#Day 1 - 14:10
The atrium emptied with the graceless panic of a fire drill. Most guests clung to their phones, as if sheer willpower might coax a signal from the void. Crew and staff clustered in small knots, already strategizing, triaging, settling into crisis routines. Zhao drifted along the edge of the crowd, head down, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped his clipboard twice.
He felt the pressure before he saw her: a woman with the kind of build that made security uniforms seem custom tailored. Maggie Osei. The masthead said she was Chief Security, but everything about her read ex-military, maybe private sector. Her stare had a weight to it, pinning Zhao from three meters away. She watched him with no attempt at subtlety, arms folded, legs set wide, as if she expected him to bolt.
He tried to look away, tried to blend into the exodus of guests, but he couldn't unsee her. Her eyes said: I know every face on this boat and you are not one of them.
He ducked his head, studied the papers on his clipboard. The manifest was written in hurried English, half the names marked with cryptic notations. He pretended to cross-check a row, then turned as if searching for the next assignment.
Maggie's gaze never wavered.
He forced himself to breathe. She doesn't know. She can't know. You're just another temp. But his body wasn't listening.
He felt sweat start to pool at the base of his neck, an oily trickle between his shoulder blades. Zhao sidestepped through the crowd, aiming for the windows at the far side of the atrium. Maybe if he could just get out of her line of sight, she'd forget about him, write him off as an overeager temp.
The view outside was worse than he remembered. The Blue Oasis was a kilometer offshore, but the firestorm that had been Nice was still visible—a mural of orange and black across the coast. Columns of smoke chased each other skyward.
In the gaps between plumes, Zhao could make out motion on the beach.
He squinted. At first, just shapes stumbling through the debris. Then a larger group surged forward, tripping and crawling over each other, limbs moving at wrong angles. No one ran. They swarmed in packs, stopping only to cluster around something Zhao couldn't see, then moving on as one.
One of them—a woman, he thought, from the flash of a dress—fell and didn't get up. The pack descended on her, limbs jerking and twisting as they fought for position. A red mist bloomed above the writhing mass. When they moved on, scraps of fabric fluttered in the breeze where a person had been moments before.
His breath caught. He pressed a fist to his mouth, tasted bile.
Aida. The name surfaced unbidden. She was on this ship. Somewhere.
Had she sent the text?
The question was pointless. He had no answers. Only more questions.
Behind him, a sudden silence cut through the hum of the crowd. The kind of silence that meant someone important was moving. He risked a glance back—Maggie was gone.
He let out a shaky exhale. Maybe she'd lost interest. Maybe he could just slip below deck, find a quiet corner to vomit, and think.
He watched the shoreline again, the way the figures crept ever closer to the water's edge. A few stragglers even waded into the surf, staggering, then falling forward, faces never breaking the surface.
He pulled out his dead phone again. Stared at her name in his contacts. Seventeen unheard voicemails, accumulated over months. He'd never listened to any of them. There was always tomorrow. Always later.
Later never came.
He thought about what she might have said in those messages. Call me when you have time. I'm worried about you. I love you. The same things she always said. The same things he'd stopped hearing.
Now he'd give anything to hear them.
He fumbled his clipboard, hands numb. It bounced off the glass, hit the deck with a clap that echoed through the atrium. Heads turned. So did Maggie.
She was already halfway across the floor, weaving through the guests with an economy of movement that made Zhao's stomach twist. He tried to look busy, to kneel and gather his spilled papers, but his body wouldn't cooperate.
She was in front of him before he could blink. "You got a name, or should I just call you 'new guy'?" Her accent was precise, almost British, but the undertone was all business.
He thought about lying, but her eyes said she'd catch him in it. "Zhao," he said, voice too quiet. He forced it louder. "Zhao Xun. Relief crew." He made a show of collecting the clipboard, not meeting her gaze.
She watched, silent. Then: "You got ID?"
"Lost it in the evacuation." It sounded weak even to him.
She leaned in, voice lower. "Most of the crew came aboard two weeks ago, in Monaco. You were not with them." She let the words settle. "If you're a stowaway, you picked the wrong damn week."
He almost laughed, but it caught in his throat. "I'm just... I needed to get out."
She stared another few seconds, then snorted. "Join the club." She stepped back, still blocking his path. "You see anything strange on deck? Anything worth reporting?"
He thought of the creatures on the shore, the way they moved. He almost said it, but the words jammed up behind his teeth.
"Just chaos," he said.
Maggie nodded, eyes never leaving his. "If you see anything else, you come to me. Not the captain, not the doctor. Me. Understood?"
He nodded. She held his gaze another beat, then turned on her heel and strode away, already scanning the crowd for the next potential threat.
He watched her go, letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. But at the door, she paused. Looked back. Just for a second. Then she was gone.
The pause meant nothing. Or it meant everything. He couldn't tell anymore.
Zhao wiped his palms on his jacket. The sweat was cold now.
He turned back to the window. On the beach, the figures were multiplying, some already breaking into the water, arms windmilling. A few seemed to notice the yacht, turning as one, faces blank and hungry as sharks. They didn't look human at all.
He realized the Blue Oasis was the only thing standing between him and whatever was left on that shore.
He had never felt so alone.
Eight time zones away, his mother might still be alive. Or might not. The satellite feeds showed Beijing burning. Shanghai burning. Chengdu was inland, safer maybe, but who knew anymore?
If she was alive, she was trying to call him. If she was dead, he'd never know. The not-knowing was its own kind of fire.
Behind him, the hum of the crowd returned, but now it was a nervous, paranoid energy—every guest glancing over their shoulder, every crew member watching the windows.
Zhao pressed his forehead to the cool glass and closed his eyes, but the images wouldn't fade. He wondered if he was still concussed, or if this was just the shape of the new world.
He didn't want to find out.
He crouched, faked a careful study of the manifest, but the words blurred and shifted. A voice crackled over the intercom announcing dinner would be served at eight despite the circumstances. No one seemed to hear it. Their attention was locked on the massive screen that had descended from the atrium ceiling, broadcasting live satellite feeds of Paris, London, New York—all overrun with shambling figures the news ticker labeled "dawn crawlers."
Zhao stared at the ticker. Dawn crawlers. The word hit him like a slap—not because it meant something, but because his brain was desperate for patterns. The text had arrived at dawn. The dream had ended at dawn. Now this.
He pulled out his dead phone. 3:47 AM. That was dawn. Or close enough.
It doesn't mean anything, he told himself. Words cluster. Brains make connections that aren't there.
He put the phone away. He didn't believe in coincidences.
But he also didn't trust his own mind anymore.
He scanned the crowd again, looking for the two women from the assembly. The ones who'd whispered about disconnected numbers, about texts that arrived the morning it all started.
They were gone. Lost in the chaos. But they were here, somewhere on this ship. He knew their voices now—one low and rough, one higher, with an accent he couldn't place. If he heard them again, he'd know.
Assuming they were still alive.
Assuming any of this mattered.
He kept scanning anyway.
The tightness in Zhao's chest intensified as he watched a crawler drag something human-shaped into a subway entrance. Eight o'clock dinner. Satellite feeds of civilization's collapse. Maggie's inevitable return to expose him.
And somewhere on this ship, two women who'd also gotten texts at dawn. And Aida, who might be real or might be a hallucination. And a dead phone full of questions he couldn't answer.
He looked up at the far-off land, where the last shreds of his old world burned.
There was no going back.
But maybe, if he could find the others, if he could figure out what the texts meant, there was a way forward.
Maybe.
He pressed his forehead to the cool glass. Somewhere on this ship, the two women were real. The text was real. Aida was real.
He just had to find them before Maggie found him first.
He waited for whatever came next.