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

by Richard Chizmar

  “Mind raisin’ the anchor?” Dave said.

  Sam pulled the rope above deck and rigged it to the starboard cinch. Dave steamed out another half-mile past the groaner, deep enough water for some decent sized fish. He watched the sonar for drop-offs and red spots, indicating that rocky floor where Haddock and Pollock might hide and, once more, threw the steel anchor overboard.

  “They’re rigged for groundfish,” Dave said to Sam, who’d cracked another beer.

  Dave cast out over what looked to be a school of fish. He placed the end of the pole in the mounting and followed Sam with having a brew.

  “Your vet business doing all right?” Dave said, trying to advance the conversation away from the brooding Sam.

  “Naw. Gone as well.”

  “I need a lumper down at the dock.”

  “How much?”

  Dave tilted his head to the right, weighing his option. “Usually I pay ten. I known you a good click, though. Most I could go is thirteen. It’s tough work—grunt work.”

  “I’ll do it. Don’t have much going for me. Some stability would be nice.”

  “You start Monday, five thirty. You got Mucks?”

  “No.”

  “I got a few spares. Your feet might get wet in ‘em. Holes in the soles.”

  Dave went to work cutting up the mackerel. He filled a chum pot with pieces and threw it aft, then baited his hook with a tail. Sam hooked an eighteen-inch haddock minutes later; Dave cast out ten or so times with no result.

  “Thought you were rusty,” Dave said, getting frustrated twenty minutes later.

  “Guess I still got it.”

  Dave clicked on his bait runner and sat down. He needed a new Captain’s chair. The thing felt ready to break off its post.

  Sam tossed out another line. “You remember Denise?” he said.

  Dave put his arms over his head. “Oh yeah, sweet woman. Sharon knits with her down at the club.”

  “I saw her today. She seemed down on the times, too. We got to talkin’ on the Boulevard.”

  “Yeah, well, that blowhard Vince is her problem. She’s always so happy, until he shows up. He’s a jerk...always was.”

  There was a click, click, clicking from Dave’s pole. Something was hooked. He jumped to his feet and gave it some slack, then reeled a bit.

  “Something big!” Dave said, “Maybe a slammer-dog!”

  He reeled and reeled, but his line went out by the yard; the bearings spun out.

  “Shit,” he said, grabbing for his pocketknife to cut the line free.

  The pole flew out of his hand, with it his shoulder felt pulled out of socket.

  “Damn it!”

  Sam put his pole down. “You all right, Davey?”

  “Yeah, lost my best pole, but I’m good. Damn thing nearly took my arm off.”

  A wave rocked the boat. The ship dipped and rose. Another wave broke the calm from the opposite direction. Sea water spilled onto the deck.

  Sam gripped the topsides. “Shit, what’s that?”

  “Hold tight, might be a whale or shark near.”

  Ten yards off, a massive tale breached, and then submerged. Sam pointed it out to Dave. “Over there!”

  By the time Dave caught sight, it was nearly gone. It was big enough to be a blue. Yet another wave crested into the uprights, and Dave lost his footing. One foot slid over the wet deck; his groin pulled and back slammed into the wall.

  “It’s a feisty one,” Dave said, laughing, crawling to his chair and taking a seat.

  * * *

  Sam didn’t want to sound like a pussy, but he wanted the comfort of land. Dave was set on catching something. It led Sam to cower in the cabin, constantly scoping out the horizon.

  “Remember I told you about meeting Denise earlier...” Sam said.

  “Sure,” Dave responded, casting out one of his other Bass poles.

  “We seen this huge fish. It weren’t a whale’s tail, though, not forked. I think that’s what’s under us.”

  The radar flashed a gigantic red spot.

  Dave chuckled. “Serpent of Gloucester? They figured out those stories were whales with herring nets stuck on their tails.”

  “It didn’t look like those drawings either—not a long skinny body, but something wide.”

  “A boat, Sam, a low boat.”

  He let the line out and reeled in, slowly. Dave walked around the bow, standing on the very tip, seeming almost to avoid the conversation and float above the ocean, weightless.

  Sam followed close behind. “You don’t have to believe me.”

  “Good I don’t.”

  Sam put his hands inside of his jean pockets, wondering what he was doing out there. He no longer fished. His entire life had been based around saving animals, not killing them. It felt time to go home. They were two different people in their older age.

  As if sensing Sam’s uncertainties, Dave said “Grab a pole, Sam, you’re making me nervous.”

  Sam took a seat. “I think I’ll just hang out.”

  “Aww, come on, Sammy,” Dave said over one shoulder, “we probably won’t ever do this again.”

  So, Dave had drawn a line between them. He knew this wouldn’t go longer than a ‘hey, how are you’, on the street. Their friendship wasn’t meant to last.

  The bait runner on Dave’s reel started clicking.

  “Got a hit!”

  He raised the pole, letting it bend, gave it a small turn, then let the fish drag.

  “A big one.”

  Sam stood up.

  Dave’s back leg was bent, holding his weight. He reeled slowly, fighting, letting the line hold tension. Then, the tautness released and Sam could hear the reel spinning out. Dave reeled faster.

  “Swimming toward the boat,” Dave said.

  The line snapped, audibly, and Dave’s back leg gave out. He tumbled onto his ass, catching himself on the windshield, his back inches from the water.

  “Close call,” Dave said.

  Sam put a hand out to help.

  “I got it,” Dave said, crawling to stand from his crouch.

  Past Dave’s body, the phosphorescent danced in neon green in the water. Through them came a set of jagged teeth, over which sat two spherical eyes.

  “Shit!” Sam shouted, grabbing for Dave’s forearm.

  The mouth snagged the cotton of Dave’s secondhand shirt, pulling him into the water.

  “The hell—”

  Dave went under. He surfaced a moment later, bubbling, like a buoy. Swiping the water from his eyes, he clawed for the hull like a wet cat.

  “Help me out here!”

  Sam grabbed the chubby man under the armpit and hauled. Both Dave’s palms pushed him, straining over the gunnels, slipping on the wet metal. The boat dipped towards Dave, and Sam knew it wasn’t from his weight, but the surfacing fish.

  Dave’s scream cut the night air. His hands released and he vanished amongst the phosphorescent.

  * * *

  “The hell was that?” Austin said.

  His friend, Nelson, switched on the fishing lamp. “What was what?”

  “I thought I heard a yell.”

  In the distance, he heard it again—definitely someone yelling in pain, a man. “Right there. Listen.”

  Nelson cocked his neck. “Shit, you’re right, we better check it out.”

  He hit the engine and steamed determinedly southwest, toward the direction of which they thought the sound had originated, using the squid lamps to guide them along, and a few marine lights Nelson had affixed to the bulkhead. A shadow of a small boat breathed into the glare of Nelson’s light onslaught. Nelson leaned forward at the helm, baseball cap pointed straight ahead.

  “Grab the life ring, Austin.”

  Austin swung aft and untied the foam circle from one of the cinches, uncoiling the rope, ready to toss it in. As they drew closer, he recognized Big Dave Orton’s vessel—his father’s good friend. A man was on top of the bow, looking into the water.

>   “Ahoy,” Nelson said, “everything okay?”

  “My friend’s been attacked,” the man said. It wasn’t Dave Orton’s gruff voice. “He fell overboard and something took his leg...then under he went.”

  “Holy shit,” Nelson said. “You call the Coast Guard?”

  “I ain’t a ship farer. I don’t know how to do that sorta thing.”

  “I got it,” Nelson said.

  Austin grabbed one of the squid lights submerged it in the black ocean. The waves rocked the plane of fluorescent blue like a flag in the wind. There were no squid, which they’d been hunting, only darkness. It was the non-fiery underworld. Dave was most likely never to return. Too many friends and family had gone that way.

  A patch of large bubbles floated by, a glimpse of rough brown skin. Austin backed off, raising the light from the water. “Something’s down there.”

  “Hit it with a gaffe,” Nelson said, returning to Austin’s side.

  Austin dug into the side compartment and pulled out the metal hook attached to the wooden pole. The rust-tinged tip of the hook sank into the brown skin, and the animal swam downward. Austin’s knee knocked the wall and he flipped over the sides, losing the gaffe enroute to his big splash. He panicked momentarily, swimming upwards. His head burst through the surface, and he swiped the water from his eyes with one hand. Before he could grab for the hull, his foot was caught in something sharp as a fox trap, and he never again breathed in that sweet Massachusetts air.

  * * *

  Nelson leapt from the vessel towards Dave Orton’s ship “Fishy Business”, landing short as the monster breached. He watched as pieces of his prized boat shot through the air, and the bulk of it went along with the creature.

  The guy on the other ship pulled on his arm covered in red slime, until both were safely aboard.

  “Look out,” Nelson said, taking the helm.

  “What about them—”

  “The hell with it at this point.”

  The engine choked to life on its last legs and took them south-southwest, slapping off encroaching waves. Nelson continually glanced over his shoulder. It was following them, gaining.

  When it had smashed his boat to smithereens, Nelson caught a good glimpse of it; wide mouth, pinnacle sharp teeth, rough scales like those of a dragon, small fins for feet at its rear. The thing looked like an enormous monkfish. The only part visible was the long antennae dangling above the surface, highlighted by the red lamp of Dave Orton’s lights as it chased them down like a dog.

  “Punch it,” the guy name Sam said.

  Nelson yelled over the boat’s exertion. “This hulk doesn’t have anything else.”

  Inch by inch, the antennae came closer, hunting them with nowhere to go. After a few minutes, Eastern Point Lighthouse came into view, rotating its bright red light. They were nearly to the breakwater. He cut the wheel starboard and the boat cased waves and sliced riptides, bounding towards safety.

  He glanced back. The dangle was aft, close enough to touch. The bow cut right at the last possible minute and the monster sailed past. Nelson counted his blessings, but held his breath. The harbor was long, and the thing was practically on top of them.

  Nelson slammed it back into gear. They shot into the breakwater, broke a rogue wave and caught air. The bow pointed straight down as another string of white foam followed in its wake. Ocean water filled the deck and doused the men. Both scrambled for the stern, Nelson for a bucket to start bailing, but too late. The monster was circling.

  * * *

  When Vincenzo stumbled out of bed, his legs were dull and numb, barely able to carry him forth. Now, sitting on the state pier, unraveling the rope that harnessed his boat to the stanchion, he felt much better. There’s something beautiful that fresh air and a 32-ounce Gatorade can do to a hangover.

  Early morning, Denise had woken him with news from the police scanner. Dave Orton’s boat had sunk in the harbor and three men were missing. Vincenzo was asked to dive down to Orton’s boat, look for answers and, possibly, bodies. He steamed down the channel slowly. Dead men can wait.

  The chances of finding anyone alive were slim to none. If anyone made it out, most likely they were already at Pratty’s, drinking away the memory. A few Coast Guard ships were around Ten Pound Island. A man lay on the beach, unconscious. Not far away, the stern of a ship was jutting out of the water.

  Vince hauled along portside and dropped anchor. He geared up, made sure his air supply was firmly covered, and then fell back into murky waters. The water was thick with oil run-off and red slime. He always thought it a terrible area to fish with all the pollution, though people always cast off the breakwater.

  On the harbor floor were bunched nets, smashed bait boxes, lost tackle. The bow of “Fishy Business” was planted in the mud. The cabin was empty. A few fishing poles remained in the mounts. The only signs of life were a few scup and a small school of herring picking at the sides of the boat.

  Vincenzo swam through the opening of the boat with ease, fluid in water, with grace more than he had on land. His breath was taken away, as always, by the ebbs and flow of the tides. The murkiness only added to the mysticism of the ocean, causing an unexplainable feeling of both dread and wonder. Beneath your feet were seaweeds that held what only God knew, and to either side certain death or a fresh meal.

  The majority of the ship’s body seemed intact, leading Vincenzo to believe something mechanical had led to the vessel’s downfall. In order to further diagnose he’d need to yank the hulk out and tow it to the salvage yard. It didn’t work every time, but in such shallow water, there was a good shot.

  He moved along the bulkhead, ready to ascend, when a cable caught his eye, washing left and right in the surf. Vince reached out and the cable rose, attached to a massive head. It was her.

  The beast Vince had named Glenda swirled about, rubbing against him in a motherly manner. Beneath the rubber mask, Vince smiled. Ten times out of twelve, she was there. They dove together, fished together. Any given day she could call him to sea, and as long as she lived, the ocean would never claim him. If only Denise knew, she’d be green with envy.

  Vince pat her on the head, felt the rough skin glide under the tips of his fingers. Nobody would ever, could ever, understand. Glenda was his life.

  CAPE HADEL

  Brad P. Christy

  The storm raged on as the crew of the Research Vessel Cape Hadel braced themselves for another massive swell that nearly capsized the seventy-foot boat.

  A gust of wind ripped the cabin door out of Hal Banks’ hands and banged it against the port side wall. He could barely see through the rain and dark. Shoes slipping on the deck, he shouldered the door shut and held the hood of his raincoat tightly. His glasses were fogged over, but he could see the research team leader near the bow.

  “This is insane!” he screamed hoping she would hear him, only to be drowned out by the roar of the Atlantic.

  Ocean water kicked up over the hull. He spit the saltwater off his lips and shimmied his way along the deck. Hal’s stomach rose up into his throat as the bow of the Cape Hadel suddenly pointed up to the night’s sky. Eyes wide, His hand slipped from the guardrail, and he fell hard against the deck.

  Saltwater washed down his shirt as he scrambled to his belly.

  Hal didn’t know how long he lay shivering, only how many waves had crashed against the hull. Fifteen. He had been held frozen in place for fifteen waves. Hal rubbed the water from his glasses and crawled to the bow.

  “Catherine!” he yelled, hoisting himself up to his knees.

  Catherine Singer looked ghost-like in her white raincoat and pants. “I’m a little busy, Hal!”

  “We have to go back!” he shouted at her, trying to keep his balance and his dinner down.

  She dropped to a knee and pointed over his shoulder. “Go help Sven secure that VHF antenna!”

  Hal looked back and forth between the struggling crewmember on the observation deck and Catherine, who continued to point
and held her look of annoyed resolve.

  “What? No! We have to get back to land!” he said, spitting saltwater.

  “And which way is that, Hal?” Catherine yelled, her hair plastered to her pale cheek.

  He swallowed hard. The only directions he was sure of were up and down, and sometimes even that was debatable. He shook his head, letting water run off his nose.

  “Listen,” she said, grabbing his shoulders and looking into his eyes. “I wasn’t kidding! If we lose that antenna, we won’t be able to call for help!”

  Hal ground his teeth. “Damn it, Catherine!”

  “Go!” she yelled into his ear and helped him to his feet.

  The Cape Hadel rose and fell without notice as the ocean ebbed and flowed, making Hal’s hands ache as he kept a death grip on the guardrail on his way to the back of the boat. Wind blew the hood off his head.

  With his ears no longer insulated by plastic, Hal could hear high-pitched creaking and whistles cutting through the storm. He looked overboard. Something, many somethings, were racing alongside the boat, bounding in flashes from wave to wave just out of sight. Hal wiped his face and tried to get a better look. In the poor light, chaos, and through foggy glasses, they almost looked human.

  The Cape Hadel floated over a swell and slammed back down. A wave splashed over Hal’s head, making him duck down to avoid being swept away. A flash of lightning in the distance revealed much larger, angrier waves ahead. Hal gripped the guardrail tighter as the distant light dissipated.

  “Up here!” yelled Sven, in his heavy Scandinavian accent.

  Hal’s face was frozen from what he had seen as he turned to acknowledge Sven.

  “Move your ass!” yelled Sven, grappling with the fifty-foot antenna.

  Hal didn’t think, he just slowly and deliberately moved to the ladder. Each step was made with the greatest of care as the wind and rain picked up, whipping his coat and hood around him. Visibility was nil, not that he had his eyes open.

  “Here!” yelled Sven through the roar of the wind and crashing waves.

  Hal took the rope and wrapped it around his wrist so it wouldn’t slip away.