Plague Ship (23 page)

“Oooh!” the crowd of passengers hummed simultaneously. Their eyes darted back and forth between the unconscious Tommy and the dead Choi.

A group of crewmen edged toward David and the bodies.

Uncertain of their intent, David hastily reached down for Scott’s weapon and tucked it under his left arm. After releasing its safety, he said, “Two shotguns can do a lot of damage.”

The crewmen backed off.

David glimpsed over at Carolyn. Kit was drowsy and half-asleep in her arms, but in all likelihood she had seen the mayhem that had just taken place. David could only hope that she’d have no nightmares from the bloody violence. He quickly brought his attention back to Choi. The left side of Choi’s skull was holding on to the rest of his head by only a few fibrous strands of tissue. The blood around him was now congealed and was already smelling of decay.

David looked over to a pair of husky crewmen. “Move Choi off the deck.”

“I ain’t touching him,” the younger of the two said.

“If I have to repeat myself, you’re going to lose a leg,” David said neutrally.

The older crewman pushed his mate forward and said, “Where do you want the body to go?”

“In any cabin that has dead people in it.” David waited for them to lift up Choi’s body and drag it through the crowd, then called over to Locke. “Do you know where they keep your insulin?”

“In the officer’s lounge, under lock and key,” Locke called back.

“Can you get to it?”

“No problem.”

“Then go!” David shouted. “After you’ve injected your insulin, call the Navy and prepare to refuel.”

Locke hurried over to the still-unconscious Tommy and retrieved a set of keys, then dashed for the elevator. As Locke disappeared into the crowd, Richard Scott saw his chance. He jumped to his feet and ran for the railing at the edge of the deck.

“One more step and you’ll be lying next to Choi,” David warned.

“You’re not going to shoot an unarmed man,” Scott said confidently. “Not with all these witnesses.”

“You’re right,” David admitted and lowered his shotgun. “But I don’t have to shoot you because, if you leap overboard, you’ll already be a dead man. There’s no way you can swim through a mile of choppy ocean and strong currents, and safely reach land. Unless you’re a fish.”

“Or a triathlete,” Scott said and vaulted onto the top of the railing. “I’ve swum a lot farther than this under much worse conditions. So, in the end, I win. I always win!”

Using his heavily muscled legs, Scott sprang out into the air and plunged straight down into the sea, which seemed calmer now. For a few moments Scott stayed submerged, then he popped up through the water, buoyed by his life jacket. He smiled up at the crowd gawking down at him and yelled, “So long, suckers!”

Scott floated effortlessly, basking in the warm sun. He was so busy waving to the crowd above, he didn’t see the large rogue wave that was forming behind him. As Scott turned to swim away, the wave caught him full force and drove him back to the
Grand Atlantic
. Instantly Scott knew what was happening, but he didn’t have time to scream before the wave crashed down and swept him under the ship’s giant hull.

The crowd of passengers leaned over the railing and stared at the sea below, all wondering if Scott had somehow managed to survive. Seconds passed by, then more seconds, without any sighting of Richard Scott.

After a full minute, Carolyn turned to David and asked, “What do you think happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” David said. “But my guess is he hit his head on the steel hull and, if that’s the case, he’s a goner.”

“Maybe he somehow escaped and is now swimming for shore underwater.” Carolyn gazed out at the sea and saw a white object floating in the distance. She handed Kit to David, then turned to a passenger with a pair of binoculars. “May I borrow your binoculars for a moment?”

“Sure,” he said and gave them to her.

Carolyn scanned the ocean, looking for the white object she’d seen a moment earlier. She searched back and forth several times before she spotted it again. As she focused in on it, her face suddenly went pale. She passed the binoculars to David and said, “Look at the white thing floating at about two o’clock.”

David handed the sleeping Kit back to Carolyn, then surveyed the outer right quadrant of the sea. It took him only a moment to find the white object and focus in on it. It was Richard Scott’s tennis shirt. Sticking out on one side was a severed arm. “Looks like he ran into a propeller,” David said as more body parts surfaced.

“What an awful way to die,” Carolyn said softly.

David shrugged. “It was his choice.”

“But he had no way of knowing he’d get swept under and into the propellers.”

“Poor planning,” David said dryly, feeling no pity for a man who thought only of himself and was willing to hijack a ship and start a pandemic, all in his own self-interest. The world was better off without him in it.

“Well,” Carolyn said as an afterthought, “at least we’ve got the
Grand Atlantic
back.”

“But it’s still a plague ship,” David said darkly. “We’re like a colony of lepers stranded at sea, with nowhere to go.”

Most of the passengers around them turned and slowly trudged away, hopelessness written all over their faces. A few sank to the deck and stayed there, preferring to die in the sunshine rather than in the darkness of their cabins.

thirty-six

“How many of the
crew can you trust?” David asked.

“No more than half,” Locke replied. “And that’s a very generous estimate.”

“What about the other half?”

“Like the surviving passengers, they’re desperate. They’ll do anything to get off this ship.”

“Even another mutiny?”

“Particularly another mutiny.” Locke gestured with his head to the shotguns David was holding. “And I doubt that a pair of shotguns will stop them.”

David had kept the loaded shotguns constantly at his side since squashing the rebellion. He knew the crew was still dangerous and just biding their time. Over the past few hours, he’d seen more than a few crewmen performing their duties in a lackadaisical fashion, only doing enough to maintain the
Grand Atlantic
while she stayed on a southerly course. He sensed they wouldn’t attempt another mutiny on the open sea. But once they came within sight of land again, they’d go for it, even if it meant using lifeboats turned upside down for floatation. And the disgruntled passengers would happily join in, after coming so close to shore yet not being allowed to disembark. From his vantage point on the bridge, he scanned the vast, blue sea. The water was calm now, with not a single whitecap in sight.

“How far are we away from land?” David asked.

“About a hundred miles,” Locke answered.

“I’d keep it that way.”

“That’s what the Navy advised.”

“Did they tell you when we’d eventually make port?”

“They said they were in the process of determining that.”

David forced a laugh. “Do you know what
in the process
means in the military?”

“A long time,” Locke replied.

“A very long time,” David said and left the bridge.

He took the elevator down to the main deck and stepped out into the dazzling sunlight. Crewmen were milling about, most of them disheveled and wearing filthy clothes. Rebellion was in the air, and they wanted everyone to know it. They turned and stared at David, watching his every move, but kept their distance. Still, to be on the safe side, he had his shotguns aimed directly at them.

“When do we make landfall?” a voice hollered.

“Soon,” David said vaguely.

“How soon?”

“When they finally get a hospital set up.”

“Shit! We’ll all be dead by then,” a second voice yelled out.

David recognized the man behind the second voice. He was the big, ugly deckhand who had tried to come to Choi’s aid earlier. He would be the ringleader of the next mutiny.

“You!” David pointed to the man with the shotgun. “Step over here!”

“You going to make me?” the deckhand challenged.

“I’m asking you,” David said politely. “Think of it as a request.”

“Say please.”

“Please, then.”

The crew cheered, as if they had won an important victory.

The deckhand came forward, smiling, and looked down at David. He was at least six inches taller. “What?”

David pressed a shotgun against the deckhand’s knee and said quietly, “Try anything and I’ll blow your leg off.”

The smile left the deckhand’s face. “You do that and the other crewmen will—”

“They won’t do jack shit,” David cut him off, “except watch as you bleed out. Let me describe how it will be. The shotgun blast will rip your leg apart, just above the knee. It’ll tear open the femoral artery in your thigh, and blood will spurt out like water from a fountain. It’ll take you about two minutes to die, and you’ll watch every second of it. How is that for a happy ending?”

The deckhand’s eyes bulged. “What the hell kind of doctor are you?”

“The kind you don’t want to get on the wrong side of,” David told him. “Now I want you to remember, no matter who or what starts a mutiny, you’ll be the first to die. I’ll make sure of that. So you’d damn well better keep your boys in line.”

“I may not be able to control all of them,” the deckhand said, keeping his voice down.

“Oh, I think you can,” David said and nudged him back with the barrel of his shotgun. “And you can start by having them return to their duty stations.”

The deckhand went over to the crowd of crewmen and waited for them to gather around him. He spoke in a muffled tone that David couldn’t hear clearly, but a moment later the crew began to disperse. David watched them move out, knowing their change in mood was temporary. As time passed and the deaths mounted, desperation would grow and mutiny would again be foremost in their minds. Well, he thought on, things were calm for now and there were still important medical matters to deal with. Like pest control.

David gazed over to the lounge chairs, where a tall, lanky crewman was straightening cushions. He was the crew member who had fetched the rope that David had used to tie up Choi.
At least the man followed orders
, David thought.
Maybe he could be trusted. Yeah. Maybe. But how much?

David walked over to the lanky crewman and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Chandler, sir.”

“Well, Chandler, tell me how good your stomach is when it comes to seeing horrible things.”

“Pretty good,” Chandler said.

“We’ll see.” David glanced around the pool and bar area, not finding what he was searching for. “I need some of those canisters that spray disinfectant.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

Chandler dashed over to the bar and disappeared behind it. A moment later he reappeared, holding two canisters of disinfectant, and rushed back to David. “Now what?”

“Now we go to the sick bay.”

They walked rapidly to a waiting elevator and entered. As the elevator descended, Chandler’s lips moved silently while he struggled to find the right words. In his early thirties, he had a look of innocence about him, with straight blond hair and freckled cheeks. Sighing to himself, he kicked at an imaginary object on the floor before saying, “You know, I was never really involved in the mutiny. I never wanted any part of that.”

“I know,” David said.

“Think you might put in a good word for me?”

“If you play it straight.”

The elevator came to a stop and the door opened. The smell that rushed in was so putrid that it made them step back and cover their noses.

“What the hell is causing that?” Chandler asked.

“The worst sight you’ll ever see,” David answered. “Keep your hand over your nose and head for the spa.”

They walked slowly down the deserted passageway and heard the loud chirping sound that David was familiar with. Chandler didn’t ask about the origin of the sound and David didn’t volunteer any information. Just thinking about it was bad enough. At the door to the spa, the stench became overwhelming.

“Brace yourself,” David warned. “And get ready to spray.”

They entered and stared at the horrific sight.

The swarm of rats had eaten away most of the skin and muscles from the extremities of the corpse, leaving behind only skeletal remains. They had also gnawed every bit of flesh from the face, and were now burrowing into the chest and abdomen to get to the internal organs.

“Spray!” David yelled and switched on the canister of disinfectant.

Chandler gagged and threw up, but only once. He recovered quickly and he too began spraying.

At first, the rats ignored the disinfectant and continuing chewing away. But as the disinfectant soaked deeply into the body, the taste of the human tissue became disagreeable and the rats lost interest. Slowly the rodents began to scatter.

“Keep spraying!” David directed.

They went on dousing the corpse until both canisters were empty. Then they stepped back. All the rats had disappeared, all the flies overhead gone. And the terrible stench was far less noticeable, now replaced by the smell of strong disinfectant.

“Think they’ll come back?” Chandler asked, breathing through his mouth.

“Maybe later,” David said and gazed around the spa. Seeing a fire extinguisher on the far wall, he darted over to it and came back, then began spraying white foam into the bodily holes made by the burrowing rats. “That should do it.”

Chandler nodded. “I can guarantee you the smell won’t return after all this spraying.”

“I didn’t do it for the smell,” David told him, then explained how rats and insects might act as vectors that could transmit the deadly virus to humans and animals. “So they could spread the disease to others on this ship and even to those on shore. Remember, rats are good swimmers and even better survivors.”

“Too bad we didn’t get down here sooner,” Chandler commented.

“Better late than never,” David said and discarded the empty fire extinguisher. “Now, there are a few other things we have to do to slow down the spread of the virus. So listen up.”

“I’m all ears,” Chandler said attentively.

“Tell me, what color paint is the most plentiful in the storeroom?”

“White. Just about everything we pain on this ship is white.”

“Good,” David went on. “I want you to gather up some deckhands who you trust and all the white paint and brushes you can find. Then go level by level, looking in each cabin. When all the occupants in a given cabin are dead, lock the door and paint a big white cross on it. You’ll notice that some doors already have a red splash on them. Ignore the red paint. Got it?”

“Got it!”

“Then go!”

He watched Chandler sprint for the elevator, thinking that the young crewman could be trusted. Maybe not absolutely 100 percent, but close enough, and that could be very important later on. He gave the corpse a final glance and left the spa, closing the door behind him.

As he turned away, he heard a cacophony of sounds coming from the sick bay. Furniture was being moved, boxes overturned, metal objects hitting the floor. Someone was searching, he decided. They were probably scavenging for oxygen tanks or maybe antibiotic tablets or perhaps narcotics, if the person was an addict.

David released the safety on his shotgun and silently moved to the sick bay. At the door, he peered in cautiously before advancing through the reception area. All the noise was emanating from the examining room. He glimpsed in and saw Marilyn Wyman on her knees, rummaging through boxes and cartons.

“Hey, Marilyn,” he called over.

“Hello, David,” she said, now looking under the examining table.

“Did you lose something?”

“Not me,” she replied. “It’s something of Will’s. I noticed that one of his shoes was missing and I thought it might be in here. It’s so important that I—” She paused to choke back her tears before continuing. “It’s very important to me. I want to hold on to everything he owned, particularly his clothes and books. And I couldn’t stand the thought of Will having only one shoe on. I simply couldn’t. I had to find the missing shoe. You—you probably don’t understand all this.”

“I understand,” David said softly and thought back to Marianne. When his wife passed away, he wouldn’t let anyone clean out her closet or chest of drawers or remove any of her personal items. To do so would have meant she was really dead, and he couldn’t accept that. Not for a very long time. At length, David asked, “May I help you look?”

“Thanks, but there’s no need,” Marilyn replied and held up a small brown shoe. “I found it.”

“Good,” David said. “Now I’m going to ask you to accept my apology. I know I promised to stop by and chat with you, but I never got around to it, and I’m sorry for that.”

“Oh, I realize you’ve been very busy.”

“But I’m not busy now, so let’s talk.”

“I don’t have much to say,” she said quietly as her eyes again welled up with tears. “All I keep thinking about is that I have no reason to live. Everything I loved and cherished is gone. My son, my husband….” Her voice trailed off while she dabbed her eyes with Kleenex. “I wish I would have died with them. But it wasn’t to be. They caught the terrible flu and it killed them. All I got was a hacking cough and a little fever that lasted a few days. And so I’m here and they’re not.”

David blinked. My God! Another female survivor! That makes four! And Marilyn should have been the least likely to survive. She’d had close intimate contact for hours on end with Will and Sol, who were both heavily infected. She must have inhaled a massive dose of the virus, yet she was barely affected. Why?

“There are moments when I just want to jump overboard and end it,” Marilyn went on, after blowing her nose. “There’s a sad irony to all this. As you may have guessed, Sol was a millionaire many times over. So now I can have everything I want in the world. Everything except the people I love the most. All that money and nothing to live for.”

“Live for Will,” David said gently.

“He’s dead, David.”

David shook his head. “Will is alive in your heart and mind, and he’ll be there forever.”

Marilyn nodded and smiled faintly at the memory of her son. “Every time I see his goldfish or hold his books, he comes back to me.”

“As he should,” David said, suddenly thinking of a way to boost Marilyn’s spirits. “Say! I’ve got an idea that Will would really like. Why not use Sol’s money to establish a veterinary center to look after sick and stray animals? You could name it after Will.”

“He’d love that,” Marilyn said, perking up.

“You bet.”

“And there’s a university not far from our house that has a very fine veterinary school,” Marilyn continued on. “They could advise me on how to establish such a center.”

“It’s a perfect place to start,” David said and reached out to help her up. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to your suite.”

They rode the elevator up two levels, then strolled to Marilyn’s cabin in silence. But at the door, she turned and spoke. “I should tell you that I opened Will’s body bag so I could still see and touch him. I probably should close it, eh?”

“That would be best,” David said.

Marilyn nodded as the awful sadness returned to her face. “In a little while, if that’s all right.”

“That’ll be fine.”

David decided to take the stairs up to his cabin. He wanted time alone to think about Marilyn and the others who had survived the deadly avian influenza. All were female, all sick with the illness to varying degrees. And the sickest should have been those exposed to the heaviest dose of the virus, like Kit. But Marilyn Wyman had also received a large amount of the virus and for a much longer duration. So survival wasn’t dose dependent. Nor did age seem to matter. Kit was twelve, Juanita sixty-five. Thus, the only common feature the survivors shared was gender. They were all female. But there was no known infectious disease that tended to kill men and spare women.