Greg smiled at the man in the tactical mask, completely unaware the gun was loaded with real bullets.
The vibration of the S.S. Meridian Queen traveled straight up through the soles of Greg Matthews’s New Balance sneakers and settled into his lower back as a dull, constant throb. The summer heat was oppressive, baking the steel deck until the air itself seemed to warp and shimmer. Greg wiped a thick layer of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a greasy streak across his skin. His stomach turned over, a sharp reminder of the two slices of greasy airport pizza he had consumed at five in the morning. He swallowed hard, trying to force down the rising acid.
"It is supposed to be rustic," Greg said. He pitched his voice loud enough to cut over the grinding roar of the ferry’s diesel engines. "That is the whole point of the coastal tour. Rustic charm."
Louise did not look at him. She was staring at the horizon through a pair of oversized, scratched sunglasses, her jaw working methodically. She chewed a square, sugar-coated gummy with the slow, deliberate motion of a cow working cud. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the rusted metal railing.
"You lost the printed itinerary, Greg," Louise said. Her voice was flat. The edible she had consumed in the terminal parking lot was clearly beginning to take hold, smoothing the sharp edges of her anger into a dull, terrifying calm. "We are on a boat that looks like it hauls medical waste, and you lost the itinerary."
"I did not lose it," Greg said. He patted the damp cargo pockets of his shorts, pretending to search for the folded pieces of paper he knew were currently sitting on the counter of a Hudson News kiosk three hundred miles away. "I just consolidated our documents. Everything is digital now, Lou. We have the phones."
"The Wi-Fi on this boat is literal garbage," Cassie announced from her plastic deck chair. She was nineteen, slumped so far down her spine formed a perfect C-curve, holding her phone inches from her face. "I have zero bars. None. This is literally the backrooms. I am going to die out here and my last post is going to be a blurry picture of a seagull eating a french fry."
"Put the phone away, Cass," Greg said. He forced a wide, strained smile. "Look at the ocean. Look at the view."
"The ocean is gray," Cassie muttered. She thumbed the screen of her phone, the glass smudged with fingerprints. "It looks like dirty dishwater. And the guy sitting two rows up keeps coughing without covering his mouth. I am contracting tuberculosis."
Greg turned away from his daughter, pressing his palms flat against the warm railing. The vacation was falling apart, and it was only day one. The chaos had started at the Meridian Airport terminal. The security line had been a nightmare of shouting TSA agents and crying toddlers. In the rush to grab their belongings off the x-ray conveyor belt, Greg had bumped into a tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy black coat. The man had shoved past him, grabbing a black canvas duffel bag. Greg had grabbed the other one, tossing it over his shoulder and sprinting for the gate. He was ninety percent sure he had grabbed the right bag. It looked exactly like his bag. Black canvas. Heavy brass zippers.
He glanced down at the duffel sitting by his feet. It looked fine. It had the same frayed strap. Everything was fine.
"I just want to sit in an air-conditioned room," Louise said. She stopped chewing. "My mouth is so dry, Greg. I feel like I swallowed a handful of sand."
"We will get drinks at the bar," Greg said. He clapped his hands together, the sound hollow against the wind. "They have a bar. I saw a sign. Let's go make memories."
Before Louise could respond, a low, rhythmic thumping noise cut through the ambient drone of the engines. Greg looked up. A sleek, matte-black speedboat was cutting through the choppy waves, moving at a terrifying speed directly toward the port side of the ferry. The boat slammed against the rusted hull with a massive, metallic crash.
Four men in full black tactical gear vaulted over the railing. They wore heavy Kevlar vests, thick boots, and black balaclavas that obscured their faces. They carried short, blocky assault rifles. The passengers on the deck froze. A woman near the lifeboats dropped her plastic cup of iced tea. It shattered against the deck, ice cubes skittering across the painted metal.
The lead mercenary raised his rifle, sweeping the barrel across the crowd. "Nobody move! Down on the deck! Hands where I can see them!"
The passengers screamed, dropping to their knees. A man in a bucket hat began to sob loudly.
Greg Matthews did not drop to his knees. Instead, a massive, genuine smile spread across his face. He felt a surge of pure, unadulterated relief. The Sbarro pizza heartburn vanished. This was it. The premium package.
"Folks, folks, stay calm!" Greg shouted, waving his arms at the terrified passengers. He stepped forward, chuckling. "I paid extra for this! It is the interactive murder mystery experience! I read about it on TripAdvisor!"
The lead mercenary whipped his head around, staring at Greg through the eyeholes of his mask. He leveled the rifle directly at Greg’s chest.
"Get on the ground, old man," the mercenary barked.
"Oh, you guys are good," Greg said, nodding appreciatively. He stepped closer, ignoring the gun. "Great costumes. Very realistic. The Kevlar looks heavy. Does the boat company pay for those, or do you have to buy your own gear?"
"I will put a bullet in your kneecap," the man said, his voice deadly serious.
"Commitment to the bit," Greg said to Louise, pointing a thumb at the man. Louise was staring at Greg, her jaw slack. "They told me there would be a puzzle element. You guys need the package, right? The stolen goods?"
The mercenary lowered the rifle slightly, tilting his head. "You have the bag?"
"Of course I have the bag," Greg beamed. He bent down and hoisted the heavy black canvas duffel by the strap, dropping it onto one of the plastic deck tables with a loud thud. "Right here. I knew I had a special role when I booked the VIP tier. Go ahead. Open it up."
The lead mercenary stepped forward cautiously. He kept his rifle trained on Greg with one hand while reaching out with the other to grab the brass zipper. The other three men fanned out, keeping their weapons on the crying passengers.
"Open it," the leader ordered one of his men.
A younger mercenary stepped up, yanking the zipper back. The heavy canvas parted.
Greg crossed his arms, waiting for the theatrical reveal of fake diamonds or prop money.
Instead, the bright, neon-pink plastic beak of a six-foot inflatable pool flamingo popped out of the bag, expanding rapidly in the humid air. The plastic squeaked loudly as it unfolded. Three bottles of generic SPF 50 sunscreen spilled out, rolling across the deck. A pair of oversized, lime-green swimming trunks flopped onto the table.
The mercenaries stared at the flamingo.
Greg blinked. He looked down at his cargo shorts. He looked back at the bag.
"Wait," Greg said. He frowned, his brain struggling to process the image. "That is not the prop."
The lead mercenary snatched one of the rolling bottles of sunscreen. He looked at it, then threw it violently against the steel bulkhead. The plastic bottle exploded, splattering thick white lotion across the rusted wall.
"Where is the gold?" the leader screamed, stepping directly into Greg's personal space. The man grabbed the collar of Greg’s Hawaiian shirt, twisting the fabric so tightly it choked him. "Where is the real bag, you idiot?"
Greg gagged, his hands flying up to grab the man's thick wrists. The smell of cheap aftershave and stale coffee washed over him from the mercenary's mask. "Hey, buddy, break character! Break character! You are taking it too far!"
"Greg!" Louise shrieked, finally snapping out of her edible-induced lethargy. She stumbled forward, grabbing the mercenary's arm. "Let go of my husband!"
The mercenary shoved Louise backward. She hit the deck hard, scraping her palms against the textured paint.
"Listen to me," the leader hissed, pressing the cold metal barrel of the rifle directly under Greg's chin. The steel dug into his skin. The reality of the situation finally pierced through Greg's thick layer of suburban optimism. The gun was heavy. The metal was cold. The man's eyes were bloodshot and completely devoid of theatrical playfulness.
"Oh," Greg whispered. His stomach dropped, the heartburn returning with a vengeance. "Oh, god. You are not actors."
"The black bag," the man repeated, emphasizing every syllable. "From the airport terminal. We tracked the GPS tag. You took it. Where is it?"
Greg's mind raced. He remembered the collision at the x-ray belt. The broad-shouldered man. The identical bags. He had taken the wrong bag. Which meant the broad-shouldered man had taken his beach towels, and he had taken...
"Cassie," Greg choked out, his eyes widening. "My daughter. She went down to the cabin with her carry-on. She had a black bag too. It was heavy. I thought it was her makeup case."
"Show me," the leader demanded. He released Greg’s shirt and grabbed him by the shoulder, shoving him toward the interior doors. "Move! Now!"
Greg stumbled forward, his knees weak. He looked back at Louise, who was sitting on the deck, staring at her scraped, bleeding palms. He had to get to Cassie.
Deep in the bowels of the ferry, in Cabin 4B, Cassie Matthews sat cross-legged on the lumpy, stained mattress of the bottom bunk. The room was the size of a closet. The walls were painted a nauseating shade of seafoam green, peeling at the corners. The tiny porthole window was coated in a thick layer of sea salt, blocking out most of the sunlight.
"Chat, I am literally trapped in a floating prison cell," Cassie said, holding her phone up to her face. She adjusted the angle to catch the dim, flickering light of the overhead bulb. "My dad is a literal psycho for booking this. I am going to do a haul of what I packed, just so I have content for the day."
She reached down and grabbed the heavy black canvas duffel sitting on the linoleum floor. She hauled it onto the mattress. It was incredibly heavy. She grunted, pulling the brass zipper back.
"Let's see what I threw in here at three in the morning," she muttered to her phone camera.
She pulled the canvas apart.
There were no clothes inside. No makeup bags. No chargers. The bag was filled to the brim with heavy, dull-yellow bricks. They were stacked neatly, wrapped in thick bands of paper. The metal looked old, scratched, and stamped with strange, jagged symbols that hurt her eyes to look at.
Cassie lowered her phone. She stared at the bricks.
"What the actual..." she whispered.
She reached out, extending one hand toward the closest gold bar. Her fingertips brushed the cold, textured surface of the metal.
The instant her skin made contact, a sharp, static shock snapped against her fingers. Cassie yanked her hand back with a gasp.
A low, mechanical hissing sound filled the tiny cabin. It sounded like a punctured tire. From the gaps between the gold bars, a thick, violently green mist began to pour outward. It did not behave like normal smoke. It clung to the mattress, rolling over the edge and spilling onto the floor like a heavy liquid.
The cabin door suddenly slammed open, bouncing off the wall with a loud crack.
Greg fell into the room, shoved hard from behind. The lead mercenary stepped in after him, raising his rifle. Two other mercenaries crowded into the narrow hallway behind him.
"The bag!" the leader shouted, spotting the open duffel on the bed. "Grab it!"
The mercenary standing closest to the door pushed past Greg. He stepped directly into the pool of green mist pooling on the linoleum floor.
He stopped dead.
The man dropped his rifle. It clattered against the floorboards. He grabbed his throat with both hands, making a wet, gagging sound. Through the fabric of his balaclava, Greg could see the man's eyes widening in absolute terror. The skin around his eyes began to change color, rapidly shifting from pale white to a sick, bruised purple. Dark, black veins spider-webbed across his forehead.
"Carter!" the leader yelled. "What are you doing? Grab the bag!"
The mercenary named Carter did not grab the bag. He let out a horrifying, wet shriek. His hands dropped from his throat. He turned around slowly. The fabric of his mask tore as his jaw distended impossibly far, ripping the seam. Thick, black sludge dripped from his chin. His eyes had rolled completely back in his head, leaving only bruised, yellowed sclera.
He lunged at the leader, sinking his teeth directly into the man's neck, biting through the thick Kevlar collar.
The leader screamed, a high-pitched sound of pure agony. Blood sprayed across the seafoam green wall.
Cassie scrambled backward against the wall, pulling her knees to her chest. "Bruh, what the actual f—"
The third mercenary in the hallway panicked. He raised his rifle and fired a blind burst into the cabin. The noise was deafening in the enclosed space. Plaster dust exploded from the ceiling. Greg threw himself to the floor, covering his head with his hands.
The infected mercenary, Carter, tore a chunk of meat from his leader's neck. He dropped the body and turned his blind, yellow eyes toward Cassie sitting on the bed. He let out a wet growl and vaulted over the pile of luggage, his hands reaching for her face.
Cassie grabbed the only object within reach. Her massive, forty-ounce, bright pink Stanley cup. It was completely full of ice water.
She swung it with both hands like a baseball bat.
The heavy steel base of the cup connected directly with the side of the zombie's head. The impact produced a sickening, wet crunch. The zombie crumpled, hitting the floor hard and sliding against the tiny bathroom door.
Greg looked up, his ears ringing from the gunfire. He stared at the dead mercenary on the floor. He stared at the infected one twitching against the bathroom door.
"Dad!" Cassie screamed, clutching the dented pink cup to her chest. Water was leaking from the cracked lid. "What is happening!"
Before Greg could answer, a shadow fell over the doorway.
Louise stood in the hall. She looked entirely different. The mild, edible-induced haze was gone, replaced by a terrifying, primal intensity. In her right hand, she held the long, wooden handle of a janitorial mop she had ripped from a supply closet. Taped to the end of the mop handle, using thick layers of silver duct tape, was the jagged, broken neck of a massive duty-free vodka bottle.
She had constructed a spear.
Louise stepped over the bleeding body of the leader in the doorway. She looked at Greg on the floor, then at Cassie on the bed. Finally, she looked at the third mercenary standing frozen in the hallway, staring at the carnage.
"Nobody," Louise said, her voice dropping an octave, "ruins my vacation."
Greg scrambled backward, his sneakers squeaking against the slick linoleum. The ringing in his ears began to fade, replaced by a chorus of wet, tearing sounds coming from the hallway.
"Louise!" Greg yelled, reaching out a trembling hand. "Louise, wait!"
The third mercenary, standing in the corridor, had dropped his rifle. He was clutching his face. The green mist had drifted through the open doorway, curling around his heavy black boots. The man shrieked as the dark veins rapidly multiplied across his exposed neck. He dropped to his knees, his spine arching backward at a sickening angle.
Louise did not hesitate. She lunged forward, driving the makeshift glass-tipped mop spear directly into the infected mercenary's shoulder. The glass shattered further on impact, but the force pushed the man backward, pinning him temporarily against the rusted metal wall of the corridor.
"Get the bag!" Louise screamed, planting her feet and holding the heavy mop handle steady as the zombie thrashed. Thick, black blood poured from the wound, coating the wooden pole. "Greg! Grab the bag and move!"
Greg hauled himself up. He looked at the heavy canvas duffel sitting on Cassie's bed. The gold bars were still visible, the green mist slowly dissipating into the air, losing its dense, liquid quality.
"I am not touching that!" Greg shouted. His chest heaved. "It turned them into monsters! It is cursed!"
"Use a towel, you idiot!" Louise snapped, struggling to keep the snarling zombie pinned.
Cassie grabbed a cheap, scratchy white ferry towel from the bathroom rack. She threw it over the open bag, hastily zipping the heavy brass teeth shut. She grabbed the canvas straps, groaning under the immense weight, and dragged it off the bed.
"I got it!" Cassie yelled. She slung the strap over her shoulder, nearly falling over from the momentum. She still held the dented pink Stanley cup in her left hand.
"Move!" Louise shouted. She yanked the spear free, causing the zombie to stumble forward. She swung the heavy wooden shaft, hitting the creature directly in the kneecap. The bone snapped with a loud crack, and the zombie went down.
The three of them bolted down the narrow corridor. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered wildly, buzzing like angry hornets. The ship lurched, thrown sideways by a massive wave.
"Where are we going?" Greg panted, his knees aching with every step. The Sbarro pizza was fighting a desperate battle in his stomach.
"The cafeteria!" Louise yelled over her shoulder. "It is a wide open space! We need room to see them coming!"
They pushed through the heavy, swinging double doors of the ferry's main cafeteria. The room was a disaster. Dozens of plastic tables and chairs had been overturned in a panic. Luggage was scattered everywhere. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows on the starboard side revealed a dark, churning ocean.
There were no uninfected passengers in the room.
Instead, scattered across the sticky, soda-stained carpet, were six infected passengers. The green mist must have traveled through the ventilation shafts. A man wearing a Hawaiian shirt identical to Greg's was crouched over a salad bar, tearing handfuls of raw lettuce and what looked like a human finger into his mouth. A woman in a floral sundress was repeatedly bashing her own head against a metal support pillar, ignoring the dark blood streaming down her face.
"Oh, god," Greg whimpered, stopping dead in his tracks.
The noise of the doors swinging shut drew their attention. All six zombies stopped what they were doing. They turned in unison, their yellowed eyes locking onto the Matthews family.
"They want the bag," Cassie said, her voice shaking. She adjusted the heavy strap on her shoulder. "Dad, they are literally looking at the bag."
"Give it to them!" Greg yelled, waving his arms frantically.
"We can't just give them cursed gold!" Louise snapped. She tightened her grip on the bloody mop handle. "They will just kill us anyway! Grab a weapon, Greg! Do something!"
The zombies charged. They did not run like humans. Their movements were jerky, unnatural, and terrifyingly fast.
Greg looked around in a blind panic. He grabbed the nearest object: a heavy, stainless-steel food tray from the dirty dish rack. He held it up like a shield just as the man in the floral sundress lunged at him. The zombie slammed into the metal tray, its teeth scraping violently against the steel. Greg shoved hard, throwing his entire weight forward. The zombie stumbled backward, slipping on a puddle of spilled diet cola.
Louise thrust her spear, catching another infected passenger in the chest.
Cassie retreated behind the long, stainless-steel food service counter. The zombies scrambled over the overturned tables, swarming the counter.
"Cassie, get out of there!" Greg screamed, bashing his metal tray against a zombie's skull. The metal dented, but the creature barely flinched.
Cassie backed up against the wall, her hands scrambling over the appliances. Her fingers found a thick, heavy plastic lever. It was attached to a massive, industrial-sized nacho cheese dispenser. The red indicator light on the machine glowed brightly, reading: SUPERHEATED.
A zombie wearing a bucket hat vaulted over the counter, landing heavily on the metal prep station. It crawled toward Cassie, black sludge dripping from its jaw.
Cassie grabbed the nozzle of the dispenser and yanked the lever down as hard as she could.
A thick, pressurized stream of boiling hot, neon-orange synthetic cheese blasted out of the nozzle. It hit the zombie directly in the face.
The creature shrieked, a horrifying sound of bubbling flesh and agony. The boiling cheese stuck to its skin like napalm, melting the gray flesh instantly. The zombie clawed frantically at its own face, ripping away chunks of melted skin and cheese, before collapsing off the counter and writhing on the floor.
Cassie let go of the lever, panting heavily. The smell of burnt hair and artificial cheddar filled the cramped kitchen space.
"Okay," Cassie gasped, wiping a splatter of orange cheese off her cheek. "Okay. That worked."
Greg slammed his tray down on the back of the floral-dress zombie's neck, finally crushing its spine. He leaned against the metal counter, gasping for air. His heart was hammering against his ribs so hard he thought it might crack his sternum.
"We need to get off this boat," Greg wheezed.
"We can't," Louise said, pulling her spear free from a dead passenger. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her forearm. "We are in the middle of the ocean. We need to stop the mist. We need to destroy the gold."
"How do you destroy cursed gold?" Greg asked, throwing his hands up in frustration. "We don't have a volcano!"
Cassie pulled her phone out of her pocket. The screen was cracked from hitting the mercenary earlier, but the display still functioned. She tapped the screen rapidly.
"I am livestreaming," Cassie said.
"What?" Greg yelled. "Put the phone away!"
"Dad, shut up and listen!" Cassie yelled back. "I have three thousand people watching right now. I asked them to pull the schematics for a 1998 passenger ferry. The Wi-Fi is garbage, but someone named 'BoatNerd88' just sent a link in the chat."
She squinted at the shattered screen, scrolling past hundreds of panicked comments.
"Okay," Cassie said, nodding. "The engine room. It is on the lowest deck. The main propeller shafts are exposed down there for maintenance. They are massive industrial shredders. If we throw the bag into the spinning gears, it will grind the gold into dust. The curse breaks. Boom. Problem solved."
Greg stared at his daughter. "You want us to fight our way down to the bottom of the ship to throw a bag of cursed gold into a blender?"
"Do you have a better idea?" Louise asked, stepping forward with her blood-stained spear.
Greg looked at the dented tray in his hand. He looked at the boiling cheese dripping from the counter.
"Fine," Greg muttered. "Lead the way."
The stairwell descending to the lower decks was a pitch-black, narrow metal tube. The emergency lights had failed completely, leaving only the weak, erratic beam of the flashlight app on Cassie’s cracked phone to guide them.
Greg went first, his hand gripping the damp, rusted handrail. Every step echoed loudly in the confined space. The air grew colder the deeper they went, heavy with the smell of diesel fuel and old, stagnant water.
"Watch your step," Greg whispered, though there was no real reason to be quiet. The dull, mechanical roar of the ferry's massive engines vibrated through the metal walls, drowning out almost everything else.
At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy steel bulkhead door stood partially open. Water had breached the lower hull. Ankle-deep, freezing seawater sloshed over the floor grates, mixing with thick, iridescent puddles of spilled machine oil.
"This is totally safe," Cassie muttered from the back of the line, adjusting the heavy strap of the duffel bag. "We are definitely not going to get electrocuted."
"Keep moving," Louise ordered, holding her makeshift spear at the ready.
Greg pushed the heavy steel door open the rest of the way. It groaned loudly on its rusted hinges. They stepped into the massive cavern of the main engine room.
Two towering, house-sized diesel engines dominated the space, their pistons pumping frantically. The noise was absolutely deafening. Heat radiated off the metal housing in visible waves. Toward the back of the room, past a maze of thick pipes and catwalks, a heavy iron maintenance hatch stood open in the floor. Below it, the massive, spinning steel shaft of the main propeller churned violently.
"There!" Cassie yelled, pointing her phone light toward the open hatch. "BoatNerd88 was right! The primary drive shaft is exposed!"
They splashed through the oily water, moving toward the hatch.
Suddenly, the water ahead of them churned. Three heavily armored mercenaries rose from the flooded floorboards. They had been submerged, waiting. Their tactical gear was soaked, heavy with water. The green mist clung to their wet clothing. Their skin was completely gray, their eyes glowing with that same sickly yellow light.
"Dad!" Cassie screamed.
The largest zombie lunged forward, tackling Greg around the waist. Greg went down hard into the freezing, oily water. The impact knocked the wind out of him. The zombie scrambled up his chest, its jaw snapping wildly, thick black saliva dripping onto Greg's face.
Greg grabbed the heavy collar of the mercenary's Kevlar vest, struggling to hold the snapping teeth away from his throat. His arms burned with the effort.
Louise charged, driving the broken glass tip of her spear directly into the back of the zombie's neck. The creature roared, twisting violently. The sudden movement snapped the wooden mop handle in half. Louise stumbled backward, losing her balance and falling into the water.
The second zombie moved past the struggle, heading directly for Cassie and the heavy black bag.
Cassie swung her dented pink Stanley cup, hitting the zombie in the face. The heavy steel bounced off the creature's cheekbone. The zombie did not even flinch. It grabbed the strap of the duffel bag, yanking hard.
Cassie lost her footing, falling forward onto her knees. The zombie dragged the bag—and Cassie, who refused to let go of the strap—toward the spinning metal of the propeller shaft.
Greg punched his attacker in the throat, ignoring the pain in his knuckles. He shoved the creature off him, scrambling to his feet. He looked frantically for a weapon. He saw a massive, heavy iron wrench sitting on a nearby toolbox.
He grabbed the wrench with both hands. It weighed at least twenty pounds. He swung it like a golf club, catching his attacker directly in the side of the head. The zombie collapsed into the water and did not move.
"Cassie!" Greg yelled.
The second zombie had dragged Cassie all the way to the edge of the open maintenance hatch. The roar of the spinning propeller blades was terrifying. The metal teeth of the gear system ground violently, churning the ocean water below into a white foam.
Cassie dug her sneakers into the wet metal grating, pulling back on the canvas strap with all her strength. The zombie snarled, pulling harder.
"Let go of the bag!" Greg screamed, running toward her.
"It has to go in!" Cassie screamed back.
Louise suddenly appeared beside the zombie. She had picked up a heavy, rusted fire extinguisher from the wall. She raised it over her head and slammed it down directly onto the zombie's hands. The creature shrieked, its grip loosening for a fraction of a second.
Cassie used the sudden slack to rip the heavy canvas bag upward. She swung it in a wide arc, using the momentum to throw the entire duffel forward, directly over the open hatch.
The black canvas bag dropped into the dark, spinning void.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, a horrendous, shrieking sound echoed through the engine room. It sounded like metal tearing metal. The massive engine block shuddered violently, throwing sparks into the air. The heavy brass zippers of the bag snagged on the spinning gears. The canvas tore open.
The heavy gold bricks spilled directly into the churning, high-speed propeller blades.
The industrial steel shredded the ancient, cursed gold. Sparks flew in massive showers, lighting up the flooded room in bursts of intense white light. A shockwave of displaced air blasted upward from the hatch, throwing Greg, Louise, and Cassie backward onto the wet grates.
A final, massive cloud of thick green mist erupted from the hatch, immediately getting sucked into the massive exhaust vents above the engines.
The shrieking metal sound stopped. The engine block settled back into a steady, rhythmic hum.
Greg groaned, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His Hawaiian shirt was torn, soaked in oily water and black blood. He looked around.
The remaining zombie, the one whose hands Louise had smashed, was lying motionless on the floor grate. The thick black veins rapidly faded from its skin. The gray color washed away, leaving normal, pale flesh. The creature was completely dead, the animating curse broken.
The heavy silence of the engine room stretched out, broken only by the steady churning of the machinery.
"Is it over?" Louise whispered, pulling herself up to a sitting position. Her hair was plastered to her forehead. She looked exhausted.
Greg nodded slowly. He felt entirely numb. "Yeah. I think so."
Thirty minutes later, the Matthews family pushed open the heavy metal doors leading to the top deck of the ferry. The storm clouds had broken, revealing a bright, incredibly clear summer sky. The sun beat down on the rusted deck, warming the metal.
The deck was quiet. The few surviving passengers were huddled near the lifeboats, staring in shock at the carnage left behind by the infected mercenaries.
Greg walked to the railing. He leaned heavily against the warm metal, staring out at the emerald green water of the ocean. He hurt everywhere. His back throbbed, his hands were bruised, and the Sbarro pizza had finally settled into a dull, heavy ache in his stomach.
Louise walked up beside him. She dropped the broken handle of the mop onto the deck. She leaned her head against his shoulder.
Cassie stepped out from the stairwell. She held her cracked phone up, adjusting the angle. She was covered in black sludge, oily water, and thick splatters of bright orange nacho cheese. She held the severely dented, leaking pink Stanley cup in her left hand.
She looked directly into the camera lens, her face completely deadpan.
"So, vacation vlog part two," Cassie said flatly. "We survived. Slay."
“Cassie tapped the screen, the upload bar freezing at ninety-nine percent just as a new scratching sound echoed from below.”
