Frankie spread the star chart across a prep counter. She traced the route with one finger. The infirmary. The cold storage lockers. The skin hidden somewhere in the dark. Her nail tapped each point.

  Dee Dee nodded along, her breathing steadying. When Frankie finished, she pointed at a rack of pots hanging from the ceiling. Cast iron.

  “Iron. For the spirits.” Her finger moved to the chart. “Salt’s here. Dry storage. Commercial containers. Big ones.”

  “And the boilers?” Ted asked.

  “Someone needs to stay with me.” Dee Dee grimaced as she shifted position. Blood seeped through the bandage. “I can’t run. And you—” She looked at Frankie. “You’re the only one fast enough.”

  “I can overload the valves,” Ted said. “Make it loud.”

  Frankie opened her mouth. Closed it. Her throat felt tight.

  “It’s the only way,” Ted continued. “You get the skin. I make noise. Dee Dee and I get topside when the hull breaches. We swim for it.”

  Simple. Clean. Suicidal.

  “Ted—”

  “Don’t.” He grabbed the heaviest pipe from the rack. Three feet of solid iron. “Just—make it count, okay?”

  His heartbeat thundered in her ears. Fast. Scared. But steady underneath. The same rhythm he’d carried since they were kids. The same stupid confidence.

  She handed him the pipe.

  Their fingers brushed. His skin was warm. Hers was cold.

  “Make some noise,” she said.

  His mouth curved. Almost a smile. “Always do.”

  They moved through corridors stinking of brine and decay. Frankie led, tracking Dee Dee’s scent—copper and sweat. The galley door hung at a broken angle. Ted kicked it wider. The hinges screamed.

  Inside, Dee Dee grabbed kitchen knives. Slid them into Ted’s belt. Her hands shook, but her movements were precise.

  “The ballroom,” she said. “The piano.”

  Ted nodded. Slid one arm around her waist. She leaned into him, teeth gritted against the pain. Her breathing came shallow.

  “How long do we need to give you?” Ted asked Frankie.

  “Twenty minutes. Thirty if you’re lucky.”

  “We’ll give you forty.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  They disappeared down the corridor. Ted’s footsteps heavy. Dee Dee’s breath coming in soft gasps. The sound faded slowly.

  Frankie stood alone in the galley.

  Silence pressed against her ears.

  She could hear water moving somewhere deep in the ship’s belly. Metal contracting.

  She grabbed two fifty-pound bags of salt from the dry storage room. Slung them over her shoulder. The coarse granules shifted inside the canvas.

  She moved toward the lower decks.

  The ship was quiet. The spirits had been everywhere an hour ago—wailing, reaching. Now the corridors stretched empty. Dark. Waiting. The emergency lighting flickered. Shadows moved when she didn’t.

  She descended three flights of stairs. The metal groaned under her weight. Water dripped from somewhere overhead. Steady. Patient.

  Minutes dragged. Five. Ten. Fifteen.

  The silence grew heavier. Thicker.

  Then—

  Crash.

  The noise came from above. From the direction of the ballroom. Metal hit wood. Strings snapped. A scream of wire and timber. The entire deck rang with it.

  Crash.

  Again. Louder. Wood splintering. The sounds overlapped.

  The temperature plummeted.

  Frankie’s breath misted. Ice crackled along the walls, spreading in patterns across the rusted metal. The air tasted electric.

  From every deck, the dead moved.

  She heard them. Feet dragging across steel. Moans rising in chorus. The sound built. Layered. The temperature kept dropping. Her skin prickled. The cold bit through her wet clothes.

  Crash.

  The ballroom rang. Ted knew what he was doing. Hitting the sweet spots. Making the whole ship sing. Drawing them.

  The spirits flowed toward the noise.

  Frankie pressed herself against the wall. Held her breath. Forms streamed past her hiding spot. Dozens of them. Crew in tattered uniforms. Passengers in blood-stained formalwear. A woman in pearls. A man missing half his face. They moved like water finding a drain. Hungry.

  Behind them, Captain Silver.

  Tall. Gray. His face was gray stone. Empty. Water dripped from his coat. Pooled on the deck. He moved without hurry. His eyes were dark. Fixed on the ballroom.

  He passed within three feet of her. Never turned his head. The cold rolled off him in waves.

  The corridor emptied.

  Frankie ran.

  Vampire speed turned the ship into a blur. Air rushed past her face. Stung her eyes. The salt bags bounced against her back.

  Down. Down. Down.

  The infirmary door appeared ahead. Heavy steel. A small window reinforced with wire mesh. She slowed. Stopped. Her sneakers squeaked on the wet deck. She pressed her face against the glass.

  Inside: examination tables covered in mildew. Cabinets with shattered glass doors. Medical instruments scattered across the floor.

  And along the far wall—

  Morgue lockers.

  Six of them. Stainless steel fronts tarnished black. The handles corroded. Some stood open. Empty. Others remained sealed.

  One dripped water from beneath its door. Steady. Rhythmic. The puddle beneath it spread slowly across the tilted floor.

  The smell hit her. Even through the steel door.

  Rot. Ancient and sweet. The stench of meat left out in the sun for eighty years.

  Her heart hammered. The sound filled her skull.

  The salt bags felt heavier now.

  She reached for the handle. The metal was ice-cold. Burned her palm. Left frost on her skin.

  A breath.

  Two.

  She turned the handle. The mechanism clicked. Once. Twice.

  The door swung open without a sound.