"Checkmate," said Ethan Carter, leaning back in his chair as if he couldn't care less.
Michael Drake, the detective from Miami, slapped the table in annoyance so hard that the chess pieces jumped.
"May the sharks eat you alive, Carter! You play like the devil himself, I swear," he grumbled, scratching behind his ear. "Yes, you beat me at chess. But in real life, I still beat you. Remember San Juan? That warehouse by the docks where you were hiding like a chess king in the back row? I put you in checkmate then, buddy. Checkmate!" He leaned back smugly and lit a cigarette, blowing thick smoke directly into Ethan's face.
Ethan just shrugged, not even wincing at the smoke. His eyes remained cold, but a faint smirk flickered at the corner of his lips.
"You had too many pawns, Drake. You called in the entire San Juan police force. And no player can win a game when he's only got one king against the whole board. Besides… our game isn't over yet."
"Not over?" Drake rattled the light but sturdy chain that bound Ethan's left hand to the metal frame of the bunk. "Isn't this proof? This chain says otherwise."
"Chains aren't proof," Ethan answered coldly. "But let's play another round."
"The ship's rolling harder," Drake grumbled, setting up the pieces. "Soon all the pieces will fly off the board. And my head's already spinning from this shaking."
The cabin, located below the waterline next to the engine room, trembled with the roar of the engines. In those years, even modern liners like the Orion couldn't fully muffle that rhythmic noise, like the beating of a giant mechanical heart. The air was stuffy, thick with the smell of oil and metal, with a bitter hint of diesel that had seeped even through the bulkheads. On the table, besides the chessboard, lay a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a portable radio, from which came only static—the storm that had begun was interfering with the signal, and all that could be heard from the airwaves was hissing and crackling discharges. Ethan and Drake focused on the game, trying to ignore the ship's increasingly noticeable sway.
"Your move," said Ethan, adjusting the pieces that were sliding on the board.
Drake, puffing on his cigarette, moved a pawn, but his gaze kept returning to Ethan. He didn't trust his "charge," even despite the chain. In the cabin's semidarkness, lit by a dim lamp, Ethan's face seemed as impenetrable as a mask. And Drake, remembering the rumors about the Bermuda Triangle through which their route lay, felt a chill run down his spine. If only we could get to Miami soon, he thought, flicking his ash onto the floor.
Meanwhile, the storm had become truly fierce. The Orion began to lurch violently from port to starboard, like a drunken giant. The chess pieces clattered to the floor, and Drake tumbled after them, hitting the bunk painfully. Though the chain kept Ethan from falling, it yanked painfully at his wrist, leaving a red mark. The cabin suddenly filled with distant screams from the upper decks. Somewhere beyond the wall, something rolled and crashed—perhaps crates of dishes or bottles.
"Damn storm!" Drake cursed, trying to stand and rubbing his bruised side. "I've never been able to stand this kind of rolling. I feel sick… seasickness, damn it! Everything inside is just turning over."
Ethan, remaining calm, lay down on the bunk, holding onto the handrail.
"Lie down, Drake. And don't worry, I won't escape." He smirked. "Even if I break the chain, where would I swim? To the sharks? Though, come to think of it, the company of sharks suits me better than yours."
"You're still joking, Carter!" Drake, panting, climbed onto the bunk, but before he could get comfortable, a powerful impact shook the ship. A grinding sound rang out, followed by the shattering of glass and the wail of the siren calling everyone to the deck. The cabin tilted, and Drake rolled off the bunk onto the floor, hitting his shoulder hard again.
"What the devil was that?" he yelled, clinging to the cabin walls. "Carter, I'm going up to find out what happened. I'll have to lock you in!"
Ethan just gave him a contemptuous look and, without deigning to reply, turned silently to the wall.
Drake, stumbling, made his way out of the cabin. But within minutes, he returned, soaked to the bone, his face twisted with mortal terror. Water streamed from his coat, instantly forming a puddle on the floor. He breathed heavily, pressing his hand to his chest.
"Disaster!" he shouted, slamming the door shut. "We're sinking! The hull's breached! The crew is preparing the lifeboats, but nobody really knows anything. They say the bulkheads will hold the water back, but passengers are already fighting for places!" He ran a wet hand over his face in confusion. "What am I supposed to do? Save myself or keep an eye on you? Because as soon as I unlock this chain, you'll run away, damn it!"
Ethan, still chained, looked at the chain sarcastically.
"Oh, so that doesn't reassure you anymore?" He rattled the chain. "Or are you afraid I'll steal a lifeboat? Drake, look at me. I'm chained to a bunk. Run, while you still can."
"I'm not in the mood for jokes, Carter!" Drake jumped toward him, shaking his fist. "I'm supposed to deliver you to Miami and get my ten thousand dollars! But if the ship sinks…"
"You're facing a difficult choice. You want to save yourself, me, and your money?" Ethan interrupted. "I sympathize, but I can't help you. Decide quickly."
Drake, trembling all over, suddenly changed his tone to a more ingratiating one.
"Carter, give me your word you won't run away, and I'll take off the chain right now. I trust you!" His eyes held a plea mixed with panic.
"My word?" Ethan smirked, looking at him with cold mockery. "Alright, here's my word: I'll run away at the first opportunity. Does that suit you?"
"Oh, you…" Drake swore profusely, then rushed to the door, but suddenly changed his mind, returned, and began hurriedly unlocking the chain with trembling hands, dropping the keys. "Up, quickly! To hell with you, Carter!"
They burst onto the deck, brightly lit by the ship's searchlights, which snatched from the darkness shreds of foam and flying debris. The air was salty to the point of bitterness, mixed with the smell of fuel oil and burnt wiring. Rain lashed without stopping, and the wind tore at their clothes and tried to knock them off their feet. The bow of the Orion was already being swamped by waves, while the stern rose toward the sky, exposing propellers that spun wildly in the air. Passengers, stripped of their humanity, fought for the lifeboats, trampling one another. Cries, gunshots, and the wail of the siren merged into one monstrous chaos. The last boats were pulling away, surrounded by drowning people being beaten back with oars and bullets.
"This is all because of you!" Drake screamed, shaking his fist in Ethan's face. "If it weren't for you, I'd already be in one of those boats!"
Ethan didn't answer. He stood at the railing, gripping the handrails, staring into the darkness. Waves pounded violently against the ship's hull, showering him with salty spray. Somewhere below, in the very belly of the ship, the bulkheads groaned and creaked, trying to hold back the onslaught of the rising water.
But Ethan heard something else. A strange sound he had noticed back in the cabin—a low, drawn-out hum coming not from the engines, not from the waves, but from somewhere deep below, from beneath the very bottom.
"Carter!" Drake tugged his sleeve. "Are you deaf? We need to get out of here!"
"Where?" Ethan's voice was quiet, almost calm. "There are no more lifeboats. And lifebuoys won't help us now. We are all that's left of this ship's company."
Drake looked around. The deck was indeed completely empty. The cries of the dying had faded—those who hadn't managed to escape had either drowned or lost consciousness in the icy ocean water. The ship was still sinking slowly, its hull creaking mournfully, like a living creature exhaling its last breath.
"Damn…" Drake whispered, lowering his revolver. "Damn, damn, damn…"
Ethan stared at the water. It was black, oily, and seemed to reflect nothing—not even the light of the liner's still-burning emergency lamps. The hum grew louder, and now Drake heard it too.
"What is that?" he asked, looking around. "What is that sound?"
Ethan didn't answer.
"So what now?" Drake asked, looking around. His voice no longer held any malice or his usual authority. Only fear and an uncharacteristic uncertainty. "What do we do?"
Ethan slowly turned to him. In the faint light of the dying emergency lamps still illuminating the empty deck, his face looked strangely calm.
"Hold on, Drake," he said. "If we're very lucky, someone might pick us up in the morning. If the Orion doesn't sink before then."
"And if it does sink?"
Ethan didn't answer. He leaned his back against the railing and closed his eyes. The wind tore at his wet shirt, and rain lashed his face, but he still stood motionless, like a statue, understanding that nothing could be changed now.
Drake sank to the deck, pressing his back against the bulkhead. The revolver fell from his hands and rolled with a dull thud toward the railing. He didn't even bother to pick it up.
And the ship, taking on more and more water, sank slowly. The water rose higher, flooding the lower decks, and had already reached the engine room, finally silencing the generators. At that moment, even the dim emergency lamps began to go out one by one, consumed by the advancing blackness. The ship slowly descended into total darkness.
And the two men remained on the deck—one sitting, curled up in despair, the other standing, gazing impassively into the darkness.