Deep Fear

by Jethro Wegener

  Calder opened two doors that were across from one another. “Feel free to choose, they’re both the same. I’m in the one at the end. If you need me, give me a shout, yeah?”

  As Calder made his way to his cabin, Jones let Priya take the first pick. She chose the one on the left for no particular reason, and wasn’t that surprised to find an amazing-looking room that included a comfortable-looking bed and on-suite bathroom. She ran her hand over the wood panelling and looked out the porthole at the expanse of pristine blue ocean. This was turning into a hell of an assignment.

  The party could be heard happening overhead. It seemed to be in full swing, with people laughing raucously and music blaring. Priya pulled her camera from her bag and hung it around her neck. She needed to make it look like she was covering the opening.

  Suddenly, she was struck with a pang of anxiety at the thought of all those people upstairs. Her heart rate quickened, and her breathing became erratic, causing her to hurry to the bathroom. She ran the tap, collected some of the water in her cupped hands, and splashed it over her face.

  “Pull it together,” she told her reflection.

  She refused to have a full-on anxiety attack. When she’s chosen to become a journalist, she knew that it would be difficult because she’d suffered from social anxiety all her life. But ever since she’d been a kid, she had wanted to write for a living, and nothing was going to stop her. With therapy, it had become a lot easier, but occasionally, when she was put in a whole new situation, her anxiety flared up again.

  It probably had something to do with her being so out of place at the moment. Priya knew that the people on the yacht were from a completely different world, one that she would never be able to understand. She already felt like an outsider and was way out of her comfort zone.

  She focused on her breathing for a moment, in through her nose and out through her mouth, slow and steady. After a while, her heart rate had calmed, and her breathing was back to normal. A knock on the door pulled her out of her meditation.

  “We’d better get up there,” came Jones’ voice from outside her door.

  “Coming,” she said, and then stopped, looking down at herself.

  Somehow, she didn’t think that her jeans and T-shirt would cut it upstairs, so she asked Jones for five minutes and went scratching in her bag for more appropriate attire. Once she found it, she slipped out of her old clothes and into the new one, breathing a sigh of relief when she discovered that it still fit. After a couple squirts of perfume, she grabbed her camera again and opened the cabin door.

  Jones had worked with Priya for over a year. In that time, she had proved to be an exceptionally talented journalist, as well as a damn good photographer, and he had never once really noticed what she looked like. That changed the moment she opened the door wearing a sheer black cocktail dress.

  “I take it you like the dress?” Priya asked with a smirk.

  “It’s a mighty fine one. You look really good, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “Of course not. You don’t look half bad yourself.”

  Jones had changed into chinos, a white shirt, and a light blue blazer. He could already feel the sweat starting to form on his back, but he wanted to look like he had made some sort of effort before he took the jacket off.

  “Thank you. Let’s go and mingle with the rich and powerful, shall we?” he said, offering his elbow.

  They made their way to the upper deck where the party was happening. They arrived to find about twenty people dressed in a wide array of expensive clothing laughing, eating canapés, and drinking champagne. Waiters and waitresses, all young and good-looking, moved between the guests, clearing used glasses and plates, or taking drink orders. Deep house music played from overhead speakers.

  Priya felt her heart rate quicken again. She felt ridiculously awkward, standing there in her heels and dress that must have cost less one of the branded handbags that a couple of the female guests were holding so nonchalantly. Money probably meant very little to these people.

  Pull it together.

  She took a deep breath and brought her camera up. The act of setting it up calmed her nerves, and by the time she had snapped her third picture, she felt more at ease. Jones watched her go before grabbing a glass of juice from one of the waiters and heading off to the side to lean on the railing.

  Once there, he sipped at his orange juice and watched. He spotted Thompson almost immediately. The well-tailored, hellishly expensive cream-coloured suit made him stand out, even in his current company. He was a tall, fit, well-tanned man in his late fifties, with neatly combed and styled grey hair, black eyes, and a brilliant white smile.

  He was going around shaking hands and having the odd conversation, obviously playing the perfect host. But Jones noticed that the smile seemed somewhat strained, bags were faintly visible under his eyes, and he moved like a man with a lot on his shoulders.

  “That’s Thompson,” Richie said, appearing at Jones’ side suddenly.

  “I guessed. He looks tired.”

  “We all are. Wait here, I’ll bring him over.”

  Richie moved off and attracted Thompson’s attention. He said something, gestured to Jones, and brought the man over. Even though Jones was standing as tall as he possibly could, Thompson’s six-foot-five-inch frame towered over him.

  “Bernard Thompson,” the man said, extending his hand and keeping his smile in place.

  “Adam Jones.”

  They shook. The man’s grip was firm, but his hands were soft, a sharp contrast to Jones’ rough ones, hardened by years of wood work in his garage.

  “Pleasure to meet you! Richie spoke very highly of you indeed, and I don’t mind saying that’s the reason I asked you to come along. But weren’t there two of you?”

  Jones pointed out Priya. “Priya Christie, my colleague.”

  Thompson whistled. “A fine young woman. Very fine. Now, I must get back to it. In about fifteen minutes, I’m going to give a short address covering where we’re going how long it’ll take us to get there, saying thanks, etcetera. If there are any questions or you require something, ask Richie, he’ll see you get what you need. Oh, and tell your colleague to get my best side, okay?”

  Another flash of brilliant white teeth and the man disappeared back into the crowd. Jones watched him go, wondering what to think of the man. One thing he knew for sure—he had not liked the look Thompson had given Priya. Not one bit.

  4

  Calder watched Thompson disappear back into the crowd from his spot near the railing three or so meters away from Jones. He’d been alternating between scanning the crowd and the ocean since he had come up on deck, keeping alert. There had been a couple reports of pirates in the area, and he wasn’t taking any chances.

  Something was making him uneasy, and it wasn’t just the missing men, or the fact that he was basically betraying his boss. It was something else, the same feeling he’d had all those years ago when things went tits up in Afghanistan. Soldiers had an almost sixth sense sometimes, and his was going into overdrive. At least the weight of the Sig in its shoulder holster was giving him comfort.

  “All good, Axel?”

  “Not really,” Calder said, turning to face the man who had just come up behind him.

  Ekkow Afolami nodded. He was a big man with dark skin, a bald head, and muscles that seemed to strain against his suit. His brown eyes scanned the crowd and the horizon before coming back to Calder.

  “So, you’re getting the same feeling I am then?” Ekkow asked.

  “Pretty much. It doesn’t help that Eugene’s brother is here.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  Calder shook his head and pointed to Jones. “That one over there.”

  “Even looks like him. Now that brings back all kinds of bad memories.”

  “Mine never went away.”

  Ekkow put a massive hand on Calder’s shoulder and squeezed. “I know, bruv. His brother know what happened?”

 
“Classified op. He can’t know.”

  “I thought you would have given him something.”

  “What good would it do, mate? His brother is still dead. It was still my fault.”

  “Might help you.”

  Calder laughed. “Nah, mate, I get on just fine.”

  “Don’t we all, bruv? I miss Eugene though. Only journo who I was happy to babysit.”

  “He was one funny fucker. Looks like he got the sense of humour though.”

  “Dour one, is he? Looks like I’ll have to provide all the laughs on this one then.”

  “Mate, you’re about as funny as May is.”

  Ekkow’s face broke out in a display of mock hurt and he clutched at his heart. “You got me right in the heart with that one, bruv.”

  Calder laughed. “I just want to shake this feeling.”

  “Well, if we get in the shit, at least you know I’ve got your back, and our lads aren’t too bad either.”

  “You two expecting trouble then?” Priya asked, coming out of the crowd to stand in front of the two men.

  Ekkow’s face broke out in the biggest smile and he extended his hand. “I see Axel has been holding out on me, the rude fucker. My name is Ekkow.”

  Priya took the offered hand and shook. “Priya. I work with Jones. A journo, I guess you’d say? You part of the security team?”

  “I’d say I’m the security team. Axel and the others are just there for show.”

  “I feel safer already,” Priya said with a laugh. “I’m assuming you both served in the same unit?”

  Calder nodded. “Both part of the Regiment.”

  “Regiment?”

  “SAS, luv,” Ekkow replied. “Axel and I were honoured to be part of the greatest special forces unit in the world.”

  “I love your humility.”

  “Everyone does. I’m told it’s my second-best feature.”

  “And what’s the first?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ekkow said with a wink. “Now, I’m sorry to be rude, but I need to go and make sure our team has the bodyguards squared away. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Calder and Priya watched Ekkow go below deck, and stood in awkward silence for a moment. It was Priya who spoke first.

  “So, you knew Jones’ brother?”

  “He was embedded in our unit for a while.”

  “Jones never talks about him, you know.”

  “People deal with loss in different ways.”

  She studied his face before nodding. “I guess so. Anyway, I have to get back to work. Later.”

  Calder nodded and watched her head off, snapping photos as she went.

  “Well,” he said to himself, “that went well, didn’t it, dickhead?”

  5

  “Why the fuck am I always the one doing the dirty work?” Billy asked himself in the darkness.

  He was slowly making his way down one of The Kingdom’s many service tunnels. The network of pipes and cables that ran across the ceiling and walls was making his progress harder. Valves, knobs, and various protruding pieces were everywhere, forming an intricate web of metal, and he was already bent double to fit his six-foot frame into the tiny space. It was a good thing he was about the width of a chopstick, as his dad used to say.

  “What was that?” came a voice over the radio clipped to his shoulder.

  “I said, why the fuck am I always the one going into these tunnels?”

  “Because you’re smaller than I am.”

  “Bullshit, George, you’re half my height.”

  “But twice your width in muscle, Billy. Now stop moaning. How far away are you?”

  Billy checked the map on his tablet PC. “Not far. But, dude, what the hell is wrong this time?”

  “I dunno, man. Blocked pipe or something. System is just giving me a blockage warning, and we have to get it fixed fast. The boss is on his way as we speak.”

  “Fuck this. This place isn’t ready to be open.”

  “Well, do you want to keep getting paid? If so, then we need those rich fuckers to come spend their money.”

  Billy sighed. George had a point. Even he, as low down on the totem pole as he was, had heard the rumours that the boss was running out of cash.

  “Now stop moaning and clear the channel until you get there. Out.”

  George clicked off, leaving Billy alone once more. He pulled his parka around himself as his teeth started chattering. All around him was the steady drip of water as the condensation that formed on the pipes fell to the floor. He was walking in one great big puddle, thankful his boots were waterproof. Wet feet would have just soured his mood even more.

  He swore loudly as his head caught on a particularly nasty protruding bit of pipe. He gingerly touched the spot with his fingers and they came away slick with blood. More swear words followed as he pulled his handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and pressed it against the wound.

  “Just what I need,” he muttered to himself. “Cold, wet, and now in pain. I do so love my job.”

  His tablet made a sound, indicating that he was at the site of the blockage, and he stopped. He shone his flashlight over the various pipes around him, looking for the one that was blocked. It didn’t take him long to find it.

  “What the actual fuck?”

  A thick, glistening lump of black gunk clung wetly to one of the pipes. It seemed to be moving, writhing under the glare of the flashlight, but Billy put it down to a trick of the light. As he watched, the gunk seemed to expand, becoming bigger and covering more of the pipe, slowly, as if someone was slowly squeezing it out like toothpaste from a tube.

  “George, come in.”

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “It looks like there’s something coming out of the pipe.”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s some kind of black goop coming out of the pipe here. Looks gnarly.”

  “Take a picture and send it to me.”

  Billy pulled up the camera on his phone and snapped a picture. He was temporarily blinded as the flash went off. He blinked his eyes repeatedly and could have sworn that the goop had moved when the flash went off. It had to be another trick of the light.

  “Sent.”

  “Jesus,” George exclaimed. “What the fuck is that?”

  “This pipe leads out into the ocean, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s one of the waste pipes.”

  “You think this came from out there?”

  “Christ, I hope not. That’s all we need is gunk in our systems. Hang on, I’m going to try and flush the pipe. I want you tell me what happens.”

  As Billy waited, he gazed at the black stuff. A shudder ran through him as it occurred to him how far down he was. Tons of water were kept at bay by a thin metal skin—the only thing between him and an agonising death. On the one hand, it was an engineering marvel; on the other, he was wondering why the fuck the place had ever been built.

  “Okay, I’m going to start low, and then slowly increase the pressure. Tell me if it has any effect.”

  Billy watched as George relayed the amount of pressure he was using to flush the pipe over the radio. At first, there was very little effect, but then the goop started to tremble slightly. It took about 30 seconds for it to start receding into the pipe once more.

  It slid slowly, leaving a thin, sickly trail of grey in its wake. It looked like it was fighting against the pressure, trying its best to stay out of the pipe.

  “It looks to be—” Billy’s sentence was cut off as the black goop exploded out toward him, covering his face in slime.

  He jumped back, coughing and spluttering, and banged into the pipes behind him. An intense pain shot up his spine as a protruding valve caught him in the middle of his back. He cried out, still trying frantically to wipe the goop off of his face. It felt like it was moving over him, looking for a way inside, and before he knew it, the stuff was flowing into him.

  It poured into his nose, the open wound on his forehead, and his mouth as he opened i
t to scream. No sound came from his lips as the black gunk flowed down his throat, choking him. He felt it forcing its way into his stomach, expanding his oesophagus on the way down. As it flowed into the wound in his head, it stretched the skin, so it looked like someone was pumping water between his skull and flesh.

  Billy fell to the floor, writhing in pain, clawing at his throat. In his agony, he prayed for death, or any kind of release from what was happening, but somehow, he could still breathe, as if the stuff was keeping him alive.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. He was left curled up in a foetal position on the wet floor, able to breathe normally again, and the pain dissipated. There was no light, as the flashlight had been broken in the struggle, leaving Billy to sob in the darkness, with only the sound of dripping water and George’s frantic shouts coming from the radio to keep him company.

  6

  Two members of the maintenance crew were dispatched to Billy’s last known location as soon as communication with him was lost. They found him still curled up on the floor, complaining about how much his head hurt, mumbling incoherent gibberish. The two men radioed for a medical team, who arrived swiftly and carted the man off to sick bay.

  The Kingdom’s resident doctor, Henry Goldstein, could find nothing wrong with the man, save for the bump on his head, and could not make any sense out of his gabbling. At one point, Billy started screaming and had to be sedated, after which the doctor decided that it was time Thompson heard about what was going on.

  “…and that’s all we’ve been told,” Calder concluded, sitting back down in the plush leather chair.

  He, Ekkow, Thompson, Richie, and one of Thompson’s PR men were gathered around a large mahogany table in the yacht’s meeting room. Calder had been the first one informed once the doctor had radioed the yacht, and it was he who had called the meeting. Thompson did not look pleased.

  “So, the doctor can’t find anything wrong?” he asked, while he fiddled with his expensive, gold cuff-links. “What’s his theory?”

  “He doesn’t have anything solid.”

  “Come on, Axel, the guy must have given you something because there’s no way you didn’t push. I know you better than that.”