Adrift (Book 1) (7 page)

Vega made a show of looking around the group gathered before him, as though he couldn't quite make up his mind which of his team was the best fit for the job.

It was pure pantomime, and Mark knew it. Checking the ventilation system would mean hours spent crawling through hot metal pipes, and almost certainly getting lost in the process. A shit job. There was only one person Vega would choose to do it.

"Hmmm. Ledger, I think you'd be perfect. Go and check it out. Thoroughly. And I would like you to check in with me every twenty minutes, yes?"

Mark sighed.

"Can I ask what sort of security leak we could possibly have in the air-conditioning system, Steve?"

"Of course,
Mark
. The kind of leak that I need you to go and check out thoroughly. I hope that answers your question?"

Vega smiled beatifically as Mark rolled his eyes.

"It's nothing too life-threatening Ledger, no need to worry that you'll have to do some actual
work.
It looks like one of our junior staff in engineering has gone AWOL," Vega said. "Hasn't reported for duty, last seen near Climate Control. Probably just some slacker, but for the moment we have to treat him as missing. I figure you've got plenty of experience with goofing off, so you're the perfect man to find him."

"Shit," Mark said, "the guy probably just got lost down there, it hardly seems like a security—"

"Then you'll find him, and lead him back to safety," Vega snapped. "Make sure you pick up a flashlight on your way out, Mr Ledger. It's dark down there. I expect a report from you in twenty minutes."

Vega's smile widened, and Mark felt his shoulders slump.

This was going to be a long trip.

Edgar stretched his back with a grunt and sighed as his bones clicked in protest at the hours he had spent hunched over the welding torch.

He slipped the visor from his face and shuddered a little when he saw the blood that stained his chest. He could still feel it on his hands, where it had splashed when he drove the screwdriver into the guard's throat.

So warm
.

Herb hadn't said a word to Edgar since the killing, and Edgar felt confusion and anger at Herb's attitude knotting his stomach.

Edgar hadn't wanted to kill the man. He didn't want to kill
anybody
, and yet here they were, sentencing thousands of people to death. There was no choice.

That was Herb's problem. He still thought he had a choice; still thought the duty that fell to the Rennick brothers at the moment of their birth was something that they could debate. Something they could walk away from.

He hadn't been there in Brighton; hadn't seen the creature in the room beyond the black door. Hadn't felt its foul presence in his mind; that terrible weight, dragging his thoughts down into the darkness.

Edgar had doubted his father’s word at times, of course. It was impossible
not
to question a story so incredible. Yet his father had research to back his claims up. He had
evidence.
And even with the truth weighing down on him, Edgar had
still
considered Herb’s point of view. He had tried to find another way.

Right up until he saw the truth with his own damn eyes.

After Brighton, Edgar questioned none of it.

What their father had told them was a reality and, like it or not, it was up to Edgar, Seb, Phil and Herb to ensure the outcome that did the most to minimise the casualties. Edgar tried to picture a future in which the creature behind the black door and its ilk decided that hiding was no longer necessary. It was a world of torture and pain and endless horror.

Brighton.

Memories that made Edgar shudder; images that had haunted his dreams every night for two months.

If Herb
had
been there; if he had seen what the thing had done to the poor bitch that Edgar had delivered to it—what it had forced her to do to
herself
—Edgar thought his little brother might hold a different opinion about their duty and their lack of options.

At the very least, he would surely have stopped complaining.

Edgar shook his head angrily, clearing his thoughts. Herb had a way of getting under his skin, and setting him thinking in a way that was not constructive. All that mattered now was getting it done, and getting the fuck out before all hell broke loose.

The time for moral arguments was long gone.

He checked his watch.

Four hours and forty minutes had passed. The device only needed a few finishing touches now; the components that Phil and Seb had been working on, the detonator that Herb had completed minutes earlier. The bulk of it was built already, and what was left was akin to a Lego project: just a matter of attaching the final parts to the requisite slots.

Edgar checked over the work his brothers had done. Everything was in order.

There was nothing for Edgar to do for the next few minutes, while his brothers finished up, other than wait. He wiped his sweat-drenched brow, and made his way over to the silver satchel he had carefully placed on the low ledge hours earlier.

He opened it, and performed one final check. Inside, there were just five items: four pairs of goggles and a radio, exactly as security had discovered. He tested them all to ensure they worked, and then carefully sealed the satchel, making sure it was absolutely airtight.

"How long, guys?" Edgar asked.

"Less than ten minutes," Seb said.

"Looks like we're breaking our record, then," Edgar said with a weary grin.

"Yeah," Herb said bitterly. "It's amazing how motivating sheer terror can be."

*

Dan was lost.

After watching the body tumbling into the water, he had been rooted to the spot for what felt like a long time, locked in a fierce debate with himself.

One part of him—the louder, more persuasive and familiar part—wanted nothing more than to return to his bed and cuddle up to his sleeping wife, and to try to forget that he had seen anything at all. Yet as he stood there, lost in thought, another voice in Dan's mind gained some traction.

It was, he thought, the voice of the man he had been
before
.

He had to do something; had to report what he had seen at the very least. Someone had been killed. There was a murderer on the ship, and the authorities had to be informed.

The idea that
he
should be the one to do that caused a wave of anxiety to wash through him.

He thought about waking Elaine up, and felt pathetic. Elaine was exhausted, and this would be a terrible start to the honeymoon. It would probably taint the whole trip. It was far better for Dan to find someone in security and report what he had seen, and let that be the end of it. No need to ruin Elaine's day.

Except that reporting the incident to security meant venturing out into the ship by himself.

He battled against the fear for a long time, summoning up the courage to leave, only to find that his nerves betrayed him each time he approached the cabin door. He began to shake and sweat, and then finally, after several seconds spent bitterly rebuking himself for being so feeble, Dan remembered that he had stood alone in the terminus and nothing bad had happened, and he told his nerves to shut the hell up and stepped out into the corridor, letting the electronic door shut smoothly behind him.

And then he got lost.

He had left a map of the Oceanus back in the cabin. He
thought
he had memorised the quickest route to the section he had spotted that was marked
security and enquiries
, but almost as soon as he left the cabin the featureless labyrinth of corridors got the better of him. One of the ship's few compromises on practicality versus luxury: where the entertainment decks were wide and expansive, the cabins were part of a rabbit warren of identical narrow hallways. Most didn't even have windows.

Soon, he was so turned around, he didn't even know the way back to his own cabin, and following the numbers on the doors made no difference as anxiety began to affect his ability to think straight. In the end, he followed a sign that promised him a direct route to the nearest swimming pool, and figured that if he could get out into the open air, he would be able to get catch his bearings again. Or his breath.

At the very least, he decided, a member of staff would be able to point him in the right direction, though he was no longer sure whether he would be asking for help to reach the security and enquiries section of the ship, or for directions to return to the safety of his own cabin.

After a few more bewildering turns in the featureless hallways, he heard squealing and splashing ahead of him, and knew that he was close to the central part of the ship.

When he exited at a large swimming pool, the open air helped him breathe a little easier. He took a moment to look at the bathers and the people reclining in loungers with books. None of them were looking at him; nobody was staring at the crazy guy. No one muttering jokes about the weirdo. It was just as his therapist always said:
people have their own lives and their own worries. The only person thinking about you is
you
.

Dan plucked at the mop of hair that covered his scarred forehead, and after taking a few calming breaths, he noticed a sign emblazoned with arrows pointing out the path to various attractions and facilities.

He scanned the sign until he saw
Security and enquiries
, and set off in the direction marked, impressed with his determination to continue his mission and lost in thought about how to impart the news that there was a murderer on board.

Wondering whether anybody would believe him.

*

The ventilation system wasn't quite as bad as Mark had feared.

It was stiflingly hot in some areas—so hot that just touching the surface of some of the vents that he crawled through made him wince, but there was more room in the pipes than he had expected. Enough that, in certain parts of the metal maze, he was almost able to stand upright.

Doubtless, Steven Vega had assumed that checking through the air con system would be a horrible job; maybe the head of security had hoped that Mark would get stuck in a vent somewhere and starve to death, or get sucked into a fan and diced, like a character in some bad action movie.

Mark grinned a little at the thought. It wasn't so bad down there once you got used to the heat. In fact, the vents offered the same benefit as the walkway high above the ship did: Mark was far away from Vega's watchful gaze and incessant interfering.

He stopped at a junction, and checked the air con schematics he had stuffed into his pocket to ensure that he did not get lost in the network of vents and pipes. As far as he could tell, he was getting close to the central control room; making far quicker work of checking through the system than he had anticipated.

That wouldn't do at all. Finishing early would mean reporting back to Vega, and discovering what other awful jobs the man could conjure up for him. Mark thought that Vega would soon drop the pretence of 'maintaining security' altogether, and would order him to start cleaning toilets.

Better slow this down
, Mark thought, and sat on the warm metal, fishing out his pack of Marlboro's. Smoking inside the ship was strictly forbidden of course, but then...who would ever know?

With a satisfied sigh, Mark lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply.

And the smoke caught in his throat when he heard voices.

Mark frowned, and strained to hear what was being said. Something about being terrified?

He breathed out the smoke slowly, and the cigarette burned away between his fingers, forgotten.

Hearing people in the Climate Control Centre was not, in itself, unusual. There was every chance that someone had asked for the air conditioning in some part of the ship to be turned up or down, and there could be maintenance staff nearby for any number of reasons.

Yet something about the voices made Mark pause. It was the tone, he decided. Clipped, almost...
fraught
. The muffled words were part of a tense exchange, and from the lowered sound of the voices, the men speaking did not want to be overheard.

Mark had worked in cruise ship security for several years, hopping from ship to ship, usually getting out of one job before his 'attitude problem' got him fired, and moving on to the next. It was an easy life: only once had Mark ever needed to involve himself in anything approaching violence—when two drunken passengers had started a fistfight that ended up turning into a miniature bar brawl.

In general, cruise ship security just meant...being there. Being visible, and getting paid.

Once upon a time, not long after he had first started out in the security business, Mark rode shotgun in an armoured truck, delivering eye-watering bundles of money to cash machines in and around Birmingham. That job had required him to undergo some formal training, and he had spent his time in the truck on a state of high alert, scanning for the potential robbery that never came.

He hadn't lasted long in that role. The constant state of watchfulness he was required to maintain was draining and nerve-wracking at the same time.

Still, a faint echo of that training returned to him now; rusted over after so many years without use but still apparently functional. Something about the tone of the men's voices he had heard in the ventilation system made his nerves jangle, and he felt that sense of high alert, just as he had when he had been transporting cash.

Something in the way the men spoke suggested that whoever they were, they weren't supposed to be there.

Mark stubbed out the cigarette, and listened intently.

*

"You saw a body being thrown overboard."

Dan gritted his teeth in frustration at the obvious disbelief in the big man's tone.

When he had finally found his way to the security suite, Dan had told his story to a man in a dark grey uniform who nodded at him, distracted and clearly not listening, before hurriedly passing him on to 'the boss.'

The
boss
wore an identical—though much larger—uniform, and introduced himself as Mr Steven Vega, and he spoke to Dan with a puffed-out chest and a raised jaw that reminded Dan of watching old World War Two films with his father when he was a kid.

In those movies, the British officers always seemed to be stiff-upper-lip types who delivered words like machine gun fire. The kind of guys that expected to have their orders followed immediately and without question.