Bone ground against bone as the skeletal figurehead juddered into life. The skeleton's spine creaked and groaned as the skull came around and arms reached out. Finally, Snow's legs buckled as the figurehead's spine snapped away from the fused bones of the bowsprit, freeing its reach.
Gosseling's men thrust Snow forward, towards the embrace of Dent's waiting bones. Snow screamed, pleaded, promising anything, promising the world, if only they would let him live.
Dent wrapped his arms around his former ward, turning him, drawing him close as his ribcage creaked open, accepting Snow's upper torso, so that the businessman's head rested against the bones of Dent's neck. The ribs closed as Dent tightened his embrace. Snow's screams renewed when Dent's ribs closed in around him, puncturing his flesh, biting into his chest deep enough to hold him, but not deep enough to penetrate his organs.
"You said you were no murderer, and yet here you come to slay me!" Snow wailed.
Gosseling chuckled as Dent crept back beneath the bowsprit with Jack Snow held fast. "Who spoke of slaying you, Snow?"
Beneath the decks, the engine room thrummed with life once more, the pistons hammering a slow, steady tattoo, rising in volume and speed with each repetition. The ship stole away from the dock, turning about to point East once more.
The crew of the Stallion gazed on in awe, as their erstwhile paymaster screamed and cursed, thrashing his head about, kicking wildly at the head of the ship now slipping away to the river proper.
"As I said, Jack, I spoke nothing of your murder," Gosseling called down to Snow from his position at the ship's prow. "But we have decided to change the route we're bound to take, now that our colleagues from the Stallion have been returned safe and sound. I must confess that on this particular journey, it does make travel more comfortable when one has no need to breathe!"
And upon Gosseling's final word, the Red Scout's engine roared, the horn screamed and the pistons hammered out their deafening beat. The ship slid deeper and deeper into the frigid, foul water of the Thames, filling Snow's nose, filling his mouth, smothering his screams. And his greed.
SHE BECKONS
D.G. Sutter
There’s always a moment of pause when you go under. You wonder—as the oxygen slowly leaves your brain and lungs, pressure mounts your skull—when you submerge, if you’ll ever return. As with any part of life, there are incredible amounts of uncertainty. In the murky depths, all internal signs of life are obsolete. You feel at once featherweight, free to float on to Heaven, to the ethereal limits of human perception.
Down, down, where the old wolfish creeps, where blue dogs clamor for prey, the danger is ever-present and nearly palpable. The skintight suit of neoprene is enough to keep one warm and dry, but beyond comfort, does nothing to prevent the onslaught of creatures that could brand anyone other than a New England swimmer, a coward. Vincenzo’s father had taught him from an early age to love the sea and fear its welcoming spirit; for once you gave in—wholly—to her, there was no reason to ever let you go.
Some days, he could stay out on that open water from morning ‘til sunset, dependent on the weather, and when there was a salvage job, even longer. Vincenzo was at ease on the sea. He felt like himself, rocking with the dips and bobs of the ocean. As he dug for steamers out past Salt Island, down below the surface, Vincenzo wished for more hours of daylight. After palming one of the clams, he rose towards the thinning light above, near to his vessel.
Vincenzo slung his molluscan till over the side of the dory, followed by his diving tank, and climbed aboard. His old bones were making it harder, each time, to steadily mount the small boat. He’d scavenged plenty of food for dinner, including two blackbacks on spears and a handful of mussels. Denise would sure be excited. It’d been a while since the last flounder and steamer excursion. He usually went for other whitefish.
The suit peeled off like old skin. All day he’d been wrapped up, sweating in the late-June sun. He left his shirt spread out, drying on the other bench, and started rowing to his truck on the Long Beach side of the cape. As he pushed on, his empty beer bottles rattled in the bottom of the boat. Nearly four o’clock and the old, salty dog was drink free for hours. That wouldn’t do. The pressure of your buzz wearing off was almost equivalent to 40 meters deep.
The anxious thoughts made the elongated muscles sewn with old sailor tattoos pulse faster. Within minutes, he was dragging the dory by the headline hawser, forcing it onto the trailer to be towed behind the rusted red Ford pickup. The ignition jammed, as it always did, and Vince cursed the wheels on which the truck rolled. For all he cared, they could blow out on the side of 95.
When finally he made the hulk initiate, he was ready to walk home. The only thing holding him back was the heat that was beginning to turn him asthmatic. When the humidity let on, it could sure bring some distress to your lungs, his chest tight and muscles working overtime. Times like these made him wish his son was home to pull that boat ashore; he was getting too old for the shit.
The truck kicked up sand, and Vince fashioned himself towards the home up on the hill. It didn’t take him but for five minutes to get there—where the houses were packed tight as sardines, along roads narrower than pin bones—and Denise was waiting for his arrival, sitting on the Adirondack chair, crossed arms and legs.
* * *
Time never crept so slow as when Vincenzo stayed out late. Every drop of rain or creak of a board made her jump right to her feet. So, her friends said, have a drink—we’re fisherman’s wives. From time to time, it helped, yet when the night pedaled into view, the sun vanishing past the breakwater, the stark reality of never again seeing the old man crashed down like the waves of the cold and unforgiving North Atlantic.
Denise gazed out, past bows steaming hard, husbands come home, and wondered why she hassled him not for making her worry night upon night. For most, Nor’easters brought with them fretting and displeasure, but for her comfort in knowing Vince would stay home, warm and safe by the fireplace. Today, she would tell him how she felt. She would lay down the law—retirement and settling out west, away from the ocean. Vince loved the water. Denise, on the other hand, had enough. Her entire family, her friends, and co-workers were obsessed with fishing and the industry. Frankly, she was spent. She wanted something other than creating a fifth generation.
Vince finally came home nearing dark. He made seafood—as almost every night—and they talked about their days. She told him of how the ladies asked about him at knitting club, to which he replied that he “didn’t care about any of those ole biddies”. It frustrated her to no end that Vincenzo was so disinterested. His mind was always far and away; they could never converse in depth. In anger, she dropped the retirement bomb.
His fork hit the wall. He slapped the table, said “out of the question—absolutely not—ridiculous.” Denise feared he would one day strike her in his drunken rants. She needed to escape the situation.
“Excuse me,” she said with a frog in the throat, meekly stepping upstairs and dressing in layers.
It was swiftly darkening, but Denise needed a moment of pause, longed for fresh air, separation from him. She snuck out the back door, through the kitchen, and past Vince’s mess. The mesh on the screen door let in all the cold wind and also let out the snap of a fresh can of beer and Vince’s stomping footfalls. He was always heavy-footed when mad.
The curved roads were all lined with parked cars. Families were home watching primetime; here she was trying to escape, cold and alone. A golden retriever popped out of a driveway, barking at the air. Denise started and staggered. She nearly went head over heels from the recycling bin at her feet. His bark was a toned down foghorn.
She passed the church and the cheese shop, and walked a few more minutes until the wide boulevard gave way to ocean and a glimpse of Ten Pound Island. Denise took a seat on one of the green metal benches and watched as pedestrians with dogs and children walked the stretch of sidewalk. Down the road the drawbridge rose, letting some other husband
, son, father out into harm’s way. It was easy to see the attraction to sea. There was solitude; there was, at times, peacefulness; and there was, of course, a sense of adventure, adrenaline-fueled antics.
The wind was kicking up a gale. It sure felt like oncoming harsh winter. The other townies walking about seemed unaffected—bare hands, short sleeve shirts—but Denise felt altogether a cold-blooded being, not like these tough blue-collared men. She didn’t know how they do it on the regular.
Along the railing, there came a body with a familiar face attached. Denise knew his gait, recognized the casual slump of his shoulders. Sammy was one of her and Vince’s high school pals, one with whom she’d been in a short tryst. He was a kind boy who’d grown into a kinder man, serving on school committees and working as a volunteer at the Stage Fort farmer’s market. Denise was never one to speak first, so she waited on him to notice her.
His round, greying head turned in her direction and Sammy Moriarty raised his eyebrow. “Denise? How ya been?”
A small smile ran onto her lips. The absence of sound through her throat made the words creep and crack. “Go...good. Same-ole, same-ole.”
“How about Vince? That old salty dog. He still divin and fishin?”
Denise nodded. “You know it. That won’t ever stop. What about you? How’s the vet biz?”
“Always a sick pet. Somethin’ with fleas. You know people around here love their dogs.”
Sam took a seat by her side; his knees cracked on the way. They were close enough that their legs could brush at any moment. Denise almost wanted to give it a shot, see his reaction.
“Do you remember when we drove up to Canada—that weekend?” Denise said. “That was the best weekend of my life.”
Sammy’s head turned to look at Denise, who was staring out past the breakwater, the half-mile stretch of rocks that blocked the ravenous waves, in reverie. He looked in the same direction, then down at the sidewalk.
“Oh, yeah, I remember.”
Denise sighed. “Vince only took me off the island—you know, more than a few miles—a handful of times, when we were younger. It’s almost...”
She stopped talking, remembering it wasn’t in her head, but out loud. “Sorry.”
“No, please. Ya know. I don’t have many friends. It’s good to converse…with adults. The few guys I do talk to are still knuckleheads, think they’re sixteen.”
Wasn’t that exactly what she’d been reminiscing on—teenage years? Denise slowly shifted her knees together. “Thanks for listenin to my rant.”
“Eh, it’s nothing.” Sam pressed the points of his elbows into his knees, and let his hands hang between his legs. “Truth is...I ain’t been a vet for a few months.” It was his turn to sigh. “Joanne left me. I started staying home from work—depressed—and, well, lost my practice.”
Sammy ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m so sorry, Sam.” She put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a quick, consoling, rub.
He laughed softly. “My turn to rant.”
Denise noticed his battered sneakers. His jeans were torn. “Are you doing okay now?”
“Being homeless ain’t easy…or all it’s cracked up to be.” He tried for a smile, but it was a pathetic attempt.
“My God, Sammy, do you need some money, to get back on your feet?”
He swatted the air. “No. I just need a new start. Something to put the life back into me. I feel deflated.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Both had been in relationships so long and come into disappointment. It almost made Denise envy those old couples with the gleam in their eye, walking hand-in-hand. Sometimes, it was enough to make her sick.
Her stomach grumbled, but not from being green with jealousy. Between all the drama, Denise hadn’t the time to finish dinner. Maybe she’d grab a boardwalk pizza from Poseidon’s on the way home. She turned on the bench to see if the shop was open.
Sam was squinting. She then followed his stare past the rusted green railing that lined the shallow beach. “What?”
“I don’t know.”
Beyond the breakwater, a massive shadow jutted out of the water. “Past the Dog Bar?” she asked.
“Yeah, you see it too?”
“Not a schooner. It’s a strange shape.”
Sammy walked to the railing. “You got a couple quarters—for the viewing machine?”
The space between words seemed unintentional, forced. He didn’t want to seem needy, reliant.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Denise dug into her coin purse, past a few ones, twenties, a hundred—which she took out—and pulled out the two coins, putting them into his palm.
“Take this, too—”
“I can’t,” Sam said, shaking his head.
“Yes,” she returned firmly. “Get a nice meal.”
“C’mon now...”
“You will.”
Sam smirked, genuine this time. “Still the same ‘Nise.”
He deposited the coin and the gears started to turn with the timer. The metal viewer spun until he seemed focused. “Damn. I don’t know what the hell. Have a look.”
Denise hadn’t used the things in years. Usually, the tourists had control. The waves were huge, maybe fifteen-twenty footers. Amid the crashing, was a definitive body, no ship. It could have been a whale, save for the tail that swung like a bullwhip. In the breaking sun, she wondered if anyone else had come gazed upon the visage. Then, before she could say a word or give Sam another chance at the viewer, the body submerged once more.
* * *
“Mr. Moriarty,” the girl at the counter said, “your prescription’s ready.”
Sam took the bag of lithium and signed off on the paper. “Thanks for being so quick.”
The girl smiled; she was always pleasant. “We try our best.”
“Oh, I know ya do, gals. Have a great day.”
Sam slipped the pills in his back pocket and headed for the shelter down on East Main. The grocery store was busy as all hell, most definitely for the weekend of Fiesta. When Sam owned a home, he tended to stay indoors during the majority of the Italian festival, where the greasers walk the streets shouting and the boneheads started trouble downtown. It had changed from a celebration to a citywide party, with carnival rides and events, rather than something of religious and communal values. He used to bring the kids down there, but these days wouldn’t dream of doing so.
He walked Prospect all the way to Flanagan’s, where there was a long line for fuel. Waiting to cross, something hit Sammy in the back of the head. A plastic bottle of Poland Spring with a half an inch of water rolled away from his feet.
Sam’s fists clenched. He turned to face the antagonist. Dave Orton was hanging out the window of his truck cackling, one beefy forearm suntanned to a cocoa brown.
“How ya been, pal?”
Sam shook his head. “Seen better days.”
He walked over the broken curbing and shook hands with Dave.
“Busy?” Big Dave said.
“Not particularly.”
“Hop in, we’ll steam out and grab some dinner. On my way to Rocky Neck now.”
The attendant slapped the truck’s rear end, letting the driver know the tank was full. Dave sparked the engine.
“Well, whadd’ya say?” A cheesy grin covered Dave’s face as he patted the 30 rack of Budweiser heavy in the center seat.
Sam didn’t like going out at night. It was nearly pitch black. However, he knew a nice couple of drinks might do him well, seeing as he couldn’t afford any at the current moment.
“I don’t know, Dave, we ain’t exactly kids anymore.”
“That’s exactly why we need to live, Sammy. Come on, hop in!”
Sam licked his lips and swallowed, made his way around to the passenger’s side and climbed aboard. The cars behind them honked and honked, waiting for their turn to pollute the atmosphere.
* * *
Dave steamed out hard past Ten Pound Island, past
Niles, where a twenty footer hunted for Stripers. At the breakwater, a few teenagers tossed out for flounder and rock cod. He was looking for Haddock or Pollock, something for a late night fish and chips.
“Got a bunch of brews in one of the rear holds, full of ice.”
Sam eased back there, unsure in his older age of sea legs. Dave bounced the boat over the waves with grace, years of practice. The sound of a bottle cap unleashing carbon dioxide barely overcame the diesel engine. The smell of burning fuel was comforting to Dave, but he knew to those landlubbers it could nauseate.
He anchored past the groaner, a huge red buoy in the middle of the ocean that made the sound for which it’d been named, whereby a gurry ship dumped the leftover racks, guts, and fins from the fish auction. Dogs and squid tended to rule the late afternoon and evening. Come night, the local were practically jumping on deck, when the propellers tended to abate.
“I got a few sabikis down there. Made ‘em myself.”
Sam took one of the PVC covered poles, rigged with seven hooks each, for catching local Mackerel and Herring, baitfish.
“Nice craftsmanship,” Sam said. “Haven’t used one of these in ages.”
“Hopefully, we’ll come upon something big enough to take home.”
Sam huffed and lifted his pole in and out of the water, jigging. “I ain’t got a home, Dave.”
“Whadd’ya mean?” Big Dave spit out through a fire-red cigarette.
“Joanne kicked me to the curb.”
Sam looked as though he didn’t want to go too in depth. Dave didn’t press. “Where you stayin?”
Another sigh from Sam. “East Main.”
“The shelter?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Shit,” Dave said, putting a grease-matted hand on Sam’s shoulder. “That won’t do. You’re staying in my extra room.”
“I just—”
“Nothing,” Dave said, “That’s what it is.”
“Okay.”
Dave reeled in his line, tossing five mackerel into the bait bucket, enough for the moment. Sam also contributed to the pot with three or more locals.
Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans) Page 23