Oz wasn’t hungry and he wouldn’t have stayed if he thought he wouldn’t be missed, but he knew that Bard would notice. So would Cora. She’d taken to watching him with a tight, motherly look on her face since that afternoon. Once everyone had been admitted to the ballroom, and as the passengers and reapers formed an eager line for the coconut shrimp and prime rib, Oz retreated to the far-most corner of the dining area where he positioned himself so that he could see everyone and everything. He would not be surprised this time.
Bard and another reaper he recognized vaguely stood at the back of the buffet line. They didn’t speak, but hungrily eyed the platters of food. Oz didn’t see Cora until she turned her back to the woman slicing a roast. They locked eyes, and Cora made a beeline for his table, pausing just long enough to snatch a glass of red wine from another table.
As she approached, Oz tried very hard to remind himself that she was one of them: a murderer. The waves of soft, touchable hair and the way she seemed to have complete control over every sway of her hips and thighs did nothing to change that, but they did a damn good job hiding it.
She sat opposite him, blocking his view of the line and the people moving through it. He darted a glance at her glass, then focused on the giant gold star mounted above a server’s head.
“It’s not like we’re going to get service over here. The passengers get free booze. She’ll never miss it.”
Oz shrugged.
“Hungry?” Cora asked.
She nudged her plate forward, piled high with various confections in every shape, size, and consistency known to man. The woman could eat.
When he didn’t respond, she impaled a large shrimp on her fork.
“You can relax. It’s not going to happen tonight,” Cora said after she’d swallowed the crustacean.
“How do you know?”
“One of those things that happens after a while. You just know.”
If Cora was right, he had all night to try and figure out a way to stop the ship from sinking, to keep everyone alive. He allowed himself to believe he could do it.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about the other night? I know it can be a really jarring thing—to see someone die like that.”
“He stabbed the woman in her chest. That’s not just ‘someone dying.’ He killed her. Killed. Her. I’d say that’s a little more than jarring.”
Cora sighed. Sipped her wine. “We need to talk about the other night.”
Oz pretended to be really interested in a non-existent hangnail. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She sighed. “Then you listen and I’ll talk, because I don’t like this ugly thing between us.”
“It’s forgotten. Let’s just drop it.”
“I can’t, because I care about you, Oz, and you don’t get how major that is. This job or whatever you want to call it is hard. It’s beyond hard. You lose people every day. People you care about and people you barely know, but they’re always leaving. You and me? I could let that happen, and I was tempted, to be honest. I’m not interested in that way, but we all need comfort now and then, so one warm body is as good as the next. Even if I did want to sleep with you, I can’t.”
“It’s clear you’re a dyke, so don’t tell me you want me. I’m not an idiot.”
She cringed and he instantly felt bad. Christ, he’d become a pussy. Bard was right.
“Gay, straight, whatever; that’s human stuff and it’s not the issue here, because we’re not human. You have to realize that and stop deluding yourself into thinking you can behave like they do, or even feel like they do. We don’t have that luxury, Oz. We could have sex, but I can’t let that happen because every time I look at you, I see myself. Your actions, your words, and the way your feelings are written all over your face are all familiar because I used to be just like you.”
Oz snorted but didn’t look at her. “It’s all right, Cora. You like chicks. That’s fine. I don’t care if you sleep with me or not. I just—don’t tell me you’re any better than the rest of them.”
“No, I’m not, but the rest of them aren’t bad. They’re doing what they have to so they can survive. We don’t have any second chances, nothing comes after this. Reaping is it for us all. No one wants to fuck it up. If anyone forms a bond, or manages to feel real emotion for someone else, reaper or human, the guys upstairs stomp all over it. When they smell any hint of feeling or attachment, one of the parties has to go, and it isn’t to another job. It’s to somewhere really bad.”
“So you’re telling me not one of you guys has ever fucked someone else?” Oz met her gaze finally, and regretted it. Tears glistened in her brown eyes, ripping a hole in his already twisted gut.
“Sure we do. But I know me, and because you’re so much like I used to be, I know you too. Even if I was straight, we wouldn’t keep things purely sexual. It’d be a mess from the start.”
He wanted to believe her, but if he did, then he’d have to accept that he’d be alone for eternity. In The Department, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Out here, with real people, the possibility was horrifying.
Oz glanced toward the buffet. Bard had reached the front of the line, his cheeks puffed with food. Bard could keep it purely sexual. Maybe it already was. He eyed Cora, sickened by the thought of those burly, scarred hands on her soft skin.
Cora laughed. “If you think for a second that I’d do that, then we’ll have to break up right now.”
“How do you—”
“It’s plain as day on your face. Gross, Oz. Just gross. I like Bard, love him like an annoying Uncle, but beyond that nothing else.”
“Sorry.” Still, Oz couldn’t let go of the vision of Bard wooing Cora. He had the tools, the fancy words and the macho attitude; he could seduce her if he put his mind to it. Oz had nothing. No tools. No fancy words.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Cora scolded, tossing a shrimp tail at him. It hit his shoulder and stuck. “I just need you to understand why I turned you down. It’s not you. It’s not me. It’s this existence, if you can even call it that. We can’t afford to be happy. Got it?”
“Yeah. No happiness. This just keeps getting better.” Oz pushed his chair from the table and stood. “I’m gonna get some air.”
“Just think about what I said, okay?”
Oz waved her off. A server wheeled a cart filled with covered plates out of the dining room, bound for those that chose to dine in their cabins. He followed him out the open door and felt Cora’s eyes boring into the back of his neck.
* * *
He knew he had to get into the engine room again, but that was the extent of his plan. His new instinct told him that the engine room held the answer, but what he’d do once he got there... Fuck if he knew.
Every hall was illuminated, but the emptiness made them eerie. It reminded Oz of a horror flick, where the killer waited just outside of the main character’s vision and the audience peered through their hands, urging him, Turn around! He’s right behind you!
Before long he stood in front of the engine room door with his ear pressed to the cold steel, hoping someone would be on their way out. After a few minutes, he gripped the handle to alleviate some pressure from his head and knees. It turned, the door swung open with an agonizing groan, and Oz fell through. If not for his hands instinctively catching his body, he’d have landed on his face.
Steam tumbled into his face, coating him in a hot mist. The vibration from the engines traveled up his arms, along his neck and rattled his teeth.
Oz pushed himself up from the ground, his forearms achy from supporting the brunt of his weight.
Another “reaper perk” he supposed, being able to just waltz (or fall) into any room of a ship doomed to rest at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.
The engine room was bigger and more complex than Oz had anticipated; a web of metal and synthetic pipes spidered from boxed-in machines that whirred and clanged. From where he stood, Oz saw a small network of narrow aisles that separated the rows of engines and computers but couldn’t see how far they extended. He didn’t know where to start, or what to look for.
The man in the elevator mentioned something about size versus engine power, but what was the proper ratio? What was too big or too small? The machines in this room were giant, easily twice his height and several times his weight. They didn’t sound as if they struggled to propel the ship, but Oz had nearly blown up his car engine when he was twenty-five because he didn’t recognize the sound of his clutch refusing to switch gears.
He shuffled along the main aisle, mentally autopsying the room. About halfway down the length, he spotted a meter attached to one of the engines. It looked like the electric meters outside his apartment building. The needle quivered slightly, kissing an area of red striping. He didn’t know much about anything he saw in the engine room, but he knew that anything red wasn’t good. He looked to the ones beside it. To the naked eye, they were identical. Oz gripped the safety bars that barricaded the engines. He considered climbing it to see if he could discern something out of the ordinary when he heard the door to the engine room huff open.
A young man in a plastic jumpsuit walked past, paying him no attention and the engines little more than no attention. Nothing showed signs of exploding, and that seemed to satisfy him.
Oz followed him on his half-assed inspection. He tried to catch the man’s eye. He waved, yelled, picked up and threw a towel that lay over another metal barricade at the man’s face. It grazed his nose and fell to the floor, but the man didn’t notice. He made quick work of walking the aisles before peeling his suit off and leaving it on a rack next to the door.
Oz ran back to the meter. It might’ve been his imagination, but it looked half a centimeter closer to red.
“If I didn’t know any better,” a voice said to his right, “I’d say you were meddling with shit that ought not to be meddled with.”
Bard.
Oz didn’t bother to look at him. He gripped the bars of the barricade and hoisted himself up a couple of feet. He still couldn’t see the top of the tank.
“You’re not meddling, are you Oz?”
“Fuck off, Bard.”
“You know,” he began, “You remind me of someone.”
Smoke swirled above Oz, mingling with the steam delivered in more persistent jets from the tank.
“There was this kid, a few years back. Cocky motherfucker. Good instinct, but didn’t have much sense. Figured he knew it all she he could do what he wanted. Little shit always thought he was right. Never considered he might be wrong.”
Oz stood on the highest rung of the barricade and braced himself on the ceiling inches from his head with his hand. He could see the tops of the tanks but it didn’t make much difference. Were they steaming too much? The tank directly beneath him was scalding hot, but he had no idea if that was normal.
“What’s your point, Bard?”
“Point is he was dead wrong and now he’s paying for it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Every fucking day.” There was that crack in Bard’s voice Oz heard earlier.
“That a threat?”
“It’s a piece of advice, you fuckwit. You can’t change what’s already been set in motion, so just let it go and do your fucking job.”
Oz looked down. Bard stood with his arms crossed, a cigarette protruding from his mouth, emitting urgent puffs of smoke. He looked more disheveled than normal; his jacket hung off one shoulder and his jeans twisted ever so slightly to the left.
“No,” Oz said and leaned further over the tanks, willing some sign of abnormality to show itself. “I can’t.”
“Suit yourself. But you have about ninety seconds before you’re blown to pieces along with the tank you’re studying so intently.”
Bard flicked his cigarette upward. The end singed the hairs on Oz’s forearm.
Then he was alone again.
Ninety seconds.
Come on, Oz. Think.
Think of what? He knew exactly nothing about anything, and even if he spotted something that might look off, what the hell was he going to do about it?
He leapt from the barricade and landed with an echoed bang. He couldn’t stop the explosion, but he could get the passengers as far away from the engine room as possible. Maybe. He had to try.
The hallway outside the engine room stretched a good thirty feet before it hit the doors leading to the passenger cabins. He knocked on every door that he passed; loud, panicked knocks that no sane person could ignore. Not a single door opened. Either no one heard the knocks of a reaper, or they were all still at dinner.
Oz sprinted toward the ballroom. He had, what, thirty seconds left? Twenty?
He stopped in the doorway and locked eyes with Bard just as the first explosion shook the ship.
Dishes sloshed from the buffet table and splattered like individual gun shots to the ground. Bang, Bang, BANG.
The chandelier rattled, its glass pendants clinking together like rain.
The few passengers who hadn’t been knocked to the ground froze with their eyes fixed on the door, as though they expected Grendel to burst through and devour them all. Another explosion, and the doors did burst open, and a swarm of crewman poured into the ballroom to escort the passengers to awaiting lifeboats.
The lights flickered then went out completely.
Passengers screamed.
“How long?” Cora’s voice.
Oz could barely make out her voice over the shouts and the crashing of tables and chairs as they stampeded for the hallway. Let the nightmare begin.
“An hour. Maybe two. These people will be fine.” Then, “We need to head below!”
Bard. “Oz?”
“Yeah?”
“Move it!”
Arms outstretched, Oz felt his way toward the door, catching a handful of jacket here, a tuff of hair there, to guide him until he squeezed into the hallway where faint emergency lights illuminated the floor. The panicked faces of the passengers looked ghoulish in the afterglow. Passengers wound up the stairs to the upper deck, where, hopefully, lifeboats were being uncovered and ready for launch. They had a long climb. The ballroom was on the third deck of fourteen.
Oz and the other reapers marched in the opposite direction, with Bard at the lead, to the lower decks where explosions still rocked the ship. Smatterings of blood brushed the ceiling and floor like someone had played paintball using internal organs as ammunition. Oz palmed the walls as he walked to keep himself upright.
There was no telling how many people were still trapped in the lower decks. The ballroom hadn’t looked that full in comparison to the hordes of people he’d seen boarding the ship. They reached the door to Deck Two and listened. A woman’s muffled scream forced its way through. When Bard yanked open the door, a whoosh of heat and heaviness plowed into them.
The reapers stepped through while Oz hung back for an instant to take several deep, hurried breaths. The smoke was faint, but visible above their heads.
“It’ll be okay,” he muttered to himself. “It’ll be fine. Just go. Just. Go.”
He caught up to the others and helped them search the cabins. Oz enjoyed an instant of hope when the first few turned up empty.
As they moved further down, the heat pressed harder on Oz’s chest. He pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose against the thickening black smoke.
The bodies waited for them at the back of the ship.
Smoke rose through a large hole in the floor behind the corpses. Oz knew the level below that would be far worse.
The Bas of a crewmember, an elderly couple and a teenage girl stood next to their bodies. The girl sobbed. The glow of others cast light over the carnage like lanterns.
“Cora, you and Oz get downstairs. We’ll meet you there,” Bard said.
* * *
Cora and Oz backtracked past the first stairwell. Oz tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He leaned into it with all his weight but it still didn’t budge.
“What the fuck is this? It won’t open.”
“Trying to keep the damage to a minimum. Safety protocols, I’d imagine.” Cora said.
“But no one came down here. We would’ve seen them.” It surprised and infuriated him. “They couldn’t take the time to see if anyone was alive down here? Damn them for not being at dinner?”
“They’re just trying to contain the fire.”
The second stairwell was open and deserted.
The explosions seemed to have stopped. Oz listened, desperate for a sign of life, death—anything to tell him what was going on below them. His gut told him there would be water, soon. His heart jackhammered in his chest as they ventured deeper into the smoke. If not for the hole in the deck above sucking the smoke out like a vacuum, they’d have to crawl just to see what lay ahead.
The wolves waited at the edge of the hole, fire-red eyes pulsing behind the smoke.
“They’re here,” Cora said.
For an instant, neither of them moved.
“I can’t see anything,” Oz said.
“Just go,” she commanded.
Cora squinted, took a deep breath and ran into the cloud. A pair of eyes bounded behind her.
A low, spitting growl gripped Oz’s spine. Cold waves of fear flowed over his chest. He could feel its heat at his back, even as the unseen fire’s heat still punched his front. The wolf’s heat was distinct; like liquid fire lapping at his skin. Oz didn’t turn around. He tried not to think. He had to move and move now.
He didn’t look back, but Oz knew he was being chased. He’d almost reached a gap in the smoke when his feet suddenly stopped moving and he toppled forward over something large and body-like. His face hit the floor first, burning his cheek as it slid across the carpet.
Looking back at what’d tripped him, Oz could just make out the cruise line’s logo on the arm of the person’s jacket. He lifted his feet from on top of the dead crewmember and looked around for the Ba. Who knew how long the wolves had been there? Oz and the others might’ve been too late.
Toward the end of the hallway, several bodies—some crew, some passengers—lay in various positions. A few sat propped against doors, others lay sprawled across the floor. Many of the bodies were no longer whole. Oz tried to slow his panicked breath, and blinked when Cora’s slender legs propelled her clumsily over the dead. His breath all but stopped when he saw the fur-covered legs behind her. One, two, three—too many sets to count.
He dragged himself by his forearms across the floor toward her. His skin slid along the slick carpeting, and he tried to forget what that slickness was.
And then he saw it. A Ba. A young crewmember who, judging by his jumpsuit, worked as one of the ship’s janitors, nearly drowned in the blackness of the smoke and the heat of the fire.
Oz pushed himself off the ground and gagged on the smoke. His eyes watered and his throat burned.
He held the young man’s hands. The Ba’s eyes darted from Oz to something over his shoulder. Oz brought his hands to his face just as the gnarled face of a wolf stalked toward them.
And he realized this was it. This was what he could control—the only thing he could control. Damn the consequences, he’d made his decision. It was the only way.
“I’m sorry,” Oz said.
He fell to the ground and covered his head as the wolf leaped over him, catching the young man’s neck in its teeth. The wolf’s jaws unhinged and it tossed the Ba upward. It stood on its hind legs and swallowed the falling Ba, whole.
A terrible metal groan echoed through the hall.
Oz felt something tug his collar, strangling him.
The wolf was gone. Cora stood over him, her face black with ash.
“We need to get out of here,” she said.
Oz stood without a word and they ran back the way they came followed by the sound of rushing water.