Martin Lamport - The Doomsday Infection

Maybe there aint no crew, maybe its a ghost ship? said Tasker.

Come again? asked Graves the wiry African-American Lieutenant.

Sure, the seven seas are littered with ships that float off abandoned for whatever reason, and then turn up months, sometimes years later hundreds of miles off course.

The utility boat belonging to the United States coast guard chugged at an even eighteen knots, twenty miles off the Miami coast. It sure looks abandoned, the captain said watching the deserted cargo ship through field glasses. Theres no movement.

Its true, said Tasker warming to his theme. What about HMS Resolute? That ship drifted crewless for some twelve hundred miles, and a couple of years ago a Russian ship being towed off Canada broke its chain and turned up years later off the coast of Ireland. This could be the same. A genuine ghost ship.

This spooked the lieutenant. Whatre you on about a ghost ship?

Theyre called ghost ships, said the captain. Because they dont belong anywhere; not because they are crewed by ghosts. This isnt Pirates of the Caribbean.

Dont you be so sure, the Lieutenant said more to himself. He pushed the throttle forward, nudging the speed up to twenty-five knots.

Cmon, guys, lets do this properly, the captain said. Lieutenant, any change?

They aint budged a damned inch. Could they be scuba-diving?

They'd still leave someone up top.

Oh, yeah.

Well, I think weve got probable cause, the captain said. He picked up the radio handset and pressed the transmit button. He watched the cargo ship bob listlessly on an ocean as flat as a millpond, and spoke over the tannoy. This is the US coast guard please acknowledge, he paused, looked back through the field glasses and shook his head. No sign of life. I guess its time to take a look.

The forty-foot utility boat cut through the waves toward the rusty cargo ship. This is the US coast guard please acknowledge, he persisted. You are violating the US coastal waters. Prepare to be boarded, please acknowledge. He waited for a response for a moment. Lieutenant Graves, prepare to board.

Aye- aye, sir, Graves flicked a swift salute and left the cabin.

Hello is anybody aboard? Graves called out, boarding the abandoned craft, via an unsafe rusty ladder. He thought of the Coast Guards motto semper paratus always ready he sure as hell didnt feel ready and felt even more uneasy about their unofficial motto, you have to go out, but you dont always have to come back.

The utter stillness of the cargo ship disturbed him greatly. He sensed something wrong. There was no sound of life, only the gentle creak of old timbers and water lapping against the vessel.

We are the US Coast Guard, please show yourselves Graves said, entering the canteen, where half-eaten food was in evidence. He touched the steel coffee urn. Its still warm. Where the hell is everyone?

I told you, were on board a regular Marie Celeste, Tasker said.

The lieutenant gulped and headed astern. He drew his Sig Suer service weapon, pointed it to a door, and indicated for Seaman Tasker to open it while he covered him.

Tasker gulped again, yanked open the metal door and yelped in fright as a blackened corpse fell upon him flattening him onto the deck. Jesus Christ! he yelled from underneath the body. He slid and crawled from under the rotting carcass trying not to gag. It stinks! He glared back in horror at the darkened pus-covered remains of a young man. The darkened face had contorted in an agonized grimace. What happened to him?

Graves said, You go topside.

Tasker brushed himself down, clanged up the metal ladder to the next deck, and saw another corpse riddled with bulbous swellings. Lieutenant Graves joined him on the upper deck. He pointed with his handgun to the blackened corpse. What the hell has happened?

Tasker scratched his head. Theres more bodies back there, he said, pointing aft.

They look as if theyve been burned to death, yet there aint been no fire, said the lieutenant.

Seaman Tasker used his walkie-talkie and called the captain on the utility boat. Looks like theyre all dead, captain. They look like illegal immigrants. Theyre black

The lieutenant shot him a deadly glance.

I mean African-American, well; I dunno if theyre American, oh, you know what I mean. Over.

Acknowledged, said the captain. Well tow it in. Keep searching. See if you can discover what caused their deaths.

Lieutenant Graves patted down the body of a woman and rolled it over. Pus filled boils covered her face, some of which were still weeping. He recoiled in shock. Shit. He gawped wide-eyed at her remains. What the hell is that on her face?

Dunno, lieutenant, Tasker replied.

And what the hell is that smell? He stood and gingerly worked his way through the vessel and stumbled across more of the dead. He pushed open the latrine door, to find a body dead on the toilet. Sweet Jesus he died on the can, that aint right. How could he drop dead halfway through a

Has he been shot? ventured Seaman Tasker.

No. Does he look like hes been shot?

Then what can kill so quickly? Do you think its gas?

Beats me, Graves tried not to gag as he patted down the body and found packets of heroin, he glanced quickly at Tasker, who leaned against the bulkhead and wiped sweat from his brow distracted. Graves surreptitiously slipped a bag in his pocket, and then showed the rest of the haul to Tasker.

Tasker transmitted back to the Utility boat. We got drugs, captain and loads more bodies.

Very good. Any cause of death?

Not a clue. No signs of gunfire.

Lieutenant Graves sneezed so violently he almost lost his balance.

Gesundheit, Tasker said automatically.

Graves took the weight of a storage hatch and heaved it upright, then peered into the cargo hold below. The stench hit him immediately. He reeled back from the stink, turned and vomited.

Seaman Tasker approached the hatch tentatively and shone his flashlight down into the vast hold. Holy shit! he gasped. Theres gotta be more than a hundred stiffs down there. His beam flickered over the rotting corpses in various stages of decay. Did they suffocate?

Graves wiped his mouth on his sleeve, covered his nose and looked down into the cargo hold again. It looks well ventilated, he said with a shrug.

Lieutenant Graves moved on through the vessel, found the captains cabin and saw the body of an African-American dead, slumped across his desk, pen in hand as if he were half-way through writing a letter. He removed his cap in respect. He cautiously approached the body, flinched at the stench and tied his neckerchief over his mouth. Jesus, what IS that smell? That aint the normal smell of death. Its ten times no make that a hundred times worse, he thought.

He noticed a group photograph of the captain and his wife and kids. However, something was wrong with the picture. They smiled at the camera, nothing wrong with that. It was their faces that were wrong, or the skin color to be more precise. They were white all white including the captain.

What the? He took a headshot photo of the captain from the wall and brought it in close to the corpses face. It was the captain all right. Identical, apart from the skin color

He scratched his head dumb-founded, and then shrugged it off. He quickly frisked the captains cadaver, found his pocket book, checked the door as the boat creaked and listed slightly, and then slipped it into his jacket pocket, when a skinny, bony hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

Tasker heard lieutenant Gravess blood-curdling scream and ran towards the noise. He burst through the cabin door to find him gibbering in fear. He waddled backward on his butt dragging the corpse with him. The captains boney hand firmly clasped around his wrist.