Chapter 33 #2
“Come on. Let’s get this over with,” I say.
Hesitantly, she joins me to check over the remaining six bodies.
We come up with a few wallets and a single Swiss Army knife.
It isn’t much, but so far this detour has been worth the effort for the gun alone.
Nobody would dare use it out here in the wild, but if we end up in St. Louis, I bet a gun would be good as gold.
I look back and notice that Keisha is eyeing the bar behind us.
“We should take as much liquor as we can,” Keisha says. “For trading,” she adds quickly when I raise an eyebrow.
“Good idea.”
I grab a big empty designer bag from one of the women in the circle and head to the bar to stock up.
We prioritize the unopened bottles and try to get a variety.
I’m not really sure what would count as the good stuff.
I’m obviously underage, and group homes are monitored too closely to get away with drinking.
We definitely couldn’t have gotten away with it at the Pegasus Center.
“Have you ever drank before?” I ask Keisha.
“Once.”
“What was it like?”
“Awful. It tasted bad, plus we got caught and got in tons of trouble. And to top it off, I felt sick the entire next day. I don’t get the appeal, but I’m sure we’ll make somebody happy with all this,” she says, patting the designer bag full of liquor.
“I’m pretty sure alcohol disinfects wounds too.
So it could come in handy for just about anyone,” she adds.
“We did pretty good here. Should we even risk going inside the boat?” I ask, gesturing to the closed doors next to the bar.
“We still need food, and anything else we can trade. Let’s drop the alcohol in the rowboat, then come back for a quick look. We can leave at the first sign of trouble. Deal?”
I nod, grab a few more bottles, then follow her back down the spiral staircase toward the rowboat.
Keisha heads down the ladder, and I lower the bottles down to her.
Over my shoulder I see a flock of birds land on the upper deck and imagine them pecking at the dried-up flesh of the bodies above us.
Even I’m creeped out by that. I’m ready to get out of here, but Keisha’s right. We need more.
Keisha climbs back up the ladder and smiles. “Ready to go in?”
I swing my machete in a fast circle and nod. “Of course,” I say, even though my gut is still telling me to leave.
“Hey, how far away do you think we are from St. Louis?” Keisha asks, out of nowhere.
“I don’t know. A day and a half if we don’t stop?”
I watch Keisha carefully as her eyes harden, and I get an uneasy feeling. I’m getting emotional whiplash today, and it’s exhausting.
“Good. Here,” Keisha says, handing me a few empty grocery bags and two of the battery-powered lanterns we took from Grady’s group. “Let’s be fast then.”
I tuck the grocery bags into my pockets hoping we can fill them quickly. The more time we spend on this boat, the more I feel like we shouldn’t be here.
We decide to enter the casino through the lower deck first. We find the main entrance and peek through the glass doors. I use my sleeve to smudge away the layer of dust that’s settled on the surface but still have trouble seeing what’s inside.
“I can’t see a thing,” Keisha says, echoing my thoughts. “Let’s see if we can draw anything out.”
I pick up an empty wineglass from one of the outdoor patio tables, open the door just a crack, then toss the wineglass inside like a live grenade and brace for impact.
It shatters loudly, but it’s the only sound we hear.
We’re getting extremely lucky here. Too lucky.
How could this entire ship really be safe?
I turn on my lantern, and Keisha does the same. I meet her eyes and place my hand on the door. When she mirrors me, I know she’s ready. Together, we push the doors inward and walk into the dark casino.
The little rings of light from our lanterns don’t give us much of a view. In the shadows, a hundred slot machines sit dark in tidy rows, leaving way too many places to hide. I inhale deeply and catch a very faint scent of rot.
I point to my nose and look at Keisha. She nods, letting me know she smells it too.
I tell myself it could just be another dead body or a rotting meal and keep walking.
Between the rows of slot machines, round tables carpeted in green felt are stacked with neat piles of playing cards.
Each table is surrounded by an arc of empty chairs.
It looks like the casino has closed for the night, not that there has been an apocalypse.
Everything remains in place, undisturbed.
Almost. Out of the corner of my eye I see a jagged piece of cardboard propped up on one of the card tables.
I squint to read the messy black marker handwriting in the dark.
THIS WAY TERRY COME AND GET IT
I nudge Keisha, then point to the sign. She studies it and shrugs. Clearly she’s just as confused as me, so we keep walking.
The farther in we go, the stronger the smell gets.
I tell myself again that it could be nothing, but after everything we’ve been through, I’ve learned that the smell of a carrier is distinctly different from food rot.
If you’re close enough, it’s acid in your nose and coats your lungs in a film of unshakable filth.
Now I’m certain there is at least one carrier in this ship.
The burn in my nose makes me sure of it.
I tighten the grip on my machete and step as gently as possible toward the back of the ship. In my other hand I push the lantern out in front of me, squinting to see what’s ahead.
A glint of light nearly makes my heart stop, and Keisha inhales sharply behind me.
I raise my machete, and the shine of metal and a haggard face appear several yards ahead.
It takes a few erratic heartbeats, but soon, I realize I’m seeing myself in a mirror.
The wild girl reflecting back at me makes me pause.
I look older, harder. Muscles I’ve never had before stretch down my arms. My hair looks filthy, and my skin is a quilt of pink sunburn, peeling skin, dirt, and dark freckles.
I see Keisha staring back at herself too.
I wonder if she’s as shocked as I am. I’ve seen her every moment of every day, so I’ve seen the change happen gradually, but the change in her appearance must feel pretty stark to her fresh eyes.
Her shoulders are broader from the strain of a million rows, and she’s lost the soft curves she once had.
Her hair no longer sits in neat, tidy braids but is pulled up into a messy puff that sits on top of her head like a crown.
Her skin, which was once a light shade of soft brown, has grown darker with the sun and looks like velvet.
My fingertips ache to reach out and touch her to ease the shock that has made her stare wide-eyed in the mirror.
“Couple of badasses, right?” I whisper with a smirk, trying to bring her back.
A soft puff of humorless laughter escapes her lips. She shifts her eyes back to me, gives me a forced smile, then nods ahead, letting me know she’s ready to get moving. We creep farther into the darkness, anticipating what lies ahead four feet at a time in the dim lantern light.
When we finally reach the back wall, I start looking for a door that could lead to the kitchen.
Keisha pats my arm gently and points just as I see it. Two swinging doors, each with a circular window at the top, come into view out of the darkness. That has to be the kitchen. With every step toward the doors, my nose burns a little more, but I push forward, adjusting the grip on my machete.
I place my hand on the kitchen door, then glance back at Keisha. Her worried expression mirrors the feeling in the pit of my stomach. I shift my focus back to the kitchen and slowly push the swinging doors open.
The smell hits me first. I nearly jump backward, trying my best to avoid the acrid stench burning all the way to the back of my throat.
When nothing lunges at us, I take a few steps forward, letting the door swing closed behind us.
Where is that smell coming from? Our lantern light reflects off the shiny metal surfaces.
Like the rest of the ship, the kitchen looks like it’s just closed for the night.
Everything is in its place, and the surfaces would be perfectly clean if it weren’t for a fine layer of dust. Unfortunately, there’s no food on the shelves. It must be in storage somewhere.
We keep walking, moving as slowly as we can to keep our footsteps quiet.
A soft, but high-pitched squeak breaks the silence, and I hear tiny claws clicking across the floor.
Against my own will, I let out a quiet “Yip!” and jump backward and into Keisha.
A few feet in front of me, a rat skitters across the floor.
I bite my lip and look back at Keisha apologetically as I strain to hear more movement, but thankfully we’re met with quiet.
I release my breath and point ahead to let Keisha know I’ve collected myself and am ready to keep going.
We step carefully toward the back of the kitchen, and soon we arrive at a corner leading to a wide, darkened hallway.
The moment we turn the corner I’m hit with a wave of nausea that nearly knocks me over.
The burn reaches my lungs, and I almost run, but I’m glued to the sight in front of us.
Shock wins out over fear and disgust, and I can’t help but stare.
I count them first. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
Eight carriers, each sitting quietly on its own dining room chair, blocking the entire hallway as well as the door to what I can only assume is the food storage room we’ve been looking for.
In each carrier’s lap is a hastily torn chunk of cardboard spelling out a message written in thick black marker.
GOOD LUCK TERRY YOU THIEVING PIECE OF SHIT