The Dye of Carmine

She—she feels the air grow colder, and time stretch unbearably slower.

The eyes that once held so much warmth now dim—cold, haunted—reflecting the calamity of humankind.

The ground rattles beneath her feet. But, she descends the staircase, trembling with each step.

Her frail hands clutch the railing, knuckles white. Shivers rack her body.

Is it the freezing wind of this final December night?

Or the devastation of humanity her eyes now absorb?

She stares down—

Blood. Carmine, thick, saturates her black shoes.

It doesn't show on the leather—but the white laces and the soles bleed red, lit harshly by the cruise's deck lights.

Her throat tightens. A boulder pressing on her chest.

The metallic tang of blood, and the acrid, smoky sting of gunpowder, sear her nostrils.

The brightness of the day has long fallen asleep. The darkness of night thickens.

Her bloodshot gaze lifts—locks onto the captain.

Meters away, he's held back by two crewmen—his mind fractured, screaming as he unloads a submachine gun at an unseen enemy.

Then he doesn't even realize the gun has emptied.

Around him, bodies litter the deck—passengers and invaders alike.

A slaughter of animals.

Some groan in pain, still breathing, trapped in their bodies, unable to die.

She wants to wake up.

Wants someone—anyone—to pull her from this nightmare.

Why—Father? Why?

Thunderous boots hammer the floor.

She looks up.

Armed men flood the ship.

Gunfire explodes, bullets raining over the sea.

They shoot without hesitation.

Bodies drop.

Screams vanish beneath the roar of bullets

Lives vanish like mist.

Her scarlet eyes jerks back to the captain. The crewmen holding him drop—gunned down.

His eyes flash with anguish.

He lunges, grabs a fallen rifle—

And charges.

One last scream. One last stand.

Defiant to the end as he fires.

But a storm of bullets answer.

The captain jerks, his body riddled with holes.

The gun slips from his grasp.

He falls to his knees. Then crashes to the floor.

There lies the captain. Lifeless.

A martyr swallowed by the dark.

Gunfire erupts behind her.

She's frozen on the stairs. Her body doesn't twitch.

Then—an arm seizes her. Hard, fast.

She's yanked backward.

A body presses against hers. Broad. Solid.

Neva blinks up.

It's him.

Rhett.

He's a wall before her—silent, still.

His back shields her from the massacre.

She hadn't even seen him move.

Hadn't heard him come.

Bullets slice through the air—but none find them.

He's hidden them in the narrow recess beneath the stair stringer, crouched against a blind corner—tight, perfect cover.

"Cease fire!! Cease fire!!" someone roars from above.

Huston—breathless—leans over the railing on the parallel stairwell.

He's shouting. He's seen her.

He had been searching alone, through every dark corner, after sending his men to aid the others—only for them to be butchered.

He'd feared she was lost.

That this nightmare had swallowed her too.

If he believed in miracles, he'd thank the stars.

This cruise had a secret.

A hidden room behind the captain's closet. Only the captain knew.

But he refused to hide.

Rhett had known.

He'd hidden Neva there. Alone. Safe.

She'd heard everything from within.

Heard them demand her name.

Heard the screams rise—until they drowned her.

So she ran.

To surrender.

Then Huston had found her.

Aimed a gun.

Told her to give in.

Eyes gleaming—twisted. An eerie grin on his lips.

She'd run again. Faster than reason.

Panicked citizens scattered like insects.

Then, she was gone again.

"Don't shoot her! We need her alive!" Huston shouts, frantic.

The thugs hesitate.

"Surround them!"

Boots pound the deck.

Muzzles swing toward their hiding place.

Rhett's jaw locks.

His hand flexes on the grip of his sidearm.

A SIG Sauer. Suppressed.

Only one spare mag.

He's almost out.

But his eyes—unchanging.

Ahead—abandoned weapons litter the floor beside corpses.

He's already chosen.

"Stay here," he murmurs. "Don't move. No matter what you hear."

Then—he steps out.

Gun lowered.

Hands raised.

He walks slow—calculating.

Letting them see him. Letting them believe he's surrendering.

One of the invaders laughs.

"The hero's done."

But they don't shoot. Not yet.

They want him to suffer.

This man who ruined their celebration.

Huston exhales.

Finally.

The killer is finally bowing to death

But Rhett's head is angled low.

Watching.

Reading positions.

Counting barrels. Gauging angles.

"Kneel!" An invader shouts.

Rhett's eyes darken.

He steps near a body—a fallen crewman.

Kneels. Then—moves.

Fast.

He drags the body up with brutal speed, spins it into position—gunfire erupts.

Bullets hammer the corpse in his arms—but Rhett is already shifting. One hand fires—controlled, brutal double taps.

Heads snap back.

Enemies fall.

He switches cover—grabs another body—clears the next angle.

A phantom—never still, never seen the same way twice.

A man trained to fight death with death.

The deck becomes his map.

He never wastes a shot. Reloads mid-motion.

Weapon tucked high, elbows tight.

Blood sprays. Screams twist.

The invaders fire wild—panicked.

"You'll hit her! STOP SHOOTING!" Huston's voice shreds itself raw.

They don't care.

Their survival matters more.

Rhett doesn't flinch.

His rifle clicks empty.

He throws it—hard—at a face, steps in before the man falls.

Pulls a submachine gun from the dead.

And still—he moves toward her. Always toward her.

At last, the deck falls quiet.

Only the wounded groan. Huston crouches behind a pillar, gasping.

A shadow moves beside the stairs.

A man emerges—civilian clothes, but trained hands. An ex-Marine. A passenger-turned-ally.

Rhett sees him. Nods once. Tosses the weapon aside.

Then runs.

To her.

He scoops her up into his arms.

She doesn't resist.

Her senses barely register the climb. Only his breath—sharp. Strained. Real.

Alive.

Gunshots echo endlessly behind them.

---

They reach the third deck.

Their room.

Rhett sets her down—gently, but his breath comes hard. Tight.

"What the hell were you doing out there?!" he shouts.

She doesn't answer. Staring into space.

"Neva," he growls, gripping her shoulders. "Focus. You're here. You're safe."

Her eyes blink slowly—red, glassy.

"He wants me," she whispers. "All those people… they died because of me."

Rhett's jaw hardens.

Then—his arms close around her.

Not roughly. Not gently either.

Securely.

"Stay with me," he says against her hair.

His fingers shakes after the andrenaline fades, but he doesn't dare shut his eyes even for a moment.

He swallows hard, the slight sting in his shoulder finally surfacing.

He's been grazed by a bullet—but he ignores it, he doesn't even check.

She clutches his sleeves.

"Noah," she chokes. "He was with his father."

"I'll find him," Rhett says, stepping back—already moving.

He lifts the mattress.

Underneath—a hidden kit: an IWI Tavor X95, compact and brutal. A bullpup rifle—short enough for tight corridors, with stopping power that chews through armor. He slaps in a 30-round mag.

Sidearm, SIG Sauer P226, loaded. One extra magazine, cash, flash drive, burner phone, folded sat map, trauma kit and a laptop, tucked in a weatherproof satchel.

His hands move fast—minimal motion, no wasted energy.

He pulls on the harness with practiced ease. Then he slings the rifle in a shoulder.

His hands move fast—minimal motion, no wasted energy.

He peeks through a crack in the door.

Steps aside. Listens.

Quiet voices. Two men. Light boots. Armored. Checking rooms.

Too relaxed.

He grabs Neva by the arm, brings her close.

And presses Neva against the wall.

Lowers his voice to a whisper. "Stay here."

Then he opens the door—

Smooth. Silent.

Gunfire erupts.

Suppressed shots. Tight. Precision.

One enemy drops mid-sentence. The other doesn't even turn fully before collapsing.

Shells clink.

Rhett vanishes forward.

He clears left, steps into a side hallway.

Returns in seconds.

"Come on," he says, grabbing her hand. "We're getting him."

She runs with him—half–dazed.

They reach the cabin.

The lock is blown open.

Door ajar.

Rhett lifts his weapon—silent, steady.

He checks left. Checks right.

After he makes sure the hall is clear, he signals for her to wait.

She obeys.

He enters.

A man lies crumpled inside.

Noah's father.

Blood spreads from his chest.

Rhett checks for a pulse.

None.

He moves toward the bathroom.

Door half-shut.

Blood trickles out beneath it.

He pushes it wider.

Stops.

His breath hitches.

"Neva."

Her knees nearly give out at his voice.

She rushes in—stifles a sob as her gaze lands on Noah's father—bleeding, unmoving.

Shot in the chest.

Then standing in the middle of the room, she sees Noah.

Curled beside the tub.

Small. Pale. Soaked in red.

But—

His chest rises.

Shallow. But breathing.

Rhett is already at his side.

"Looks like it missed vital organs," he mutters. "We can stabilize him."

He pulls out gauze and a trauma patch.

Compresses. Binds.

"Stay with me, Noah," he murmurs, voice low.

Neva stares.

He's not even blinking.

"I—I'll carry him," she whispers, stepping forward, breath hitched.

Rhett nods.

Supports the boy's body as she lifts him.

"Hold him tight. Apply pressure here," he says, guiding her hand over the bandage.

Then—he's checking his rifle.

Magazine half full.

One in the chamber.

Time's burning.

Rhett takes the gear.

Outside, the nightmare waits.

But in this moment—in this fragile breath of grace—

They're not done fighting.