The sickness, p.9
The Sickness, page 9
I sit slumped on the floor, trembling, feeling as if I am about to be swallowed up by the darkness. Suddenly, the door swings open, and a man in a hood drags me from the cell. He marches me to a larger room where a group of men in hoods wait. I am dragged to the center of the room. They circle around me, their eyes glittering with hatred.
My heart feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest as I stare up at the hooded men that fill the room. Despite the hoods, I can see they are young—younger than me by far. Men in their prime: powerful, dangerous-looking figures. There is no escape from them.
As they circle me like vultures, my mind races with questions. What do they want from me? Do they really expect me to answer their questions honestly? Are these people even human or something else entirely?
A bulky man strides forward and speaks in a low, menacing voice.
"We have questions for you, Roger," he says. "You must answer us truthfully, or the consequences will be more severe than you can fathom." His words send a shudder of fear through my body.
One of the cult members takes out a sharp knife and presses it against my neck, his eyes glaring into mine with a sinister gleam.
"Answer our questions," he growls, pressing harder and making me gasp in pain. “Or you die.”
The other men stand around watching silently, as if waiting for some kind of signal from the one holding the knife.
“You wrote a manifesto and tried to pin it on our leader, no?”
When I manage to speak, I stammer. “I…don’t know…I don’t know anything about any manifesto.”
The man takes a fist full of my hair and rips what he can out at the roots. “You are a liar!” He punches me several times. “You will answer us truthfully this time, yes?”
I close my eyes and try to focus on staying calm despite the fear building inside me. As hard as it is, I know I have to stay strong in order to get out of this situation alive. Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes and meet each of their gazes before answering solemnly, "Yes—I’ll answer your questions truthfully."
The heavy-set man nods slowly before continuing. He asks several pointed questions about my beliefs and past actions, but nothing that makes me feel like I'm in any immediate danger—just an interrogation to try to get information out of me. But then he shifts direction. He wants to know about my encounter with Molly in the spa.
The man grows angry, and I shudder as he holds the knife up in front of my face. He asks me questions about other passengers, other members of the cult, and their activities, but I cannot answer them. I can only stare in fear, feeling the blade pressing against my neck.
I want to tell him about Abby—that she’s sick, and she needs me. But I do not want to draw attention to her. I don’t want to give them a reason to go back to that cabin. I do not want them to question her as they are me.
The man presses the knife harder against my skin, and a trickle of blood runs down my neck. The other cultists hold me down, and I feel nausea washing over me.
Finally, the man steps back, satisfied. After a while, the men all leave, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. I lie on the floor, exhausted and trembling. My body aches from the beatings, and blood is trickling down my neck from the knife blade.
I lay there for what feels like an eternity, trying to make sense of what’s happening. I am terrified by the cultists’ interrogation, and it seems like they will never give up on trying to get information from me.
At some point, I lose consciousness, and when I wake, I am back in the smaller cell. I do not know how long I have been here. Hours, days, weeks—it all merges in a blur of pain and terror. They come for me often; they question me relentlessly, torturing me with their blades, their fists, their threats. But I never give in. I never give them the answers they want. How can I? I don't have them.
My days and nights become a blend of pain, despair, and terror. With no end in sight, hope is drifting away that I will ever get out of this living hell.
I think about Abby, about how she needs me to survive down here, how her life depends on it—and that feeling keeps me going through each new day of torture.
But despite my resilience, every day is a struggle to stay alive. At times, it feels like death would be a welcome relief from the relentless pain and suffering. But then I remember my promise to Abby—that I would always be there for her—and it gives me the courage to keep fighting.
28
Abby
I step up to Blake's cabin door and knock, my heart pounding in my chest. I'm desperate for his help—it's like the saying goes: the most obvious answer is usually the correct one, except it wasn't obvious until this morning.
"Just a minute," comes a gruff voice from inside the cabin. Several loud thumps echo off the walls on the other side. The door slowly creaks open, revealing a scowling Blake, looking like he hasn't slept in days, his hair is a wild mess. It feels like he's aged ten years overnight.
“Abby?” he exclaims. "What are you doing here?"
I close my eyes and take a long breath, steadying myself before I speak. My words come out faster than I want them to. "I need your help. I'm looking for information on my mother and was hoping you could hack into the ship's records."
Blake's expression softens, and then he nods with understanding. "I can try," he says. "But it won't be easy. The security on those records is top-notch. And I can't get online—at least not yet; I'm working on it. But I can look at what I have."
Relief floods through me, and I let out a sigh. "Thank you."
I shift from foot to foot. “Oh, and I was wondering—what about the security cameras?”
“What about them?”
“I was thinking you could take a look and see where they took my dad…”
“Hmmm. Tell you what,” Blake says with a nod of his head. "Let me wash up and get dressed and I'll meet you back at your cabin in twenty or so?"
"Sure," I reply without hesitation, already feeling better about our odds of success now that Blake is helping me out.
My next stop is deck seven. I know I have to be careful. The cult has spies everywhere, and I don't want to draw attention to myself.
I search desperately for Jacob, praying he can help me get my father out of captivity. At the very least, he might be able to get messages back and forth.
I find him in a restaurant that should be closed, but instead it's bustling with cult members. He is sitting at a table, talking to a couple of other young men. His eyes narrow when he sees me, and I sense his guardedness. He stands from the table, and I follow him to the other side of the room.
"Jacob," I say breathlessly, my voice trembling. “I need your help.”
Recognition flashes in his eyes as he looks me up and down. "Abby, you shouldn’t be here.”
“I know,” I say, trying to keep my voice low. “And I’m sorry. But I didn’t know what else to do. I need to get my father out of wherever it is they're keeping him.”
Something dark passes across Jacob's face, and he shakes his head. "I'm afraid I can't help you with that."
My desperation rises and I plead, "Why not?"
He refuses to meet my gaze. “It's complicated.”
"I don't care," I say, my voice rising. "I need to know what's going on. I need to help my father."
Jacob leans in closer. "Listen to me, Abby," he instructs in a low rasp. "This isn't just about your father. There are bigger things at play here—things you wouldn't understand."
I lift my chin defiantly. "Try me.”
Jacob stares at me, like he can see right through me, before finally giving a nod. "All right," he agrees reluctantly, "but you have to promise me you won't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you. And I mean no one."
"Okay," I agree, my heart racing with anticipation.
Jacob inhales sharply, and the words seem to catch in his throat. "This cult isn't what you think," he says. "They're not about enlightenment or spiritual growth. It's about them keeping their power by any means necessary—even if it means hurting people."
My vision blurs as oxygen seems to be sucked from the air around me, but I check my battery oxygen concentrator—it’s fine. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I don’t think you get it. What I mean is,” he says in an icy whisper, “there are experiments being conducted on this ship. Experiments that involve human subjects. And your father is one of them.”
My heart drops into my stomach. "What kind of experiments?" I manage to force out past the lump in my throat.
"I don't know all the details," Jacob admits. "But I do know they're doing it all in secret, hidden away in a part of the ship that even I don't have access to."
I feel like I've been punched in the gut. All this time, my father has been suffering, and there's nothing I can do.
"How can I get him out?" I plead.
“I don't know,” Jacob replies. “But we need to be careful—if anyone finds out we're talking about this, we'll both be toast. Got it?”
"I understand," I say quickly, already plotting ways in which we might free him. "I'll be careful. But what else would we be talking about?”
“Exactly. That’s why I need you to stay away—I don’t want to be implicated.”
“Fine.”
As I turn to leave, Jacob reaches out and grabs my arm. "Abby, I'm serious. It’ll be bad news if I'm seen talking to you again—especially if it’s one of the leaders. The people behind this aren't the kind who mess around."
I contemplate my next move and reply, "You're right. I shouldn't have come."
“I’m sorry, but this has to happen.” He gives me a sad smile and then and puts one finger to his lips. With a raised voice he says, “Don’t ever fucking come here again! You hear? I have nothing else to say to you!”
Tears sting my eyes. “Jacob—please?” I choke out.
He shakes his head while backing away. “Please? Seriously? You had the chance—we tried to welcome you in—you made your choice!”
I burst into tears and hurry out. I don’t mean to cry, but it’s clear how bad the situation is. I check the battery on my concentrator. I have one more stop to make before meeting Blake, and hopefully just enough battery to do it. Admittedly, I have not been keeping up with things the way Roger did. It’s strange, I guess I never really realized just how much he does for me. I mean, I thought I knew. But I didn’t know.
When I round the corner and step into the hallway, Molly is standing there holding a bundled sandwich. She takes me by my shirtsleeve and pulls me into a stairwell.
“I heard you were looking for Jacob," she says. "I thought you might be hungry.”
I nod, my heart racing. I can't trust her, but I appreciate the gesture. "Thank you," I say, taking the sandwich.
Molly looks uneasy and keeps glancing around like she’s worried about someone seeing us together. “This was a bad idea,” she says. “I need to keep a low profile, and I recommend you do the same. But I just wanted you to know,” she whispers, her voice heavy with emotion, “that I'm working on getting your dad free. I haven't given up.”
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and take a deep breath. Then I straighten my back, fighting back the urge to let myself fall apart completely. Instead, I simply nod and say, "I appreciate that. But I really wish you'd try a little harder."
“I know.” She reaches out and squeezes my arm before walking away without another word.
29
Roger
My wrists burn as the ropes dig into my skin, blood trickling down my arms. Gagged and tossed into a black abyss with no way out. It feels like I've been here forever. Why me? What have I done to deserve this?
The three lead interrogators are younger this time. One looks familiar—Abby's date from that night at the nightclub.
Finally, Isaac strolls in. It's the first time I've seen him since my captivity. He prefers others to do his dirty work for him.
"Welcome to the grand experiment," he sneers. He crouches down to get a better look at me. "You see, we must teach our brothers and sisters a lesson: It is unacceptable to be disloyal to the Sons and Daughters of Infinity."
"We must show them how to bear pain, just like you," he continues. "But more than that, we must instruct them on how to inflict suffering when needed—the same way a father disciplines his child when they misbehave, you understand?"
"Just kill me and get it over with," I murmur. I'm too exhausted to rebel or find something clever to say to make them finish me off already.
They keep asking the same questions, but I stay true to my answers and refuse to break. Yet their rage grows clearer with each passing second; it's plastered across their faces.
My eyes dart around the room, searching for any escape route. But there is none—my captors have me cornered. Fear courses through my veins like lightning as they raise the stakes. "Answer or else extreme measures will be taken," one of them bellows.
My mind races with terrifying possibilities of what they'll do to me—and I know there is nothing I can do to stop it. With a trembling voice, I answer their questions, trying desperately to stay alive.
The torture starts. One of them retrieves a knife from the corner of the room and slices deep into my skin as he repeats the same questions again and again. The pain is unbearable, but I grit my teeth and bite back my cries of agony. It feels like an eternity before they finally stop. Prayers slip past my lips, but they go unanswered—instead, Isaac's henchmen enter and stand over me, their faces twisted in amusement.
"It was all a misunderstanding," they say mockingly. “You should have thought twice about getting yourself caught in a room with another man’s naked wife alone.”
It wasn’t like that, I want to say. But I know it will only make it worse. I also know they are messing with me, playing mind games, trying to break me down. “Get up, let’s go.”
I shake my head hard, even though I know it won't make any difference. Fear snakes up inside me, cold and heavy and thick, gripping my throat so tight that I can't even speak—I just pray for a miracle that will never come. As realization hits home—I’ll never see my daughter again—the boys laugh cruelly, reveling in their control.
They untie me and pull me to stand on my trembling legs. As they drag me out of the room, all I can feel is the ice-cold touch of a gun barrel against my temple.
30
Abby
I fiddle with the key card for a moment before pushing open the door to our cabin, my heart heavy and hope waning. But my steps falter when I hear my name called from inside.
Dad is standing there, looking like a ghost. I can’t believe my eyes. I can’t believe he’s here. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. A huge lump pushes up in my throat, and I swallow hard against the pressure. I’ve never been happier.
When our eyes meet, a current of elation and relief passes through me that nearly knocks me off my feet. His blue eyes glint against the darkening bruises around them, and there are raw wounds on his arms and face.
He stumbles toward me with outstretched arms and pulls me in for a crushing embrace. I can't fight back the tears as I bury my face deep in his chest, feeling each heavy breath tremble through him like thunder.
Finally he frees himself from my grip, holding me at arm's length so he can get a look at me. "Are you okay?" he whispers tenderly.
"Am I okay? Yes, Dad," I whisper back, fighting for every word. "But are you?"
A small, exhausted smile twitches across his face as he struggles to stand. He's dressed in rags, with dark bruises peppering his arms and shoulders. Even from a distance I see small cuts dance along his cheekbones, and the stark contrast of his black eye against his pale skin.
He reaches up to touch it before I can intervene. "It looks worse than it is."
"It looks pretty bad," I say. "Come sit down."
I help him over to the couch, not realizing how badly he's limping until we get there. Then I see the smears of blood on his pants. "Oh God..." What happened to him?
"It's just a few flesh wounds," he lies. But I don't believe him for a second. "Nothing major."
"Can I get you something? Should I call a doctor?"
Fear flickers in his eyes as he says, "I don't know...let me think. I'm not sure I want to draw attention to myself—or make matters worse by being exposed to someone who has been around people with the virus."
"I think you need a doctor," I tell him firmly.
"For now, just some water, okay?"
My heart aches as I fill up a glass for him. He rolls up his pant leg then winces when he sees the full extent of the damage done to his leg. What if those cuts get infected?
Dad notices my worry and offers an explanation. "I'm going to use the antibiotics Dr. Clifford prescribed you. Can you grab them?"
"Sure," I reply quickly before adding, "Are you hungry? I have a sandwich..."
He laughs dryly— his usual joking manner returning despite the pain and exhaustion evident on every inch of him. "I'm starving! I could eat an elephant!"
We huddle together on the sofa, wolfing down Molly's sandwich. But soon his smile fades and the weight of his experience drags him into darkness. His hands shake, and tears stream down his cheeks. I tighten my grip around him, aching at the thought of how he’s suffering.
He leans against me with a sigh, resting his head on my shoulder as if shedding all of his anxieties that were locked away. His body trembles as gut-wrenching sobs rack through him, letting go all of what had happened. We stay like that for an eternity, until his breathing evens out and exhaustion takes over.
He pulls back, wiping away the last of his tears. "I'm sorry," he whispers before leaning against me once again. I’ve never been so relieved to see him and vow never to give him grief again. “Do you want to talk now?”
“No," he says with a heavy voice. “I want to sleep.”
“Can I get you anything else? Ice?"
