Chapter 8: Going Rogue

I’m not sure how long I’ve been in this room with Angela and David, going over what I saw. They’ve watched the video at least a dozen times by now, and I’ve sent it to Angela’s device as well. It’s clear David can’t be trusted, and I don’t know what will happen to him, but I really don’t care. He made a choice, and it would’ve gotten me killed had Angela not stepped in. David has barely spoken, guilt carved into his face and body, but I make no attempt to comfort him. He should feel bad; he should probably rot in jail for taking bribes from the company he was supposed to be investigating.

“Is there anything else you need to tell us?” Angela asks, snapping me back to reality. I shake my head. I’m exhausted, and they have as much information as I can provide. Angela nods and closes her notepad.

“Okay,” she says with a sigh as she rubs her face. “We have all the details of the incident, so now all we need to do is file the official report.”

My mouth almost falls open.

“Are you serious?” I ask, not bothering to mask my annoyance. “File a fucking report?” Angela’s back goes rigid, and I can tell she’s tired too.

“Yes,” she says weakly, “that’s all we can do right now. Once we’re back home, we can bring on more agents for a more thorough investigation, but beyond that, it’s a waiting game, I’m afraid.”

“And what about me?” I ask. “Booker’s not going to just let me leave.” I’d told them about Trevor, and they said they’d check into it, but I’m not sure they believed me. “And what about all those people in the sublevel?”

“David and I will make sure you’re safe,” she says, “and we’ll also have security take us down to the sublevel as soon as possible.”

Her casualness makes the rage in my stomach boil over, but I tamp it down. What I want to do is flip the table and scream at them to wake the fuck up. But I can’t lose it in front of them. So, instead, I nod, as if what she’s just explained is completely reasonable.

“Obviously,” David says, daring to speak, “we’ll ask you to keep this under wraps for now. Until a more thorough investigation can be completed.” I nod again, biting my tongue. The audacity he has to ask me to keep this quiet.

“I understand,” I say, keeping my voice as level as possible, “I’m just glad you’re taking this seriously and that you can protect me.” Angela smiles, which makes me think she’s bought it. “Anything else?” I ask. She shakes her head. “In that case, I think I’d like to go take a nap,” I say. “It’s been an exhausting day.”

“Of course,” she says, standing up. I follow her lead and head to the door. “If we have any other questions, we know where to find you.” I smile and thank her, then walk down the hallway. I turn the corner and, when I’m sure they can no longer see me, I run as fast as I can.

Fuck keeping quiet. Fuck going back to my room and quietly waiting until Booker can kill me and make it look like an accident. Fuck them all.

I still have the video, and if the agents aren’t going to do anything with it, I sure as hell will.

* * *

It’s lunchtime aboard the New Unity, which means most of the guests will be in the main dining room. Lucky for me, there’s an enormous TV near the bar that’s usually playing football or baseball or golf.

But in a few minutes, it’s going to be playing something entirely different.

I enter the dining room as nonchalantly as I can. I don’t want to spook any of the guests or other workers, but I also need to be as fast as possible. Although Angela and David said they could protect me from Booker, I know that’s not true. Not forever, at least. There’s two of them and an entire security force at Booker’s disposal. It’s only a matter of time before they get to me. Which means it’s time for drastic measures.

Trying not to run, I make my way to the bar and slip behind it. The bartender is busy with a customer, so I head straight to the cupboard under the TV, the one that has a bundle of wirings snaking out of it.

Opening the door, it only takes a few moments to figure out how to attach my phone to the TV. My hands are steady as I pull a cord loose and the TV goes dark, but I’m already plugging in my phone, and suddenly, from the light in my peripheral vision, I know the video is on the TV.

Without hesitating, I press the play button.

The sound of my voice erupts from the speakers above me, and the entire dining room goes quiet as the guests turn to face the now booming television. I can’t see the TV from this angle, but every eye is transfixed on it. Guests’ mouths fall open, and one man drops his silverware to the floor with a loud clatter. Even the workers have stopped to watch.

The room remains still until the video comes to an end. We all sit in silence, no one willing to move or talk. And then, from the back of the room, someone speaks.

“What the hell was that?” the gruff male voice says. As if lighting a fuse, the comment sends the rest of the room into motion. Tables begin to talk amongst themselves, trying to figure out what they just watched. Employees stare back and forth at one another, unsure what to do. I see older, more seasoned employees slip out of side doors, headed to who knows where.

I crawl onto the bar and shout for the guests to be quiet, but no one listens. I yell again, but the noise is too loud, the guests now thoroughly confused. Finally, I grab a plate nearby and smash it on the ground. It shatters into a million pieces, and the noise is loud enough to grab everyone's attention.

Once again, everyone’s eyes turn toward the bar, toward me.

“What you just saw,” I begin, my voice firm, “is happening right now on the sublevel of this ship. I recorded it just a few hours ago. There are people trapped down there. Sick people who’ve been missing for a long time.” I expect some sort of reaction from the crowd, but no one says anything. They just stare back at me, unsure what to do with this news.

“They seemed fine to me,” a woman toward the back finally says. She sounds annoyed, like she’s upset her meal has been interrupted.

“Yeah,” calls another voice, “they just looked like they were working.” Anger flares in my stomach once again, and I have to restrain myself from yelling. Instead, I step down from the bar and grab my phone, rewinding the video. I intend to show them just how sick the workers are, but someone from the crowd gasps.

“Wait,” says a young female voice. “Go back.” I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I scroll until she calls for me to stop. The screen is just a wide shot of various people in the sublevel, and I look out to the dining area to see what the woman recognized.

“Oh my God,” she says. She’s sitting near the bar, and her thin white hand is clasped over her mouth. “That woman serviced my room two days ago,” she says. “I was only a few feet away from her.”

Suddenly, the room begins to buzz with worry. The tables have begun talking again, and I hear the words “contagious” and “transmissible” spread across the room. I scroll through the video and pause on a close-up of one of the sick workers: the bumps, the sagging skin, the dilated pupils.

As I’d hoped, the enlarged image on the TV makes the crowd even more agitated.

“What are they sick with?” one voice calls.

“Is it contagious?”

“Are they being quarantined?”

I just stand there, letting the chaos swell around me. Not only because the more worried the crowd becomes, the more likely we’ll get to the bottom of this, but also because I don’t have any answers. I don’t know why they’re sick or if it’s contagious. None of us knows anything.

My lack of response agitates the crowd even more, who have now burst from their seats, their lunch thoroughly ruined. Some guests head for the doors while others get together in larger groups, their worry spreading even more.

I’m about to speak when a loud voice suddenly booms from an entrance to my left. We all turn, and I can’t believe my eyes.

Alistair Smith, the founder of Smith Capital, stands at the head of the room, Booker at his side.

Smith wears dark jeans with a perfectly tailored tan blazer over a powder blue button-down. His shirt makes his bright blue eyes even more piercing, and he runs his hands through his thick blond hair as he steps toward the crowd.

His presence brings silence to the room. Most of them have probably never seen Smith in real life, yet here he is standing in front of their very eyes.

“Everyone needs to calm down,” he says, his voice loud but gentle. He sounds confident, which puts the crowd at ease. “There’s a perfect explanation for what you’ve just seen.” He pauses, and when he’s satisfied everyone is listening, he continues.

“Yes,” he says, “the video you just saw was filmed in our sublevel, but it’s a preventive measure. Some of our employees have gotten sick recently, and we’re working on a treatment. For the meantime, as you were told,” he says, looking at me, “these workers have been quarantined in case it’s transmissible.” A chorus of voices erupt from the crowd, but he speaks over them. “However, there is no indication that it is transmissible. We’re simply following an abundance of caution.”

Smith’s entrance and explanation seems to have calmed the crowd down, many of which are back in their seats. They look amongst themselves, a few muttering back and forth, as if unsure what to do next.

I can tell I’m losing them. In just a matter of minutes, Smith has managed to quell any progress I’d made with the guests. Their concern had clearly been out of self-interest, but now that they’ve been told whatever sickness the workers have isn’t contagious, they don’t seem to care as much. If it can’t infect them, then it’s fine. Out of sight, out of mind.

I glance at Booker, who I know is counting the seconds until all this dies down so he can deal with me behind closed doors. I’d hoped I could show the guests what was going on in the sublevel and get them on my side, but I’d overplayed my hand. Not only had I admitted to trespassing in the sublevel, but I’d also gone against Angela and David’s explicit instructions not to show the video to anyone. I’d already been doubting their ability to protect me before, and after this stunt, I definitely know they won’t be able to help me.

As if reading my mind, Booker flashes a predatory grin my way, his teeth bared like fangs. He takes a step towards me when a look of surprise crosses his face. He raises a hand to his earpiece, listening intently to whatever he’s being told on the other end. The look of surprise turns to horror as he twists his head to face the main entrance. I look as well but see nothing.

Then, it bursts open.