Hopeless Doom

Chapter 18 Rice Water

Zona pushed the needle toward the glass vial, but her hands were fighting her. The steel tip skittered off the rim, bending into a useless hook. She just let the vial slip. It hit the cart with a ring that sounded like a final bell.

“Zona,” Sarah called out, not looking up. “Gauze. Now.”

Zona turned, her rubber soles squeaking on the linoleum. Then the noise stopped. She didn't trip; she simply unplugged. She hit the floor chest-first—a heavy, wet thud that made the nearby cots rattle.

Sarah was over her in a second. Alice rolled her onto her back. Zona’s eyes were fixed on the ceiling, tracking ghosts. Her skin was the color of a wet sidewalk, and just as cold.

“Legs up,” Sarah commanded.

They hoisted Zona onto a cot. Her scrub top was a salt-stained rag. “She gave her water to the kid,” Alice whispered, her voice a thin thread. “She hasn't had a drop since yesterday.”

Sarah checked the pulse—a frantic, thready mess. She’s fading, Sarah thought. My best nurse is turning into a ghost because she has a heart. Then Sarah’s gaze shifted to the man Zona had been treating. He was curled into a knot, clutching a red plastic bucket. The smell hit Sarah before she even looked. It wasn't the sharp rot of the ship. It was sweet. Cloying. Like a swamp in July.

She looked into the bucket. It wasn't waste. It was a pale, cloudy liquid filled with white flecks.

Rice water.

The air in the room suddenly turned to lead.

“Alice,” Sarah said. Her voice was a flat, dead monotone. “Step back. Now.”

“What is it? The fish?”

“It’s not the fish,” Sarah said, her mind running a checklist of ways to die. “It’s the pipes. The hands. Everything.”

“Sarah, what is it?”

“Cholera,” Sarah said. The word was a death sentence. “If he stays in this room, we’re all corpses by morning. Lock the door. Don't let a soul in or out.”

On the bridge, Captain Nathan was staring at a paper chart as if he could manifest an island out of ink. The glass door slid open. Sarah didn't wait for an invite.

“We have Cholera on Deck Five,” she said.

Nathan didn't move. He kept his eyes on the map. “Are you sure, Doctor? People are sick all over this ship.”

“It’s rice-water stool, Nathan. If one man has it, fifty more are already brewing it.” Sarah slammed her hand onto his chart. “I need a hard quarantine. Tape the wing off. Nobody moves.”

“If I lock them in, I’m signing their death warrants,” Nathan said. He finally looked at her. His eyes were hollow. The ‘Captain’ was gone; there was only a tired man in a wrinkled shirt left.

“If you don’t, you’re signing everyone else’s,” Sarah countered. “The bacteria moves faster than this ship.”

“I don’t have the men, Sarah. Jeffrey has the guards. Matt is holding the water. I'm presiding over a mutiny and a shipwreck.”

Sarah looked at him and saw the truth. Nathan wasn't a captain anymore. He was just a witness.

“Then I’ll do it myself,” she said, grabbing her bag. “But when the passengers realize there’s a plague behind the plastic, they’re going to stop asking for food. They’re going to start burning things.”

In the shadows of the theater, Rex Beck watched the boy swing the broom handle. It was a weak, hesitant move.

“You’re swinging at air, son,” Rex said. His voice was gravel and discipline. He didn't look like a tourist. He looked like the tank commander he used to be.

Rex stepped onto the stage. The smell of dust and old velvet was thick. Stan was there, his leg bandaged.

“Brian and Jerome are watching the stairs,” Rex said, taking a stick of his own. “They think they’re safe because they’ve blocked the ‘throat.’ They think a pipe and a mean look is enough.”

“Byron is a monster, Rex,” one of the mechanics said.

“Byron is a bouncer in a suit,” Rex countered. “He knows how to scare drunks. He doesn't know how to hold a line when the lights go out. A pipe is just a stick if you don't know how to use the momentum.”

Rex pointed to the ceiling. “We don't go through the hallway. Jeffrey built a fortress, but he forgot the ship has veins. Stan knows the vents. We drop in behind them. We don't aim for the head—heads move. You take the knees. You break the foundation, the house falls.”

“Nathan wanted no violence,” Stan reminded him.

“Nathan is a dead man walking,” Rex said. He struck the boy’s stick—c***k. The sound echoed like a gunshot. “The hull is dying, the water is poison, and there’s a billionaire eating steak while you starve. The peace is over, Stan. Now, there’s just the math of who gets to the beach.”

Rex handed the stick back to the trembling mechanic. “Again. Loose grip. Let the wood do the work. We move in two hours.”

The mahogany chair sat in the middle of the hallway. Jeffrey leaned back, the plush fabric at his spine feeling like an insult. He set a single tin of peaches on the shipping pallet.

A man in a ruined linen suit shoved a stack of hundreds forward. His hands shook so hard the bills rattled.

"Paper," Jeffrey said. He didn't look at the money.

"Twenty thousand," the man hissed. "Half now. The rest on the mainland."

"The mainland," Jeffrey repeated. As if that was still a thing. "Use it for kindling. Next."

Byron didn't need to be told twice. He shoved the man back into the sweating crowd at the stairwell.

A woman took his place. She unclasped a heavy necklace and dropped it. The metal hit the wood with a dull thud. Jeffrey picked it up. Platinum. Real diamonds. He tossed a foil packet of crackers onto the pallet.

"For this?" She stared at the crackers. "My daughter’s starving."

"Take 'em or leave 'em." Jeffrey swept the necklace into a duffel bag.

She snatched the packet and disappeared.

A man in greasy coveralls stepped up. "No jewelry. But I can hotwire the backup generator on the sub-deck."

Jeffrey stopped tapping his fingers. "Can you get power to the Oak Room vents?"

"If I find some copper. Yeah."

Jeffrey pushed the peaches across the wood. "Byron, let him through. He eats inside."

The sight of the tin moving broke something in the crowd. The air got thin.

"I'm a plumber!" someone screamed. "Give us the food!"

The barricade groaned. A nail popped like a pistol shot.

Jerome stepped into the gap. He didn't waste breath yelling. He swung a galvanized pipe in a short, brutal arc.

It caught a man in the collarbone with a dry snap. The man went down with a hollow gasp. Jerome swung again, catching a woman in the ribs. She collapsed, taking two others with her.

"Step back," Jerome said.

The crowd recoiled, staring at the dark smear on the pipe. Jeffrey watched them, feeling nothing but a cold necessity. Fear was the only currency that still had any value.

On the upper deck, the heat rose off the teak boards, smelling of salt and unwashed skin. Thousands of people sat in the dark, drifting on a dead ship.

Then, a voice cut through the humidity.

Laurel was standing by the empty pool. No mic, no stage. She just started to sing an old jazz standard.

The notes were clean. Near the lifeboats, a child stopped crying. The shuffling of feet died away.

For three minutes, the rot didn't exist. Jeffrey, sitting on his chair below, felt the vibration through the steel. He closed his eyes.

Laurel held the last note, letting it bleed into the sound of the waves.