"Where are the tenders?"
"Deck 8. I checked the map." Sheila glanced at Dylan and Sara. "Will you hold one of their hands?"
He nodded. Sara was as unmovable from Sheila's side as her thumb was immovable from her mouth, but Dylan numbly took Riley's hand, letting Riley lead him away from his sister.
The walk back was slow. Riley looked ahead while Sheila watched from behind. He kept the bag in the hand he held Dylan's so he could keep the axe free.
Riley slowed when they reached the dead clerk, nudging Dylan behind him. Sheila looked over Riley's shoulder and gasped. She quickly swallowed and looked down at Dylan and Sara, who looked up at her with all the animation of dolls.
"Look at the ceiling, guys."
He led them around the corpse and towards the right-hand hallway. He poked his head around the corner and stared at the piled bodies further down. "This is lodging. How do we get to the tenders?"
Sheila pointed to the right. He saw signs for a beauty parlor and a bookstore. "Through the salon and out onto the decks. There are station doors inside, but..." She looked at the bodies and shook her head. "I don't wanna go down there."
Riley nodded. Every organ inside seemed to pulse.
The salon's door was metal-framed with pebbled glass. He nudged it open. One of the stations immediately to the left reflected the rest of the parlor. He saw his haggard face repeated on broken mirrors. "C'mon."
Barbicide stained the floor and the room reeked. The four perm chairs had been upended. No bodies, but a fat trail of blood led down the back hallway to the right.
"Door's over there." Sheila pointed towards the far left corner. With each glass-crunching step forward, his heartbeat grew more leaden. He had to breathe through his mouth in order to get enough air and, still, he felt light-headed.
Two steps lead to the deck door. Sheila was reaching for the knob when something crashed in the back hallway. They heard slow, squishy footsteps and something metallic being dragged.
Riley nudged the boy towards Sheila. "Go."
She took the boy's hand and the bag. "Riley—"
"Do you want someone following you?"
She bit her lower lip, then got the kids out quickly. Riley caught a salt-choked whiff of ocean. His stomach cramped, and he couldn't shrug off the insane relief he felt when the door closed.
He turned back. Two stations dominated the center of the room, obscuring his view, but he saw a bloody white shirt, a tattered burgundy dinner vest.
He circled around, axe at his chest. His pulse pushed at his Adam's apple. Here's your choice. Deal with the open water...or stay on this ship. With this.
The man stepped out, and it was the clerk from his acid-trip fever dream. His back was stooped, his face dotted with blood. His red-ringed eyes bulged. He dragged a fire-extinguisher by the hose, the bottom dented and greased with blood.
"Have you eaten, sir?" The muscles of his arm bulged as he hefted the extinguisher. "Gotta eat, sir, gotta eat—”
The clerk swung the extinguisher low, and it bashed into Riley's thigh. The pain was instantaneous, seizing-up his entire leg. He cried out and fell.
The extinguisher slammed into his kidneys. Riley screamed. He saw a red bulge rearing, and he tried to block with the axe. The head smacked the man's forearm, and the extinguisher flew over Riley's head, crashing somewhere.
The clerk pounced, and Riley pushed the axe-handle between them. The man was small but whipped and snapped like a downed power line. He grabbed hunks of Riley's hair and yanked. The pain peeled Riley's lips away from his teeth.
The clerk bashed Riley's head into the floor. A white light exploded in front of Riley's eyes. Riley heaved against the man with the axe handle, as if doing bench-presses. The clerk's hands left Riley's hair and moved across his face, thumbs digging for his eyes.
With a knot of strength that dug cannibal-teeth into his kidneys, he shoved the man back. The clerk tensed against the side of the salon door. Riley swung the axe one-handed, a wide, powerless move, and the side of the axe-head collided with the clerk's jaw. The clerk jerked right, his temple slamming into the salon door's pebbled glass, cracking it.
Riley pushed himself forward, shrieking with his kidneys, and drove his weight into the clerk. The clerk's head bashed a ragged hole through the glass, the breaking shards tearing the man's throat out, transforming his scream into a choked, wet gargle. Blood flew in thick spurts.
Riley jumped, cringing, away from the spasming body. He stumbled into one of the station chairs and dropped the axe to cling to it. His entire side was an icy lump.
He looked at the door leading to the deck and thought of seeing the cobalt waves of the ocean crashing, of smelling that sea air. He fell to his hands and knees and retched yellow bile laced with threads of blood.
Nope, sorry, I can't.
A hiccup burned his throat. He thought of the magazine back in his cabin, foretelling the demise of his company. He might've been a stranger to that version of Riley Christopher McCarrick, CEO of a dying company, husband of a dying marriage.
He thought of Andrea, carrying a knife and screaming to be let in. He thought of Andrea and Hogan killing each other. It could've been him.
I can't stay here, he thought, then said it aloud. His voice was a frog's croak.
He crawled to the steps. At the top, he grasped the doorknob, his fingers grinding blood into the brass. He leaned his head against the door, taking deep breaths. He could hear the crash of waves outside, a seashell roar. Tons of open water.
Don't go out there! A voice cried. You can't!
"You act like I have a choice," he croaked. He turned the knob and pushed. He winced against the dull brightness, the sea wind pulling his clothes and filling his face with its nauseating scent. As his stomach clenched, he crawled out onto the wooden planks of the deck, letting the wind slam the door closed behind him.
He crawled forward, side brushing the wall, head down, breathing shallowly. His heart trip-hammered in his chest, his pulse a bass-drum explosion in his head.
But...he was doing it. He was outside, he was next to water, and he wasn't stopping. He might not survive—the idea of settling a small boat into the water with two adults and two children all but assured this—and he was starving, beaten half to death, and nauseous, but still whole. Still moving.
Doctor, I believe I've finally conquered aquaphobia.
He barked laughter in between retching, and kept crawling.
He made his way down the deck to where he hoped Sheila, Dylan, and Sara waited.
THE WATER ELEMENTAL
A.P. Sessler
Maggie Dearing sat in her wing back chair, the embroidered pattern in its fabric not dissimilar from the one she at present crocheted into a doily with hook and lace.
A collection of other doilies, sweaters, blankets and baby's clothes sat around the room on tables and kitchen counter, some with paper tags attached labeled SOLD. A series of framed samplers either hung from or leaned against the walls, some bearing the same paper tag.
She hummed a pleasant if melancholy tune, until heavy footsteps and the sound of a man heaving came just outside her door. She was at first startled, but took a deep breath and returned to her work, ignoring the door that swung open and rattled the hanging samplers.
“Maggie, love. I'm home,” announced the disheveled man in a voice too loud for such a small room.
His skin was like dried leather, tanned by the burning sun. Beside deep crows' feet, cool, blue eyes with tiny, black dots for pupils flashed out of his dark, narrow face.
“Hello, Sam,” she said with little fanfare.
“Hello, Sam,” he mocked her. “Hello to you, too.”
He looked about the room littered with her handiwork and humphed, then removed his wool cap and placed it on the rack by the door. His feet dragged across the plank floor, muted by the occasional throw rug, as he made his way to Maggie and leaned over to kiss her.
When she smelled the alcohol vapor
oozing from his breath and pores she closed her eyes and grudgingly accepted the wet kiss on her cheek.
He cleared his throat. “I've just come back from—”
“From the bar, no doubt,” she interrupted.
“If it's any business of yours. The man that hired me bought me a drink to seal the deal. That's how we do it 'round here, if you don't mind.”
“A single drink?”
“Yes, a single drink,” he said, rattling his gray, bearded jowls.
“And where are you gallivanting off to this time?”
“He's in need of a pilot to show him 'round the Graveyard to the Chesapeake. Says there's a shipwreck he's partial to salvaging. He's got several men with diving gear, so I won't be setting a toe in the water this time 'round. Just guiding him through the shoals to the part the old-timers call Rhines. We'll only be out seven to twelve weeks, and it's big money this time, Mag. Really big money.”
“And this stranger. He's able to pay you a decent wage?”
“The man wears gemstones and rubies the size of your fist,” he said, shaking his own.
Her eyes remained on her sewing needle, not once expressing a glance of interest. “Perhaps they're glass.”
“Love, you don't buy a ship like the Maiden with glass,” he said with wide, truthful eyes she didn't bother looking into.
“The Maiden? So that's who I'm sending you off with? Another harlot of the sea.”
“Don't be daft, Mag. She could just as easily be named the Tight-Twat Nun or the Old Hag. But it's none the difference to you, I see.”
“Just so I get this straight. I let you leave me alone with all the responsibilities you vowed before God to handle for seven weeks—”
“Or twelve,” he interjected.
“Twelve weeks, and when you come back we'll be able to settle into an early retirement?”
He half nodded and shrugged—more or less—something akin to a West Indian head shake.
“And just who is this wonderful, generous man who plans on snatching you away from me?” she asked.
“Love, don't be like that.”
“What is his name?”
“DeFillipo, if it matters to you.”
“It figures. And from what far corner of the world did he crawl out of?”
“I've no earthly idea, as it that mattered either.”
“Certainly it does,” she said, laying her sewing needle and doily on the arm of the chair and finally facing him. “I would like to know who and where to send the bills that will be piling up at our door during your absence. Or do you think I can pay all our debts with my knitting alone?”
“Mag, after this trip, our debts will disappear.”
“I seem to have heard this before. Then after you injure yourself or some poor soul in one of your drunken rages and end up in jail the only thing that disappears is the money you promised to bring home. Does that sound familiar?”
“Watch it woman, you're pushing me.”
“I don't see why you have to go out all the time. You have a perfectly good boat-building business right beneath us with men willing to pay you top dollar and you want to go off with every stranger who promises you the easy life.”
“You think sailing across the Graveyard in the middle of a Nor'easter seasick with dwindling supplies is easy? Like sitting here knitting your doilies?”
“I didn't say it was easy. And don't mock me. My knitting puts food on the table when you're busy spending your money at the bar.”
“I said, watch it, Mag.”
“It's not the sailing I mind. Not even the time you spend away. It's the fact you can't spend a single day at sea without drinking yourself completely useless and wasting every penny of our money.”
He saw everything go red: Maggie, the room, his own pea coat, even his own flesh. The only thing he wasn't conscious of was his own right hand, which drew back over his left shoulder like an arrow on the bowstring and shot forth.
He watched his hand strike her face. For him there was no sensation. It was as if someone else had backhanded his wife and not him. He was merely a nosy viewer looking over his own shoulder, that is until the color returned to the room.
He was back in his body. The only red he saw was the subtle hue in her cheeks, and the blood trickling from her busted mouth. He turned his trembling hand over and gazed at it.
She stared at him in disbelief, unblinking, breathing staccato breaths. She brushed the corner of her mouth with her fingers and pulled them back.
“Get out!” she shouted, staring at her own blood.
His eyes shot up. “I didn't mean to.”
“I said get out, and don't come back. Sober or drunk I never want to see you again.”
“Now, Maggie—”
“I mean it! Go to the one you've always loved. Maybe she'll have you back.”
He took a deep breath as his hand balled into a fist and raised.
She glanced at the end table, where her crochet tools rested. She snatched the pair of sterling silver scissors up and held them before her, their twin blades facing him.
“Hit me again? Just you try it, you drunken fool,” she said with gritted teeth and mad eyes.
He lowered his fist and humphed. “I'll return, to the sea I will, and leave the likes of your meddlesome kind behind me.”
“I only hope she treats you as you've treated me.”
“She'll treat me just fine, that much I'm sure. Good riddance!”
He stumbled for the door, pausing a moment between his staggered steps to catch his balance. He pulled it open and slammed it shut behind him. As she listened to his heavy feet stomp down the thin, plank stairs she trembled and wept.
* * *
With the cold nights that followed her seething anger cooled, so much that the longing for her to be rid of him became an all-consuming desire for his return. She found herself marking the calendar with each passing day, praying for and awaiting the ship's safe arrival in port.
* * *
She stood in the crowd of anxious wives, mothers-to-be and children, awaiting the moment the man of their house came galloping down the towering gangplank. Several faces elicited a hurried heartbeat, but when they came in focus her shoulders dropped.
Sailors took their women in arms, raised children high, and kissed them all with tears of joy and laughter abounding. In an hour's time, the crowd diminished to a handful of worried women, who at last were relieved when their lost lover appeared.
Maggie stood alone on the dock. Chatter and applause were replaced with the mournful call of seagulls. The sun was about to dip into the sea; its red, rippled reflection spread over the surface of the harbor.
With a palm over her eyes, she gazed at the weather deck for signs of movement. Six silhouettes stood at the rail, almost motionless. It appeared they were watching her as much as she watched them. A head turned to another, then another head faced another, soon all the shapes disappeared. A moment later, a lone shape approached the gangplank.
Her heart began to pound. The shape descended. Soon she would be face to face with her estranged husband. What would she say? What would he say? Had he forgiven all as she had? Surely he had, since he came skipping down the gangplank. Her bosom welled with breath and her smile grew wide to welcome him.
When the man drew close, her breath left her. It wasn't her husband. He wasn't any kind of man she wished to see. In fact, she would even say he seemed suspicious.
“Mrs. Dearing?” the man asked.
“Yes,” she answered, hardly facing him.
“Would you come with me?” he said, his tone sober.
Without waiting for an answer he turned back toward the gangplank.
“Is something the matter?”
He didn't answer.
“Is Sam safe?” she tried again.
He stepped up the gangplank and began to ascend.
“Sir? Did you hear me?” she asked.
“I did, Ma'am,” he said, continuing his ascent without fa
cing her.
She stopped.
A few steps later he realized she was no longer following. He faced her.
“Are you going to answer me or should I stand here all night?” she asked.
He glanced back at the men awaiting him atop the weather deck. A man raised his arms waist high, his palms face up.
“Your husband is well—”
She took a relieved breath.
“—all things considering,” he added.
“Considering what?” she asked.
He turned and continued his ascent.
“Sir? What condition?” she asked, standing still.
“It would be much easier for you to see yourself than for me to attempt to explain,” he said.
A chill seized her. She raised her skirt off her feet with both hands and hurried up the gangplank.
When she reached the gangplank, the men nodded and led her toward an open ladder hatch. The man descended ahead of her. One of the remaining men motioned for her to follow.
She looked down the dark hatch to the dim light at the foot of the ladder. The man beside her held her hand until she found a secure foothold. He continued to hold her hand until she descended enough rungs to take hold herself.
Halfway down the men began to follow her, one after the other. The man who had greeted her took her hand until she set foot on the gun deck. Soon all seven of them stood at the bottom of the ladder.
Maggie gazed around the dimly lit deck. Several cannons lined the floor, all secured before closed gun ports. Few of the deck's hanging lamps were lit. The fishy, salt air above was replaced with the stale, musty smell of damp, cramped quarters.
The man spoke. “Ma'am, I am going to take you to your husband, but first--”
“First, you will tell me your name,” she insisted.
“Cyril,” he said.
“Are you the same man who hired my husband and led him away with promises or riches and fame?”
He ground his teeth and forced a smile. “The same.”
“Hmm,” she said, and sized him up from head to toe.
His ebony hair was curled and slick. A thin goatee flowed down from the corners of his mouth to his chin, and ran along his square jaw back up to his thin sideburns. In her estimate, he was flashy. A red vest over black, silk shirt with full-length sleeves, the open neck revealed a gold chain tucked beneath his shirt. His black breeches ran down long, strong legs to his black, leather shoes with silver buckles. And there were the jewels Sam had spoken of, resting on rings upon his fingers: a ruby on his left hand and a gem on his right.
Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans) Page 45