Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans)

by Richard Chizmar

  Felicity rose and disappeared behind a dune, startling Simon for a moment when he realized she wasn’t there. His eyes narrowed before the strain on his legs informed him that the sand below his feet was rising slightly. As he rose, he smiled, hunching over mischievously, wanting to surprise his wife when he appeared. "Where are you?"

  Simon stepped over the dune and stumbled slightly, his white trainers disappearing into the soft sand. As he moved down, he noticed his wife in the distance, her back to him. She'd stopped off to the left, standing before Ida's Ice stand. Checking his watch, he wondered if the shop was still open. I could murder a 69, he thought.

  As he neared, the situation became clear.

  Three young men were standing before Felicity, their faces twisted with youthful menace and abandon. The leader—therefore the one closest to his wife—was smiling, his yellow teeth lacking a serious brush and floss. His black hair slicked to the side of his head, through grease and dirt rather than product, exposing a pimply complexion, and his torn jean jacket, along with the tight, faded denim on his legs, was too small. His two companions were hanging back, admiring Felicity with their hormone fueled, virginal eyes. The one to the left had his tongue out, the flesh pierced with a fat blob of silver, which clicked on his teeth as he slid it in and out. The third, with a shaved head and biro-like tattoos on his forearms, stood silently, his face comparable to the complexion of a pizza.

  It took three seconds for Simon to gauge the situation, and one thing told him all he needed to know: The look on Felicity's face was one of pure terror.

  That's when he noticed the menacing switchblade, previously hidden behind his wife. Then, he noticed other things—the swastikas interlaced throughout the tattoos, the dried blood on their clothing, and the knives sheathed on their hips.

  He stepped up, breathing in calmly. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

  "This ain't none of your business, cunt. Get fuckin' lost."

  The language took Simon aback. Nevertheless, he stepped forward again. "My wife and I were going for a walk, so please excuse us."

  The leader of the gang smiled, and then laughed. It sounded like barbed wire tearing into a chicken. "You move, and I'll slash your whore's pretty face."

  "Now…there's no need for violence," Simon uttered, terror seizing him. His eyes flicked from Yellow Teeth to Baldie to Tongue Stud, all in one motion. Beyond them, the marina was empty, void of any human life. The boardwalk, it's faded, creaking boards and dated amusements, no longer attracted a huge crowd. The sea lapped innocently at the pier as several white gulls stood on a beaten, sunken rooftop. A caw broke the air now and then. Simon had read that the owner of the pier no longer opened for profit; he did it for the nostalgic value and fond memories. Which was just as well, really.

  However, it didn’t help their situation. No one walked by, no one stopped to look.

  No one was there to help.

  Simon's eyes landed on Yellow Teeth once more. He said nothing.

  "Violence? Violence is the least of your worries, cunt. Me mate here, well, let's just say he don’t have a way with the ladies." His stuck a thumb out, aiming at Baldie." He's been hankerin’ to bust his nut, for ages now. You see, no one wants to fuck him, the cheerleaders at school are too high and mighty and even the fat chicks have better things to do. Their vibrators or cucumbers probably. Man, I wouldn’t be surprised if they got off on a fuckin' Twinkie."

  Baldie chuckled, reveling in the attention. Felicity took a half step backward, her hand curling behind her husband. She laid her palm on the small of his spine and tapped several times with her fingers. Simon noticed. She was trying to tell him something, rendering Yellow Teeth's incessant ramblings a second priority.

  Yellow Teeth waved the switchblade around, spinning it like a sparkler on November 5th. "Baldie wants to lose his virginity. We owe it to him; his sexual appetite makes him sloppy, sporadic. You ever tried robbing a convenience store when there's free porno magazines to be had? He don't care about the fuckin' money, all he wants is to hide in the broom cupboard and unload on a pair of titties, using fuckin' Fairy Liquid as lube. Sexual urges, I tell ya, are a fuckin' liability, and I can't have a liability on my side, it's unpredictable." He sneered, the jaundiced teeth poking towards them. "That's where your lovely wife comes in."

  Felicity continued her tapping calmly, despite the situation. Simon knew what she was saying. He nodded. He had to distract them.

  "Why don’t you get a prostitute?" Simon said, apologizing to his wife through a sideways glance. He took a step forward, Felicity slid behind him, safe from harm. "Surely you can find someone to fu…have sex with your friend?"

  "You're kiddin', right? And risk catching a disease?"

  Simon stifled a laugh.

  On first appearance, a disease might do the inferior gene pool on display a favor, he thought. He composed himself. "Yes, but you get a choice, a selection. Why settle for one when you can choose from a whole basket?"

  Tongue Stud laughed. "Listen to this cunt. He thinks he can talk us out of this."

  Baldie nodded. "I already made ma choice." His lecherous eyes looked Felicity up and down. She shivered. "Do I make you nervous, hon? Trust me, you'll be shivering when I spunk me load in you. You should see the socks I've ruined in my time."

  Simon swallowed, breathed deeply. Felicity had stopped tapping.

  Yellow Teeth. Tongue Stud. Baldie.

  Months back, following their lovemaking, Simon and Felicity had laid in bed, not a care in the world. They had all the time they needed—a two-week honeymoon in Barbados. That day, it was raining; the tropical climate unleashed its torrential anger on the beautiful country and rendered a walk on the beach, a drive through the zigzag country roads and breakfast on the balcony, a no-go.

  So, they'd talked and talked, like happily married couples do. Felicity began tapping on her husband's fuzzy chest, stroking her fingertips across his defined contours. Both relaxed, blissfully happily. In that moment, or three hours as it fast became, she'd created a code, a language specific to them, one that was easy to identify. It would come in useful during snooze fest dinner parties, awkward family gatherings and, once, at a funeral. A few taps on the table, wine glass or chair, and everything was set.

  Yellow Teeth. Tongue Stud. Baldie.

  Only Yellow Teeth had a weapon.

  Simon knocked it from his grasp, an awkward palm slap from the side, one that slipped the weapon from its grip. The blade twirled and thudded into the sand. "Run," he shouted, the youths momentarily off-guard.

  Felicity jumped towards Baldie, swiping him in the balls with an outstretched, toned leg, pushing off his bulky frame and into a sprint. He dropped to the sand in a puff of golden dust. The path clear, Simon followed, leaping over the fallen youth. Yellow Teeth spun on the spot, confused. Tongue Stud simply watched in awe, not believing the events that were quickly unfolding before him.

  The first few meters of sand snagged at their speed, but eventually they landed on the boardwalk, their feet clonking on the wood beneath. Felicity took the lead, dipping and sliding past litterbins, benches and several abandoned hot dog stands. Simon followed her, mimicking her movements with an added, muscular abandon. He looked over his shoulders and noticed the gang hadn't moved. Baldie was still on the ground, clasping his groin. Tongue Stud was seeing to his friend, helping him. Yellow Teeth simply stared, hatred screwing his face into an ugly grimace.

  "Left here," Felicity beckoned. She darted left, past a neglected candyfloss stand. Simon nearly collided with it, moving off to the right. He leapt across a crazy golf course, missing the holes and structures by inches, and rejoined his wife. "Where are we going?"

  "Not sure. I've never been here before." She angled right, ignoring the empty aquarium, and reached a long straight that ended at a huge, nine-foot metal gate.

  A closed gate.

  "Shit," she gasped, bending on her knees, the adrenalin now kicking in. "Is it locked?"

  "Only one way
to find out." Simon ran towards the gate and knew, his belly sinking prematurely, that they were trapped. A foot away, he saw the huge padlock, one that laced two chains together, both as thick as his wrist. "Shit," he said.

  Felicity appeared beside him. "What do we do?"

  "Why lock it? The beach lets anyone walk onto the boardwalk. Fucking pointless!"

  "Simon, we need to do something. They'll be right behind us."

  Simon said nothing. He glanced around, seeking an escape. He looked up, the thought of climbing immediately diminished by the menacing barbed wire atop the gate.

  "Simon…"

  "Quick, in here."

  Simon ushered Felicity into an abandoned booth. The faded, peeling door fluttered on the breeze, so he pulled it open, shoved his wife inside and closed it behind him. They both hit the deck, ducking out of sight.

  Seconds later, footsteps drummed on the boardwalk.

  Simon placed a finger to his lips. He slowly latched the door closed. It wobbled between his fingertips, the fixings loose, unsteady and unsafe. It would have to do.

  If they kick it, we're done for. He nodded, accepting defeat as a screw fell between the cracks below. He turned and ushered his wife forward, deeper into the booth.

  Felicity nodded and turned, moving silently on her hands and knees. The booth stank of old cooking oil and fried potato. Felicity noticed a sprayed stack of menus on the ground, some crumpled, some twisted and some soaked through. Across from her sat two deep fat fryers, both cold, both coated in a sheen of dust. The floor, red tiles uneasily bonded with white gum, was cool to the touch and slick, as if it hadn’t been mopped in some time. Felicity imagined old trainers squeaking on the surface during business hours.

  "Where are youuuuu?" Yellow Teeth beckoned.

  Simon crawled past her, past the fryers and to the end of the booth, keeping low, not announcing his presence through the grimy, shuttered windows. He found another open door. Felicity watched him. He frowned, reacted to something, and then beckoned. Felicity scooted over to him and looked through the door.

  A set of rough concrete steps angled downwards, into a vast darkness. The air was crisp and cool; it caressed their sweaty faces with chilly, invisible fingers. Footsteps became louder on the boardwalk and shadows flickered through the windows. The youths approached the gate. The couple heard the chains rattle as they tried the padlock. A muted voice sounded throughout the booth. "Where the fuck did they go?"

  Simon glanced at Felicity and nodded.

  Silently, he went first, stepping into the stairwell. He shivered as the cold air curled around him. Felicity followed suit, sliding her mobile phone from her pocket. She lit the screen up, illuminating the steps before them. Gently, she closed the door behind them.

  "Careful, Si. It's dark, don't slip."

  "Here, give me that." He took the phone from his wife and held it out before him. He held it waist high, aiming at the steps below, steps that could potentially send him falling to his death.

  Slowly, but surely, he descended the stairwell.

  After three minutes, they reached the bottom. His face, glistening with sweat and hued crimson in the cheeks, flickered with a relieved smile as his feet touched a flat, reliable surface. He placed his hands on his thighs, which twitched with muscle spasm. He'd concentrated precisely on the steps, not knowing when they would stop. They trembled beneath his slick palms. Felicity, her hair now tied in a bun, stepped onto the floor behind him.

  "Fuck me," he gasped.

  "Not now, it's hardly the time," she said coyly.

  Despite the situation, he laughed. "How many steps was that?"

  "I lost count after sixty."

  "You were counting?"

  "Colour me curious. How often do you see a set of concrete steps delving deep below a boardwalk?"

  "Fair point." Simon held the phone up and noticed a flickering rectangle off to the left. He walked towards it, reaching back for Felicity to ensure she followed. She gripped his forearm between her cold fingers.

  They emerged into a huge rectangle of a room. Crude lighting was built into the concrete ceiling, the lights—bare yellow bulbs in sockets—were placed equally apart, one every couple of feet. The only lights active were the ones above them. The rectangle shot off into the distance, the darkness swallowing the walls and floor. Simon spun on the spot, looking for some clue to their whereabouts. He handed the phone back to Felicity.

  "Now what?"

  "On the floor," Felicity muttered. "Colored lines."

  Simon saw them; printed precisely and neat onto the slick surface. One red, one yellow, one blue and one striped, like a wasp or a hazard sign. He recognized them immediately. "They're directional guidelines. Yellow for one room, red for another. Warehouses use them all the time."

  "Great. What do we do now?"

  Simon spun, staring into the darkness, seeking a shape or telltale sign. After a moment, he found one. He ambled into the corner, left of the door they'd come through.

  He found a dusty desk, metal, with no chair. Nothing sat atop it but a blue book, bound with metal, rusted spirals and with the word ATLANTIS crudely drawn on the front in faded black biro. Simon was about to reach for it when Felicity started probing the walls with her fingertips. "Look, there's the code. Right there."

  Her fingers traced several blocks of tiny writing. Simon made out thin lines, one for each colour. Felicity read them aloud. "Yellow for workers, red for management, blue for visitors and striped for emergency. Weird."

  "What is this place?"

  "I don’t know. It took about three minutes to get down the stairs. It's fair to say we're pretty deep underground. Maybe it’s a former air raid shelter or something."

  "Beneath a boardwalk? Have you ever heard of such a thing?"

  Felicity's blue eyes, dark in the low light, flittered around the room, taking it in, lingering a little on the dark, uneven shadows. "No. You never know, though."

  Simon nodded. "It can't be a store room. Health and safety would have a field day with those stairs. It doesn’t make sense either since it's so far away. I mean, three minutes or so just to go downstairs and grab a bag of potatoes. It’s a pointless exercise."

  Felicity pointed upwards. "Power is still on. Means it must still be in use," she uttered.

  "Probably linked to a permanent generator is all," he responded. Simon looked back at the book. "Fuck it." He opened it up, the rusted hoops squealing against the sudden movement. The cover slapped the desk. The title page, jaundiced by age, also had the word ATLANTIS printed on it. Simon turned another page.

  Felicity walked back toward the door, her eyes scanning the room. All of the walls and floor were concrete, merged together and built together, as if enforcing the room; one dilapidated with age and history. Air raid shelters, in the U.K. anyway, were brick structures on the exterior. The tunnels were then fashioned from the ground itself. Felicity was no expert, but she knew the ground, dirt and clay and mud, wasn’t the most reliable building material, hence the concrete. She stroked her goose-fleshed arms, wishing she'd brought a coat.

  Mind you, she thought, the beautiful sunny beach and a hidden underground lair are two different things entirely.

  Lair.

  She shivered at the word.

  "Felicity, take a look at this."

  She turned and walked over. Simon flickered another page. "This place is called…wait for it…Atlantis."

  "We know that. It's written on the cover."

  Simon nodded, saying nothing, his eyes scanning from side to side.

  Felicity sighed. "Okay. So what is it?"

  "From what I can tell, it's an underwater facility."

  "Well, yes, we're under the…wait a minute, underwater?"

  "Yep. Well, more specifically, it’s built underground, on the precipice of the water itself."

  "I don’t get it. Why build it under a boardwalk?"

  "It's been here since the forties, after the second World War. It came first,
the boardwalk second. They needed to keep it accessible though, government protocol or something."

  "Sounds weird."

  "That’s not the best part though," he continued, reading the book. "Apparently, the government built it as a safeguard, a backup. An emergency facility for the human race, providing them a safe haven in the event of a disaster."

  "I doubt it would be any use during an earthquake," said Felicity, flippantly. "What a dumb idea."

  "Well, it was in the forties. A lot has changed since then. Anyway, it says the facility is a huge circle of concrete, interconnected by two glass tubes, one either side. The second part of the facility is on a small island out in the ocean."

  "So, if the world floods, they're okay. If water is becomes a problem and dries up…well, it's useless. Then there's the earthquake problem."

  "Indeed," he responded. "I doubt they planned for such disasters. However, if we follow the yellow lines, it takes us to the main entrance on land."

  "Let's go then."

  A sudden crash echoed through the facility. Simon ran to the door and glanced at the stairwell. A faint beam of light pierced the darkness. Familiar, muted voices bounced off the concrete stairs.

  "Shit," he said. He stepped back into the rectangular room and located the yellow line. "Right, let's go."

  Felicity stared at him. "Why the rush?"

  "We're being followed."

  * * *

  What is that?

  That infernal racket.

  Silence is my friend; silence accompanies me on my daily ritual, my daily routine.

  Which means…

  Noise. Racket.

  That means I'm no longer alone down here.

  Interesting.

  * * *

  "Where the fuck are they?"

  Baldie kicked the locked gate in frustration, wincing as he did so. The chains rattled, echoing throughout the empty boardwalk. He rubbed his groin through his dirty, ripped jeans, groaning. "Fucking fucks!"

  Tongue Stud glanced around, watching the dusty windows and faded, chipped amusement stands. A torn flap of plastic, wobbling from a sunken tent roof, whipped on the air. "They didn't come through 'ere."