responsible for billions of deaths, not just mine. Do you really want that? Is that really something you can be okay with?"

"You're not going to convince me, Jack. I've made up my mind. My daughter is the only thing that matters."

"I was afraid you were going to say that." Jack span around and fired off three rounds into Tally's stomach. She flew back, clear off her feet like her body was attached to bungee cords. The blood from her guts soaked the floor when she came to rest, but her eyes remained focused on Jack. She was not yet dead.

Jack walked up to her slowly, kicking away the pistol that lay only inches from her grasping hand. He pointed the rifle's barrel at her forehead. "I'm sorry, Tally, but I promise you that this is the only way your daughter will ever be safe."

He pulled the trigger.

2100hrs The sound of people being butchered and torn apart on the upper decks was the only thing Jack could hear. It made him even more resolute about what he needed to do. As an explosion erupted from somewhere above, Jack thought about Claire and her unborn baby, cute little Heather with her dolly, and the two small boys racing around the decks. They would probably all be dead by now.

Jack looked down at the crates full of grenades he'd laid out next to one of the s.h.i.+p's diesel engines. There must have been more than two hundred of the handheld explosives in total. Jack was no demolitions expert, but he was fairly certain that an explosion of that magnitude would be enough to cause a pretty significant breach in the s.h.i.+p's hull. The Kirkpatrick needed to sink fast to prevent it being rescued by any nearby vessels. The virus needed to disappear without a trace below the depths of the Mediterranean.

There was one more grenade in Jack's hand and he was looking at it through a haze. The Glen Grant had rendered him pretty inebriated, but he was still clear in his focus and lucid in his intent. From the moment he had gotten on the s.h.i.+p, there had only ever been one way he was going to leave it. He just hadn't been aware of it until now. Whether or not Joma knew things would end this way didn't matter now. It didn't change what needed to be done. The only way the virus could be stopped was if every single person onboard died. There could be no survivors, and that meant Jack too.

He yanked the pin at the top of the grenade and felt the spring-loaded 'spoon' release in his palm. Once he dropped the grenade into the pile of explosives he would have just five seconds. Five seconds of life left to live; just five more seconds of pain and grief and anger. It was five seconds longer than Jack wanted or needed.

He opened his palm and let the grenade fall. It seemed to roll slowly through the air, bouncing into the crate and coming to rest amongst its brothers.

Jack started to count.

"One..."

I...

"Two..."

Love...

"Three..."

You...

"Four..."

Laura...

"Five..."

Day 250.

Sixty-miles off the coast of France, Commander Harrington looked down from the foredeck of the Merchant Navy Bulk Carrier, Barstow. The rolling sea of the Mediterranean was littered with debris: pa.s.senger belongings, clothing, wooden fixtures of the s.h.i.+p, and sc.r.a.p pieces of metal. While nothing had been determined yet, it seemed as though the pa.s.senger liner, Spirit of Kirkpatrick, had suffered some kind of explosion, perhaps from within the engine compartment. Harrington had been a seaman for many decades and seen such things before, but not with a pa.s.senger s.h.i.+p in modern times. With lawsuits being the way they were, safety checks on pa.s.senger vessel were beyond overcautious. It would remain to be seen what the cause was, but Harrington wouldn't be surprised to find out that the explosion was deliberate.

The time of terrorism isn't yet over, it seems.

The Commander was no stranger to death at sea, but the thought of one-thousand pa.s.sengers and five-hundred crew members sinking to their deaths had left a numb s.p.a.ce in his chest. Civilians were not suited to terror. They did not embrace it like servicemen did. He pitied the suffering that they would have gone through as they realised their time was up. The worst kind of death is one you can see coming, even if only by a few minutes.

What the h.e.l.l happened to you people? There wasn't even an SOS.

If it had not been for the fact the Kirkpatrick had gone radio silent, no one would have even known it had gone down. If Harrington hadn't been in the area, there would have been barely a trace that the s.h.i.+p had even been there. Already the debris on the water's surface was sinking beneath the waves. His men were currently doing their very best to retrieve whatever they could before it was lost forever.

Mids.h.i.+pman Brown approached with his trusty clipboard in hand. He saluted Harrington from a few yards away. "Commander! We've just received word that the French Coast Guard is just a few clicks out. They've requested that we hand the situation over to them now and that we have their thanks for our quick response."

"Typical French. Don't like the British stepping on their toes. Okay, Mids.h.i.+pman, let the crew know we're out in thirty."

"Aye aye, Commander."

Harrington took a stroll along the deck, glancing over his men and supervising the wrapping-up of their efforts. They had divvied up the detritus they'd salvaged into separate containers: some containing sc.r.a.p metal and parts of the s.h.i.+p, while others contained personal belongings that could later be claimed by the pa.s.senger's families. Harrington walked up to one of those containers now and examined its contents.

There were many things inside: paperback novels, a jewellery box, and all sorts of other mundane possessions. There was even a scorched police badge. One thing that caught the Commander's eye in particular, though, was a little girl's dolly. He picked it up and studied its angelic face while trying to imagine the child it must have belonged to. He felt his heart sag. The child's toy was a soggy mess and seemed to sum up the tragedy quite succinctly. Its frilly dress had already started to succ.u.mb to the exposure to salt water and its small plastic hands had gone a sickly green as if some sort of chemical reaction had taken place.

Harrington decided to take the dolly with him, and made a personal promise that he would try to find out whom the toy belonged to. It would be difficult, he knew, because whatever secrets the Spirit of Kirkpatrick had to tell were now well and truly lost beneath the sea. Perhaps the world would never know the true story of whatever happened to its pa.s.sengers and crew. Maybe they would not want to know, even if they could.

Harrington turned around on his heel, dolly in hand, and addressed his crew. "Come on, men. Let's get back to the mainland. I don't want to think about what happened here anymore. We've been around enough death and misery for one day."

Two hours later, Commander Harrington felt a cold coming on.

BAD DELIVERY.

"Prep Surgery Ward Two, we need to get this man stabilised in the next five minutes or he's going to die."

Vicky nodded at Dr Cathcart and rushed off to get everything ready. The two orderlies hurried behind her with a critical patient on the gurney. From what she'd gathered in the ten seconds of panicked exchanges between her colleagues the man was stabbing victim. They would have to work fast to save him.

She cleared a s.p.a.ce to the operating table and quickly switched on the room's lighting. The harsh glare of the examination lamps came on with an audible hum. The smell of chlorine hung heavy in the air.

"Okay, move him across and I'll page Dr Malone."

The orderlies lifted the patient from the gurney onto the operating table while Vicky sent a page to the on-duty surgeon. Within minutes, Dr Malone arrived.

"Stab wound to the abdomen?" he asked, attaching the heart-rate monitor.

"Yes," Vicky replied. "Paramedics called it in en route. Apparently the patient had crawled out of some woods and pa.s.sed out on the side of the road. Someone driving past found him and called 999."

"Any identification?"

Vicky nodded. "Driver's license. Nigel Moot, age forty-two. He's on the database; blood type A negative."

"Rare," muttered Malone, already fast at work. "Get an IV prepared and a blood line."

Two more nurses entered the room, obviously hearing the commotion. Without word they pulled on latex gloves and surrounded the operating table to make themselves available. Vicky came over and set a tray of surgical instruments. She handed a bottle of iodine to one of the other nurses and pa.s.sed a scalpel to Dr Malone. She had been doing the job long enough now that she knew what was needed when.

One of the nurses pulled down the irrigation hose and begun rinsing out the wound with sterilised water. The blood flushed away, replaced by flooding water. It looked like a puckered, pink mouth, stretching three whole inches across the patient's torso.

Malone used the scalpel to open the wound very slightly, to get a better view of how deep the blade had gone. The heart rate monitor beeped regularly but slowly.

"No organ damage. He's lucky, the blade just missed his liver." Malone used his fingers to slowly part the wound. A brief spurt of blood overwhelmed the water for a moment. "Can we get some clamps on this? I need to suture this room before he bleeds out."

Vicky grabbed the surgical clamps and secured open the wound. Malone got to work, suturing the wound.

The patient's vital signs dipped worryingly towards the end of the procedure, but by the end he was once again stable.

Dr Malone pulled off his gloves over at the wash basin and began was.h.i.+ng his hands. "Get him cleaned up and moved to the recovery ward. He's going to be fine."