As tears go by

// 6 The banquet

...They were having a banquet. A special and planned banquet. Candles were melting in precious silver candlesticks on the table, pieces of silverware were tinkling gently. The panes of the windows were covered with sprays of seawater. Sometimes a high wave splashed on them leaving a sheet of water dropping away. The yacht started to roll, but none cared.

At dessert time, Anastasya gave up citrus sorbet with Seuchan pepper despite everyone's insistence. She could not think clearly, but her senses were as alert as in the forest. Something was wrong and she was the only one aware of it, but wrong was not the right word, she was shit-scared. Something terrible was going to happen. She breathed it in the air. Around her, none cared, they were laughing, they were chatting, joking, and they gulped down it in a couple of mouthfuls. They liked the dessert so much that asked Vincent for another helping. She was still fumbling with her slice, unable to eat it. She cut it with her fork, but she really did not want to eat it. Moreover, she had again that feeling something was wrong. She did not know why. Then it happened. Something none expected. Mario started to vomit. He fell with his face onto the table, right in his dish.

Valeria followed suit: moaned, retched, hit the dish, and fell off the chair holding her stomach. She twitched in pain a couple of times and stood motionless. Eyes wide open, glazed. Dead fish eyes.

Francisco was able to stand up just to fall down on the floor and started retching black slime. Then he started to choke, twisted and cried as he burned inside. She caught Cubays calling someone on his mobile. She thought it was strange in that tussle, but did not dig deeper. The sweat on the top of his bald head shone in the candle light. He was sick too. She noted he made a phone call, a second one, then hit a third time the digits, but he didn't talk. Suddenly he tensed, vomited the same black slime as the others and his head banged the table. The dish split in two pieces.

She wanted to stand up and help them, but her feet appeared nailed to the floor. She couldn't move her fingers. She started to sweat like in a Russian steam room, a banya. She felt a vein throbbing in her head and inside her left ear. Out of the blue the room started to spin around. In a crazy fish-eye vision she realized they were all dying, and she could do nothing to help. It was a waking nightmare. It was like to see something impossible to happen ahead. Outside the bad weather was building. The yacht started to roll, to pitch, to plunge, and she could not do a thing. She cannot move a thumb, a hand, a hair. She pushed herself hard, and started to shiver. Her mind tried to find a explanation, but there was nowhere to go for sanctuary. She had drank too much champagne and she was seeing things was the only outcome. But she knew Champagne didn't cause visions of people vomiting black slime in their dish before dying. She closed her eyes, opened them again but they were dead. The bad weather rolled them on the floor. She was still seated doing nothing. Now the long table was empty and spooky, glasses rolled back and forth, the head of Cubays still over the shattered dish. The trembling light of the candles dappled shadows over the white tablecloth. Barlesius was staring at the ceiling, motionless on the chair, his eyes wide open, his tongue was sticking out through his lips. She was not sure, but his tongue seemed black. Finally she stood up to have a look but the yacht slewed broadside and foundered in the trough between the waves. The sudden jolt knocked her off the chair, she fell on the floor. She stood up and tottered. They were adrift. The rough sea had broken the mooring. The waves hammered the hull. The boat slewed heavily around, plunged and corkscrewed and she fell by again. The wind howled against the yacht. It was like they were going to capsize, then the yacht stabilized again and stood still, like they were inside the eye of the cyclone. The smell of the vomit and of the death around here was tremendous. She felt a twinge in her stomach. Her mind raced. It was necessary to do something or the outcome of doing nothing would have been disastrous. She knelt and vomited, but did not faint like the others banging hard the head. She stood up panting, and bumped against a body of someone who stood up behind her. She whipped around but a strong arm locked her shoulders, before she could do that. The other hand gauged her mouth for a moment. It was useless, none could hear her screaming, so the hand on her mouth moved right away toward her neck. It was holding a needle. It stabbed the needle into her jugular like it was a shiv. Once, twice. With rage.

She reacted like a ferocious beast, using the "rukopashnyi boi" she was trained in during her period in the SpN. She jumped with her pumps over his feet, elbowed him, pulled the syringe off her neck, and she blacked out. The floor with the blue and white twirls was the last thing she saw.