The Dark Trinity (Book 1): Shuffle (5 page)
RUN AGROUND
Dover, England
December, 13 2014
Manny walked along the Dover-Calais dock, and awaited the
arrival of the Molière. A third-generation dockworker, Manny never been anxious
about an arrival, until now. The ferry was overdue by about six hours. Mr.
Collins, the harbor master, had attempted to hail the ferry over the radio, but
received nothing but static in response. The port at Calais even confirmed to
Collins that the ship had departed on schedule.
Manny paced back and forth, his thoughts racing. The weather
was turning sour fast, as an Arctic storm was blowing in from the north.
Perhaps the ferry had issues with the bad weather?
he
thought, as he checked the mooring lines that the ship would use to tie off the
vessel once it docked.
The thought was ridiculous, of course. Although the English Channel
was notorious for being a rough body of water to cross, the Molière was SeaFrance's
newest ship; its crown jewel of the fleet. He knew the boat was equipped with
the latest navigational and imaging equipment, making bad weather a moot point.
Besides, she was also the largest ship in the fleet, which would make
traversing the choppy waters easy. There was no reason why they should be this
late.
The wind kicked up as snow flurries began to fall. He
continued to pace up and down the dock, glancing at the adjacent dock where the
P&O ferry Spirit of Britain resided. The snow fell harder and now began to
accumulate on the moored ferry to his left like powdered sugar on a gingerbread
house.
"Oi, Manny, ay-up!"
Manny jumped, turning to the young dockhand Billy who had
just walked up behind him.
"Bugger off, Billy. We got a bit of a cock-up here and I
don't have the time for ya now." He brushed by the way-too-eager greenhorn
and continued on towards the end of the wharf.
"Aye, what's got ya so cheesed-off, mate?" Billy
asked, not accustomed to seeing his boss so agitated.
Manny was a laid-back salty dog, who always enjoyed a good
laugh. He never missed an opportunity to weave a tale from his days in the
Royal Navy.
“The Molière never made it to port. We've tried repeated
attempts to hail her, but with no luck. Mr. Collins has already checked with
Calais, and it seems as though she left port on schedule and with no
incident." Manny paused and turned to Billy.
"If ya wanna do some good, ya can hand over those bins
of yers," he said as he outstretched his hand.
"Right, mate," Billy replied as he fished out a
small pair of binoculars from his pea coat.
Manny took the specs and put them in his pocket.
"Alright, off with ya now. Go find Mr. Collins and ask him if there's been
any word about that ship."
Billy gave a nod, spun on his heels and dashed down the wharf
towards the harbor master's office. The middle-aged ex-navy officer turned and
continued walking to the end of the dock. The snow was falling at a steady clip
now, and the wind gusts had gained strength. He estimated the strong ones at
about thirty to thirty-five knots, which whipped the falling snow sideways.
Manny reached the end of the dock and stood about four feet
from the edge. He pulled out the small binoculars and peered through them,
sweeping them in one-hundred-twenty degree arcs. He knew exactly the position
the ferry would be travelling from. If the ship was off-course, he needed to
keep a vigilant watch. After four sweeps with the specs, the only thing he saw
was the black-gray sky and inky waves of the water.
He reached into his jacket and liberated a much needed
cigarette and lit it. The hot smoke filled his lungs and he exhaled in a long,
slow, breath. The wind penetrated his thick, wool nautical pea coat. A chill
rattled his bones. He was no stranger to brutal winters in the north Atlantic,
but tonight was different. The cold which gripped Dover was colder than he had
ever felt. It carried on its icy fingers, the ominous smell of tragedy.
Where the bloody hell was this boat?
He continued to scan the horizon with his eyes as he paced
the end of the dock, pausing every few moments to peer through the binoculars.
On his seventh intermittent sweep he froze. There, on the horizon, was a dark
shape on the water. A chill ran through Manny's spine, not from the biting
cold, but from the image that appeared through the spectacles. A ship.
It's her,
he thought, but the chill came from what he
observed. He saw no cabin lights from the bridge. Not a single deck or running
light was lit. No movement on any of the decks from what he could see.
He heard footsteps crunching snow behind him, but he didn't
move. His eyes remained fixated on the abandoned ferry. The footsteps continued
to draw near.
"Oi, Manny, Mr. Collins said that he's sending out the
whirlybirds for a search and rescue," Billy said, out of breath from
running.
"That won't be necessary," he replied. "She's
here."
Manny turned and grabbed Billy by the arm. "We gotta
hustle mate, that boat's gone derelict." The two men ran as fast as they
could without wiping out on the slippery, snow-covered dock. "You run
ahead, lad, and tell Mr. Collins that she's moving dark. We need emergency
crews on hand. No telling what kind of trouble she's in."
Billy took off ahead. No doubt Mr. Collins had the Molière on
radar by now, but he doubted that Collins knew of her status. He glanced back
over his shoulder; shocked to see the ferry was so close. Way closer than she
should have been. She was clocking full speed. Manny reached the control room's
exterior steps and took them up two at a time, wishing that he had quit smoking
years ago. By the time he made it up the two flights, he was gasping for air.
A flurry of activity met him as he entered the control room.
Mr. Collins was on the phone to the emergency crews, barking orders, a second
phone receiver rested on his shoulders. The radio man was in a near panic, as
he attempted to hail the bridge of the ferry. The radar operator was now
screaming out distance and speed as the ship powered towards the port.
Billy stood motionless, staring out of the observation
windows at the runaway ghost ship. "Five hundred yards and closing
fast," yelled the radar man.
"C'mon Billy, we got work to do!" Manny bellowed as
he opened the door.
Billy snapped out of his daze, shot past his boss, and
disappeared down the steps towards the emergency crews. As Manny turned to
follow, he caught the eyes of Collins. Things were about to get bad and they
both knew it. Collins nodded, beads of sweat ran down the harbor master's gaunt
face. With that, the old sea dog left to join the young greenhorn on the wharf.
The ferry churned past the outer break walls, and continued
towards the docks. On shore, emergency crews had arrived, showcasing a sea of
red and blue emergency lights. Tugboats had approached on both the starboard
and port sides. They attempted to match speed and slow the ship by boxing it
in, but the ferry was too powerful. At full speed, the tugs didn't have the
bulk to put a dent in the much bigger vessel's momentum. Lights on the shore
grew bigger and brighter. Emergency horns sounded. The docks were abuzz with
activity, preparing for the inevitable.
Billy and Manny looked out past the docks in disbelief as the
Molière approached. One hundred yards. Fifty yards. Then, without warning, the
ship listed hard to its starboard side, causing the ferry to turn. An
ear-splitting crunch sounded as the French vessel slammed into the Spirit of
Britain. A shriek of metal sounded as the smaller boat glanced off the bow of
the larger British ship. It gouged a long gash along its side as it continued
its path towards the back of the berth.
"Run, Billy!" Manny screamed as he sprinted as fast
as his old sea legs could take him.
They dashed to their left as the ferry slammed into the
shore. Concrete erupted skyward as the damaged bow of the Molière cut into the
dock. The noise sounded like an explosion as debris rained down onto the two
dock hands. The boat continued to plow through the dock, its engines still powered
up full blast.
Fire trucks overturned, men pinned underneath, concrete
folding over onto them like a cement wake. Men screamed as they were overtaken
by the runaway ferry. Finally, the boat ground to a halt, engines still
churning as they tried to push the boat onto ground. The plume of dust and
debris from the impact hung suspended in the air and mingled with the falling
snow.
Manny picked himself up off of the ground. He bent down to
help Billy up, but then stopped. Billy laid motionless in the snow, a three
foot length of rebar protruding from his chest. A red pool of blood spread from
his body, turning the snow crimson.
Aw kid,
Manny thought as he stood there staring down
at the lifeless greenhorn; forgetting the catastrophe in front of him.
Emergency crews that weren't pulverized by the beached ferry
began to approach the vessel. Just then, Manny heard a strange noise coming
from the ship. The engines finally gave out, overheated from the effort of
moving a boat through solid ground. The dock fell silent as the boat bellowed
again. A low growl, this time much louder. Manny looked at the shipwreck and
could see movement on the bridge.
"There are survivors on board!" he yelled.
"Let's get some ladders up on that deck lads and get medical personnel on
that boat now!"
The workers moved as one towards the wreck. As Manny
approached, he saw more movement on the lower observation deck of the ferry.
Passengers began lining up along the railing. They stood motionless, staring
down at the workers below. A man climbed up onto the railing of the upper deck,
and perched there like a gargoyle above the growing mass of passengers below
him.
This is wrong,
Manny thought.
They should all be
panicking or crying or injured. None of these people should be this calm.
Something about the way the passengers looked struck him as
odd. He remembered that he still had Billy's binoculars and he pulled them out
and looked up at the crowd above. What he saw made his heart skip. Rows of
faces stared out over the railing, but they weren't the faces of scared
passengers who just survived a horrific crash. These faces were pale; so pale
that they almost blended into the thick flakes of snow that continued to fall.
Mouths turned up into a crazy snarl, showing dark red stained teeth. The eyes
burned into him with blood-red gazes, the whites of every eye replaced with a
crimson color. As he looked on, he noticed that they were all covered in blood.
Lots and lots of blood.
"Get away from the boat!" he yelled as he threw the
binoculars aside. "Get the hell away now! There's something wrong with
those people!"
But it was too late. The perched man on the top deck let out
a blood curdling screech. The passengers began to hurl themselves over the
railing, falling to the crumbled rubble below. They poured over the side like
water, with complete disregard for their bodies. The first ones to land
crumpled under the weight of those falling on top of them. Those who didn't
break a leg jumping off, immediately got up and ran towards the confused rescue
workers.
Screams ensued as passengers attacked the stunned firemen and
paramedics. One woman latched onto a man and began to tear his ear off with her
teeth, chomping at his flesh. A fat old man in a wool overcoat tackled another
worker, pinning him to the ground. He buried his fist into the poor man's
chest, pulling out what appeared to be a lung and then shoving the organ into
his gaping jaws.
Everywhere he looked blood flowed and spurted from the doomed
dock crews. A severed head flew through the air like a beach ball, landing a
mere five feet from Manny. All he could do was stare at it, as its eyes
continued to blink and look around, the mouth opening and closing as if to say
'help.' Manny doubled over and retched, expelling his dinner onto the ground
en-mass. When he looked up, he saw an old woman in her eighties standing there
staring at him.
She smiled a big, red, toothy smile at him and then opened
her jaws. Her tongue slithered out like a snake. It had to have been twice the
size of a normal tongue. It swayed back and forth in front of the woman, the
tip split down the middle, exposing what appeared to be a single, long, sharp
tooth.
“Oh bugger," he muttered as she lunged at him, striking
him in the neck with that wicked tongue.
Marc Chevalier let out another loud screech as he jumped down
from his perch atop the ferry and joined the others in the feast below.