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“I’m sorry I brought it up,” Rose said.

  “It’s ok,” Lyra replied.

  No words were spoken shortly thereafter.

  They ate in silence.

  Their first night alone was spent listening to the rain.

  Beneath a thick comforter and curled close to Lyra’s side, Rose struggled to find solace in sleep. The predicament in which she’d feared for her life gone, her safety no longer secured by a locked door, there seemed nothing that should be keeping her awake. Yet here she was, struggling between the thresholds of consciousness, fighting desperately for the one thing that could remove her from the real world, if only for a moment.

  Sleep.

  The pale whisper of the wind filtered through the faint drum of rain and offered what normally would’ve been a sound comfort. For as long as she remembered, the rain had always comforted her—had, without doubt, brought calm to the raging inferno of any situation. Normally, the downfall would have put her to sleep. Here, it did the opposite. It secured the notion that she was within the waters of her own destruction and could at any moment be pushed under, made to drown, or become the meal of fine fish.

  She’d never considered herself afraid of the sea.

  Now, she couldn’t be so sure.

  At her side, Lyra slept soundly, and with only the occasional fit. She was silent by nature but plagued by her deviated septum; the light snores that occasionally burst through the silence were enough to remind Rose that she was not alone.

  The knowledge that Lyra could’ve easily gone in for overtime that first day scared her to death.

  You’d be all alone, the voice in her head said. Right here, on this ship.

  Or dead. She’d stopped several times to consider the idea that had Lyra not been in the flat that day—had she not struck Spencer dead with the frying pan and then Mary the very next day—that could’ve been it.

  A pale stroke of luck had offered them chance to board the private yacht, and history had granted Lyra her marksmanship. Rose couldn’t have shot that gun, even if she’d wanted to—which, if she thought about it, would’ve left her completely alone, which meant she would’ve been—

  “Dead.”

  The word from her lips was lashings upon the poor girl’s back.

  Rose closed her eyes, desperate to fight off tears.

  If Lyra had gone to work that day—

  It was stupid to even consider suppressing emotion. As deeply asleep as she was, Lyra would never hear her crying, even if Rose happened to start sniffling, or let out the occasional sob. Such muted potential should’ve been worth its weight in gold.

  You can’t cry, she thought. It’s not worth it.

  Wasn’t it, though? For all she’d lost, it seemed like it would be. Her life, her family, her friends, her place and purpose in life, her future—she’d lost it all: gone, just like that, swept clean off the grand slate of life by the hand of a God who seemed to care naught for His people on His Earth.

  Rose closed her eyes.

  She was but a little girl in His steeple, waiting for an answer that might never come.

  As atheistic as she tended to be, she knew a benevolent God would never bestow such a thing upon their people.

  But if not God, who?

  In such moral dilemmas, there tended to only be one answer—one that Rose agreed with wholeheartedly.

  The Devil had come to earth.

  And with it, He had brought His people.

  When she woke the following morning, she could make no sense of when sleep had taken her. She remembered little of the previous night and what-all she had thought. The shaking ship, the splattering rain, the doubts and thoughts of a life passed and of a feature bleak and dreary—she remembered a God who in her mind was extending a hand, offering salvation she felt could never be attained, while at her side stood the Devil, emerging from death’s barren sands.

  This is but an illusion, this horned thing had said. Remember it.

  She opened her eyes to find the world lit in a somber shade of grey. Partially obscured by a set of curtains whose density blocked out most of the outside world, she imagined it to be early—six, possibly, maybe seven or eight, if only because of the weary strain set upon her body—though if it were later she wouldn’t be surprised. Last night had been fickle. The day before had been all the more draining.

  “Lyra?” Rose asked when she became aware that her friend was not in the room with her. “Where are you?”

  The door—propped open and secured by a kick down doorstop—revealed nothing more than a darkened living room.

  Pushing herself upright, Rose grimaced as the lingering discomfort returned to her upper body, and waited for her friend to respond. It wasn’t likely that Lyra had gone far. Realistically, there was only the upper or bottom deck, and even, then the former seemed too blatantly unattractive for her friend to wander up there. That could only mean that her friend was elsewhere and had not heard her.

  Well, she thought. Guess it’s time to get up.

  “Better late than never.”

  She threw her legs over the side of the bed and wrapped a robe about herself before wandering out of the captain’s quarters, her bare legs exposed to a placid chill that tickled gooseflesh along her thighs and sent a shiver down her spine.

  She trembled in the face of the once-inviting room that now appeared no more than a graveyard—barebones in that its furniture had been stripped and what little remained of their skeletons was broken. To think this place had once housed people with distinct flavor was nearly impossible. There was no personality here; only walls between which people could live.

  Or die, she thought bitterly at that.

  She cocked her head about the room in an effort to determine Lyra’s location and waited for the telltale sound of footsteps when she could find nothing.

  What she expected to hear was her friend milling about—searching the other quarters for supplies.

  Instead, there was nothing.

  Rose swallowed.

  Surely they couldn’t have missed anything.

  Unless she went over the side, she thought. Or slipped and hit her head, or stabbed herself with a knife, or cut her throat by mistake, or—

  “Lyra!” Rose cried. “Lyra! Lyra!”

  “What?” her friend called back.

  Rose’s meager attempts to locate the noise were made useless when her friend’s shadow appeared at the top of one stairwell.

  “Thank God,” Rose said. “I thought something had happened.”

  Lyra snorted. “What?” she asked. “You think I’d fallen over or somethin’?”

  Rose chose not to respond.

  “You wanker,” Lyra said, the familiar sarcasm thick in her voice.

  “Who’re you calling a wanker? You can’t blame me for worrying.”

  “No, but you thought I’d fallen over.”

  “So?”

  “So?” Lyra laughed. “If I recall, it was you who almost fell off the boat when we went whale-watching that one summer—and nearly onto the whale if I’m remembering correctly.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Sod off.”

  Snorting, Rose stepped toward the threshold to find Lyra seated at the top of the stairwell. Dressed plainly in a nondescript T and the pair of jeans from yesterday, she braced her hands on her knees and leaned forward upon Rose’s approach. “What’re you doing up there?” Rose asked.

  “Tryin’ to make sense of the controls,” Lyra replied.

  “Any luck?”

  Lyra shook her head. “No. Not really. It’s just a bunch of buttons and levers. And I thought the fax machine at hospital was bad enough.”

  “They do tend to fool you,” Rose said.

  Sighing, her friend glanced back at what Rose could only assume was the blank expanse of nothing before pushing herself to her feet and descending the stairs, her heavy footfalls echoing along the slight corridor and rebounding into Rose’s ears.

  At the bottom, Lyra stopped, paus
ed to consider Rose, and frowned a short moment later.

  “What?” Rose asked.

  “You look like hell.”

  The grin that tugged at the corner of her mouth came more out of reflex than actual emotion. She’d expected such a response—to hear her friend’s snarky remark, her typical sarcasm, her thick but dignified accent. What she expected might have even hurt her on a regular day did nothing now. Instead, it just seemed typical—a tongue-in-cheek remark appropriate for their end-of-the-world scenario.

  “Kinda figured as much,” Rose replied.

  “Ah well. Doesn’t matter anyway.” Lyra stretched and inclined her head toward the far corner of the room. “Hey… you up for helping me with something?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I dunno. I just thought… well… maybe you wanted a break. That’s all. Me? I figured I’d keep myself busy so I can keep from going mental.”

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  “Going through cupboards, marking down supplies—that sort of thing. I didn’t get a chance to look over what-all was in the pantry when I made us food last night. For all we know, half the shit’s spoiled. I just want to make sure we have an idea how long we have to lean on this stuff before we have to start fending for ourselves.”

  “Did you see any fishing poles?” Rose frowned.

  “No. None. At all. Which makes sense, I suppose. Why the hell would you want to bring dirty, grimy fish down here on this nice wood and carpet?” Lyra tapped her heel on the floor as if to confirm her point. “Doesn’t mean we can’t make our own, though. Not gonna be high-quality or anything, but you can do wonders with a hook and line.”

  If we even have any line, Rose thought.

  Though the urge to give life to her comment was strong, she decided to bite her tongue and hold it in for the time being. They didn’t need something else to worry about, at least not now.

  Nodding, Rose crossed her arms over her chest and turned back toward the bedroom. “Give me a few minutes to get changed. Then I’ll be ready.”

  “Cup of noodles,” Lyra said, her voice thick with triumphant sarcasm.

  Rose sighed.

  Their fate had been spelled in but a few little letters.

  While they would not have to immediately set about finding alternative methods for food, they did not have as much time as they’d initially predicted.

  A full pantry could be deceiving.

  How duplicitous it had been.

  Pushing herself to her feet, Rose wandered from her place in the kitchen where they’d spent the last few hours arranging and dividing everything about the counters. She was desperate to free herself from the situation, but she knew that a few simple steps would do nothing to further that desire.

  Once in the living room—where, bold-faced and adamant in its portrayal, stood the remnants of a casual life—she sighed and wrapped her arms around herself.

  She’d thought for sure that they would be safe for at least a little while—that they could sleep contentedly knowing that tomorrow they would have more food to eat.

  But you thought wrong.

  The tears that burned in her eyes were restrained only by the fact that making a scene would prove to be useless, and thus only cause further problems. Sniffling, she reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose to fake sinus problems and waited for the bout of emotion to clear, hoping on pins and needles that she wouldn’t cry.

  When she finally felt she was able to control herself, she turned in preparation to return to the kitchen, only to nearly run into Lyra in the process.

  “Lyra,” she managed.

  “It’s ok,” her friend said, offering a smile, but keeping to her usual habits by not reaching out to her. “Really—it is.”

  “No it isn’t.”

  “Yes it—”

  “It’s stupid to be crying over a little lost food.”

  “A little?” Lyra laughed. “Rose—this is all the food we have. Other than what we have in the ocean, and even then, it’s not like we can depend on that.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Look.” Lyra stepped forward. Nearly nose-to-nose, the taller woman lifted a fist to tip Rose’s chin up and looked her straight in the eyes. “I’m not saying this is a good thing, because it’s not. What I’m saying is: it’s ok to feel a little down. We’re going to be bouncing off each other. It’s inevitable.”

  “I know.”

  “So don’t worry your little self about it. We’re gonna make it through this. Everything’s gonna be just fine. You just gotta believe in that.”

  “Kinda hard to have faith when there’s nothing in front of you to look at.”

  “Pfft.” Lyra shook her head. “Think that’s stopped anyone before? Christ? Einstein? M.L.K.?” She turned her head to look at the boxes stacked along the floor, and then those to be dumped, arranged along the counters, her brow furrowing in a deep arch before returning to its rightful place. “You wanna know what I think? I think our faith is here—right in front of us.”

  Lyra reached down and laced their fingers together.

  “You know why I think that?” she asked, lifting their hands so they would be right in front of each other. “Because we got out. Because we survived.”

  “We’re damn lucky,” Rose agreed.

  “And tough too,” Lyra laughed. “Damn, are we some tough bitches.”

  The smile that came—it shouldn’t have been there, not in the midst of all that was going on.

  But seeing their hands laced together, side by side—that did something.

  Deep down, it unlocked a world of hope that had been barred by chains and smoke.

  Set free from its gates were butterflies.

  Lyra was right.

  They’d survived.

  The boxes of spoiled goods were carried from the living quarters and then unceremoniously dumped into the ocean. Freed of the mortal burden that had once carried them, they shifted about the waves and disappeared as if they had never been there to begin with. Some remained briefly; others disappeared immediately beneath the great blue waves. A choice few decided that they’d simply remain—cresting the waters until some great amalgamation decided to take its hold.

  The one thing they’d neglected to discuss--more because of their predicament than their complete ignorance--was the things they shared the sea with. Though born and raised in a place where she’d had literally no contact with large bodies of water, she was well aware of the fact that one false move could trigger the predatory instincts of animals.

  Sharks.

  She was no fan of conspiracy—had watched Jaws only a few times in her life and with each viewing had grown more skeptical of their surroundings—but she was more than aware that stranded vessels could easily become beacons for those ignorant of their true purpose. A slight knowledge of biology indicated that wildlife would of course be curious, but whether or not it would know there were people aboard was another story.

  With that in mind, she begged the question.

  Had the plague only effected people?

  There was no reason for her to think that it had spread to animals. Logically, it was almost impossible for diseases to jump from one species to another, let alone something from humans to creatures who didn’t in the least resemble them.

  The great apes were one thing, pigs another. Fish—that was something different. We didn’t swim in the sea. We walked on land, only occasionally brushing against the great waters that made up our world. That was a barrier any disease would have trouble triumphing over.

  But does it matter?

  This wasn’t a usual disease. To think that it could be defined was downright outrageous.

  Sighing, Rose turned to make her way back into the ship.

  “Hey,” Lyra said. “Did you see that?”

  Rose paused. “What?” she asked.

  “That thing. Under the water.”

  Oh God, she thought. Please... not now.

  “I d
idn’t see anything,” she replied, steeling her nerves as she turned and retraced her steps. “What was it?”

  “I’m not sure. It looked like a shadow. Whatever it was, it was big.”

  “Was it under the boat?”

  “A little ways away from it. I just… wait! There it is!”

  The dark apparition could not be discerned beneath the smoggy waves. Large and highlighted only by the difference in shadow, it skirted the edge of Rose’s vision where it could be seen only briefly before cloud cover thrust it into obscurity.

  Her panic was underwhelmed by the awe.

  This was no shark. This was something else.

  “Where’d it go?” Lyra asked, bracing her hands around the railing, then leaning over.

  “Lyra,” Rose said, taking hold of her friend’s shirt and pulling her back a few steps. “You might want to stay back.”

  “What’re you talking about? Are you sure it wasn’t a—”

  At this, a lumbering figure appeared before them like an angel rising from the depths of time. Massive, angelic, behemoth to all beasts who walked on land or swam in the sea—its shape dwarfed the yacht by dozens upon dozens of feet and brought to mind insignificance found only in things whose presence could not be denied.

  When it broke the surface, its weight caused the waves to rock the yacht just slightly, but it was the geyser that followed that truly captured Rose’s imagination.

  “Is that,” Lyra said.

  Rose nodded.

  The blue whale—startling in its appearance but awe-inspiring nonetheless—crested the waves for but a moment as it took in the life-giving air that all mammals needed to survive.

  Carefully, Lyra and Rose stepped forward.

  Just barely visible above the sea, one of its great eyes flickered toward them.

  In its depths, Rose thought she saw something unlike anything she had ever experienced.

  Life.

  The whalesong that echoed from beneath the waves as it submerged and then began to disappear was so far removed from her consciousness that it felt nothing less than alien. Primordial in its simplicity, it wrought through the waters a song in short but magnificent trembles that first spoke of strength, then devolved to sorrow.