Poppy
Zero Hour
She’s edgy as she glances up at the lights above the elevators. They show all the cars are far away. Tension mounts. The ship lists sharply and panic bites. She hammers the button again.
Patrick says, “I’ve been meaning to tell you—you look lovely tonight.”
“What?” She’s yanked out of her thoughts for a second, and stares at him dumbfounded.
“The emerald-green sparkles.” He makes wavy jazz hands and grins.
“You’re drunk.”
He chuckles. “Probably. Still—you look nice.”
“It’s a funny thing to say, Patrick.” She glances at the elevator lights again, warmth rising in her cheeks. She can’t meet his gaze, doesn’t know where to look. No one tells Poppy she looks “nice.” She doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Why’s it a funny thing to say?”
“Because—I don’t know. Sorin just said the most horrible things about me. How can some disgusting harpy look ‘nice’?”
He bursts out laughing. It makes people stare. Her face goes hotter.
She turns to him. “What do you want?”
“What do you mean?”
She fights to hold his gaze, and waits.
“Sheesh, Poppy.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Learn to take a compliment, will you?”
An elevator arrives, saving her from the conversation. But only one person steps out—it’s still packed, and heading up, not down. She glances at her watch. Act two of the show will start soon.
“The stairs,” she says, and marches for the stairwell.
“Poppy!” Patrick hurries after her. He catches her arm. “For Pete’s sake—do you know how many decks you have to climb down to reach the mural on Deck 1?”
But she pushes through the stairwell doors, lifts the hem of her sequined gown, and starts down the stairs. At least her sandals are sensible—not those ridiculous high heels some of the other women are wearing tonight.
“We can try to connect with an elevator farther down,” she says.
Her heels clump on the steps, echoing loudly in the hollow stairwell. The ship lurches suddenly and she pitches forward. Poppy grabs the railing, heart hammering. Patrick stumbles behind her and bumps into her back.
“My God,” he whispers as the Orchid leans again, tilting even more sharply in the same direction. They both freeze while the ship continues to roll dramatically, further increasing the angle of the lean.
“It feels like she’s coming about,” Patrick says. “It’s putting her broadside to the swells and wind.”
Poppy waits, wondering if they’ll tip even farther. She senses the wind battering the full starboard flank of the Orchid. It makes a deep boom, boom, boom in the stairwell—more pressure than sound.
An announcement echoes into the stairwell—a man’s voice.
“Code Oscar. Repeat to all crew: Code Oscar, starboard aft of midship. Deck 12. Muster station 72. Code Oscar protocol initiated.”
The message bounces up and down the void and against the walls.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Heaven knows. Are you sure you want to keep going?”
She thinks of Lillith and her cane, her unsteady balance. Her dragging leg. Her illness. She swallows. Emotion pricks into her eyes.
“I—I don’t know why I feel like this, Patrick,” she says. “Like something horrible’s about to happen.”
“To Lillith?”
She isn’t sure. She can’t articulate it. It’s just a sense of impending doom. Poppy tells herself she needn’t care about the rich old woman who dumped her in a Tardis on a freezing London day.
I left you outside that Catholic hospital because I knew they specialized in obstetrics and early births.
Where I knew there were good people. I watched from across the street until I saw you were in safe arms. At the time, I believed it was the only option.
That the best gift I could give my baby daughter was freedom—from myself and from Vincent.
Tears suddenly spill down her face. She turns her face away so Patrick won’t see, because she can’t explain it—not even to herself. She hasn’t managed to process it yet.
A thunderous bang booms up the stairwell. The ship shudders. Poppy and Patrick are launched forward into the air. They clatter and tumble down several stairs. She crashes hard onto the landing, slamming her head against the wall.
She can’t think, see. Pain screams through her skull.
Metal crunches, creaks, groans as a tremor shudders through the body of the ship. There’s a ripping noise—a shriek of metal on metal. The Orchid’s forward motion seems to stop.
“Christ,” Patrick whispers, eyes wide. “What the fuck was that?”
There’s another jarring thud. More groaning metal. The ship lists. This time it doesn’t appear to want to right itself.
“I think we hit something,” he says.
They listen. Distant mechanical horns begin to wail somewhere out on the decks. Poppy touches her face—she feels wetness, thinks it’s tears. She wipes her cheek, then looks at her fingers. They’re bright red. Blood. She stares at the blood, feeling herself go woozy.
“Poppy—your head. It’s bleeding. What happened?”
The stairwell lights flicker. They both hold their breath, waiting, tense. More electronic alarms start bleating. Before either of them can say or do anything, the stairwell plunges into total darkness. The ship’s engines fall silent.
Alarms clang, beep. Klaxons echo. They hear shouting outside the stairwell. They wait. Hoping, believing, the lights will come back on.
The PA crackles again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the bridge. We’re experiencing a technical issue with our propulsion and electrical systems. Please remain calm and stay inside your cabins or public areas while we conduct an assessment.
Further information will follow shortly.
Repeat: Please stay calm. Follow crew instructions.
Our crew is trained to assist you. More information will be forthcoming. ”
Faint emergency lights begin to brighten in strips along the edges of the stairs. The strips glow eerily into the hollow darkness.
They hear another announcement coming from outside the stairwell.
“Code Delta. Muster prep. Code Delta. All crew. Code Delta.”
Patrick grabs her arm, tries to lift her up. Blood pours from her temple. Her legs won’t work.
“Poppy. Come on. We need to get out of here.”
Her vision swims. She sways.
“Poppy—stay with me!”
“Code Delta. Repeat, all crew. Code Delta.”
She feels herself slipping away.