I winced as I stood up and stepped over Lucia, trying not to wake her. The throbbing pain was almost more than I could bear, but my curiosity prevailed. Hanging in the closet were three yellow jumpsuits like those the crew wore. I saw no sign of my clothes, so I put one of them on; it fit perfectly. I also found three pairs of boots in roughly our sizes. In clean clothes and dry boots, I tiptoed to the door. Lucullus opened his eyes and watched me for a moment. He must’ve decided that following me wasn’t worth interrupting his peaceful sleep, so he curled up again.
When I reached the door, I cursed under my breath. We were probably locked in. If they were smart, they’d keep us under quarantine until they were sure we weren’t carriers of that demon virus. These people looked like they knew what they were doing, and they had to be prudent to have survived this long. But I gave the knob a turn anyway. The latch clicked softly and the door swung open.
I stuck my head out and was surprised to see a well-lit, immaculate hallway stretching out before me. Pipes of all colors, shapes, and sizes snaked along the ceiling as far as I could see. Every few feet, there were doors like ours, presumably to other cabins. The only sound was a low hum coming from air-conditioning vents. Except for the reinforced metal doors and bare floors, it could’ve been a hotel.
As I crept down the corridor, an uneasy feeling gripped me. Something wasn’t right. There were no locks or short-tempered guards brandishing rifles. This was too good to be true. I was on alert, braced for anything. Just then a door flew open and out came a waiter pushing a cart. I yelled so loud we both nearly had a heart attack.
“Who are you? Where is everyone?” I stammered. My heart felt like it would jump out my mouth.
“Signore, Signore, non passa niente. Sei sicuro.” A little, balding, middle-aged man with a big black mustache tried to catch his breath. “È dell’Ithaca aboard, ricorda?”
He seemed to be speaking Italian, so I tried to dredge up what little Italian I learned during a wonderful, wine-soaked year at the University of Bologna. Either my accent was wrong or my vocabulary was rusty, but I couldn’t get the guy to understand me. I tried Spanish, Portuguese, and English, but none of those languages helped. I was about to try my broken German or my even worse Russian (thanks to Prit, I could curse and talk about sex and liquor in that language) when someone came up behind me.
“I see you’ve met Enzo,” he said in English, with that same unfamiliar accent.
I whipped around and came face to face with the same tall, blond officer who’d welcomed us during the hurricane. His spotless navy uniform fit him like a glove. I half expected him to invite me to a fancy dress ball.
“My name is Strangärd, Gunnar Strangärd. I am the first mate on this ship. I hope you won’t mind my saying so, but it’s considerably larger than the one that brought you.”
As we shook hands, I felt embarrassed at the contrast between the officer’s well-manicured hands and my own, which were covered with motor oil, fish, and God knows what else. My nails were broken and black.
“Enzo is bringing breakfast to you and your friends.” He pointed to the waiter’s cart. “The doctor said that eighteen hours of sleep should be enough, so we thought we’d wake you. If you prefer to return to your cabin to have breakfast with your friends, that’s perfectly fine. However, the captain asked me to invite you to join us for breakfast in the officers’ quarters.” He was silent for a moment, taking in my shocked face. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, not at all,” I stammered. After months of violence, danger, hunger, and hardship, I felt like I was dreaming. The more polite and educated these people were, the more astonished I was. “It’d be a pleasure, believe me.”
After saying good-bye to Enzo and his cart loaded with wonderful-smelling food, I followed Officer Strangärd through the labyrinthine hallways.
“Who are you? Where are you headed? Where’s this ship from?” The questions flew out my mouth as we climbed a flight of stairs and headed down another long corridor.
“I’ll let the captain explain in depth, if you don’t mind.” Judging by the officer’s name and accent, he had to be Swedish or Norwegian. “You are on the supertanker Ithaca. Before the Apocalypse, it belonged to a Greek shipping company. Now,” he added with a bright smile, “it belongs to the AC.”
I was about to ask what the hell the AC was when Officer Strangärd opened a door into a bright, airy room. Half a dozen officers sat at a long table, drinking coffee in silence. My gaze was instantly drawn to the view out the large window behind them. I finally got a good look at the entire length of the tanker. The giant was easily fifteen hundred feet long. Its bow shimmered in a wispy fog. A sailor leisurely pedaled a bicycle along the deck, dodging huge hoses.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” The voice behind me belonged to a man of about fifty, average height, with a wind-beaten complexion. A trim white beard framed his round face and set off slightly puffy light-blue eyes. “I’m Captain Birley. I’m glad you decided to join us for breakfast.”
I mumbled something unintelligible as I took a seat at the captain’s personal table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sailor enter the room. A large pistol hung at his waist and bounced against his thigh as he walked briskly in my direction. He was carrying a strip of paper and a vial of amber liquid.
“There’s one small procedure we have to carry out first. I hope you don’t mind,” continued the captain, sitting down again. “Please spit on that strip of paper.”
I froze, thinking I hadn’t heard him right. The sailor with the pistol set the strip of paper on the table in front of me. I didn’t want to offend my hosts. Plus, I felt sure that pistol wasn’t for show, and if I didn’t spit, the courtesy I’d enjoyed would evaporate. Feeling a bit ridiculous, I gently spit on the paper. The sailor poured a few drops from the vial onto the glob. Nothing happened that I could see, but I must’ve passed the test since the sailor nodded and everyone in the room visibly relaxed.
“Mystery man, you’re clean. Now, I’d love to hear your story. Coffee or tea?”
I pinched myself under the table. I had to be fucking dreaming.
Over cup after cup of coffee, I filled the captain in on our travels while the other officers carried on lively conversations at the next table. I told him how I’d fled Spain through a sea of Undead, and about my little group’s helicopter flight to the Canaries, and the overcrowding and poor living conditions there, which led to our decision to head for Cape Verde. It was a watered-down version, only half-true, but I figured he didn’t need to know all the details. Plus, I was always guarded until I knew a person better.
“Now, it’s my turn to ask.” I smiled, trying to sound more confident than I was. “Who do I have to thank for saving our lives?”
“Our Lord Jesus Christ, of course,” Captain Birley answered, straight-faced, as we stood and walked over to the table of junior officers. “He set you on your path. Everything on earth is His doing. It’s a sign from God that our paths crossed in that terrible storm. His name be praised forever, amen.”
A chorus of “amen” echoed around the table. Even Strangärd chimed in, serious and thoughtful. I was a little taken aback. I hadn’t expected such a show of religious fervor.
“Um… Yes, yes, of course. And who did God place in my path? I mean, who are you?”
“We’re part of the AC. We’re from the Christian Republic of Gulfport, Mississippi, crossing the Atlantic on a mission from God.”
“The AC? The Republic of what? What mission?” To say I was amazed would be an understatement. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but I don’t understand any of this, sir.”