Under a Graveyard Sky

PROLOGUE

“It is requested that passengers move to their designated lifeboats…” the enunciator purred over the screams.

“Gwinn! Come on!” Chris Phillips yelled from the lifeboat.

Chris had spent ten years in the Royal Navy as a chef. That was not a cook as he liked to point out. He was a Royal Navy chef. There was a difference. And Stephen Seagal didn’t know the difference.

But after a while, the “allure” of Navy life palled. He still enjoyed the sea. The problem was he never got to see it except from land. He was a very good chef. Good chefs served admirals and admirals generally were also land-bound.

So he’d quit and put out some resumes. Which was how he ended up as a chef for Royal Caribbean Cruise lines and met the love of his life, Third Officer, Staff, Gwinneth Stevens. After years of bachelorhood that had most people joking about his actual tastes, he’d proposed only two months ago.

Then the H7 virus had broken out.

They’d pieced together that the bastard who spread it had left one of his calling cards at the Cruise Terminal in New York. Which meant that there were at least fifteen “patient zeroes” on the boat. And by the time they found that out, there were more.

The boat had been put in “at sea” quarantine. Then the “afflicted” had started to turn. And without antigen testers, they couldn’t screen for who was infected and who wasn’t. And then it spiraled.

The captain and other “ship” officers were already gone, taking all the powered lifeboats. But Staff Side had stayed on. The ship officers, Greeks as was common, considered themselves only responsible for the ship. When it was clear the infected had control and there was nothing to do about it, they had given an almost Gallic shrug and fled, the bastards.

Staff Side was responsible for the passengers. And they were chosen from people, like Gwinn, who took that job seriously. The senior officer, Staff, had already turned when the First Officer gave the order to abandon ship. Thomas, though, was still standing his post. He intended to go to full lockdown as soon as the boats were away. Since passengers had been issued water and food in the quarters, assuming that help arrived soon, a major assumption, perhaps a few would survive.

Gwinn kept looking for one more passenger who could make it.

“There might be more…” she said.

The infected came from out of nowhere and hit her like a rugby player, taking her down and biting at the back of her neck.

“Gwinn!” Chris yelled, scrambling up the short steps. He grabbed the infected and punched him in the back of the neck, hard. It knocked the thing out for a moment.

“Gwinn, come on, honey,” Chris said, pulling her up. “Please…”

“Go,” Gwinn said, holding the back of her neck to staunch the blood flow. “Just go…”

“I can’t, honey,” Chris said. “Please! Darling…”

“Go!” Gwinn screamed. “I’m infected! I can’t board! GO!”

She stood up and pushed him to the boarding steps. Normally the slight woman couldn’t have moved his nearly two-meter, fifteen-stone mass. But he backed up.

“It’s duty, darling,” Gwinn said, sobbing. “Just duty.”

“One last kiss?” Chris said.

“One…”

He gave her a hug and kissed her, then allowed her to push him into the raft.

“Love,” Gwinn said, tears streaming down her face. “And survive…”

Gwinn closed the hatch and Chris took his seat under the big red lever that said “Do Not Pull.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, please assume what are called in the airline industry ‘crash positions’ bent over at the waist, arms wrapped around your legs,” he said, tonelessly to the mostly shocked or crying passengers. “There will be a brief sensation of falling, then a light impact. I’m told it’s a bit like a carnival ride.” He reached up to the bar and pulled down, hard. “Last ride of the day…”