"Wayne ..."
WITHOUT ANY PRIOR INDICATION that it was coming, Larkin shot Mills. Tiffany turned, looked directly at the psycho as he pulled another object from his pocket. A remote trigger. Shit! He thumbed the device and, after a momentary pause, a couple of seconds at most, the ship shook; below, there was a terrifying rumble. The sirens continued to sound for a moment and then they stopped. The lights in the bar flickered and went out, and a moment later, emergency lighting came up.
Larkin was pointing his weapon at her, and as he fired she instinctively ducked, then rolled on the floor, making herself small and looking for cover. Had he made her? Was he shooting at her because she'd seen him hit that remote and shoot Mills?
She soon realized he was shooting not at her but at everyone who remained in the bar. The bartender. An older man who had refused to take the drill seriously until the explosion. A crew member who was trying to get everyone out of the bar. A couple who'd been cool before but were now in shock.
A dark-haired, stocky woman stumbled into the side entrance, near to Larkin. She'd been crying; the skirt of her long black gown was torn, as if she'd fallen to her knees, hard. "I'm looking for my husband," she said. Larkin turned toward her and fired again. A neat black hole appeared in her forehead. Her head snapped back, she fell, and Larkin calmly stepped over her body and walked out the side door.
Those around her were shocked, either screaming or looking as if they were about to faint, but Tiffany acted. She took her cell phone, stuck it in her bra, and ran. She reached Mills, crouched down, and grabbed the gun she knew he always carried.
He wasn't quite dead, but he would be soon. "Wait," he whispered.
"Honey, I can't do a thing for you," Tiffany said without sympathy. Mills had chosen the wrong side, and this is where it got him.
"I know, but ... there are more," he said, his voice almost gone.
"More people? More bombs?" Tiffany pressed.
"Both."
She grabbed her cell phone and tried to call Cael, but she couldn't get through. She didn't think the cell tower itself had been damaged, but the bombs below had done a lot of damage and the power was out. Apparently there was only the most minimal auxiliary power. At least she wasn't completely in the dark.
Tiffany returned her cell to her bra, on the off chance the power was restored. What were the odds she'd run into Cael, or one of the others? Slim, but not none. Until then, she'd do what she did.
She followed Larkin. "That psycho fucker's mine," she muttered as she stepped onto the Lido deck. Maybe Larkin was a terrible shot, but she wasn't.
THE BLAST FROM BELOW threw Matt back. He landed hard, hitting his head against the wall. His arm took a good shot as it banged against a metal shelf in the storage closet he'd been searching, and then he landed on it funny, and pain shot through his entire body. His ears rang, filling his head with a high-pitched humming that drowned out everything else.
But he didn't lose consciousness, and urgency got him to a sitting position, then he staggered to his feet. His first evaluation said he wasn't bleeding too much, he didn't think. The power had gone out, then the emergency lighting came up, casting sad, insufficient illumination over one of the least impressive parts of the ship. He couldn't see very well, but he didn't think he was hurt all that bad.
He was still stunned though, and it took him a few seconds to reclaim his ability to think past the ringing in his head. He hadn't found a single bomb, but it was a big-ass ship, and judging by the blasts, they'd all been placed one deck down.
Where Bridget was conducting her sweep. Shit. Bridget!
Matt jumped up, and his arm protested. He glanced down and realized he hadn't gotten off so lightly after all. His arm was obviously broken, which meant he wouldn't be able to dig his way out if he got trapped down here. He gripped his wrist to keep the arm still, until he could find something to fashion a sling with, and he ran into the corridor and toward the stairs. He burst into the stairway, which was filling with smoke. Black smoke drifted up the stairs. He shouted, but the sound was odd to his own ears. If he'd lost most of his hearing one level up, any survivors below would likely be deaf.
There had to be survivors, and it was possible Bridget was one of them. Maybe. Hundreds of crew members had been below, while he'd climbed one flight to begin his search. Then he saw movement in the smoke and he waited, expecting a stream of people to emerge.
Four. Only four had made it out? Surely to God there'd be more. This was just the first bunch, wasn't it? He stared at them in disbelief. All of them were injured in some way. Cuts, mostly, some of them serious, others less so. Two of the survivors had blood seeping from their ears.
"Bridget," Matt called loudly. "Did any of you see her?" Two women and one man just looked at him, dazed and deaf, thinking only of getting to the top of the ship. They continued on without stopping. Jane, a pretty blonde who worked the deck as he did, was at the end of the line. He caught her eye and she stopped on the landing.
"Bridget?" he shouted, dazed. A rivulet of blood ran down one side of Jane's face, but she didn't appear to be seriously injured.
Jane pointed to her ears and shrugged her shoulders. Tears sprung to her eyes.
Matt pointed to his mouth, hoping she could read lips. "My friend, the steward," he said slowly. "Bridget."
Jane grimaced. "I saw her earlier." She spoke loudly, shouted as Matt had, and placed one palm against the side of her head, maybe trying to ease the ringing. "Bridget was headed into the storeroom. I think she was really close to one of the blasts. At least, she went that way and I didn't see her leave ..." The tears trickled down her cheeks. "What happened? What went wrong? Matt, there are dead people down there!"