The first dinner at the resort was an exercise in forced normalcy that felt like a masquerade ball where everyone had forgotten their costumes.
The buffet was spread with exotic fruits—mangosteen, dragon fruit, rambutan—grilled seafood that smelled of charcoal and lemongrass, and bottles of champagne chilling in silver buckets. But the room was quiet. The only sounds were the clinking of silverware and the low hum of the ceiling fans.
The Hayes family sat at a corner table, tucked away near a potted palm. Thomas sat with his back to the wall, his eyes never leaving the main entrance, the kitchen doors, and the windows. Maggie was trying to force-feed Lucas a slice of mango.
"Eat, Lucas. You need your vitamins," she urged, her voice high. "It's fresh. It's good for you."
"I need a Wi-Fi signal, Mom," Lucas snapped, poking at his phone screen. It was just a black glass brick now. No bars. No "emergency calls only." Just nothing. He felt severed. A phantom limb pain where his digital life used to be.
Across the room, the group dynamics were settling into place, like oil separating from water.
Marcus Sterling was at the head of a long table, alone. He was on his third glass of scotch, shouting into a satellite phone. "I don't care about the quarantine zones! I have assets! Get me the Coast Guard!" He looked like a king presiding over a court of invisible subjects.
Dr. Julian Aris was sitting at a small table for two, though the other chair was empty. His plate was untouched. He was staring at a glass of water as if he could see the virus swimming in it, his hands trembling so badly the water rippled.
Liam and Sarah were the only ones acting normal. They were feeding each other bites of curry, giggling. They were the "Before." They were the ghosts of the world that had ended eight hours ago at Heathrow.
Lucas's eyes wandered. He found Jax sitting at the bar, nursing a bottle of Singha beer. The ex-con wasn't looking at the TV or the food. He was watching the staff. He noticed when a waiter dropped a tray. He noticed when a hostess leaned against a pillar to catch her breath, her eyes rolling back for a split second before she straightened up.
Jax caught Lucas's eye. He didn't smile. He tapped his own ear, then pointed toward the kitchen.
Lucas frowned. He listened.
Behind the soft jazz playing over the speakers and the clinking of cutlery, there was a sound. A wet, rhythmic slapping. Like someone was running barefoot on a marble floor. Fast. Too fast. And then, a sound like a dog gnawing on a bone.
Lucas put his fork down. "Dad."
"What?" Thomas didn't look up from his steak.
"Do you hear that?"
Thomas paused. He listened. The sound stopped. "Hear what? It's just the kitchen staff."
"It didn't sound like staff," Lucas said.