Midnight Ferry With Vending Machines

The ticket blepped out the machine like a tongue. Laughing to himself, giddy with jetlag, Rory used both hands to take hold of it. One hand would be impolite in Japan. Written in English: Midnight Ferry with Vending Machines and onboard Entertainments.

The waiting room was empty, and too bright, with pale gray walls and wan blue seats. The sterility spoke to Rory. A bottle of hand-wash gel sat on a tiny, wheeled stand, placed against a pillar with a no-smoking sign and other warnings he couldn’t read. He’d left his muddy, thread-trailing rucksack against a row of chairs nearby.

Rory thought to grab his camera, but felt as likely to drop and break it as frame a good shot. He needed sleep. Plus, though the placement of the rucksack had been unintentional, he worried people might think otherwise. Someone else’s rucksack, sure, great image. Not his own.

He sat down; immediately the PA bonged. Even in Japanese, Rory could hear the polite smile in the woman’s voice. Eventually, in English, she told Rory it was time to board. There was no one else to listen.

Arrows pointed the way. Up the stairs, into the umbilical-cord tunnel, the Plexiglass lashed by rain, port workers just visible on the dock, readying for cast off.

The ship’s white-painted steel shone in the dark. Dahlia. Five huge pale-pink petals decorated its front end, overlaying the windows, like God had been crafting with potato stamps.

No one was there to welcome Rory aboard. He’d been traveling for days now—Glasgow to Dubai, Dubai to Osaka, Osaka to Maizuru—and everywhere there had been a surfeit of staff welcoming him to this or thanking him for that. Here: nothing. Had he taken a wrong turn?

No—on a giant flatscreen in the lobby, an animated lady with big eyes and pleasantly patronizing manner welcomed passengers and ran through the safety briefing. Rory deduced this from the graphics alone, because it was all in Japanese. He waited for her to repeat herself in English, or for some fellow traveler to arrive, but neither happened.

The lobby was split over three levels, with wooden double staircases arcing round the elevator shaft. They’d gone for brown and beige walls, an odd choice that somehow worked. And round a corner: vending machines. As promised.

Rory examined them. He expected food, that this was where he’d get his sustenance from for the next twenty-one hours, but instead these machines sold an eclectic assortment of the useful and the bizarre. In one: underwear, toothbrushes, shaving kits. In another: screwdrivers, hammers, crowbars. A third sold only keys.

Rory thought to take a picture, again thought better of it. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t go too heavy on the isn’t Japan weird? angle. A cliché. But still: weird. Anyway, he’d have plenty of time for photography after he’d slept, and that meant finding his room.

He checked his ticket again. Apart from the chat about the vending machines and the entertainments, everything was in Japanese. No, wait—three familiar characters lurked among the kanji: C71. He’d seen a deck C on the safety lady’s graphics. He set off to consult her again but found a floor plan on the way. Deck C, one floor up. No problem.

Deck C had no proper doors. Instead, it had those traditional sliding paper ones Rory couldn’t remember the name for. Pretty cool, but on a ship? Again: weird. And surely far from safe. With the narrow corridors, Rory was forever in danger of turning round and sending his rucksack crashing into someone’s room.

Inside C71 was a proper bed, low to the floor but comfy looking. There was even a window, and a bathroom with an actual bath.

Rory knelt on the bed to look out the window. Nothing but the rain, and the streaked, distant lights of the far side of the port. He lay down to test the mattress, told himself not to fall asleep, not before finding someone, and woke up hours later in rough seas.

Rory sat up, closed his eyes again while he acclimatized to the ship's heavy sway. He found his phone, squinted at it. 6:14pm. Shit. He had wanted to be on deck for cast off. Traditionally, the port crew lined up to see the ships away, waving with glow sticks until they passed from sight.

Ah, well. He’d get another chance. He was heading up to Sapporo to spend the weekend at the snow festival, then over to Tomakomai and another ferry back down the country’s eastern side for a week in Tokyo. Months of planning and a small fortune just to take the same cyberpunky street photos everyone else took.

Rory staggered to the toilet, peed with one hand on the low ceiling to steady himself. He was starving now, and grumpy with it.

Back in the room, a whiff of fust, like a clammy foot fleetingly revealed. Ah, last night’s dinner. His plane had been delayed, leaving him only a few hours to do Osaka before he had to catch a train, and between fitting in the castle and some harried, piss-poor photography, he forgot about eating until it was almost too late. He found a Western-style deli, attempted to buy a slice of Japanese Camembert but couldn’t make himself understood and ended up buying the whole thing, big as a pizza. He scoffed about half with bread and jam before stuffing the rest into his rucksack and dashing for his connection.

The Camembert had warmed in the night. Yeesh. It needed dumped, the room aired. But the window wouldn’t open, and Rory didn’t fancy wandering about the ship clutching half a wheel of fetid cheese. He’d deal with it later, once he’d found some signs of life.

He left his room quietly, given the hour, though it’d be difficult anyway to slam a paper door. In the corridor, he listened for snoring, for morning groans, running showers. Nothing.

He came across another floor plan but preferred to explore, to let himself be surprised by whatever was round the next corner. There were quicker ways to traverse Japan, but Rory had always liked ferries, and the idea of twenty-one hours aboard one had struck him as a fun adventure.

He headed up to deck B, reminded himself he was having fun, and decided: find one person, then I can eat.

Deck B opened out into a lounge area with high-backed yellow chairs clustered in fours round tables, or facing out the windows to sea. The waves were still strong, so Rory toured the area wide legged, peering round seat backs, apologetic smile at the ready.

No one.

Built into the far wall: a bar, its top half in-filled with vending machines. Soft drinks, alcohol, coffee, cup noodles. No staff.

Rory held onto the bar lip, turned to face the room, and waited. It’s still early. Someone will arrive. Any moment now.

Nothing. He tried the gents’ toilets and it was empty. He considered checking the ladies’ but had no desire to be branded a pervert with over fifteen hours of ship time to go. This section’s shut, that’s all. I’ve missed a sign, walked round a barrier.

He headed back downstairs, toward the ship’s aft, along a corridor that ran parallel to his own. More rooms, their paper doors shut, everything silent and still.

At the back of the deck, he found another seating area, this one featuring a tiny stage with a Yamaha keyboard and a microphone. That’ll be the entertainments, then.

One wall was entirely vending machines—deep, glass-fronted behemoths that towered over Rory, stuffed full of vacuum-packed meals. Soba, udon, onigiri, spaghetti, sushi, ramen, rice omelet, ice cream, more cup noodles. To one side, a kitchen area with six red microwaves, cutlery, chopsticks, condiments.

Rory stepped back from the vending machines to get an overview, his hand already on his wallet. Back home, in the supermarket, he’d walk right past meals like these. But this was Japan, where eating this crap was somehow the future, and not just grim.

But no. He still hadn’t found anybody. Vending machines or no, there should at least be crew about. Someone had to be stocking these things, and running the engines, and steering. One person, then breakfast.

Back through the ship he went, ducking into another gents’ toilet—also empty. And an odd thing: apart from the flimsy cubicles, there were no doors. The entrance was a curved partition, just like the toilets up on deck B. In fact, Rory was yet to find a single solid door on the whole ship. How can that be safe?

He stumbled on, thinking about bulkheads and watertight compartments and a half-forgotten Titanic documentary, his empty belly complaining all the while.

Ah! But there were real doors—leading out onto deck. They were riveted into the metal, with portholes and everything. Rory peered through one. The sun hadn’t quite risen and the waves were still high, but at least the rain had lessened.

He had to fight the wind to squeeze through the door. Immediately he regretted his lack of jacket, and of course the deck was deserted, but he persevered, encouraged by a memory: the ship’s bridge was a wide T. If he walked toward the stern he’d get a view of it.

He staggered forward, clutching the railing, and there it was, the bridge, lit up against the dark. And silhouetted in the windows—people. Crew. Maybe half a dozen busy figures.

Rory’s relief was inordinate. Of course there’s a crew. Plainly, there has to be a captain. He smiled up at them, dark imaginings fading from his mind—of ghost ships, purgatory, a bad fall then coma dream, of waking up years later with a thicket beard and ruinous medical bills.

He thought to wave, but with the low light and his position beneath them, he’d be difficult to spot. Plus, he might just look ridiculous. A comedy tourist man, making a spectacle of himself. No thanks.

He’d found some humans. Time for breakfast. He’d promised himself.

Rory shivered as the door slammed behind him. He was sure he hadn’t climbed any stairs but he was back on deck B, back in the lounge area with the high-backed yellow chairs. Odd. He had the strange sense too that the room had somehow grown, that the vending machine bar was further away and a whole new yellow-chaired section had been inserted in the gap.

Unlikely. Just going mad with the hunger. He found a floor plan in front of him and this time deigned to use it. Beyond the lounge, another dining area, from its size likely the main one. Maybe that’s where everyone is.

He walked the length of the room again, once again wide legged against the sway and peering hopefully around chair backs. Still no one.

Surely he couldn’t be the only passenger. That’d be a catastrophic way to run a business. Maybe in the ship’s bowels there was a boatload of cargo, and that’s where they made their money. Or maybe Rory really had boarded the wrong ship. A skeleton crew were sailing it to some obscure port for repairs, or across the ocean for scrapping. They did that in India, mostly, on a beach befouled by heavy metals. Rory had read about it.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. His mind was running away from him. He needed fed, to get outside some stodge, then he’d be better prepared to face whatever was happening. If it came to it, he’d head up to the bridge. It wasn’t like there were any doors to stop him.

The main dining area was sectioned off from the lounge—more partitions—and its layout matched the area at the back of the ship: a row of hulking vending machines, a little kitchen section with microwaves. Surrounding it, a vast array of tables and chairs, all empty.

Rory sighed. Fine. He fed a thousand yen note into a machine, punched in the number for rice omelet, then bought another because the portions looked small.

Each vending machine had a paired microwave, complete with helpful pointing-hand sticker to indicate the correct program. Rory inserted the first of his meals, jabbed the button. As the microwave lit up, he noticed something reflected in its glass.

A tray, left behind on a table. Scrunched packaging, a tall, thin can on its side, the remains of breakfast—a sandwich, the bread still fluffy and fresh. Was that there a moment ago?

“Hello?” shouted Rory. “Is there someone here? Hello?”

He dashed into the gents’ toilets, this time tried the ladies’ too. Nothing.

“Hello? Konnichiwa? Anyone?”

Back through the partition to the lounge—no one. Rory sighed. Okay, fine. Pretty spooky but also comforting. He wasn’t alone. Someone had eaten breakfast in here, and recently too. Maybe they were just shy.

By now, Rory could smell his omelet. He returned to the dining area, stopped dead when he saw his microwave.

New on its front: a yellow Post-it. What the hell?

Rory approached. Something was written on the note, in Japanese. He looked around, said to the empty room, “But I can’t read Japanese.”

Again he sighed, reminded himself that not knowing Japanese was very much a Rory problem, then dug out his phone, loaded up the translation app, pointed the camera at the note and waited for the software to do its work. It took some time—Rory was hardly an expert, but the penmanship looked sloppy, like it had been written in a hurry.

The microwave pinged. At the same moment, on his phone screen, the Japanese script morphed into English.

Don’t eat the food. That’s when it gets you.

What the hell? Rory spun round. When what gets you? Somebody was fucking with him. Maybe lots of people. He was on one of those crazy Japanese gameshows, the victim of some unspeakably cruel practical joke. Now it all made sense—the empty ship, the lack of doors, the eerie atmosphere.

He shouted, “I don’t consent to this! I… I withdraw my consent, if I ever gave it. I won’t participate! You can all come out, because I’m not playing!”

Nothing. He looked around for cameras but found none. Probably hidden. Probably the microwaves were fake, stuffed with recording equipment. Bastards. Rory opened them all, even the one he’d been using, though it had cooked his food and had to be real.

They were all real. Whatever. Rory peeled off the Post-it, held it up to his hidden audience. “Fuck you guys.”

No way they were going to torture him, little chance they’d keep him from eating for a whole day straight. He grabbed his warmed omelet, marched to a table and sat down, then had to perform the whole routine again because he’d forgotten a fork. He could have done with a drink too but wasn’t getting up a third time.

He cleared his throat, said again, “I do not consent,” and peeled back the plastic from his meal.

And that’s when he heard it.

Running. From the lounge, someone was coming. No, not someone—something. An animal. Heavy, panting, moving at speed, paws thudding, claws clinking on the floor.

Rory shot up, backed away from the partitioned entrance, fork out in front of him. No, don’t fight, you idiot—run.

He spun, looked for some means of escape, something solid to put between himself and whatever was coming. No doors. Oh, you bastards.

But no—there were doors, out onto the deck. He just had to find one. He ran, away from the noise, up to the far end of the dining area, desperate for an exit, for salvation.

The thing was in the room now, those pants morphing into growls, furniture clattering in its wake. Rory didn’t dare turn round.

There—a door. He barrelled through it, slammed it shut, saw back inside, through the porthole, a flash of brown fur.

Jesus living Christ. He held the door handle tight, but it wouldn’t help, wouldn’t stop this thing for a second, so he scrambled away, slipping on the wet deck, rain in his eyes, his clothes already soaked through and hanging off him.

Did it see me? Does it know where I am? He ran without destination, hoping for distance, praying for a plan.

Above him: a long drop-down ladder, access to a closed-off section of upper deck. The ladder was withdrawn, too high even with a running jump. Inaccessible. But maybe therefore safe.

Got to get up there.

Despite his sprinting, Rory was still outside the lounge with the high-backed yellow chairs—Christ, has it grown even longer?—and not far from another access door. He scanned the deck. Nothing coming.

Worth a shot. Rory slipped inside, nearly tripped over the step in his haste. He grabbed a high-backed chair and birthed it back through the door, the thing too big until he maneuvered it sideways and sent his shoulder into it, snapping one of the legs.

Out on deck, he dragged it under the ladder, finagled the broken leg back into place.

He looked around again. Still alone. The chair was already shifting, upset by the ship’s sway, unsteady on its three good legs. Need to be quick.

He took a running jump, placed one foot on the seat, the other on its back. The chair collapsed beneath him but he managed to grab the ladder with both hands. His ribs crashed into the bottom rung and his left arm yanked in a way that suggested ball and socket were soon to part. Breathless, he climbed, feet swinging uselessly until he managed to insert his knees between two rungs, then curl into himself awkwardly and get a foot placed and keep going.

Hardly elegant, but it worked. Rory climbed, the rain fierce, sun rising through a distant crack in the clouds.

He reached the top, hustled away from the ladder. There was no one up here, and not many places to go—Rory was boxed in by giant exhausts and industrial-sized pipework and other oversized ship gubbins. But he now had a far better view of the bridge. Surely the crew would see him.

He made to wave but hesitated. Something was off. Rory was behind the bridge, looking at the figures from the back. They were still moving, ostensibly going about their duties. But they were also still silhouetted, despite the strengthening light. And their heads looked wrong, like they were too big for their bodies, or like someone had messed with the aspect ratio.

Or like they weren’t designed to be viewed from this angle.

Shit. They’re not even real. They’re projections.

Rory’s guts lurched. There was nothing in there to expel but his body tried anyway, spasming so hard he bent over double. He spat up bile, mucus, whatever, then leaned against the railing to recover, the rain against his back, sleeves sodden and directing the water like sluices. What the hell’s going on?

Beneath him, the yellow chair was on its side, waterlogged and now two tones darker. The broken leg had come off again. Each lurch of the ship brought it closer to the deck’s edge, to oblivion. Rory looked away, toward the horizon. He was on the boat’s starboard side and they were heading north, up the west of the country. Land should always be in sight. Rory saw only sea.

He stepped back from the railing and tried to find a corner to cower in.

Instead he found a body.

Half a body. The legs were gone and the chest cavity had been hollowed out, blood and entrails everywhere, as if some mad beast had used its torso as a bowl. The face was missing a cheek and a nose. An eye hung loose, its tendrils tangled up in rain-slicked hair.

Rory spun away from it, the urge to move almost overwhelming. But he had nowhere to go. Panting, he ran a lap of the deck space, could find no way out but back down the ladder.

No choice. He couldn’t stay here. This was where it ate.

Rory crouched at the top of the ladder, trying to release its drop-down section with numb, freezing fingers. He glanced behind, shivered with his whole body. Tried again. He was a crouton in a bowl of soup. A prawn awaiting the skewer.

Release, you bastard! Finally, the ladder obeyed, chunking down in stages, reaching its terminus with a resounding metallic thud.

Rory hesitated; wary the creature would rouse to the noise. But if it did he was no safer lingering at the top of the ladder than fleeing from the bottom of it. The thing could come from any direction.

He climbed down, eyes on the deck beneath him, hands almost fizzy in the cold. Despite what he’d just found, outside still felt safer than in. But he couldn’t stay out here. He’d get hypothermia. If he didn’t dry off and change his clothes soon, he might be in trouble anyway.

Rory dropped onto the deck then crouched under a window and peered into the lounge. No one. No thing.