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    Muster Drill
    Muster Drill
    Muster Drill
    Ebook78 pages1 hour

    Muster Drill

    By Brian J. Jarrett

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Terror on the high seas…

    It was supposed to be three days of fun on a weekend cruise. Instead, this small group of friends finds themselves fighting for their lives against passengers and crew inexplicably transformed into vicious and bloodthirsty savages.

    Trapped in open waters, surviving the ship is only the beginning.

    (Note: This book is a novella and as such is shorter than a full-length novel.)

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherElegy Publishing, LLC
    Release dateDec 7, 2012
    ISBN9781386168539
    Muster Drill

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      Book preview

      Muster Drill - Brian J. Jarrett

      Muster Drill

      a novella

      Brian J. Jarrett

      Copyright © 2012 Brian J. Jarrett

      Elegy Publishing, LLC

      All rights reserved by the author. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted by any means without the written consent of the author.

      This book is a work of fiction. Any names, people, locales, or events are purely a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to any person (either living or dead), to any event, or to any locale is coincidental or used fictitiously. Certain liberties may have been taken with cruiseliners being equipped with freefall lifeboats, though said lifeboats do exist.

      2012.MD.1.1

      Want more? Subscribe to Brian’s mailing list and receive a free ebook, just for signing up!

      http://brianjjarrett.com/offer/

      MUSTER DRILL

      I AWOKE IN a strange bed, the stiff, fitted sheets pulled from the corners of the thin mattress and bunched into my sweaty palms like deflated beach balls. I slowly opened my eyes, the bright light of the room piercing right through them and into my brain like an ice pick. My mouth felt as if it were stuffed with cotton, my teeth covered in fur. I raised my head from the under-stuffed pillow, feeling an even sharper sting behind the eyes as my head leveled.

      In a rush it all came back to me; the cruise, the partying and, most of all, the drinking. Definitely, the drinking. I sat up too quickly in the bed and felt my stomach perform a few hair-raising somersaults before finally coming to an uneasy rest. Not good. For a moment or two I was sure I was going to puke, but as I closed my eyes and controlled my breathing the feeling eventually passed. It was replaced by a mild queasiness, exacerbated by the slight rocking of the large cruise ship in open waters. Compared to the nausea, I’d take mildly queasy any day.

      Cursing my stupid hangover, I kicked myself for being such an idiot. I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to get this drunk ever again, especially after Mexico. I’d damn near killed myself there nearly six months ago with enough tequila to put down a horse.

      So much for promises.

      I stood up slowly and walked to the sink in our cabin’s tiny bathroom. I ran some tepid water into a sanitized glass and forced it down, fighting the diminishing nausea. Though not cold, the water tasted surprisingly good.

      After giving my head a minute or so to stop spinning, I left the bathroom and found my backpack lying under a pile of wet towels. Briefly I wondered how the towels had gotten there (and how they’d gotten soaked), but ultimately I decided it was a question for another day. I searched through the contents of my backpack until I found some aspirin. I popped three of the little pills, chasing them with more of the water from the bathroom sink.

      As I stood there sweating I wondered if Ricky and Carl felt as badly as I did. They’d drank just as much or more than I had, after all. For maybe the dozenth time I wondered if this weekend booze cruise (as Carl had dubbed it) had been such a good idea in the first place. Carl had been the instigator behind it, as was the case with most of our party excursions. Mexico had been his idea too, along with all that goddamn tequila.

      Aching and exhausted, I sat back down on the bed for a few minutes to rest. After another fifteen minutes or so the nausea disappeared for good and the aspirin finally began chipping away at my boulder-sized headache. It wasn’t long until I discovered I was hungry. I was amazed at how quickly my nausea had turned to hunger. While the hunger pangs hurt, anything was better than the nausea.

      I decided to forgo the shower, at least for the time being. I really needed to eat first. I stood up again and waited for the residual dizziness to pass before reaching up toward the bunk above mine and giving my best friend Ricky a mighty shove. He didn’t respond. It took a few more attempts, but after some more not-so-gentle shaking Ricky finally pulled the covers down from over his head and glared at me.

      Dude, do you know what time it is? he asked. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his hair misshapen into a massive bedhead cowlick. He looked at me with a mixture of anger and agony. I almost felt sorry for him, but I was too hungry to care about his hangover.

      No, I don’t know what time it is, I replied. I’m hungry.

      Well, go eat then. Leave me alone.

      I don’t want to eat alone, I said. Weirdos eat alone.

      Ricky rolled his eyes. Is Carl up yet? Go ask him. He pulled the covers back over his head.

      I shrugged. Not sure. I haven’t tried his cabin yet.

      He’s probably already up and on the treadmill. That guy is like a machine. I’ll bet he doesn’t even have a headache.

      I nodded. Ricky was right; Carl was like a machine. It was hard not to notice it. Not only did he have a never-ending flow of cash at his disposal he also seemed to attract all the viable women in a room. Maybe the former begat the latter, who knew? All I knew was that going to a bar with him was suicide for my love life. If I was lucky I’d get to pick up his scraps, and I just didn’t want it badly enough to stoop to that.

      I yanked the covers back off of Ricky’s head. Hurry up and get dressed, I insisted. I’m starving.

      * * *

      Having little means and little cash between us, Ricky and I had chosen to share a room on the cruise ship. Not surprisingly, Carl had opted for his own room, paying the extra cash. No one could accuse Carl of not enjoying his money, that was for sure. Sometimes Ricky and I wondered if he sold illegal weapons, or if he maybe belonged to a family of drug dealers. He could have been a trust fund baby for all we knew, drawing a regular stipend from a pile of money he hadn’t earned. Regardless of how he came by his money, he had a hankering for the finer things in life and I’d be lying if

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