SPACESHIP ZOMBIE CRUISE

FILE ENTRY 12.0

Bella Starr

I can't believe Caprica got so wasted she couldn't talk or utter a single syllable, or at least tell me to go away. She promised to back off the booze, but obviously she snuck in a few shots of hard liquor. Or someone spiked her drink? That's why I wanted Halo to shadow them. If he and Astra hadn't been there with her, there's no telling what might have happened. I don't trust anyone but my closest friends. It seems everyone is working an angle, looking to get the upper hand on someone, and it usually ends badly.

In the elevator, I select the Sea Breeze Deck with a verbal command. The steel box begins the ascent from the bowels of the ship to the top floor. Not able to sleep, maybe I can relax by the pool in a lawn chair and stare at the holographic stars overhead?

I cross my arms and lean against the back of the elevator. I watch with growing disinterest as the floor selections rise from one deck to another. It's quiet. Peaceful. Maybe I'll have the pool to myself? Not likely, but I can hope.

One floor from the top, the elevator stops and the doors open. A man barrels inside, hunched over and groaning. He glances at me with reddened, spidery eyes. Nods. Turns his back to me.

I cringe and scoot over to the back corner of the elevator. The man clutches his stomach with his hands and arms folded in on himself. He teeters on his feet, catches his balance, but doesn't look back.

"Upset stomach?" I wince, jittery waves rushing over me.

The man nods but doesn't say a word.

"Dizzy too? Huh?" I wonder what's wrong with him, wanting to wrap my mind around what's causing his sickness.

The man whirls around. "What's it to you?"

Spit trickles over his bottom lip as his bloodshot eyes shoot daggers through me. He snarls and jerks around, putting his back to me again.

For the first time since I left home over a year ago, and for the first time in my life, I feel the jagged edge of fear. My heart hammers in my chest. My breath hangs in my throat like a hard lump. I want to melt into the elevator's back corner and disappear, runaway from whatever is wrong with the man.

He shifts and turns his head, not quite looking back at me but enough of a view for me to get a sidelong look at his face.

Recognition slaps me with its hot, sweaty palm. I know who this guy is; he's Adrianna's father. Earlier on the Serenity Deck at the back of the ship, the girl's dad mentioned he had been feeling queasy. I remember the guy's wife was worse than him. The woman might be curled up in bed in their stateroom, but what about Adrianna? Is she sick too? I hope not. She's such a sweet girl.

The man waits, holding himself like his intestines are about to fall out of his stomach. He shakes and murmurs to himself.

I don't know what's wrong with him, but it has to be something far worse than food poisoning or Artificial Gravity Sickness. The thought makes me slink further into the corner, desperate to get away.

Finally, the doors open to the Sea Breeze Deck, and the man, the husband and father, stumbles into the open.

"My head. It's killing me." His hands fly to his temples, and he screams in agony. He pitches forward and collapses to the deck, convulsing—for at least thirty seconds—while I stand frozen in place with my hand holding the elevator doors open.

He goes still.

I slink toward the man... Adrianna's father. I have to remember who this guy is. He isn't just anyone, he's a precious little girl's dad.

I wish I knew his name. It might help to put a name to his face. I'll go for anything that will take my mind off his maddened gaze.

Even though he's not shaking anymore, he's still alive. He's breathing, his back heaving up and down in ragged intakes of air, expelling with hard puffs.

I steel myself and kneel beside him, reach out and feel his neck. My fingertips burn when I touch his skin and sense his pulse racing, blood pumping through his jugular like a dying star exhausting its hydrogen reserves.

As I draw back my hand, the man coils in on himself. He clutches his stomach and vomits all over the deck. Then he rolls on his side and faces me.

I lurch away, falling on my rear end, my hands clawing at the floor.

The man's eyes transform into a pleading gaze.

"Help me." The words sputter from his lips. "Help me..."

As I push up from the floor, he closes his eyes and passes out. He isn't dead. At least I don't think he's dead. It looks like his chest is moving, but if it is, it's faint.

I stand and inch backward.

A woman, maybe mid-twenties, exits the cafe doors, followed by a man with short, buzzed cut hair. They're laughing with drinks in their hands.

I glance up at the holographic ceiling. It simulates the stars that are supposed to be overhead as the Celestial Sea zooms through the solar system at two percent the speed of light.

My gaze falls on the woman.

She stops mid-step, her eyes locked on the man sprawled out on the floor.

Her boyfriend or husband halts beside her. "What's wrong with him? Is he drunk?"

"No," I say, "he's sick. Something's wrong with him. He's got a fever, and he's unconscious."

"I'll get help." The man spins and sprints back toward the cafe where there's probably other people. Maybe he can get help from the ship's staff? Someone who can take Adrianna's father to the sick bay.

I approach the woman and pull her elbow, trying to lead her away from the unconscious man.

"We need to keep our distance from him?" I say. "He could be contagious."

"Are you sure? He could be drunk," the woman replies. But her true thoughts about the situation betray her. She runs a hand through her blonde tufts of hair, and edges away, back toward the cafe where her boyfriend had gone. I know they aren't married because she doesn't have a ring on her finger.

On the floor behind us, a guttural wail bursts from the man's mouth. He trembles all over and his torso twists unnaturally.

I flinch and my knees buckle as the man staggers to his feet. Those feverish eyes run wild with rage. He lumbers toward the woman and me, and in what seems like slow motion, he charges toward us, bellowing out.

I don't know what to do or think, but something within me—a dormant, internal survival instinct—tells me I better run.

Now.