Hopeless Doom

Chapter 16 Rust and the Network

Janice sat on an overturned bucket, the plastic groaning under her weight.

She pressed her pencil hard against the back cover. Deck Twelve. Locked. Beef inside.

The lead snapped. She didn't curse; she just sharpened the stub with her thumbnail. The map is changing, she thought. The rich are losing the geography of this ship.

Footsteps scuffed the teak. Mona drifted past the drained pool, a ghost in a ruined silk cover-up. She stopped in front of Brian, who was guarding the stairwell with a jagged table leg.

Mona opened her hand. A diamond earring sat in her palm, catching the flickering emergency lights.

“Three carats, Brian,” Mona said. Her voice was a dry rattle. “Just one can of soda. From the stash.”

Brian didn't even look at the stone. He looked at the bruised hollows under Mona’s eyes. “I can’t eat a ‘thank you’ from Jeffrey if I let you through.”

“It’s worth more than this entire ship,” she said.

“Then throw it into the Atlantic and see if it floats,” Brian replied. “Move along before I have to get mean.”

Mona’s hand trembled as she closed it. She didn't cry—she didn't have the hydration for it. She just faded back into the dark.

Diamonds for sugar water, Janice thought, watching the exchange. The old world is officially dead.

Down on Deck Two, the laundry room was a humid hell of bleach and rot. Melissa didn't mind.

“Byron’s asleep on the floor,” the lead steward reported. He looked like he’d lost ten pounds in three days. “They’ve got the pallets stacked. It’s a fortress.”

“A fortress has to breathe,” Melissa said, sorting through a pile of damp, gray towels. “They’ve got the beef, but do they have the keys to the pump room?”

“No. Nathan’s got those locked tight.”

“Good.” Melissa stopped and looked the man in the eye. “Jeffrey thinks he’s king because he’s sitting on the calories. But he’s sitting on a volcano. You guys see everything. Every spill, every leak, every whispered word. If a single bottle of water moves, I want to know who carried it and where it went.”

The men nodded. They weren't servants anymore; they were a nervous system.

In the triage center, Sarah was counting heartbeats. The man under her hand was fading, his pulse a frantic, shallow tapping.

She looked up. The ventilation grate slid back, and Stan’s face appeared, smeared with enough grease to make him part of the shadows. He lowered a plastic jug on a rope.

“Two gallons,” Stan hissed. “Boiler room runoff. It’s warm and tastes like a penny, but it’ll keep them upright.”

Sarah grabbed the jug. The plastic felt oily. “Jeffrey’s got the central reserve under guard, Stan. He’s not sharing.”

“Jeffrey’s an i***t,” Stan said, his voice echoing in the duct. “He thinks because he’s got the doors locked, he owns the room. He doesn't realize the whole ship is connected by these veins.”

“Melissa’s idea?” Sarah asked.

“Melissa’s map,” Stan corrected. “She knows where every pipe leads. Jeffrey’s guards are watching the doors, but we’re moving through the walls. Just keep them alive, Sarah. We’re going to need the numbers when we hit the reef.”

The grate slid back into place. Sarah stood in the dark, the smell of rust and wet wool filling her lungs. She looked at the dying man on the cot and poured a small measure of the warm, metallic water into a cup.

Robert Holmes yanked the iron lever on the industrial freezer, wiping his palms on a canvas apron that hadn't seen a machine in a week.

Just the smell of yesterday’s boiled fish—a rank, heavy stench that the stagnant heat had baked into the steel walls.

A young steward shuffled in with a stack of porcelain. “They’re already lining up on the Lido Deck,” the kid said. “Two hours early.”

“They can wait,” Robert said.

“They’re hungry, Chef. What are we boiling?”

“Nothing.” Robert didn't look at him. “The bins are empty. Go check the knives. Make sure they’re locked up. People get weird when they're hungry.”

Robert headed for the service stairs. He needed to see the hoard for himself. Down on Deck Two, the air was cooler but tasted of damp rot. He reached the central reserve—or what used to be the reserve.

Brian sat on a paint bucket behind the pallets, a steel pipe resting across his knees. He looked like a man who hadn't slept since the lights flickered.

“I need the salt pork, Brian,” Robert said, stopping just outside of striking distance.

Brian didn't look up. He was busy picking a splinter out of his palm. “Kitchen’s closed, Chef. Jeffrey’s orders.”

“I’ve got four thousand people upstairs who think I’m cooking,” Robert’s voice was a low rasp. “I’ve got no oil, no rice, and no patience. Give me the meat.”

“Tell 'em to eat their shoes.” Brian tapped the pipe against the bucket. Thud. Thud. “You want into the vault? Go talk to the boss in the Oak Room. Bring something he wants. Otherwise, back off.”

Robert looked through the slats. He saw the silver packets of beef. The cases of water. All that life, locked behind cheap pine.

“They’re going to riot, Brian. When they realize those vats are empty, they’ll come down here and turn you into a floor mat.”

“Let 'em,” Brian said, resting his chin on his hand. “We’ve got the high ground. We’ve got Byron. And we’ve got the pipes.”

Robert didn't argue. He turned back, his rubber soles sticking to the grease on the stairs. Back in the empty galley, he didn't reach for a ladle. He picked up a heavy stainless steel cleaver. He tested the edge with his thumb. It was sharp enough to bone a cow—or open a barricade.

On Deck Ten, Mona sat in the dark of her walk-in closet, the only place that still felt small enough to hide.

She wasn't wearing her jewelry. She was wearing a ruined silk dress and a look of pure, animal desperation. In her hand was a tin can with no label. In the other, a silver letter opener.

She jammed the tip under the lid. Hiss. A drop of oil spilled onto her hand. Mona didn't reach for a napkin. She licked the grease off her knuckle. It tasted of salt and heaven. She pried the lid back, the smell of sardines hitting her like a narcotic.

She used her fingers. The oil stained her white carpet, but she didn't care. Money was just paper now. This tin was the only thing she owned that mattered.

Boots thudded in the hallway. Mona froze. She clutched the tin to her chest, her heart hitting her ribs. Don't knock. Don't stop.

“Check the housekeeping carts,” a raspy voice muttered outside. “They always hide crackers in the linens.”

The footsteps faded. Mona exhaled, looking at the three tiny fish left in the tin. One for now. Two for the middle of the night. She pressed the lid back down with her thumb until it drew blood. She didn't feel the pain. She just felt the hunger, waiting for her to finish.

Down in Triage, Sarah stepped over a man curled in a fetal position. He was groaning.

“Thirty new cases since midnight,” Alice said. Her scrubs were a roadmap of stains. “The water’s bad, Sarah. Or the fish. Or everything.”

“It’s the whole ship, Alice,” Sarah said. She opened a supply cabinet. Empty. “It’s on the handles, the towels, the air. We’re breathing it.”

Alice looked at a teenager slumped against the wall. “He’s not moving much.”

Sarah knelt beside the boy. His skin felt like old paper—dry and thin. No sweat. He’s out of fluid, she thought. His heart is trying to pump mud.

“He needs an IV,” Alice whispered.

“We don't have IVs. We don't even have clean water for a drink.”

“So he just... dies?”

“He stays horizontal,” Sarah said. Her voice was a cold, professional shield. “We keep his airway clear. That’s all there is.”

“I can't do this anymore,” Alice’s voice broke.

Sarah grabbed Alice’s shoulder, squeezing until it hurt. “Yes, you can. You look at one person. Just one. Don't look at the room. If you look at the room, you’re finished.”

Sarah walked to the sink. She hit the soap dispenser. A glob of pink slime hit her palm. No water. She rubbed her hands together anyway, the soap turning into a sticky, useless film. She scrubbed her knuckles until they were raw, listening to the sound of forty people dying in the dark.