Queen Elizabeth Dock, Hull, 19
th
March 2014, 1430 hours
My head felt as though an amateur rock band had booked an afternoon session inside it.
Keep practicing, you guys suck!
The freezing sensation, while still very much present, wasn’t quite as severe as earlier. I still felt weighted. I groaned as I tried to push myself from the seat, barely aware of Barbie’s attempts to pull me upright.
“You’re awake!” she stated, obviously.
“Easy, doll. Easy. Feel like I got hit by a dump truck and the son-of-a-bitch reversed too,” I moaned.
“Reckon you can walk?”
“Help me swing around, but gently, dammit!” I barked.
Barbie looked at me as if I had slapped her face, hard.
“I—I’m sorry. I don’t know why I snapped at you like that. I’m not myself,” I muttered.
It became somewhat of a major procedure to actually get me turned to face the passenger door, and sit upright, precariously swooning on the edge of the padded seat. With one hefty pull, Barbie managed to lift me. She placed her arm across my chest to support me, just in time to prevent me from falling flat on my face for what would have been the second time that day.
“I gotcha, I gotcha,” she assured. “Lean against the pillar here and don’t try to move on your own, I’ll be just a sec.”
I just about managed a nod before she disappeared to the back of the car. I began to tremble as I suppressed the rage building inside me once more. It wasn’t her fault, wasn’t anyone’s fault so far as I knew, and yet, I felt such a strong urge to lash out, to inflict pain and suffering upon this girl. I didn’t know why or what she was supposed to have done to deserve it.
You’re a wreck! Couldn’t even keep a wife. Call yourself a father?
Look at you—pathetic excuse for a man. Even a girl has to save your sorry ass. Loser!
The chorus of prickling voices gnawed at my resolve as I heard the tailgate close, followed by the double clunks of the driver and passenger doors. Clearly, Barbie liked the car and locked it as if she would be coming back for it sometime soon.
Shut up! Shut up! Goddammit—I prefer the rock band!
Content that
her
car was safely locked up, Barbie again threw her arm around my waist with mine flopped over her shoulders. She did her best to carry the bag, my weight, and herself towards the gangplank of the vessel. Twice we came close to biting tarmac, yet she held fast, determined not to let me buckle. The rust-coloured hulk of the ship was enormous, and I’d never been in such close proximity to one. At another more lucid time, it would have seen me awestruck, but now my only desire was sleep, and with it, respite from the wretched voices.
Each step towards the deck took ever more effort, until finally I could go no farther. We collapsed in a tangle of arms, legs, and backpack just short of the top. Blackness enveloped my body and mind. My senses shut down as if someone had pulled my plug.
Three months later, Tenerife, Spain, 28
th
June 2014, 0600 hours
“Honey, honey wake up. You’re dreaming, it’s okay, I’m here, right here,” Nathan whispered, calmly.
He shook Evelyn gently to rouse her from the grip of her terrors. As she came back to the surface, he pulled her close to his chest. He could feel her tremble against his body, shrouded in a fine coat of perspiration.
“Jesus, love. And I thought I had nightmares,” he added, without thinking.
For what seemed like an eternity, Evelyn sobbed against him; her arms gripped around his waist as if her life depended upon it. The very thought that something could get to her that he couldn’t protect her against broke his heart as she cried.
“Hey, hey—it’s okay. We’re here now, Tenerife, on holiday, remember?”
“It was—they came—what if?” Evie attempted.
“Shh… take a minute to calm down. It’s okay, I won’t let anything or anyone hurt you, Evie. You know that. It’s not real, just a bad dream. I’m here,” he assured, as he stroked the damp hair from her face.
Nathan knew only too well what her visions had been of. He understood the fear, uncertainty and vividness of the images in his own mind. They flashed in and out, with no pattern other than that of ever more realism.
Evie stopped shaking enough to lift her head and meet his concerned gaze. She stared into the deep, dark blue-grey of his eyes, immersed in his protection from the demons as a faint sigh escaped her.
“I saw legions, Nate. Entire
legions
of infected destroying anything and everything in their paths—children too, so young, so innocent. I need to speak to Charles, get an update on the whereabouts of that boat, and sink it where it is. We can’t risk it making it to port. If there are infected aboard, they will be taken by the sea. Sink the boat, yes, that would work, we can do that, can’t we?” Evie babbled.
“Woah there, Evie! We can’t just call the Royal Navy and tell them to sink a Russian registered vessel. Do you want to start a war? I mean, what are you going to say to Charles, let alone the Defence minister? No, it was just a very realistic dream, that’s all. Let’s calm down, get some coffee, and see how the land lies. No rash decisions that we could regret later, okay?”
“But …”
“There’s no ‘but’, honey. We can’t just blow a civilian boat out of the water—at least, not without solid evidence to support a theory, and that’s all you have, a
theory
of imminent danger. They’ll never go for it, love. Look, speak to Charles first, get the latest, and we’ll evaluate from there, okay? Right now, I need coffee. You want one?” Nathan offered.
Evie nodded, but Nathan could tell she wasn’t going to let this go. Even before he had returned with the caffeine-laced drinks, Evie was in full flow on the phone, presumably to Charles back in the UK. After almost half an hour, Evie severed the connection and flopped into a lounge chair to sip the barely warm beverage.
“Well? Are you able to share?”
“Russian authorities at the Port of Murmansk have picked up the freighter. They think it’s unmanned, or rather, there’s no one aboard alive. According to intelligence, the vessel carries bulk grain and has already entered the port breakwater. We need to be ready to move on this. If they don’t sink it, it’ll make landfall directly into the harbour in under an hour. Charles has arranged transport for us and will be sending a car. We need to be ready to move. Go get Stewey, brief him on the basics, we’ll need him. One of our UK operatives will supply the kit we’re likely to need, so pack light, Sergeant.”
“Shit. That bad, huh? Okay, I’m on it,” Nathan responded.
“Oh, and Nate?” Evie added, “I love you.”
Nathan smiled and came to her for a kiss. “Remind me to think twice before I take a holiday with you again, will you?”
*****
With Stewey briefed and his very perplexed and annoyed wife close behind asking numerous, unanswerable questions, the three of them packed ready to travel. Sure enough, true to his instructions, Charles sent a large, black car to collect them from the hotel steps.
Arrangements were made for Alisa to return to the UK, which didn’t do to appease her dark mood. Stewey looked at Nathan, and then at Evie and nodded his understanding. He turned to his wife, whispered in her ear, and kissed her goodbye.
The three of them sat in the car in silence as it drew away from the hotel. The scenery passed by quickly and changed from holiday resorts, hotels dotted on every available piece of flat land, to steep, barren gradients, which opened out into long stretches of recently laid motorway. The heat of the morning, made bearable by the over-worked air-con of the vehicle, ensured that the hour-long race to the one and only airport on the island offered at least some comfort. Upon arrival, the car took an off-limits route towards the service areas of the terminal to be greeted by two black-suited men, apparently oblivious to the Mediterranean sun. Both wore dark glasses and could have been twins, Nathan noted. The formal introduction was short and to the point.
“I’m Gladstone, this is Portman, follow me,” the darker-haired of the two men instructed.
Port of Murmansk, Russia, 25
th
June 2014. 2300 hours, present day.
“
Baltic Wanderer
you are entering the shipping lanes and breakwater. Reduce speed now.
Baltic Wanderer
, Captain are you receiving me? Acknowledge immediately, over!” the wall-mounted speaker announced.
Deep in the cargo hold of the vessel, I opened my eyes to the relayed sounds of the radio hails and searched to find my bearings. The icy fingers I remembered so vividly were gone, as was the acute pain from my torn thigh. I flexed and stretched my arms and legs, unsure of just how long I’d been out. Slowly, I stood, greeted by a smell that made me choke back bile—the odour of death. My clothes, caked in indistinguishable muck, hung loosely from my undernourished frame. I felt as if was starving, though a quick check revealed that while I’d lost some weight, I was by no means so. My senses were not only keen to noise, but also to movement and I whirled to my left when a sound alerted me to another’s presence.
You, fight? Since when? You’d rather stoke up on JD than tackle anything that actually required effort!
Fists clenched, ready to defend, I moved towards the sound. I heard a whimper, almost a cry, accompanied by a scratching of some kind. Only when I was almost on top of her did I see Barbie, cowered so tightly into a corner and surrounded by grain. Her clothes were covered in bloodstains, the uniform of the store unrecognisable under the crimson mire. She didn’t seem to be aware of my presence, even as I bent towards her.
“Barbie? Hey, are you in there?” I offered.
There was no reply, she didn’t even look at me. It was as if she had retreated into her own world, similar to the time in the car park. Her face turned upwards and it was only then that I got a brief glimpse of her once blue eyes. Blackness had enveloped the cargo hold, inadequate strip lights illuminated the walkways and exit doors. In her eyes, I pinpointed the mottled effect which now dominated the space around her pupils. Slowly, she turned on her bottom, her face never directly towards my own, before she pushed herself up to a kneeling position.
“Barbie, can you hear me? What happened to you? Are you hurt, bleeding anywhere? Talk to me, please,” I said, in desperation.
Still no response, but as I leaned in closer towards her, she held out her hand, palm up, head bowed to avoid eye contact. I took this as a sign that she wanted to stand and reached out to take it. Instead of gripping my outstretched hand, or allowing me to grip hers, she simply ran her palm against mine. That simple action was as if I’d given her life, reanimated her soul. Her senses returned and she became alert again, conscious of my presence and of who I was. As her gaze now lifted to meet my own, I saw the full effect of the changes in the colour of her eyes.
“What the—” I began.
“Simon. You’re okay. I’m glad. I feel better now. I’ve been really ill, I think.”
“How did we get here? Can you remember what happened? Your clothes, the blood, is that yours? Are you hurt somewhere, Barbie?” The questions came in a torrent that I couldn’t prevent and echoed around the cavernous cargo hold.
“
Baltic Wanderer
, please respond! Captain, you are entering the port, please cut your engines immediately!” the speaker announced once more.
“I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry? I need food. Can we go and find food?” Barbie urged.
“Sure. First food, and then I need to know what you remember. I need to know what happened to us, okay?”
“Yes, sir!” she replied, sarcastically.
I stared at her hard, her comment had somehow gotten under my skin, but we had bigger issues at hand.
Together, we followed the walls of the vessel towards the metal staircase, up towards the accommodation deck and with luck, the kitchen.
My first look at the ship from the inside wasn’t a pleasant experience. The savagely butchered bodies of an indeterminable amount of souls were scattered everywhere. The odour of putrefying flesh, combined with the rancid fluid elements which make up the human body were laid bare on every surface. It made me grateful there was so little in my stomach to eject, but eject it, I did. Despite my best efforts, the spasms racked my body and doubled me over.
“Oh, Jesus! Did I do all this? Did I really slaughter that many people? What the hell happened here? What have I become? How many have I—” I cried between convulsions. I put my palms to my face in shame and wiped my already grime-covered sleeve across my mouth, in an attempt to rid me of the acidic bitterness there.
“This way. It’s this way—the kitchen,” Barbie urged, as she placed a calming hand upon my shoulder.
“How do you know that? You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” I pried.
“Yes, sir! While you were sleeping. I had to find food for us, didn’t know how long we would be holed up on this tub. It’s been nearly nine weeks since we left Hull.”
“
Nine weeks!”
I shrieked in amazement. “Go on.”
“I fed you when you woke enough to eat without choking, it wasn’t much but enough to keep you alive, I guess. Come on, it’s not much further, left then right,” she said, almost pulling me along in her haste.
Sure enough, around the turns loomed a well-equipped kitchen with evidence of recent use. Pots sat on the spacious stovetop, a chopping board placed ready to use, utensils laid out in preparation of an upcoming meal. All it needed was a cook. The vessel was equipped and loaded back at the port of Hull, ready to sail for the week long, arduous journey. There had been a full crew complement, including any unregistered passengers, which most shipping companies carried in any spare bunks to maximise revenue.
“You know I can’t cook to save my life. Ding dinners are my speciality and that’s about it. Stab it with a fork, whack it in the microwave and hey presto!” I quipped.
If it wasn’t for Charley when you were together, you and the kids would have starved. It’s only necessity you cook for. You never cooked for her once. What exactly did you do to help? Wait, let me guess, you worked, pah! Is that all?
“I worked my ass off Goddammit!” I yelled.
“What? What are you talking about? Are you okay?”
“Pardon? Oh, um, yes. I’m sorry, I was miles away there, thinking about something else.”
“I’ll do us something. Sit, please, sir.”
My gaze wandered around the room as she began to prepare food. Silently, I cursed the voices in my mind. I found it hard to believe we were on a ship in the middle of the sea. Save for the rocking motion and the ever-present drone of the engines, the restaurant area was better than some I’d frequented back home.
It wasn’t long before two steaming plates, with what looked like sausages, eggs, a pool of mixed beans and tomatoes, and several stacked high rounds of hot toast were placed before me. Cutlery soon followed and we both ate as though it could be our last meal, ever. Only when the final mouthful met its end did she speak, the sustenance calming the angry growls within.
“I’ve lost a few weeks at least. When we finally made it to the docks, you were just about conscious. You could barely walk, and I had to drag you most of the way onto the ship. I managed to keep us out of sight, but when we got to the steps down to the hold, I had no way of getting you down besides—” she hesitated.
“Besides what?” I queried, in the hope she could fill in some blanks.
“Besides letting you go,” she mumbled.
“You pushed me down four flights of stairs?”
“Not exactly. You collapsed at the top. I couldn’t lift you, so I rolled you under the guard rails and you fell into the grain pile below. You caught your wound on the way down, opened it up again, I think. When I got to you, you were buried in the grain. I dug you out and managed to lay you flat so that I could tend to your leg wound.”
“Go on, what then?” I pushed.
“I’d dropped the bag—with the first aid kit in it—out on the ramp. Without medical supplies, I needed to stop the flow of, um, blood. Only it wasn’t blood, at least, I don’t
think
so, hard to see in the light. I placed my hand over the wound to seal it, that’s the last I remember of that. I blacked out soon after. Only when I got to the kitchen for the first time did I realise that I’d been out cold for three days solid.” She paused, her head bowed as she played with the cutlery, carving circles in the remaining juices on the plate before she continued.
“I remember I felt rage like I’ve never felt rage before. I don’t mean just anger. I mean primal,
kill someone
rage
. I had uncontrollable desires to kill, wound, inflict pain and suffering, to taste and draw blood. Didn’t matter who or where. I armed myself with a meat cleaver and an enormous chef’s knife from the kitchen, and I cut, slashed, stabbed and chopped my way through the vessel, deck-by-deck, room-by-room. With each new victim, the urges grew more powerful, until just you and I remained. Only then did it start to fade—the longing for the copper taste of blood in my mouth. There were no more screams or pleas to taunt the voices in my head. After that, I came back to check on you, but you hadn’t moved an inch. I went for the first aid kit, patched you up, then I cooked, we ate, we slept, and here we are,” she finished.
“What then? You said we’ve been on the boat nearly nine weeks. What about the rest of it?” I pushed.
“I remember waking briefly, though my recollection of what I did is hazy. I knew we were sailing somewhere and I went back to the bridge. The ship was circling in open water. The captain must have adjusted the course before he—” Barbie couldn’t finish the sentence. She coughed before she continued, “I restarted the engines and activated the auto navigator, set the speed to full ahead. The fuel is almost gone, I figured we should get as close to land as we could before we’re dead in the water.”
My mouth got steadily wider at her revelations, at the outright confession of mass murder by her hands alone.
I didn’t kill all those people. You did. Where do I start? I mean, how the hell do I come back on that?
“You don’t … you don’t feel like killing anyone else anytime soon—do you?” I queried, tentatively.
“Oh—no. Not now. My head hurts still, a dull buzz. How about you? How do you feel?” she asked, between licks of the knife and fork.
“I’m … fine, I guess. My leg feels okay, nothing is broken by the looks of me. You killed all those men on your own?
“I guess so. Sir, at the time, I saw them as a threat. It was them or us, I had to protect us. I mean, you.”
My perception of reality suddenly began to wane at the implication of what Barbara just said. This slip of a girl, a shade under half of my years, went on some kind of mad rampage armed to the nines to protect us? To protect
me?
I struggled to process the information, to accept the brutal, pointless loss of life—surely no man was worth that? As I stood from the table, unable to discuss the events that got us here further, Barbie looked at me with her head cocked slightly to one side.
“Come on. We’ll talk more about this later. Right now, we’re sailing and we need to know where,” I said boldly.
“Murmansk,” Barbie blurted out instantly.
“But how do you know that? You can pilot a ship too?”
“It seems so, yes. On the bridge, I found the captain, he’s still there keeping an eye on things for us. As I looked at the control panels, I knew what the gauges, knobs, charts and levers did. Don’t know how I knew, I just did,” she stated flatly and shrugged.
“You’ve never done that before, never been on a ship like this, yet you know how to sail it. How could that be? Okay, that’s another mystery to my list of mysteries to solve. How long before we get there?” I asked.
“Hmm, we should make landfall anytime soon. What with getting you up, cooking and the like, I’ve lost track of time, but we weren’t far away from the port, last I checked. I can take you to the bridge for an update if you like,” Barbie said, casually.
As she led the way from the restaurant area, up several more flights of stairs towards natural light, I looked her up and down a number of times. Despite her gory outward resemblance to someone exhumed from a fictional sepulchre, there didn’t appear to be any wounds to suggest she’d been bitten by one of
them
—the memories of whom still burned at the forefront of my mind. No limps or strained motions either. She appeared perfectly fit and well, albeit in need of a makeover.
It
doesn’t matter how many times I try, it simply won’t add up, the pieces just don’t fit the puzzle. Piloting an oceanic freighter—not forgetting mass murder. And what’s with the ‘sir’ thing?
My mind kicked up a notch.
The cabin-wide, panoramic view out over the entirety of the vessel really was something to behold as we rounded the spiral staircase to the bridge. Spectacular banks of flashing lights accompanied an array of alarms, beeps, buzzers, and even a ringing phone. Barbara began to panic.
“Sir, we’re closer than I thought. We’re going to hit the harbour wall,” Barbie observed.
“Okay, just stop, or turn left or right, or something.”
“We’re not parking a car, sir. She’s twenty thousand tonnes of metal and grain doing twenty-one knots. Even full back it’ll not stop us in time,” Barbie quipped at my ignorance.