Midway

by Nathan Robinson

  Rinse and repeat.

  I tongued the side of my mouth in an attempted to drum up some moisture. The sensation was akin to licking a boot in the desert. I felt my lips crack. I ran my tongue over to soften the dryness and tasted the bright tang of blood. With a greedy guilt I lapped at the miniscule wound. I’d take anything I could get.

  I felt an odd bravery at my persistent blind carve of the ocean that filled my hollow heart. Hopes rose and hopes dipped. I felt giddy at my blindness and the terrifying freedom oblivion presented me. I was heading into nothing, possibly death, definitely a version of hell. But still I continued towards where I thought dawn to be. I couldn’t give up. Only sheer exhaustion would take me. But still my heart yearned for Celeste as a vain, invisible hope remained of her still being alive, despite what I’d seen. As much as I tried to push her from my thoughts, she always came surging back to the front, pushing out much needed moisture from my person. Every tear brought me closer to death. My grief was killing me with each drop lost. I tried to catch the tears with my tongue. You know things are bad when you’re trying to drink your own fluids and forced to lick shit from your fingers.

  It was upon one of my cry breaks that I felt a scratching on the back of my legs. I kicked out at the touch of this ghost but impacted with nothing. I felt the fabric down along the back of thighs down to my calves. My hand stopped as it felt rough along the back crus of my Fast Skin. The polyurethane felt hard and rough, melted even, as if it were the surface of a lava field cooled by time. It had bubbled and burst through in places so I could feel my cold, bare skin beneath. Thankfully, I felt no wound on the other side. With shrivelled fingers, I checked the other leg, finding much of the same damage. A deeper coldness drained through me as I considered what effect it would’ve had on my bare skin. I cast my mind back to whatever gruesome, corrosive thing brushed past me after night had fallen. I had felt its physical presence, and figured it was more than likely that whatever I had seen beneath me twirling the mast of the Burringham like a baton, and whatever had touched me, were the same thing. It was becoming more brazen.

  Now I knew the truth. I had been tasted.

  The shape-shifting leviathan had sampled me with a tongue or tentacle, maybe a combination of the two. After pulling the boat down to a watery grave, the thing had been following me all this time. Waiting, biding, and maybe even watching with a thousand unblinking eyes. Was it the beast that had been calling out mournfully for me? Was its undersea bellows a warning howl or was it merely hungry? I hope it wasn’t horny. Its curiosity had grown too strong, and so it had reached out and tasted me. Well, my Fast Skin, to be precise, which was probably why it didn’t just suck me under, tasting polyurethane and not succulent flesh, it had deduced I was merely an interesting piece of flotsam that would probably give him indigestion if consumed. I hoped.

  Although, it might have easily been the smear of shit down my legs that had attracted IT.

  There were a thousand reasons for everything, and it boggled my mind to consider them all.

  I still had the impending doom feeling I was still being followed, possibly toyed with by a predator much more deadly than anything a single human being had come across before, somehow still primal, still bound by a basic hungry curiosity. Something else had maybe kept it at bay.

  My Shark Shield?

  The main device on the boat had been failing intermittently these past few days due to damp in the engine room, so the swimmers had to completely rely on their own personal devices for safety. It wasn’t a problem at the time, though now it was clear why my fellow teammates had suffered a mysterious fate, and I had survived unscathed. The Lord Burringham had essentially been a floating lunchbox; I had been an unnoticed, annoying crumb on the tabletop, invisible to hungry, gnashing mouths. Now it knew I was here, I had the feeling it wouldn’t leave until the battery in my Shark Shield had faded, and I was safely tucked away in the dark, pulsating confines of one of its many stomachs. Maybe it was saving me for a night time snack.

  Soon curiosity would cave and give in to blind hunger. I wished it would get it over and done with, yet some greedy and desperate part of me still longed for dawn. The hopeful human part of me wanted to live and run and drink and fuck, but another darker part was bored already. Give up and sink, it said.

  I AM EMPTY OF FUCKS!

  Yet I still kept on kicking, tentatively treading water, and fighting whatever fate I thought was bound to me. I once read that shipwrecked sailors often wouldn’t bother learning to swim, as they knew that death from drowning was a luxurious way to go compared to the drawn out death from dehydration, or the terror afflicted shark attack (decisions, decisions). Once in the water they had barely a minute of gurgling and struggling before they gave up and slid beneath the cover of the waves as a sinking dead weight. I’m sure that if a lifeboat or any island was nearby, they’d struggle and splutter towards it rather than give up on life altogether. Being a strong swimmer is my only real skill, as I’m a professional at it. But here, in nautical terms, it seems my talent is my curse. I couldn’t drown if I tried.

  I would stay awake, treading water until I-

  A) Passed out from exhaustion. Then slip beneath the waves into the dreamy depths.

  B)Become so dehydrated I dry up and die, before slipping beneath the waves completing my ironic death of dying of thirst in the ocean.

  C) Get eaten by something, anything to disperse the monotony.

  Either way, it all ended the same, with me and my burning lungs full of seawater, plummeting down through the murky fathoms.

  If I had to choose, I’d pick option A, like anyone would. Passing out would be akin to giving in to the sweet surrender of an exhausting, well-deserved sleep. I could live with that. Or die as the case may be.

  Please be painless and without blood loss. I didn’t want to suffer or fight. I didn’t want any panic or to bear any more fear than I had to. I giggled to myself. Here I was, an atheist, praying for a quick and merciless death. Did I deserve it more than anyone else? Probably not, but death would come when it was ready, not me.

  But I couldn’t will that to happen enough. It’s that jump off a cliff dilemma that stops us from leaping off the edge, our safety switch engages before the last step is taken. Only outright clumsiness, murder or natural misfortune can carry us off the edge when suicide isn’t our motivation to end our stories.

  Not that I’d given up hope. I was lost and alone in the dark, endless ocean, but I was still alive. There’s always hope if you’re still breathing, you just can’t see it for the cloud of fear. It was like being in a maze without corners as I endlessly turned and turned. I might have only moved metres since the sun had left me, or perhaps carried miles by the current.

  As I pondered for hope around the corner (as I had since I discovered my loneliness), fate smiled at me. From far above, a grim smile cracked through the sky. Blood red with jagged teeth. A sky dragon my deluded mind told me. Coming to get me. Not from below. But from above.

  My mind was entertaining me again as the dreams beasts were back. It had a bigger mouth than any creature on record. I couldn’t see the body yet, that was obscured. It yawned bigger, wider, brighter.

  More teeth. An audience of jagged canines.

  More ravenous mouths opened alongside the first. More burning blood red light poured through, the shimmering sea reproducing the glory of the mirrored sky.

  I cried. Joyful this time. It was so far away, but so clear.

  More light, twinkling echoes of radiance danced towards me like the aura illusion that surrounds fairies and creatures of make-believe. Something oh-so beautiful was happening before me, something that only a few hours ago I couldn’t comprehend happening to me, not ever again.

  More tears. Bubbles of snot and pathetic, grateful whimpers followed.

  I held my hand out in front of me to where I could see it.

  I had made it to dawn.

  Weeping, I started swimming towards the crepuscular shafts
of light that formed an angelic scaffold across the sky, then stopping as soon as the thought whirred through my tired mind.

  Towards the light?

  Was I dead?

  Was this heaven?

  Had I, Sam Berlitz, been meandering in solitary, testing purgatory these past few hours?

  If I was dead, then how for fucks sake? As much as I didn’t want to experience death, it would have been nice to know how it all played out. I’d like to have a recap of events, so all the blanks were filled in. What had I missed?

  I soon cancelled the thought as my barren stomach grumbled for breakfast, morning coffee, and last night’s tea. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth and over my lips to try and drum up an interest of moisture. I pushed with my tongue against the inside of my cheeks and swallowed dry. I coughed, hoarse and broken. I nibble some stray, dead flesh from my lip, then greedily, a little more. My appetite was killing me. That was a conscious human thought. No ascending angel would ever feel pangs of hunger like cannon fire raging inside. An angel would be forever satisfied, never having to dip to the lowly human trait of a constant want for sustenance and satisfaction.

  Do angels have nipples? Arseholes even?

  I was no angel. Wings denied. I didn’t sense in the slightest that this was a test.

  The coming light was merely a delusion caused by the Earth spinning around. I, being of unsound mind, had assumed that after my trials and tribulations of the last twelve hours or so, that the supposed creator of the sky, rocks, and animals, he/she/it/them almighty was coming down to pluck one member of the Earthly flock from his obscure abandonment in the Atlantic Ocean. How wrong I was.

  This beautiful breaking dawn that only I knew, was but a tiny glimmer of a lonely star in the black gulf of dread of what I knew was to come. Unease settled over me. I shivered. Call it premonition, call it foresight, call it what you want. But despite this beauty before me, this ray of hope, I wanted so much to die and be saved at the same time. So much. I hungered for a definite answer to end all this. All this meant that the chances were increased that I would see it coming. The darkness was torture; this coming light was another form.

  This purgatory was hell. Or a level in close proximity. I was filled with constant dread at what would come next. Death was eventual of course, but it was what would come in between that chilled my bones colder than any night time water ever could.

  The glowing horizon brought a new day of anxiety that I couldn’t get away from, couldn’t beat my arms into the water, and plough my way through to the other side. The tide or cosmic currents that operated this universe of colliding fates pulled me towards whatever was waiting for me. Death was inevitable, and being an Englishman, it seemed tradition and politeness dictated that it was to be the last thing I’d ever queue for.

  I feared that whatever lurked on the far side of this fateful dawn would bring with it more death, more anguish and more sorrow.

  Yet I didn’t know how.

  Whatever had taken my crew was hungry, after me it would hunger again. Maybe it would head to shore and roll up on to land eating anything vaguely edible that happened to be nearby. The humans of Earth would have to wait. I was next in line on the buffet table.

  ***

  This want to end my life was overtaken, as something surfaced before the dawn, gliding; brazen and smooth into my tired eye line. I never saw it rise, only appear as if it were a sudden jump cut in a movie.

  A fin.

  Two foot out from the water, it circled around me and I followed, from three o’clock to six, then vanishing back under at eight o’clock. I carried on my turn, tracking where it should be as I pulled my goggles on. I dipped under.

  An all-consuming blackness surrounded me, dark as death, and as perplexing to the eye. Something grey moved for the briefest flash, a ghost caught between planes, a beautiful monster that was the only truly natural thing in this scenario. I was the alien. I was the invader here, the unwelcome one.

  I lifted my head from the water and drew breath, deep and tasty as I realised that it might be my last lungful before saltwater and blood flooded my mouth.

  “Okay. Oh shit. Come on, let’s do this, let’s get it over and done with,” I muttered, my voice a dehydrated whisper, proving about as much impact as dry leaves rustled by the breeze.

  Another fin rose up maybe thirty feet away, circling in the opposite direction. Had it turned? No. A third shark joined the group, then a fourth. They were having a good look, maybe keeping their distance because of the Shark Shield. Was it still working? I couldn’t tell without taking it out to check. And I daren’t do that for fear of letting it tumble from my trembling fingers and into the deep.

  I turned my back to dawn to see a fin pass from south to north. With the new born light I could make the finer details of the shark’s fin; the sandpaper grain, the scars and chunks missing. That’s how they identify sharks, the experts, from the scars on their dorsal fin. To be known by your battles was probably an honour.

  I had to be ready. I had to accept. This was death. I was facing death in the eye. This. Was. It.

  I knew what to do. When a shark came close enough to bite, I’d try to climb into its mouth head first, I didn’t have any other choice. Was suicide by shark a world first, I wondered? I couldn’t fight four sharks with my wits alone, hence making my demise as much my choice as theirs. The last thing I wanted was for Bruce to take a chunk out of my leg, and then wait for me to die in terror. At least be quick you hungry bastards. Bleeding to death would be a horrible way for all of this to end. Be swift in my end.

  A commotion frothed north. I turned as I watched the water jump. A caudal fin waved at me before diving beneath.

  Were they fighting over me? I’m flattered you think me that precious, mister shark.

  Three fins came up proud from the water, circling closer to me in erratic little spurts. I dipped and bowed in the churning waters, helpless in chaos they created, waiting for the bite, bite, bite.

  A tail whipped out and clipped the back of my leg. Despite how you think the thick water slows motion, it came so hard and fast, I yelped.

  I could feel them beside me as their movements pushed and grabbed at me, in a frantic dance.

  Panic. Rising above everything else.

  Something had these beasts on the run. They weren’t stalking me, I’d figured that much out by myself. Maybe they’d come to me for protection, even though the Shark Shield would have sent them crazy. I’d never know the truth.

  The water exploded beside me, and the thrashing started. I watched as a fifteen foot Great White rolled over twice in a bid to free itself from something dark wrapped around its tail, coiled tight like wire, pulling, pulling, pulling under as the shark fought with all its tremendous might.

  It rolled again, and I saw how the thing thickened on the other side, each time the shark committed a roll, the dark thing got a tighter grip as it pulled itself over the shark, a hot blanket of death.

  It wasn’t black. It was filled with blood, boiling it up into acid.

  The shark went under with an almighty tug, and the others (whether they were dead, dying or alive) didn’t bother me further. The ocean returned to its tranquil, morning calm, and I treaded water like an idiot lost, wondering if that was how it took down the Lord Burringham.

  I watched the dawn bleed over me, caught between the tremendous beauty revealing itself just for me, and the primal bedlam going on beneath. I closed my eyes and concentrated, trying to detect the tiniest susurration in the waters, as a preying shark would.

  Nothing.

  Minutes passed, and I tried my best to enjoy the emerging art of nature as the light played on the dimples of the waves, focusing on the heavenly glow of the sun as it warmed my face. Let this be the last thing I see.

  Something darker, betraying the way the ocean reflected the sun, emerged in front of me. There it was. The creature. Now was the time. It was unmistakable because of it size, bigger than any animal I had
ever seen, easily the size of a house roof. Flat and clear like melted plastic, with a bubbled texture like that of a boiling oil spill, but solid. It seemed to take on the red ochre colour of the sea. If you scooped your hand through the mass of it, it wouldn’t drain around the shape of your hand like syrupy treacle or oil, but cling tight to you like a skin of melted rubber. The outer edge of the thing was less than twenty feet in front of me, shifting up and down with the rise and fall of the ocean, undulating towards me, ghosting the motion of the swell in a slick, creeping itch. Unsatisfied with this situation, the tide pulled us closer.

  The awful smell hit me. I gagged as the stench of rotting fish invaded my nostrils, pillaging fresh tears from my eyes. Other odious vapours of which I had no name for, mingled with the gross indecency of decayed aquatic matter; seaweed, death, and faecal matter all churned up in one nauseating melting pot to construct the eye watering stench that signalled the arrival of this predatory bottom feeder.

  The Young Man and Sea Monster, as a horror bent Hemmingway would have written in a more twisted universe. No man is ever truly alone in the sea, and I’d come a long way to die. All for my own glory, my only witness would be that what desired to chomp and chew me into sustenance.

  Slowly but surely, I started to lethargically kick back against the rising beast, always keeping an eye on it, even if it hadn’t acknowledged my presence, I still distrusted the dirty, great thing. How could I win? It had eaten a Great White Shark for breakfast.

  After about a minute of frantic kicking, I’d propelled myself barely ten feet. I couldn’t fight this tide. I was exhausted and beaten by nature after a day alone in the water. No man could keep this up for long with giving himself a coronary. My hips and buttocks ached from the constant propulsion, and my arms had stiffened so much, they felt as if I’d had the arms of a mannequin stitched on instead.