Patrick Smith had lucked out, and the stroke of fortune felt like it had been a long time coming.
He had always hoped to join the police, but having repeatedly failed the entrance exams, Patrick had finally given up and accepted a job in private security, figuring that maybe he could work his way up to becoming a bodyguard for a high-profile VIP. Maybe, one day, he would be Kevin Costner in
The Bodyguard
.
But private security turned out to be anything but exciting, and five years into his career he hadn't even graduated to guarding people, let alone Very Important ones.
Instead of the heady rush of being a cop patrolling the streets, dreaming of one day being the kind of officer that had actual cases to deal with—maybe even
murder
cases, Patrick had found himself spending his nights walking the perimeter of a tiny storage facility. Instead of carrying a badge and a gun, he carried a torch that he used on every shift and a baton that never once left its holster.
Round and round he went, patrolling the endless route, circling aimlessly like a goldfish. The money was decent, but
job satisfaction
turned out to be two words that definitely did not belong together.
He had spent five years drowning in that tedium when the opportunity to provide security for a newly-built cruise ship had come up. An old friend had worked on designing the ship, and one night over a reunion beer that friend had off-handedly told Patrick to apply. Patrick had nodded politely, assuming it was just one of those things people said when alcohol loosened their tongues. The offer, of course, wouldn't extend beyond last orders at the bar.
And yet, something had persuaded Patrick that he should just go for it, and so he applied for the job, and namedropping the designer got his foot in the door.
Getting the job was like winning the lottery. In the end, the woman that hired him told him that she was impressed by his dedication, and his loyalty to his position at the lock-up. She knew full-well how boring it was to guard such a place, she said, and the fact that he had stayed for so long showed just the level of dedication that she wanted on what she called
my ship
.
Patrick didn’t mention that he had applied for dozens of other jobs over those five years, and had been rejected on every occasion.
So it was that Patrick went from guarding the most boring place in the world to perhaps the most exciting, and he suddenly didn't regret one minute of that time spent traipsing around the dull lock-up facility. It all led here, to the Oceanus.
It wasn't exactly Patrick's first day on the job, but it sure felt like it: this was the first time the ship would be carrying passengers, the first time it would head out onto the open sea. Patrick could barely contain his excitement.
His shift wasn't supposed to start for hours, but Patrick was unable to wait and determined to make a good impression, and so he began his patrol early. He was one of several security personnel whose duty it was to ensure that the lower decks, which comprised the engine room and maintenance areas, didn't receive visitors who weren't supposed to be there. Mostly, he had been assured, the only time he would have to actually turn people away would be if drunken passengers got lost on the enormous ship and somehow found their way down to the engineering decks.
Of course, the chances of anybody being there at that moment were slim: most of the passengers were still getting checked in and making their way to their cabins, and the crew was mostly preparing the upper decks, ensuring that the passengers were dazzled by their first impression of the enormous ship.
That was why Patrick’s rotation wasn't even due to start for a couple of hours: his sector of the Oceanus was deserted.
He had almost completed a full circuit of his zone when he heard the strange noise emanating from a vent set high in the wall, an odd sort of mechanical hissing that he could not quite identify. It brought to Patrick's mind long-forgotten memories of visits to fireworks displays as a kid, listening to the fiery hiss of a catherine wheel. It was probably nothing, Patrick thought, but he was determined to be the best security officer on the whole boat, and that meant investigating. If he found something that
needed
to be found, some engineering issue, perhaps—especially when he technically wasn't even meant to have started his shift yet—it could only bode well for his career prospects.
He cocked an ear and listened.
A strange fizzing, popping sound.
Something in the air con system was making a noise. Probably just some technical hiccup—the ship settling like an old building—but the noise was strange enough to pique Patrick's interest.
With a mental shrug, Patrick started toward the Climate Control Centre.
*
"What are you guys doing down here?"
Herb froze.
Lost in their individual tasks, working at maximum speed and concentration, none of the brothers had even noticed the approach of the man who stood in the doorway.
Herb looked up, and felt his heartbeat stutter. The man who had spoken wore a security uniform. Nobody was supposed to be patrolling the area for several hours yet, but fate had intervened. Herb knew that Edgar would consider it
bad
luck, but Herb felt differently.
Maybe he'll detain us
, Herb thought.
Or have the ship turned around.
Maybe we'll get out clean after all
.
Edgar flipped off the welding torch, and silence fell on the room as the echo of the hiss receded.
Herb looked at the guard, and then shifted his gaze to Edgar.
And felt his stomach lurch when he noticed Edgar's fingers clenching around the handle of a large screwdriver.
Oh no
, Herb thought weakly.
He wouldn't...
Herb's mind raced, searching for a way to defuse the situation before it got out of hand. Judging by the icy look on Edgar’s face, if it was left to him to resolve the problem of the guard’s appearance, blood would be spilled.
Herb had to intervene, and fast. The best place to hide a lie was behind the truth, wasn't it?
"Just building a bomb, mate," Herb blurted out, surprising himself. "You know, we're gonna set it off before they begin what they are calling the
entertainment
."
He aimed for an ironic grin.
The security guard snorted.
"No kidding," he said. "Guess I can't blame you for that. I heard they dragged that boyband out of retirement, and they're gonna croon out all their 'hits' on a nightly basis. God help us all."
Herb nodded enthusiastically, and for a brief second started to believe that the security guard might allow himself to be distracted.
"Seriously, though," the guard said, the polite smile fading away, "what are you guys doi—"
The security guard's eyes widened in shock, and he took a half-step backwards. The question died on his lips as Edgar sprang forward like a striking snake, roaring as he drove the point of the screwdriver deep enough into the guard's throat that Herb saw the skin on the other side of the man's neck stretch and split before the tip of the tool reemerged.
Blood flecked the pristine metal wall behind him, and for a moment the guard just stood there, staring at Edgar in dumb shock, gurgling pathetically as a river of blood pumped out onto his chest.
He fell slowly; an incremental collapse that reminded Herb of demolition charges bringing buildings to the end of their lives.
The guard's eyes never left Edgar, not even when the light behind them flicked off. He died with an accusatory, confused look on his face.
And the air in the room itself seemed to take a breath.
For several seconds in that bloated silence, the four brothers stared at the corpse splayed across the floor.
Herb squeezed his eyes shut, feeling despair welling up.
"Oh, Ed," he said quietly. "What the fuck have you just done?"
When Herb opened his eyes, he found Edgar staring at him, and the face that had been as familiar to Herb as daylight suddenly belonged to a man he did not recognise. Edgar's eyes were wild.
"He knew," Edgar spat.
Herb surprised himself by roaring a response. Surprised Edgar, too, judging by the way he backed up in shock.
"He didn't fucking
know
anything, Edgar. He was
asking
," Herb yelled. "There are a hundred different ways we could have answered him. Killing him wouldn't have been in my top fucking fifty."
Edgar stared at Herb blankly for a moment before seeming to recover his senses.
"What does it matter, Herb? He was going to be dead in—"
"It matters to
me
," Herb roared, "and it should matter to you because we're not murderers. How does
that
," Herb jabbed a finger at the leaking corpse, "tally with your spiel about us being the good guys and doing what is necessary, huh?"
Edgar's cheeks flushed a dangerous crimson.
"Watch your tone, little brother," he said in a low voice.
"Or what?" Herb growled. "You'll stab me, too? That's how we do things now?"
Edgar had two handfuls of Herb's collar before the final syllable even left his mouth. He pulled Herb close, and whispered in a dangerously low voice.
"You weren't there in Brighton, little brother. You haven't seen
them
. What they can do. If you had, you'd know that I just did that poor bastard a favour. If we're not murderers, it's only because nobody has a word for what we're about to do. Murderer doesn't begin to cover it, really, does it?"
Edgar released Herb's collar and pushed him away. Herb felt his foot slip on the blood pooling on the floor, and his gorge rose.
"We could have aborted the mission," Herb said weakly. "We could have—"
"No," Edgar thundered. "Running away from this is a fantasy, Herb. And even you must understand that, because you're here. If you wanted to run away, you left it a little fucking late."
Herb stared at Edgar and felt tears welling up in his eyes. He blinked them away angrily.
"I'm here for you, Ed. For all of us. I'm here because I won't believe it's too late until we push the button."
Edgar grimaced and turned away from Herb.
"We all know the routine," he said. "Security checks in every thirty minutes. I don't know why this bastard was down here, but I do know he won't be checking in any time soon."
Edgar drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. Herb couldn't be sure, but he thought his big brother was counting to ten, trying to calm himself enough to calculate the best route forward.
He's losing it
, Herb thought.
We all are
.
"Okay," Edgar said finally. "What's done is done. Someone's going to miss our leaking friend here, and sooner or later they're going to start searching for him. We have to be ready when that happens, or we have to be
gone
. Yes?"
No response from Phil or Seb. Herb kept his lips clamped shut and stared mutinously at Edgar.
"Yes?" Edgar roared. His raised voice bounced and echoed off the thin metallic walls, making Herb flinch.
Seb and Phil mumbled their agreement.
"You two," Edgar said, jabbing a finger at them. "Get rid of the body. Herb, clean up the damn blood."
He picked up the welding torch, and flicked it back into life.
"Uh...get rid of it how, Ed?" Phil said warily. "You want us to stash it somewhere?"
Edgar grimaced.
"The ship's moving, isn't it Phil? So no, I don't want you to
stash it somewhere
. Weight it down and toss the fucking thing overboard."
Herb couldn't look as Phil and Seb hoisted the body from the room, searching for something to wrap it in.
He retrieved some rags from his bag, and focused on scooping up the worst of the blood, and cleaning the tools that were now drenched in gore.
He studiously avoided looking at Edgar as he worked.
What's done is done
, he thought.
Dan woke up still feeling a little tired, but happy. Happier than he could ever remember being. When he and Elaine had finally located their cabin—after a lengthy search through narrow, identical-looking corridors, they had made their way to the bedroom by unspoken agreement and, after making love for the first time as man and wife, had let the exhaustion of the previous day's activities overwhelm them.
Elaine had put up mild resistance, insisting that they should get dressed and start exploring the ship, not waste time sleeping, but she had delivered the plea with a yawn, and had fallen asleep before Dan.
When he awoke, she was still snoring softly.
Warm light filtered in through the window. Not the cold, grey light that had washed around the terminus in Portsmouth. This light was a brilliant orange, and when Dan slid from the bed and stepped to the window, he saw the last embers of a dazzling sunset bleeding across the horizon to the west.
The window was small, a far cry from some of the vast offerings in the penthouse suites, no doubt, but the sea view was breathtaking, and for a moment, Dan simply stood and took it in, letting himself feel relaxed and happy for what felt like the first time in two years.
Two damn years.
The attack had come out of nowhere. One of those random acts of violence that you heard about on the news, and which made you tut at the
state of the world these days
. It was the sort of thing that happened to other people, those that lived on the other side of the TV screen, or in the pages of newspapers.
Until it happened to Dan.
Until he found himself standing at a cashpoint one minute, withdrawing ten pounds to pick up some milk, and lying on the floor the next, blinking at the handle of the blade that protruded from just above his eye socket. Stabbed in the head for a pittance that would barely cover a six-pack of beer.
That was another thing that wasn't supposed to happen to ordinary people: Dan had seen pictures on the internet of crazy injuries that people somehow survived, so he knew it was
possible
to have a knife embedded in your brain and keep on ticking, but it didn't happen to people like Dan. Couldn't.
The physical damage took months to recover from, and the doctors warned that Dan would always be prone to seizures and occasional memory loss, but the mental scarring ran far deeper. Dan suffered catastrophic blackouts that followed intense panic attacks. Each and every time, he thought that he would die.
Gradually, he learned to spot the indications that an attack was impending: the rushing sensation that felt like he was being carried along by a mighty river; the dry mouth, the shaking and sweating. The dark certainty that his heart was going to rupture as it beat like it had received a huge injection of adrenaline.
After a while, the terrible river became a reality in his mind. He could actually
see
it, and when he did, he knew an attack was imminent, but he was powerless to stop it. Carried along by the awful current.
When he was finally allowed to leave the hospital, Dan made his way to the safety of his home and his young fiancé. He hadn't intended to cordon off the rest of the world—not consciously, anyway—but that's how it turned out. Stepping beyond his front door became an exercise in cold, all-consuming terror, because all of a sudden Dan knew that the world was full of ordinary people; that
everyone
was ordinary, and terrible things happened all the same.
He didn't leave the house once for a full fourteen months, and only when the concern on Elaine's face became heartbreakingly obvious did he agree to attend therapy.
The therapist who treated Dan taught him how to withstand the attacks, and eventually how to recognise situations that could cause panic, along with techniques to defuse his anxiety before it overwhelmed him. Slowly, the sessions moved toward the subject of Dan’s reintegration into society.
After spending the better part of a year in regular therapy, Dan had mastered small trips to the local shops and, though crowds and talking to strangers still terrified him, he hadn't seen the black river in his mind for months.
And now here he was, miles away from home, in the middle of the ocean and in the middle of a sea of people that he didn't know.
Staring out of the window, and thinking about just how far he was from the safety of his home, Dan became aware of his nerves jangling, and he forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly until it passed.
When he felt calmer, he moved back to the bed and threw on some clothes, fishing in a bag for his medication and dry-swallowing two tablets, grimacing at the chemical punch they delivered to the back of his throat.
He glanced at his watch. It looked like he and Elaine had been asleep for around three hours, and he wondered if he should wake his wife up, but decided against it. She looked so peaceful there in the bed, and the wedding must have taken more out of her than anyone.
Let her rest awhile longer.
Dan stepped out of the bedroom and into the main living area. The cabin was on the small side, which Dan figured was to be expected from the second-cheapest option the Oceanus offered, but it was plush.
When they had first entered, a flatscreen TV on the wall had burst to life, and a recorded message delivered by a smiling woman informed them that everything in the room worked by voice control. Lights, curtains, entertainment; even the kitchen appliances were patiently awaiting instruction.
"Coffee," Dan said quietly, and marvelled as the machine on the tiny kitchen counter began to drizzle dark liquid into a pot, and the cabin filled with the aroma of what smelled like an exotic blend. When the machine finished its duty with a hiss, Dan retrieved the pot and poured himself out a cup, blowing off the steam and taking a sip.
The rich smell hadn't deceived him: the Oceanus didn't skimp on the quality of the coffee. It was delicious.
He took the cup with him, and stepped past the small living room and through a pair of sliding glass doors that offered an incredible view of the Atlantic, moving out onto the narrow balcony.
Immediately the roaring of the ocean and the stinging cold wind hit him, and for a moment Dan simply stood there, letting other senses drink in the moment, and trying to commit the feel of being there to memory.
That was something he had been doing ever since he was a kid; maybe a habit that all artists indulged in; storing up visual memories that would help to fill the canvases of the future. Dan couldn't be sure about that, but it had always worked for him in the past, before the fear and the subsequent inability to paint.
Committing moments to memory, taking mental notes that he could refer back to when he was sitting in his studio; the technique hadn’t helped him to paint a single stroke in the two years since the attack, but it would work again. It had to.
At least he had
started
to sit in the studio once more, even if the canvas in front of him remained stubbornly blank.
He sipped at the coffee and scanned the sky. Dark clouds were gathering overhead, preparing to squash out the last remnants of the sunset. It looked like the weather was about to turn, and maybe Dan would get a chance to see just how the Oceanus really dealt with choppy waters after all.
He dropped his eyes, watching the rolling waves of the sea far below him.
And froze.
What is that?
Dan squinted. The cabin he stood in was on one of the upper decks, a long way from the sea, but as he looked down he saw something else; something that emerged from the ship directly below him, many decks down.
The object was bright orange, and looked like something wrapped in a tarp.
Something that was being slowly pushed out from the hull.
Pushed through a window.
What the hell is it?
When the object was far enough out, and almost entirely visible, Dan saw exactly what it was.
A body.
Being ejected from the Oceanus like waste material and dropping into the freezing water of the Atlantic with an inaudible splash.
Any doubts Dan might have had were dispelled instantly as he watched the object tumbling, and saw a crooked leg popping out of the tarp as it hit the water. A human leg.
Dan watched in mute astonishment, and saw the back of someone's head poking out of the space the tarp had been expelled from, staring down at the body just as Dan did; watching until it sank beneath the waves and disappeared from sight.
And then the head disappeared, pulled back inside the ship, and Dan stood still for a long time, unaware of the coffee going cold in his hands, his muscles locked in place and his mind racing under gathering storm clouds.