The Atlantic Princess

Leon squawked the walkie-talkie and said, “That looks like the last one.” He turned to Vaughn and asked, “Any more through your eyes?”

Vaughn lowered his binoculars and told him, “No.”

Leon squawked his walkie-talkie once more and said, “Take it out and we’ll get this show on the road.”

The stoic reply came, “Affirmative.”

A rifle was pointed out the window of the second humvee and at the end of it was Christopher Gooden. He took careful aim through the high-powered scope and a moment later he pulled the trigger. There was a bang as a zombie shuffling along the beach about seventy yards away suddenly collapsed in the sand, a hole in its forehead spewing all kinds of coagulated gunk.

The disembarkation area was now free of undead opposition and there were no more walking corpses visible anywhere on the horizon.

Leon gave a nod to Courtney and she took the humvee out of idle and pulled out of the forest and onto the golden sands of Point Judith beach. The two-vehicle convoy crossed the shore in side-by-side formation, sending up clouds of dirt and exhaust in their wake.

They stopped when they reached the area by the fallen zombies.

It was in the shadow of the most behemoth ship she had ever seen—a millennium-class vessel with the words The Atlantic Princess scrawled along the starboard side. The majestic cruiseliner stretched almost four hundred yards into the distance and had a beam nearly sixty yards wide. Looking up, Courtney guessed that the very peak was some seventy yards in the air—and she wasn’t taking into consideration how much of the ship was still buried beneath the sands. It appeared to have come to land very fast—she didn’t understand knots or anything about ships—but now more than half of its mass rested lazily upon the shore and a mountain of sand crested along its bow. It was tilted slightly portside.

Seeing it there, disturbing the light of the midday summer sun, with waves gently lapping away at its sides and sea gulls swarming around and cawing noisily, the cruiseliner seemed as out of place as a city on the moon. Here at Point Judith was nature at its most basic level—and now there rested one of the largest manufactured monstrosities ever seen. It simply didn’t belong. It wasn’t even like seeing the military in her backyard and the White House being overrun all those years ago—it was more like Mount Everest had erupted out of the peaceful plains of Kansas. No one was ever meant to see the wholeness of a ship. After all, less than half of it was supposed to actually be above water. Yet here it was, unnatural and imposing and disrupting the natural order of things.

Looking beyond the ship—and it was really hard not to be distracted by it—she could see the very familiar Atlantic Ocean. She knew the waters would be much colder here than they were on the north Florida coast, but it was still nice to see those waters once again.

One by one the Black Berets disembarked from their respective humvees and met on the beach in between. They slung their rifles over their shoulders and readjusted their belts carrying their sidearms and wakizashis. One by one they slipped the copper-toned visors over their faces and tucked their hair under the spandex hood in the back. Though seeing out of the copper visors was just as clear as not having any obstruction at all, it was very hard—if not impossible—to see into them and peer at the faces within. Finally they fit their berets on their heads and situated them slightly off kilter as they were meant to be. Aside from Dr. Aaron Dane and his casual everyday attire, they were all identical now, one and the same.

Courtney looked back at the ship. The rows of circular portholes along the lower portion were dark and empty, which prompted the question, “What kind of light are we going to have in there?”

“Emergency power is still on,” Dane answered, tossing away the styrofoam cup his coffee was in. “It’s not much. Mostly red lights.”

“Then we’ll be using our minilights,” Delmas said.

“What else do we need to take into consideration?” Chris Gooden asked.

“Planning out some kind of route beforehand would be nice,” Vaughn replied. “Just to get a general idea of where we’ll be going. It’s probably going to be cramped in there.”

“It is,” Dane said. “The sheer velocity of the ship as it came ashore and the sudden impact caused most everything—including me—to go tumbling towards the bow. There’s going to be some obstacles in the way and some of the doors might be blocked from the other side.”

“You’re still going with us, right?” Courtney asked.

“Of course,” Dane answered proudly. “I’m not chickening out. I’m going to see this through to the end.”

“So where is the Cure?” Leon asked.

“In my lab.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “It’s packed in a box with some excelsior. Don’t worry, it’s safe.”

“Where’s your lab?”

“Fortunes Casino. The military told us to set up our equipment on the tables there until they could find us something more suitable. But they never did find anything better. Maybe they didn’t even bother trying.”

“What’s the fastest way to the Casino?”

“Probably to retrace the route I took getting off the boat,” Dane replied. “I was in the lab when the collision happened. Sleeping. I had to dig my way into the elevator foyer and from there to the Conservatory hallway. Most of the doors wouldn’t budge. Hell, it took me a long time to find a way out.” He paused for a moment. “I can’t remember the exact path I took.”

“What about skin-eaters?” Vaughn asked. “Any roaming the halls?”

“No. They’re still locked up. Most are in the crew cabins in the forecastle, some in the staterooms. I don’t think any managed to get out.”

“You’d better be sure.”

“Yes, on that much I am sure.”

Courtney looked away from the group to study the vessel. The main deck was pretty high up and there wasn’t any visible means of getting to it. She asked, “How did you get down from there?”

“Emergency ladder,” Dane replied, pointing. “Of the annoying rope variety.”

Everyone followed his outstretched finger until their eyes focused on a rope ladder dangling off the starboard side of the ship near the bow. It was flapping against the ‘tic’ in the words The Atlantic Princess. It stretched from the railing of the main deck down roughly twenty yards to the mountain of sand pushed up against the bow.

“That’s the way we go then,” Leon said. “Once we get on deck we’ll see if Dr. Dane can remember what path he took.”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

They made their way across the beach and climbed the hill of sand in the shadow of the cruiseliner. It was pretty high, but not nearly as high as the main deck. Once at the top of the hill, Courtney grabbed the ladder and inspected it starting from the bottom and working her eyes slowly up each rung. It didn’t look much thicker than clothesline rope and she didn’t much like the thought of scaling it.

Leon told her, “You should probably go first.”

She turned to him, trying to see his face through his visor, yet knowing he couldn’t see through hers either. She whispered, “Why? Because ladies first?”

“No,” he answered. “Because you’re the lightest.”

She shrugged, then looked up the ladder one more time. She didn’t like this at all.

Leon softly told her, “If you hear anything up there or see anything that might be trouble, get—”

“—I know,” she snapped, cutting him off.

She put one foot on the bottom rung and slowly put more weight on it. The ladder grew more taut with each pound of pressure. She grabbed hold of one of the rungs further up and pulled herself on so all her weight was on the ladder. She bounced a little.

It seemed like it might be okay.

She put her other foot on the next highest rung and slowly began scaling the ladder. It was swaying side-to-side and if she didn’t distribute her weight evenly it would twist and start to send her off balance. After scaling a few more rungs she looked down at the others and told them, “Hold the bottom.”

One of them—she couldn’t tell whom under their visor—put a foot on the bottom rung and added enough weight to hold the ladder perfectly vertical.

She then continued climbing.

About halfway up, after moving past the first row of portholes and just before reaching the words The Atlantic Princess, she heard a noise coming from inside the ship. It was a clanging sound, like metal on metal. She looked off to the side of the ladder and tried peering into the darkness behind the glass in one of the portholes. At first only her visor-covered reflection stared back at her.

Then, in an instant, a dead face was pressed against the opposite side of the window, snarling, biting against the glass. Its eyelids were gone and its grimy hands were massaging the edges of the porthole, wanting desperately to get at her.

She yelped and lost her footing. Only her hands tightly gripping one of the rungs above kept her from falling on the other members of her group. She dangled there for a moment before getting her feet back in place.

Leon called out, “What’s going on?”

“A frickin’ zombie,” Courtney called back. “Its on the other side of the window staring at me.”

Down below, Leon turned to Dr. Dane and asked, “What’s the deal?”

“That’s the forecastle,” he replied. “I told you most of them were locked up in there.”

Leon looked back up at Courtney and told her, “It’s all right, doll. Keep going.”

She grunted and continued climbing. She wanted to tell him to never call her ‘doll’ again, especially in his annoying New England voice, but she didn’t want to make a scene in front of everyone else. Hopefully they hadn’t paid too much attention to it.

Hello there? Concentrate.

She pulled herself higher, passing the last of the portholes and the words The Atlantic Princess, nearing the top. When she finally reached her goal, she slid over the railing and quickly hopped to her feet. The tilt of the ship was even more noticeable now that she was on it.

She pulled the silenced Socom from its holster. She flicked on the laser sight and flicked off the safety, then scanned the area from where she stood.

From down below, Leon called out, “What do you see?!”

She called back, “Give me a minute!”

There were two tennis courts in the vicinity with a rock-climbing wall erected between them. She could smell stagnant water somewhere nearby even over the smell of salty ocean water. She figured there was probably a pool on the other side of the big white divider. This theory was reinforced when she saw a sign that read, ‘NOTICE - Clothing Optional Sunbathing Area.’

She stepped away from the railing, keeping the gun pointed in front of her and highlighting everything she saw with the red targeting dot. Forward she went, sidestepping around the rock-climbing wall and checking to see what was on the other side. There was nothing—just discarded boxes and miscellaneous junk. She listened carefully for any stumbling footsteps or gaspless moans, but the only sounds she heard was the soft hum of the breeze as it sifted across the deck and the cacophony of seagulls cawing their displeasure at having a human disrupt their new territory.

There was a ramp leading up to the next deck with a wheelchair-accessible sign posted nearby. Above that was another sign. It had an arrow pointing upwards and the words ‘To Promenade’ written next to it. Toward the middle of the deck stack was a sign reading ‘Information Desk.’

Further down on the starboard and port sides, lifeboats dangled from crane mechanisms. However, she noticed that most of the cranes weren’t holding anything—there were simply empty ropes.

There were no dead bodies around, walking or otherwise.

She returned to the railing and peered over. She called down, “All clear!”

Leon nodded, then put a foot on the bottom rung and began his ascent, paying no regard to the zombie still looming in the porthole. When he finally reached the top he threw a leg over, straddling the railing, then brought his other leg over and put both feet down on the deck.

He immediately drew his gun.

Down below, someone else started coming up the ladder. From the groaning, it sounded like Delmas.

Leon viewed the area for a moment, likely taking in everything Courtney did, then turned to her and said, “This doesn’t look too bad. Has to be easier than herding cows into trucks.”

She snickered, knowing he was probably right.

Leon leaned over the railing again and called down, “Hey Delmas! What would you rather be doing? Climbing a shoddy rope ladder to get on an infested ship—or on a smelly farm somewhere herding cattle?”

The visor-outfitted person below looked up and replied, “Herding cows. You know me, I’m the ultimate cowboy.”

Leon laughed.

Courtney could feel the sun hitting heavily on the main deck now and it was causing beads of sweat to form beneath her trylar wetsuit. It could be unbearably miserable if it got much hotter.

Leon seemed to notice the heat as well. He tilted his head side to side a few times, trying to catch a glimpse of the sign over by the big white divider. After a moment he commented, “Clothing-optional pool, eh?”

Beneath her visor she rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Don’t even think about it.”

He chuckled.

By now Delmas was hauling himself over the railing. Courtney and Leon helped get his brawny body onto the main deck, as it seemed he was having problems accomplishing this on his own. Once he got situated he gave them a thankful nod.

Courtney turned to Leon and said, “Dr. Dane should probably come up next and see if he can remember which way we need to go.”

He replied, “Sounds good,” then leaned over the rail and called down, “Let Dane come up next!”

A few understanding nods were returned, then Dr. Dane started negotiating the rope ladder. Courtney and Leon watched over the railing to make sure he was making it okay while Delmas watched the rest of the ship.

And, while she couldn’t be certain, it seemed the zombie in the porthole paid no attention to Dr. Dane as he ascended the rope ladder. If it was still snarling, then the doctor certainly wasn’t bothered by it. Maybe he was simply accustomed to the rotten creatures from having to live on a ship with them for so long. He made it up the rope ladder with no problems, but Courtney and Leon helped him over the railing anyway.

She told him, “Take a look around and tell us where we need to go.”

Dane scratched his chin as he studied the deck. After a moment he pointed to the ramp going up to the next deck and said, “I remember coming across the Promenade.”

“You sure?” she asked. “We can’t just go opening doors at random, you know.”

He nodded and replied, “I’m sure.”

She turned around and watched Vaughn come up the rope ladder. When he neared the portal with the looming zombie, he took a moment to very calmly tell it, “Oh shut up you dead bastard.” He then continued climbing.

Dr. Dane commented, “I never expected to be crawling up that ladder again. I figured you people would be using grappling hooks or something of the like.”

“We’re not commandos,” Vaughn replied as he crossed over the railing. “Jesus, you think this is Mission Impossible or some shit?”

Dane shrugged his shoulders. “You’re just zombie killers?”

“Well, yeah,” Vaughn replied. “Who in their right mind isn’t?”

Mike Newcome came up the ladder next, followed by Christopher Gooden. With everyone finally assembled on the deck, Courtney informed them, “Looks like we’re going across the Promenade.”

With their Socoms drawn and ready, they crossed the tennis courts and went up the ramp to the Promenade, which was something the likes of which none of the Black Berets had ever seen before.

Stretching proudly from one end of the cruiseliner to the other, the Promenade was a make-believe medieval town square and main street. The storefronts were composed of a multitude of different businesses, at least half of them themed to the times. There was Soccorsi’s Pizzeria, Dragonslayer Theater, Gym of Olympus, King’s Court Lounge, Fountain of Youth Spa, ShipShape Calisthenics, Chestnut Emporium, Captain Cook’s Seafood, Ye Fine Art Gallery, Lord of the Joust Tavern and Sports Bar, and—to top it all off—an ice skating rink called Princess On Ice.

Some of the storefront windows were busted and a quick glance through the broken glass revealed that most everything inside had been looted, more than likely by the scientists and military that were onboard the ship. This included every liquor bottle behind the bar in Lord of the Joust Tavern. Also, surprisingly enough, X’s were scribbled over the eyes of every painting in Ye Fine Art Gallery.

Courtney and the others didn’t bother going inside any of the stores since there were no moans heard anywhere nearby, but the panicked destruction of the Promenade was easily evident. The street was covered with decorative stone tiles, but most of them were chipping away or missing completely. There was even a water fountain at the center of town that was probably quite remarkable when it functioned ‘once upon a time.’

The more Courtney saw of The Atlantic Princess, the more she began to believe that—given the proper circumstances—it could be much like a floating Eastpointe. The oceans could be its walls and there would never be a threat of them being breached. Provided there were enough rations stored onboard, a group of living people could survive on a ship at sea for almost a decade. It was a shame that the people on this cruiseliner had to go and ruin their good fortune.

They crossed the Promenade in two-by-two formation, keeping the seventh person, Dr. Dane, in the center where the highly efficient Black Berets could protect him.

With the crossing of the Promenade proving thankfully uneventful, Dr. Dane led them down to the main deck again, this time at the stern. He paused here for a moment before finally deciding to take them through a door on the portside of the vessel.

There was a French balcony here, along with a grand staircase spiraling down to a once-magnificent atrium. The walls crisscrossed between velure and beechwood veneer. Knights and dragons and damsels in distress were paid homage on the painted ceilings. There used to be a crystal chandelier hanging in the center, but now it was in pieces on the floor far below.

Just as Dr. Dane had warned them, there was only emergency power running throughout the vessel, and here the only illumination provided were the red backup lights mounted on the walls in a nonsensical sporadic fashion. The copper-toned visors everyone was wearing now reflected a menacing crimson hue.

The team was forced to switch on the minilights on their Socoms.

Being careful not to inadvertently aim their weapons at another member of the group as they shone the lights in front of them, they descended the spiraling staircase to the dark and damp atrium floor. Only now were Courtney’s feet finally getting accustomed to the crookedness of the beached cruiseliner.

There were two tall caryatids at the bottom. Both of the columns had been defaced; the eyes of the sculptured women were X’d over in red and there were circles drawn around the breasts. A constant, echoing drip-drip sound could be heard splashing from the statues.

Courtney wondered what kind of emotions the people stuck aboard the ship might have felt as they began to lose contact with land while everyone around them was becoming infected. She figured some of them probably went downright insane.

There were many exits from the atrium, all appropriately labeled by the signs dangling overhead. One, leading to another staircase going upwards, read, To Conservatory. Another, leading down, read, Jacuzzi. Yet another, leading up, read, To Princess Suite.

Dr. Dane opened a door with a sign reading ‘Staterooms 001-142’.

Being at the front of the group, Courtney and Leon shone their lights down the passageway. It was long and dark and narrow and lined with closed doors spaced in tight intervals. Red lights flickered on and off throughout the length of it.

With a deep breath, Courtney led the rest of the group down the hallway, keeping Dr. Dane secure in the middle.

Then the riotous thrashing began.

All at once all one hundred and forty-two stateroom doors began being bombarded with brutal, angry fists. Soulless moans and groans could be heard emanating from within. The ruckus was deafening, causing most of the members of the group to lower their weapons and cover their ears. The floor itself was vibrating from the physical abuse the ship was being subjected to. On top of that, Courtney didn’t have any particular fondness for noisy corridors to begin with.

Someone in the rear shouted, “Sounds like the natives are restless!”

“See what I had to put up with?!” Dr. Dane shouted back, his face cringing under the red lights.

Leon nudged Courtney on the shoulder and motioned her to hurry along.

The group moved quickly down the hallway, still halfway covering their ears, and came out a door on the other side. Once every member was through, they closed the door behind them to muffle the noisy onslaught coming from the passageway.

Here was another sign: To Elevator Foyer.

“That’ll take us to Fortunes Casino,” Dane said. “My lab.”

Mike Newcome, usually reserved and not very forthcoming, was this time the one to give voice to what everyone was thinking: “Fucking finally.”

With the minilights from the Socoms shining off at his sides, Dr. Dane confidently took the lead.

He guided them across the elevator foyer and through two sets of heavy wooden doors marked with the inscription Fortunes Casino.

It was humongous—nearly as big as the Promenade outside—and since there were no red emergency lights emphasizing the room’s boundaries, there was no end in sight. Even with their minilights glowing, the Strike Team could not see their final destination from where they stood.

Dr. Dane informed them, “My lab’s on the other side in the VIP room.”

“Let’s get moving then,” Leon said.

Most of the gambling tables were knocked over and resting in the direction of the bow. Courtney knew they must be awfully heavy, so the impact of the crash must have been tremendous indeed in order to send them all sliding in one big lump. The impact and the sliding effect also caused most of the carpet to be ripped away, revealing bare hardwood below. The noise of the team’s footfalls resounded through the hollow darkness, upsetting the calm, then echoed back to them from somewhere far away.

The team passed several more clusters of overturned gambling tables—mostly craps, blackjack, and roulette. Scattered in with casino chips and dice and loose playing cards were broken vials and electrodes and miscellaneous papers with a bunch of science jargon scribbled all over them. Discarded lab coats and military camouflage were buried underneath, some discolored with unrecognizable gunk.

And there was money—a whole lot of money—piles of bloodstained fifties and hundreds simply abandoned on the floor. Valued so highly in the world before, they were now nothing more than worthless slips of paper subtly reminding everyone just how drastically the rules had changed.

They walked for nearly a hundred yards before Dane put his hand up and said, “Over there. The VIP room.”

The team then followed him to another set of heavy-looking wooden doors.

Opposite the doors was a long banister and another staircase leading down into more darkness. After shining her minilight down there Courtney saw rows upon rows of slot machines, most of which were leaning forward, yanked from their secure bases by the impact of the ship hitting the beach.

“Wait a second,” Leon whispered, motioning everyone to stay put. “I hear something.”

The team stopped and listened.

Courtney then heard the sound Leon was referring to: a guttural moaning of the undead type. It seemed muffled somehow—it wasn’t just emanating from somewhere in the expansive darkness of the Casino.

“Well, it’s definitely a skin-eater,” Delmas said. “But where is it?”

Courtney peered over the balcony once more and shone her light into the darkness. She didn’t see anything moving down there, nor did the moaning seem to be getting louder.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Dane told them. “Like I told you, all the zombies are locked in the forecastle and in the staterooms in the hallway we already went through. Sounds carry much differently in a ship. That’s all you’re hearing.”

Vaughn Winters and Mike Newcome directed their lights the way the group had just traveled to see if perhaps a zombie had broken out of a stateroom and followed them into the Casino.

But there was nothing—just the empty darkness.

Leon came to Courtney’s side and with their combined lights shining over the balcony they were able to illuminate most of the area directly below. After looking for a moment he told her what she already knew: “Nothing down there.”

They turned around and faced the rest of the group.

This was when they noticed Dr. Dane had strayed from them and was walking eagerly to the doors of the VIP room.

“Don’t open those doors yet,” Vaughn calmly told him. “We’re dealing with a situation here.”

Dane continued walking.

Vaughn told him again, louder and more firmly this time, “Don’t open those doors.”

Dane replied, “Don’t worry,” and kept walking.

“Stop him,” Leon said.

Mike Newcome stepped towards Dr. Dane and prepared to put a hand on his shoulder, but he was too late. Dane had already reached the doors of the VIP room and with a simple triumphant tug he pulled them open.

No one was prepared for what came out the other side.