The Black

by Paul E. Cooley

  Calhoun sniffed the air and grimaced. “And what the hell have you been into?”

  “I saw—“ He took in a deep breath. “I saw it. It ate Red.”

  Vraebel glanced at Calhoun and then turned back to Harobin. “What are you talking about?”

  “The commissary,” Harobin said. “It’s in the commissary.”

  Calhoun stepped forward so he was face to face with the geologist. “What is it?”

  “The oil,” he said. “Or, um, I don’t fucking know what it is!” He tried to take another deep breath and realized he was panting. “It took Red. It was eating him.”

  “Eating him?” Vraebel asked. “The fuck you—“

  “Absorbing him! I don’t know! It just…it was crawling up his legs. And he was screaming.”

  “Jesus,” Vraebel said. “Did you get him out of there?”

  Harobin shook his head. “I ran, Martin.” Andy started to cry. “I couldn’t save him. He was already gone.”

  Calhoun placed his hands on Harobin’s slight shoulders. “Andy, I need you to calm down. You’re starting to hyperventilate.”

  A sharp stabbing pain ran up his left arm. Harobin’s lungs froze and suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the world. His eyes grew wide and drool fell from his mouth. The floor of the hallway rushed toward him and he smashed into it head first.

  #

  CPR had no effect. Harobin was dead. Calhoun stared down at the corpse. “Martin? We have to get out of here.”

  Vraebel shook his head. “Four dead men, Thomas. I have four dead men. Possibly five, if what he said about Red wasn’t just crazy talk.”

  Calhoun looked down the hallway. He thought he’d heard something, but wasn’t sure. “Where’s the doc?”

  Vraebel said nothing.

  “Martin?” Calhoun placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. The rig-chief’s eyes broke out of their distant stare and flashed to him. “Where is the doctor?”

  “I— I’ll get him,” Vraebel said. He pulled out his phone and started typing. The phone’s digital clicks sounded too damned loud.

  “We still have Wi-Fi?”

  Vraebel nodded. “On the internal network only. At least PPE was smart enough to make sure that wouldn’t go down.” He pressed the screen and the phone made a whooshing sound. “Okay, message sent.”

  “I take it you can’t just call him?” Calhoun asked.

  “No,” Martin placed the phone in his shirt pocket. “We don’t have local VOIP if the satellite is down.”

  Thomas nodded. He turned back to JP’s door. He knew there was nothing in there. Nothing human, at least. What Harobin had said before he died made no sense and all the sense in the world. Shawna had wanted to know what happened when the oil touched human flesh. Now they knew.

  “Martin,” he said, “we need to get everyone to the life boats.”

  Vraebel laughed, but it sounded dangerously close to a scream. “Life boats? Are you fucking serious? You have any idea what’s in that water?”

  “Besides sharks?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, asshole,” Martin said. “How do we know that, that thing, from the ocean floor isn’t out there?”

  “We don’t,” Calhoun said. “But we need to get everyone off this platform.”

  “That’s a shitty idea,” Martin said.

  “Have a better one?”

  The rig chief thought for a moment and then shook his head. “No.” He walked down the hall to a red box. He punched through the plastic glass and pulled the switch.

  Klaxon alarms echoed around the rig. The lights in the hallway flashed red. “That’ll get everyone to the deck.”

  Calhoun shouted above the din. “Let’s go.”

  He and Vraebel turned and headed for the stairs. The commissary was a floor above them. At least they wouldn’t have to go near it. He fought the urge to look back at the dead geologist or Harvey’s door. They were both dead, but they deserved better than just being left behind.

  When they reached the stairwell, Vraebel stopped so quickly that Thomas ended up running into the back of him. Martin’s body moved forward but he managed to keep his feet. Calhoun, taller than the rig chief, peered over his shoulder at what had made him stop.

  The flight of stairs leading to the next floor was covered in black ooze. The black had five more steps to slide down before it reached the landing. “The fuck?” Vraebel asked.

  Calhoun hit him on the shoulder. “Move, goddammit!”

  A ripping sound echoed in the stairwell and something rose out of the thick river of oil. Vraebel hadn’t twitched. Calhoun hit him again and then pushed him toward the flight of stairs leading to the deck. Finally, Martin started to run. Calhoun watched as a tentacle waved and then reached for him.

  He followed Vraebel as fast as he could, his heavy boots thudding on the metal steps. They followed the twists and turns of the stair case as they headed toward the deck. Thomas slowed and chanced a look back. The black wasn’t on the stairs.

  As he took the next turn, metal creaked. He looked up and froze. The black was no longer bothering with the stairs. Instead, it was a solid mass extending downward and weaving through the rails. Calhoun ran as fast as he could. He could hear it behind him as he descended. It was moving slowly, but not slowly enough.

  The stairs finally led them outside. The sun was still high enough in the sky to blanket the world in gauzy light. Calhoun, lungs burning and legs threatening to give out, reached the deck. He looked back at the way they had come. The entrance to the rig’s superstructure was clothed in darkness. Whatever the thing was, it had followed them down but would not come out in the light.

  Vraebel puked on the deck. Calhoun fought down his own nausea and bent over. Hands on his knees, he forced himself to take deep breaths. Getting too old to run marathons, he told himself. Too fucking old for it.

  “Thomas!” Shawna’s voice yelled from other side of the deck. He looked up. Shawna and Catfish were running to him. Catfish had his laptop cradled under one arm.

  Calhoun managed a wave, let out an acidic burp, and then tried to stand. His knees popped like firecrackers.

  “You okay?” Shawna asked as she reached him.

  He shook his head. “Not in any way possible,” he said. “Although,” he slapped Vraebel on the back, “we’re alive. And that’s something.”

  Catfish stared up at the rig stairs. He and Shawna had obviously come down the other way from the drilling office. “What the fuck is up there?” he asked.

  “The black,” Calhoun wheezed. “It’s alive.”

  Shawna blinked and then followed Catfish’s stare. She saw the same thing he did. “It’s covered the entrance to the rig.”

  Calhoun shook his head. “I don’t think it’s covering it. I think it can’t come out into the sunlight.”

  “Fucking fucking fuck!” Vraebel yelled. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “That’s the fucking oil?”

  “About time you got with the program, asshole,” Catfish said.

  The rig-chief’s fists clenched and he started to walk toward Catfish. Calhoun grabbed his arm and pushed him back. “Quit it. Now.” He glanced at each man in turn. “We don’t have time for this.”

  Vraebel’s phone let out a beep. He pulled it from his pocket, looked at the screen. “Shit,” he said. “Doc says he’s trapped in medical.”

  Catfish sat down, crossed his legs, and propped the laptop on his thighs. He typed a few keys and looked up at Calhoun. “While you two were busy finding JP, I ran some network tests. Email is still working, both outbound and inbound.”

  Calhoun blinked. “What does that mean?”

  “We can call for help,” Shawna said. She glanced around the deck. Calhoun followed her gaze. A little over a dozen roughnecks stood with wild, confused eyes. “If this is all that made it, then we have plenty of room in the lifeboats.”

  Calhoun nodded. “Worth a try.”

  Shawna looked down at Catfish. “You got the addres
ses?”

  He smiled. “In my address book. Where else would they be?”

  The day darkened and Thomas looked up into the sky. The fluffy clouds that had blanketed the horizon for days were growing darker. The first rain bands from the storm might be heading toward them. Or maybe it was just a typical day on the ocean.

  “Light. We need light,” Calhoun said. “Martin. We have lamps out here? High-powered halogens? Something like that?”

  Vraebel didn’t respond. His eyes were riveted to the deck.

  “Martin!” Calhoun shouted. The rig-chief looked up at him. The man was terrified and lost. “Keep it together. Do we have lights?”

  “Yeah,” Martin said. He turned and looked at the remaining crew. “Gomez? You down here?” There was no response. He looked over at the roughnecks. “You guys seen him?” They all shook their heads. “Fuck. Okay, I need you guys to grab the deck lamps. I need them out here and hooked up.” The men just stared at him. He took a deep breath. “MOVE!”

  The deck crew jogged toward the supply sheds. Vraebel turned and looked at Calhoun. “What are you thinking?”

  The engineer chewed his bottom lip. “If Shawna is right, the black can’t handle a certain UV spectrum. That means the halogens should protect us when night falls.” He looked up at the sky again. “Or it gets dark enough for it to feel safe out here.”

  Vraebel nodded and started typing on his phone. “I’ll try and locate Gomez. If he’s still alive, he should respond.”

  “If,” Shawna said. “How come this is all that’s left of the deck crew?”

  “Shift change,” Vraebel said without looking away from his phone. “Most of the night shift was headed for their breakfast and the morning shift was heading for dinner.” He finished typing his message and the phone whooshed. He made eye contact with her. “Those men either finished early or hadn’t yet left their posts.”

  “Jesus,” Shawna looked at Calhoun. “Eighty people on this rig and this is all that’s left?”

  Vraebel nodded. “Harobin said the commissary was empty. I think it killed them all.”

  “Where is Harobin?” Shawna said as she gazed around the deck.

  Vraebel swallowed hard. “He didn’t make it.” She blinked at him and then looked down.

  “Catfish? How’s it coming?” Calhoun asked.

  The tech’s grim face melted into a grin. “Got it. What do you want to say?”

  “Request immediate evacuation. Hostiles on board the rig,” Vraebel said. “Tell them we’re under attack by pirates, North Koreans, gang-bangers, I don’t give a shit. Just get us off the goddamned rig!” Catfish nodded and started typing.

  The crew started to return. Some carried large tripods, others held rectangular light heads. Vraebel had them place the five lights in a large semi-circle. He looked over at Calhoun. “We’re going to be fucking blinded by this.”

  Calhoun nodded. “Yeah. We won’t really be able to see beyond the circle.” He tapped his foot. “Catfish? When you get done sending that email, I need you to try and get the video feeds from the rig.”

  “On it,” the tech said.

  The sun was dying and not just from the blankets of clouds. It would hit the horizon in less than an hour and then they’d be defenseless.

  #

  When the klaxons started, he was still praying. His late father’s Saint Christopher’s medallion felt warm and moist in his palm. He had been muttering over it for the past thirty minutes. Whenever he prayed, he felt the world calm around him and the presence of God. But not today.

  Gomez sat in a chair at the bridge. He’d cycled the hatch and locked it from the inside. If someone tried to get in, they’d meet an impenetrable metal shield. At least that was the theory.

  Everything went to shit when he’d headed to the bridge to find his boss. The deck crew had been between shifts and he’d taken a break. Too much had happened. Way too much. Steve was afraid if he didn’t get a break, he’d freeze up. So he’d decided to go see Vraebel.

  The idea the rig-chief wouldn’t be on the bridge had never crossed his mind. He’d slowly taken the stairs up past the drilling office and kept going into the main hallways. As he’d turned toward the bridge, he heard something and turned around.

  The long hallway was empty except for the drink machine. Gomez licked his lips and walked toward it. He realized he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in at least six hours. No wonder he felt like he was about to pass out.

  Talking to Vraebel while he polished off a Snickers and an energy drink wasn’t exactly too informal, but it was pretty damned close. Considering the kind of day they’d had, though, he thought Vraebel would forgive him.

  PPE wasn’t the only company to stock free food and beverages for its people. That was pretty much standard. But PPE only stocked the good stuff. His stomach growled as he approached the standing metal vending machines Someone had pasted a picture of Jules from the movie “Pulp Fiction” over the coin slot. It read “You mind if I have some of your tasty beverage?” Gomez smiled at it.

  He scanned the choices of drinks and finally decided to go for purple today. He slapped his hand against the plastic rectangle. The machine whirred and a pint can dropped to the slot with a bang. He picked it up, flipped open the top and took a long pull.

  The acidic carbonation hit his palate and he smiled around the can. He’d planned to sip it, but fuck it, he was thirsty. He guzzled the entire can, belched loud enough for it to echo in the hallway and moved to toss the aluminum into the recycle bin. His hand froze in mid-throw.

  The A/C duct over the snack machine was covered in black ooze. The stuff bubbled and rippled as it moved through the grate and drizzled down the wall. The can dropped from his hands and clanged on the hard floor.

  He took a step back into the hallway. The thick, black ooze flowed faster through the grate. A crunching sound echoed in the hallway as the stuff rippled and quaked like shaken pudding. Something rose from the black. A large tube-like appendage shot out of the stuff. An eye popped out from it and stared at him.

  Steve ran. He pelted down the hallway as fast as he could. When he reached the bridge hatch, he swung open the door and turned to close it. The ooze was in the hallway now and speeding toward him. Gomez had closed the hatch with a shriek and turned the lock wheel to barricade the door. He’d turned around and stared into the XO’s wide, panicked eyes.

  “What the fuck was that?” Terrel had asked.

  Gomez had pulled the medallion from its chain and palmed it. He’d stepped back from the door as close to the bridge windows as he could get. “I don’t know,” he’d said. “But I think we’re fucked.”

  When his phone went off, a stream of urine jetted into his boxers. The medallion nearly flipped out of his hands. The XO looked at him and then started to laugh.

  “Scared the shit out of me,” the man said.

  Scared the piss out of me, Gomez thought. He reached into the pocket of his dungarees and brought out the phone. He heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Where are you?” the message asked.

  Gomez typed in his answer and sent it. He looked up at the XO. “It’s Vraebel. He’s alive.”

  Terrel hissed through his teeth. “Thank, God. Ask him what the fuck is going on.”

  Gomez held up a hand. We’ll get to that, he thought. The seconds drew out like taffy as he waited for Vraebel’s response.

  The phone buzzed in his hands. He read the message, and then peered out of the windows onto the deck. Twilight was falling, but he could still see the deck without a problem. Halogen work lamps were arranged in a large semi-circle. Over a dozen people stood inside the ring with a portable generator.

  “Jesu Christi,” he said.

  The XO followed his gaze. “What the fuck are they doing?”

  “Preparing,” Gomez said.

  “For what?” Terrel’s voice trembled.

  “For nightfall.” The phone buzzed again. He looked down at the bridge control board. “Terre
l? Vraebel’s asking if we can get coms up and running.”

  Terrel blinked. “They’re still up. We’re just not getting anything.”

  Gomez looked at him. “You’re the fucking XO, Terrel. You’re supposed to know how everything works up here. Vraebel says make it happen.”

  The man thought for a moment. “Okay. What does he want?”

  Gomez read the message. “He wants you to check the satellite link. If it’s down or we can’t send, he wants you to do a patch on the Wi-Fi. Try and get VOIP up on the local network.”

  Terrel blinked. “I have no idea how to do that.”

  Useless fucking bendajo, Steve thought. He typed in the message back to Vraebel and waited. When the phone buzzed again, Gomez couldn’t help but grin. “Catfish is going to walk you through it.”

  “Who?” Terrel asked.

  “Standlee.”

  The XO groaned. “That asshole doesn’t know shit!”

  “More than you, apparently,” Gomez chuckled.

  #

  Cigar smoke drifted from the deck. It swirled upwards around the bright, white halogen lights before the ocean breeze spirited the smoke away. Calhoun pulled the Macanudo from his lips and exhaled through his nostrils.

  Shawna wrinkled her nose, but said nothing. Catfish sat in the middle of the circle, a laptop propped on his knees. The lid was closed and his fingers kept tapping against its aluminum surface. She fought the urge to look behind her. She knew if she saw anything, she’d scream.

  They’d been exposed to the night for three hours now. The work lamps were so bright, she couldn’t even see the moon. With all the clouds racing across the sky, she wasn’t surprised. The last weather report Gomez had listened to on the bridge said the storm was coming. The first bands of rain would probably hit them before dawn.

  Shawna shivered. Cold wind, cold rain… That was going to be so much fun around 4 am. If they survived that long.

  While everyone was sitting in the circle of light, that didn’t mean everyone believed what Vraebel and Calhoun had told them. She thought at least half the remaining deck crew thought the two men had gone off their collective rockers. Four of them lay sleeping on the deck. The others sat staring at one another or out into the darkness. They hadn’t spoken a word in over an hour.