The Sickness

Chapter 3

3

Passenger 327

I emerge from the shadows of the dock, my suitcase in one hand and a hammering heart in the other. With only a half hour to spare, I almost didn't make it. What a pity that would have been.

The salty air clings to my skin, and the sky is a deep, burning red. God, I love the ocean. There’s so much promise in its depths. It feels good to be back.

An eerie silence drapes the harbor, broken only by the occasional creak of wooden planks and the incessant caw of seagulls.

When I get onto the ship, a hit of white-hot anticipation runs through me. I can't help but be awed by the sight of the grand cruise liner, with its gleaming exterior and multiple decks. They’re all lined with luxurious amenities such as outdoor pools, hot tubs, and lounges. There is a magnificence to the ship that is not surprising, considering the price tag for the experience. An air of grandeur hangs over every corner of the vessel, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The clientele that frequents the Grand Pacifica is an exclusive crowd, to be sure. The tinted windows gleam, and the deck is well polished, with the finest furniture and fixtures.

My heart races as I look up at the director, an imposing figure silhouetted against the fiery sky.

His voice booms across the deck. He means to sound cheery, but I can hear the air of foreboding as he says: “Welcome aboard!”

I look up to see him standing at the bow, a smirk and a menacing glint in his eyes. He seems to laugh at everyone—as if he knows their darkest secrets and is daring them to take this voyage, anyway.

Oh, wait. Never mind. That’s me. How stupid these people are. They have no idea what’s in store for them.

“For the next seven days,” the director booms, “you will embark on a magical and wondrous journey. We will traverse the seas, explore new lands, and discover secrets that lie beyond the horizon. Are you ready for such an adventure?”

The passengers cheer in response. What a joke. Once again, I am reminded that wealthy doesn't mean intelligent. Quite the opposite, I assure you. The thing about rich people is that they must be wowed. They’ll do a lot of stupid things in search of something new, something different.

This director seems to understand this quite well. He knows he must offer these people the idea of something they've never experienced before and may never experience again. So dramatic the wealthy are.

My heart flutters with excitement, but I also feel a sense of trepidation. I know that this grand cruise liner will bring me closer to the inevitable, to accomplishing what I set out to do, but I am wary of what I have to deal with in the meantime. People like this, being one.

The ship’s whistle blows, signaling the start of the journey. Soon, the vessel will drift away from the dock and out to sea. I can’t wait to stand on deck watching as the coastline slowly disappears in the distance, pondering which of these losers I can pick off first.

The boat rocks rhythmically, and I instantly forget about the nightmarish darkness and concentrate on the task at hand. The open waters fill me with a sense of optimism, and even though I’m surrounded by almost eight hundred idiots, I know anything is possible.

A sensation of liberty washes over me, as if I'm truly alive for the first time in my life. I realize it's been too long since I’ve felt this way.

Sounds of music drift down from the upper deck and break my trance. I'm not familiar with the song, but I'm not surprised given the garbage modern bands churn out these days.

I climb the stairs and spot a stunning young woman in the corner chair, her journal open in her lap. I watch her write. She stops and looks out at the sea, but never at me. By the time I reach the bottom step, she's already turned her attention to her phone, her voice ringing out over the dreadful music.

I stop and listen. It’s usually a person’s voice that is often the first thing that leads me to kill them. How else can I explain it? It’s an inner knowing.

At first, her voice makes me feel nothing. Then she huffs and jams her pen between the pages of her notebook, and slams it shut. I watch her as she gazes out into the distance, and I appreciate the fire in her eyes. She's younger than I thought, no older than midtwenties, with brown hair and big, round eyes. Carmel colored, I assume, but I can’t wait to find out for sure.

I hear her murmur something about "charges" and "someone breathing down her neck." She sounds worried and desperate, exactly what I want.

She says, “I'm sorry I couldn’t stay. They started asking too many questions… You know how it is… The charges? No, they dropped them… yeah, but they're still breathing down my neck… I'm thinking of disappearing for a while… Would it really be so bad?”

It’s not so much what she says, but what she doesn’t say.

She falls silent as the person on the other end of the line rattles on.

After an eternity, she finally speaks again. She’s concerned about something—or someone—back home.

Finally, she whispers a soft goodbye. Then she stares out at the horizon for a long while before turning her attention back to the notebook in her lap. She starts to write—this time with more conviction than before, as if determined to exorcise some demon. That’s when I realize we have more in common than I thought.