Hopeless Doom

Chapter 11 Iron and the Peaches

The fly was the only thing on the Poseidon that was still enjoying itself.

Melissa Steele didn't hesitate. She slammed her palm down, turning the insect into a dark smudge on the stainless steel. She didn't look at it. She just wiped her hand on her apron—already stiff with filth—and grabbed the edge of a black industrial bag.

“Lift,” she grunted.

Across from her, a young steward in a gray-stained shirt tried to help. He was breathing through his shoulder, his eyes watering from the stench.

“Don't use your nose,” Melissa snapped. “On three. One, two... heave.”

They swung the bag. It was heavy, wet, dead weight. The plastic caught a sharp metal corner of the cart and tore. A dark, thick slurry hit the floor with a sound that made the steward’s stomach flip. The smell followed instantly—a physical punch of ammonia, sulfur, and human waste that had been baking in a hundred-degree hull for three days.

The boy dropped his side and doubled over, dry-heaving onto the tiles. Melissa didn't move. She just watched the puddle spread toward her boots. The ship is a gut, she thought. And the gut is leaking.

“Get the shovel,” Melissa said. Her voice was flat.

“I... I’m gonna puke,” the boy wheezed.

“Then puke in the bucket and keep working. If this sits, the heat cooks it into the floor. Then we’re all breathing it until we die. Get the bleach.”

In the triage center, the air was just as foul, but with the added sharp tang of iodine. Sarah shook the thermometer. One hundred and two. She looked at the woman on the cot. Waxy skin, chattering teeth—the classic signature of a body trying to flush itself out.

“Keep the cup under her chin,” Sarah told the husband. She didn't have the energy for comfort. “Don’t let it hit the floor. We can’t clean the floor anymore.”

Sarah went to the sink and hit the soap dispenser. Thunk. Thunk. Empty. She grabbed a bottle of iodine and poured it over her hands, rubbing the dark, staining liquid into her skin until her fingernails looked like rusted iron.

“Third one this morning,” Alice said, dropping a soiled sheet into a red bin. The lid snapped shut with a finality that made Sarah flinch.

“Isolate her in the hall,” Sarah said. “Tape off the section. Don’t let anyone share a cup. Not even mothers and kids.”

Sarah grabbed a clipboard and made three marks. The ink was a deep, mocking blue. Three marks for a plague, she thought.

Captain Nathan was at the table, tapping a compass against his map. Tink. Tink. Tink. The sound of a man counting the seconds until a riot.

“The lower decks are a latrine, Nathan,” Sarah said, her hands flat on his charts.

Nathan looked at her iodine-stained fingers. He didn't ask what they were; he knew. “I ordered the stairwells locked. People are supposed to use the bins.”

“People don't find bins in the dark, Nathan. They find corners. They find closets. Melissa has a laundry crew shoveling waste bare-handed, and it’s a losing game.”

“We’re venting the tanks.”

“The pipes are backed up to deck three. It’s in the carpets now. It’s a breeding ground.” Sarah leaned in, her voice a sharp whisper. “I have three cases of dysentery in triage. One of them is passing blood.”

Nathan went still. The rhythmic tapping of the compass stopped. “Food poisoning?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

“It’s oral-fecal, Nathan. They’re touching doors, walking in the dark, and then eating their crackers with s**t on their hands.”

Nathan looked out at the ocean. It wasn't a mirror today; it was a vast, blue desert. Flat and indifferent. “How long until we lose control?”

“We’ve already lost it. I have no IV fluids. They’re locked in the electronic safe. If the waste hits the water barrels on the lido deck, it’s over. We aren't a ship anymore. We’re a petri dish.”

Nathan snapped his pencil. The sound was like a bone breaking. He dropped the pieces and gripped the table until his forearms corded with tension.

“We burn it,” Nathan said. His breath was shallow.

“The smoke will be toxic.”

“Then they can cough,” Nathan snapped. “Better to cough than to rot from the inside out. We pile the bags on the helipad, dump the aviation fuel from Forster’s chopper, and we light the match.”

Sarah stared at him. It was a desperate, ugly plan—the kind of plan a man makes when he’s already drowned.

“Fine,” she said.

She turned and opened the bridge door. A draft from the lower corridor surged in, carrying the smell of the dead and the dying. It didn't smell like the sea anymore.

Jeffrey didn't just eat; he put on a show. He carved a neat cube from the protein block with his silver pocket knife, the foil crinkling in the quiet room. He popped the square into his mouth, chewing slowly, letting them watch.

“This ship is a dump, Brian,” Jeffrey said, his voice level despite the heat. He didn't look at the guards; his eyes stayed on the food. “I walked the grand staircase earlier. The rot from Deck Six is drifting up. Tomorrow, the fever sets in. The day after, people stop asking for help and start looking for anyone who looks like they’ve had a square meal.”

Brian wiped grease from his forearm. “Sarah’s doing what she can. They’re bagging the waste.”

“They’re pissing into the wind,” Jeffrey snapped. He tapped his knife against the crystal ashtray. Tink. Tink. “The storage on Twelve is sitting there behind a brass lock. Fifty cases of peaches. Vacuum-sealed beef. Real water. While you’re down here l*****g your lips, that hoard is just waiting for a riot to claim it.”

“Nathan will kill us,” Jerome muttered.

“Nathan is a ghost in a white hat,” Jeffrey said. “Byron.”

Byron Fox stepped out from the shadows by the door. His suit jacket was shredded at the shoulders.

“Hit the promenade,” Jeffrey ordered. “Find the ones who still have some fight left. Tell them we’re opening the pantry. Tell them the first ones at the door get to eat.”

Byron didn't ask questions. He shoved the heavy doors open, letting in a draft of foul, humid air.

Byron moved down Deck Seven like he owned the steel. The passengers were just heaps of gray fabric slumped against the bulkheads, too parched to whisper. He stopped in front of a group of younger men. One of them, in a ruined linen suit, had a jaw bruised the color of a rotten plum. Byron reached into his pocket and pulled out a yellow can. Peaches.

He tapped the tin against the handrail. Clink. Clink. In the silence, it sounded like a hammer c*****g. Five heads snapped up.

“You guys tired of crackers yet?” Byron asked.

The man in the linen suit stared at the can, his tongue darting out to lick his cracked lips. “Where’d you get that?”

“Deck Twelve. We’re taking the rest in twenty minutes. I need five guys who can swing a pipe and keep the mob back. You stand in front of the door, you get the first tin.”

“The Captain said—” one man started.

“The Captain is busy shoveling s**t,” Byron cut him off. “He isn’t thinking about your stomach. I am.”

The man in the linen suit stood up, shaky, but his hand found a broken chair leg and gripped it like a weapon. “Deck Twelve,” he rasped.

The pantry door was a mess of dented steel. Jeffrey stood in the center of the room, leaning against a crate of sparkling water. He’d already downed half a bottle; the glass looked cold and sharp in his hand. Ten men stood in the corridor—a wall of desperate muscle armed with wrenches and lead pipes. Brian and Jerome stood with them, their white uniforms looking like a bad joke in the dim light.

The fire doors slammed open.

Matt Jane marched onto the landing, his iron Maglite gripped like a mace. He didn't slow down, walking straight up to the line. Captain Nathan Josh and Nelson followed a few paces behind.

“Matt, hold,” Nathan commanded.

Matt stopped five feet from the line. He pointed the heavy light at Brian’s chest. “You’re wearing the uniform, Brian. Don’t make me take it off you.”

Brian didn't budge. He just tightened his grip on a heavy wrench.

Jeffrey stepped through his wall of men, smiling. “You’re late, Captain. I’ve already relocated the inventory.”

“You’re raiding reserve rations, Jeffrey,” Nelson snapped. “That’s for the infirmary.”

“The infirmary is a morgue with a better floor plan,” Jeffrey said, taking a slow sip of water. “Look at your ship, Nathan. You’ve got a plague in the gut and a mutiny on every deck. I’m doing you a favor.”

“A favor?” Nathan’s voice was low.

“I keep these men fed. In return, they keep the sick away from the upper decks. We contain the mess. We protect the VIPs. You don’t have to worry about Deck Twelve. I’ve got it covered.”

Nathan looked at the men. He saw the chair legs, the pipes, the hollow eyes. He knew if Matt swung that light, the hallway would turn into a butcher shop. And he knew who would lose.

I’m losing my ship, Nathan thought. Not to the Atlantic, but to a tin of peaches.

“If you keep the room,” Nathan said, his voice tight, “you don't leave this deck. No medicine. No help. This is a quarantine zone.”

“Nathan! You’re kidding!” Nelson yelled.

“It’s a deal,” Jeffrey said.

“Walk away, Nelson,” Nathan said, grabbing Matt’s shoulder. “Lower the light. We’re done.”

Matt stared at Brian for a long, ugly second of betrayal before he lowered the Maglite. They turned and headed for the stairs, leaving the smell of sugar and iron behind.

The bridge was a furnace.

Nelson slammed his hand onto the nav table. The compass jumped, hitting the wood with a sharp clatter. “You just handed him the keys! You let a passenger h****k your vessel!”

Nathan walked to the window, staring at the flat, dead sea. “I gave him a room full of syrup, Nelson. That’s all.”

“You gave him authority! Tomorrow he’ll want the bridge. He’ll want the boats.”

“If we fought them, Matt would be dead right now,” Nathan said without turning. “We’d all be dead. And he’d still have the food. We’re buying time.”

“Time for what? To watch the water run out?”

Nathan looked at the map. The pencil mark for Emerald Island was still days away.