The suite was a masterpiece of architectural gaslighting. High ceilings supported by teak beams, floors polished to a mirror sheen, and a balcony that overlooked an infinity pool so blue it looked painted. It was a room designed to make you forget that the rest of the world existed.
But Thomas Hayes couldn't forget.
He was pacing the length of the living area, his boots making no sound on the plush rug. He wasn't looking at the view of the Gulf of Thailand; he was checking the door hinges. He leaned his weight against the mahogany frame, testing the deadbolt. He checked the lock on the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. He examined the latch on the window in the bedroom.
"The manager wasn't at the desk," Thomas said, his voice tight, bordering on frantic. "Just a security guard who looked like he'd seen a ghost. He told me everything is 'under control.' That's military-speak for the ship is sinking and we're rearranging deck chairs."
Maggie was unpacking with a manic intensity that matched Thomas's pacing. She was shaking out floral dresses and hanging them in the closet, as if the silk could ward off the darkness gathering outside. She smoothed out a wrinkle in a linen tablecloth.
"It's just a fever, Thomas. Or a flu," she said, her voice sounding brittle. "We're in a different climate. The humidity, the bacteria in the water... people get sick. It happens."
"Did you see the girl's nose, Maggie?" Thomas snapped, turning on her. "That wasn't mucus. That was... oil. Sludge. And her eyes. There was no recognition. No emotion."
Lucas stood on the balcony, leaning against the railing. The air was heavy, smelling of salt and rotting hibiscus. He looked down at the resort grounds. In the distance, beyond the perimeter fence where the manicured lawns met the dense, dark green wall of the Thai jungle, he saw movement. Not the swaying of branches, but something erratic. Fast.
He looked at his thumb. A tiny, microscopic smear of the receptionist's black blood had dried there. It looked like a flake of obsidian. He rubbed it off on his jeans, but the feeling of cold, electric stickiness remained.
"It's not the flu," Lucas said, his voice barely a whisper, carried away by the sea breeze.
Thomas stepped out onto the balcony, joining him. "What did you say?"
"I said, it's not the flu," Lucas repeated, turning to face his father. "I heard the pilots in the terminal. They were talking about 'aggressive dementia.' I saw the soldiers at the airport checking necks, not passports. Something is wrong with their brains, Dad."
Thomas looked at his son. For a moment, the soldier vanished, and the frightened father peeked through. "We just need to stay here," Thomas said, trying to convince himself. "The gates are high. There's food. We wait for the British Embassy to sort it out."
Lucas looked back at the jungle. The sun was setting, turning the water the color of bruised plums. "Yeah," he said. "We'll just wait."