Chapter 2: Horror Cruise (Part 5)
The final hour was a descent into hell.
Captain Qiu's crew had intensified their sweep. No longer content to pick off stragglers, they'd begun systematically clearing decks, starting from the bottom and working their way up. We could hear the sounds of combat—and worse—getting closer.
Selene and I had left our cabin on Deck 8 and moved to an even more isolated position: the ship's observation deck at the very top. It was open to the elements, cold and windy, but it gave us a 360-degree view and only one access point—the stairwell.
The monk was already there when we arrived. He sat in a lotus position near the railing, seemingly impervious to the biting sea wind. His robes rippled around him like gray wings.
"Friends," he said without opening his eyes. "The hunters draw near."
"We noticed," I replied. "Can you fight them off if they come this way?"
He opened one eye. "I can resist. Whether I can defeat depends on the attackers."
"We'll take that chance."
From our vantage point, we could see the crew moving through the lower decks—flashlight beams flickering through windows, occasional bursts of violence silhouetted against the cabin lights. It was like watching a slow-motion massacre.
And then, emerging onto Deck 7, I saw him.
Meat Face. The crew member who'd smiled at me earlier and promised "another time."
He was climbing the stairs toward us.
"He's mine," I said.
Selene grabbed my arm. "Don't be stupid. He's crew—trained for this."
"So am I." I hefted the fire axe. "Or hadn't you noticed?"
Down below, Meat Face had reached the stairwell to Deck 8. He paused, looking up, as if he'd sensed us watching. Then he smiled that same slow, deliberate smile and began ascending.
I met him at the top of the stairs.
He was bigger than I'd estimated—well over six feet and built like a refrigerator. His crew uniform was stained with blood, and he carried a short metal pipe in one hand.
"The boxer," he said. "I remember you from the stairwell. You fight well for a passenger."
"Let's skip the small talk," I replied, holding the axe at ready.
"As you wish." He moved fast—much faster than a man his size should move. The pipe whistled toward my head, and I barely got the axe handle up in time to deflect it. The impact sent shockwaves up my arms.
He followed up immediately with a knee strike that I dodged by twisting sideways. I swung the axe in an arc, and he leaned back just enough for the blade to pass an inch from his throat.
This guy was no ordinary enforcer. He was a trained fighter.
We exchanged blows in the narrow stairwell. His pipe was short and brutal, perfect for the confined space, while my axe was clumsy in comparison. After a few exchanges, I realized I needed to change tactics.
I dropped the axe.
He looked surprised for a split second—which was all I needed. I stepped inside his range, blocked his pipe arm with my left, and drove my right fist into his solar plexus with everything I had. The punch connected solidly, and he doubled over with a grunt.
But he didn't go down. Instead, he grabbed me in a bear hug and lifted me off my feet, slamming me against the wall. Stars exploded in my vision.
I headbutted him—hard. My forehead cracked against his nose, and he finally loosened his grip. I followed up with an uppercut that snapped his head back, then a knee to his midsection that folded him.
This time, he stayed down.
I picked up the axe and the stairwell was clear. Behind me, Selene and the monk were already moving.
"Deck 9," Selene called out. "There's a service ladder to the antenna mast—we can—"
She stopped. A new sound had joined the chaos: the ship's foghorn, blaring long and loud. Then Captain Qiu's voice came over the intercom.
"Attention, all surviving passengers. We are approaching our destination. Please proceed to the main deck for disembarkation. I repeat—all passengers to the main deck for disembarkation."
The ship was slowing. Through the mist ahead, I could see land—dark and foreboding, rising from the ocean like a sleeping giant.
We weren't going to Vladivostok.
Selene was right. We were heading somewhere else entirely.
The main deck was chaos. Surviving passengers emerged from all over the ship—some wounded, some carrying weapons, some dragging bodies. I counted roughly 70 people, which matched the captain's earlier announcement.
Crew members were directing everyone toward the gangway, which had been lowered onto a concrete pier extending from the dark coastline. Armed guards stood at regular intervals along the pier—not crew members, but private military contractors in tactical gear.
Selene, the monk, and I moved together through the crowd. I spotted Jasper Locke nearby, still looking impossibly composed, his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting the floodlights from the pier.
"Quite the destination," he remarked as we passed. "Not exactly a tourist resort."
"I don't recall asking for your commentary," I said.
"I'm just saying—this is new. In previous trips, we always returned to the original port. They've never taken us somewhere else." His eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "This changes the parameters entirely."
He was right, and I hated that he was right.
As we disembarked, I looked back at the Rose from the pier. It loomed in the darkness like a floating carcass, its lights flickering, blood stains visible even from this distance. The ship had been a palace when we boarded. Now it was a charnel house.
A woman in military fatigues met us at the pier. She had sharp features and an electronic tablet, and was checking names against a list.
"Ticket stubs out," she ordered, her voice clipped and efficient.
One by one, the survivors presented their ticket stubs. Some had collected multiple stubs from their kills; others only had their own. The woman recorded each one methodically.
When it was my turn, I handed over my own stub—and, after a moment of hesitation, Quinn's blood-stained stub as well. The woman raised an eyebrow but said nothing, simply recording both.
Selene presented her stub. "And my father's," she said quietly, producing a second, older stub. "Victor Day. From his fourth trip."
The woman checked her list. "This stub is not registered in the current database."
"It's from a previous trip. I want to know what happened to him."
The woman's expression didn't change. "I'm not authorized to provide that information."
"Then who is?"
The woman simply pointed toward a large, hangar-like structure at the end of the pier. "All survivors proceed to the reception area. You'll receive your rewards and next instructions there."
We joined the stream of survivors heading toward the hangar. Behind us, I could hear the ship's engines starting up again. The Rose would sail back to Hunchun, pick up another batch of passengers, and do it all over again.
As we walked, the monk fell into step beside me. "Young man," he said softly.
"Yes?"
"What the old man on the ship told you—about them breeding fighters. He spoke the truth. I have seen it with my own eyes."
"How many trips have you survived?"
"Five." His expression was unreadable. "And each time, the survivors come back stronger, faster, more deadly. But also... less human."
"What do you mean, less human?"
He looked at me with ancient eyes. "I mean that the line between protecting yourself and destroying yourself becomes thinner with each trip. The skills you learn here, the instincts you develop—they don't go away when you leave. They become a part of you. And before long, you discover that you're not the same person who walked onto that ship."
I thought about Quinn. About the high schooler in the bathroom who'd nearly killed me. About Drake and his golden hook. About my own fists, which had taken a life on the train without a moment's hesitation.
The monk was right. Every Death Trip changed you. And the change went deeper than scars.
The hangar turned out to be a processing center. Survivors were directed through a series of stations—medical screening, identity verification, reward distribution. I received my eight hundred thousand (plus an extra hundred and fifty thousand for Quinn's stub) directly into my bank account, along with a sealed envelope.
Inside the envelope was a single card with a QR code and a message:
"Congratulations, Survivor. Your next invitation will arrive when the time is right. Until then, remember: the world you see is only the surface."
I stared at the card for a long time. Then I put it in my pocket, next to Quinn's blood-stained ticket stub.
They had my number. They'd always had my number.
And somewhere out there, Drake was waiting.