The Black

by Paul E. Cooley

  “The fuck are we doing here, chief?” a burly blond man asked once darkness had fallen.

  Vraebel glanced at him. “Waiting out the night, Bill. Waiting out the night.”

  “The fuck does that mean, boss?”

  Vraebel sighed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  One of the other men, a rail-thin, red-haired man with huge biceps snorted. “Rig quake? That fucked up oil?” He shook his head. “I’ll believe anything right now.”

  So he told them. After that, they’d just checked out. Bill looked afraid to say anything. Jack, the red-haired man, had been the same way. The rest? While Vraebel told the story, they’d rolled their eyes. Some had even chuckled and only stopped when the chief glared at them.

  Shawna checked her watch. Six hours until dawn. She looked over at Vraebel. He was staring at the deck, his lips moving in silent words.

  “I have an idea,” Calhoun said. The circle of people all looked at him in startled surprise. Thomas ignored the stares, eyes fixed firmly on Shawna. “Assuming the light keeps it away, we should be able to move about during the day without a problem.”

  “Big assumption,” Shawna said. “Although since the samples in the lab reacted so violently to it, I think it’s correct.”

  Vraebel harrumphed. “What makes you think these halogens,” he said pointing at the tripods, “are doing anything like that?”

  Shawna noticed that Thomas’ fingers were trembling. He took a deep drag on the cigar and let the smoke creep out of his mouth. He glanced over Vraebel’s shoulder. “Because it hasn’t attacked.”

  She slowly turned her head and looked where her boss’ eyes were fixed. “I don’t see—“ She stopped, the words dying in her throat. It was difficult to make out, but there was a shadow a few feet away from the circle of light. She squinted and then nearly screamed.

  A shape, blacker than the darkness, stood behind Vraebel. It was solid, but amorphous at the same time. It stood on three legs, its body squat and low to the ground. Appendages waved from its top half. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought it was the size of three men. Maybe more. It seemed to stretch out into the distance, but it was impossible to tell how far.

  “Oh. My. God,” Shawna said. She stared back at Calhoun.

  Vraebel was looking over his shoulder. The ruddy color in his cheeks had faded. “Is that—“ he started to say and then gulped hard. The rest of the men in the circle were looking too. One by one, they seemed to see it, jaws dropping open.

  Thomas patted his knee and took another drag on the nearly spent cigar. “I think it has us surrounded.” Jack got to his knees and then stood. “Don’t leave the circle,” Calhoun said to the red-headed man.

  The lanky rough-neck blinked at him and then faced the darkness. “What the fuck is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Calhoun said. “Something old. Very old. And I don’t think the oil is all of it. I think it’s part of it. But something else is down in the ocean. I’ve no idea what.”

  Jack glanced back at him. “Something like what?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t know.”

  Vraebel’s phone rang making everyone jump. He pulled it out of his pocket and stared at it. He slid his finger across the screen and put it to his ear. “Gomez?” he said. Shawna watched as Vraebel’s eyes widened. The man bit his lip. “Okay. Thanks,” he said and put the phone down. He pointed to the bridge above them. “Steve says we’re fucked.”

  Catfish grunted. “Like we didn’t already know that.”

  Vraebel glared at the tech and then stared around the circle. “It’s getting closer,” he said. His eyes found Calhoun’s. “You’re right about us being surrounded.”

  “How’s Gomez holding up?” Thomas asked.

  “I guess he and Terrel are safe.” He chuckled. “Safer than us anyway. That bridge is made of steel and glass. Nothing’s getting in there.”

  “So he can see it?” Shawna asked. “I mean around us?”

  “Yeah,” Vraebel said. He looked up at Jack. “Sit down, man. You’re— You’re attracting it.”

  Jack glanced at the rig chief. “I don’t know what—“

  Something shot out of the darkness and splatted against Jack’s chest. He turned to the others in horror as they scrambled away from him. The smell of cooking flesh and something fetid filled the air. He clutched at his chest as his clothes caught fire.

  Bill grabbed the man’s legs, pulled him to the deck, and patted at the flames. “Jack!” he yelled and rolled him over, chest to the light. Jack’s mouth opened in a silent scream. Tendrils of black flashed out of the darkness and grabbed the burning man’s head. The sound of pine-knots combusting in a fire place was barely audible beneath Bill’s shouts. The tentacles caught fire as they pulled the burning man’s body out of the circle.

  “Jack!” Bill screamed again. There was no response. Out in the darkness, they could hear the sound of bacon frying in a pan and the crackling of bones breaking. Bill reached a hand beyond the circle of light. Catfish grabbed his leg and pulled him back to the center of the circle. The man flung a fist and smashed the side of Catfish’s head.

  He shook it off and kept pulling until Bill was safely in the center. Vraebel and one of the other deck-workers tackled the man, keeping him still. Bill was still yelling. Vraebel looked down at him. “He’s gone!” the rig chief screamed. “He’s gone!”

  Bill’s eyes went wide. “What— What the fuck was that?”

  Calhoun’s cigar had fallen to the deck. It looked like a brown turd. The end was still smoking. He shuffled a little closer to the inner circle. As did everyone else, including Shawna.

  Thomas was shaking. Shawna put her arm around his shoulder.

  Vraebel looked at each of the roughnecks. “Everyone believe us now?”

  No one said a word.

  #

  Tequila. That was the cure. A bottle of Tres Generaciones Anejo was exactly what he needed. Too fucking bad there was no booze allowed on the ship.

  Gomez sat in the captain’s chair, eyes riveted on the circle of light on the deck below. Terrel sat in the corner of the room, head in his hands. As they watched the attack, the man’s resolve had folded like a cheap tortilla. Gomez couldn’t blame him. He had clutched the medallion in his palm tight enough to draw blood.

  Jack Hosley was dead. That much was certain. From high above the circle of light, he and Terrel watched as the shadows gathered on the light’s edge before it attacked. Whatever it was. When it dragged Hosley’s body into the darkness, clouds of whitish smoke wafted upward into the breeze.

  He’d tried to warn them. Even made the phone call Vraebel had told him NOT to make unless it was absolutely dire. Once Standlee walked Terrel through setting up a VOIP stream via the Wi-Fi, they’d decided conversation would only kill the phone batteries. Trapped on the deck, Vraebel and his circle had no way to recharge them.

  Now Jack Hosley was dead. Gomez couldn’t tell, but it looked like Bill Christian was hurt too. And dawn was still hours away.

  They’d heard something scratching at the hatch over an hour ago. Whatever it was gave up after ten minutes or so. He thought both he and Terrel were going to shit themselves when it started. Now? That seemed laughable after what they’d seen down on the deck.

  Gomez brought up the computer. The Wi-Fi was live, but there was still no connection to the outside world. Except for corporate email. All other ports had been closed off. Catfish had tried to carry SSH traffic over 587 and connect to another server outside the corporate firewall, but hit a dead end. PPE wasn’t allowing any traffic that wasn’t mail.

  And they weren’t exactly getting any of that either. Gomez, Vraebel, and Calhoun had all sent messages to Simpson and other PPE executives requesting evac. Thus far? Nothing. No response. It was as if the mails had never been sent.

  He’d asked Vraebel via text why PPE wasn’t responding. His assessment? “They’re deciding what to do with us.”


  The email regarding the Houston quarantine had been vague to say the least. The line commanding Vraebel to prepare for evacuation seemed like a lie to give them hope. Hope. Gomez fingered the medallion. Hope was all but gone.

  The air on the bridge was souring. He didn’t know if the A/C intakes were picking up rotten food from the kitchen or… Gomez decided he didn’t want to know. Whatever that shit was he’d seen in the hallway and on the deck, he didn’t want to know what it did to its victims.

  Gomez jumped in his chair as the computer dinged. “New Message,” the screen said. “Dios mio,” he muttered under his breath. His shaking fingers clicked the mouse button and the email text filled the screen.

  “To crew of PPE Rig #2785 Leaguer:

  Send status report and known head count of crew. All documents related to oil extraction and any incidents are needed by emergency personnel in Houston.

  The Center for Disease Control is now in charge of all matters related to PPE Rig #2785 Leaguer.

  In order to plan a successful evacuation scenario, we require as much data as possible.”

  Terrel was reading over his shoulder. “Holy shit,” he giggled. “They’re coming for us.”

  Gomez turned to him. “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean maybe?” the XO said and clapped him on the back. “It’s right there!” he pointed at the screen.

  “So is the fact the CDC is now in charge.” Gomez rubbed his fingers across the medallion’s face.

  Terrel’s manic smile faltered. “So?”

  Gomez shrugged. “I don’t know, but I—“

  Something scratched on the wall. Gomez and Terrel turned toward the starboard side. The fetid stench flowing through the A/C duct intensified. Gomez’s heart rate increased. The scratching noise came again.

  “Fuck,” Gomez said. “Where the hell is that coming from?”

  Terrel’s frightened eyes scanned the ceiling. “You think it’s trying to get in from above us?”

  Gomez shook his head. “Can’t. Vraebel said it can’t go through metal or glass.”

  “I don’t think—“

  The metal A/C vent cover rattled.

  “Fuck me,” Gomez said. He backed away from the wall and grabbed his phone. “We need to get out of here.”

  A thin line of black ooze drizzled through the grate. It touched the hard floor and sizzled. Gomez ran to the supply cabinet and threw it open. He grabbed a heavy black cylinder and turned back toward the far wall.

  Terrel stood frozen in front of the captain’s chair. “Move, bendajo!” Gomez yelled. The XO didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the vent. “Move!” he screamed.

  A river of ooze poured through the grate and puddled on the floor. The puddle started to crackle and ripple. Gomez pushed Terrel to the side and pointed the halogen flashlight at the black. The puddle contracted as a jagged tube rose from the surface. It waved toward the two men and an eye popped into existence. It blinked and then the tentacle reached for them.

  Steve flicked on the flashlight. A narrow beam of strong white light shot out and hit the tentacle in its eye. The puddle of black slunk away as the tentacle smoked. Its eye disappeared back into the tentacle. Terrel screamed. He stumbled over his own feet and fell to the floor. Gomez tried to keep the flashlight pointed at the base of the tentacle as he grabbed Terrel by the shirt collar and dragged him across the floor.

  The beam of light wobbled and then moved off the target. The puddle stopped smoking and began moving forward again. The tentacle raised in the air and smashed down into the floor with a heavy plop. Gomez shifted his gaze from Terrel’s screaming, trembling body. The tentacle no longer had an eye. Instead, its end tapered to a fine point with jagged edges.

  Gomez shouted as it raised and hit the floor again mere inches from his heavy boots. He loosened his grip on Terrel and aimed the flashlight back at the puddle. The sound of bacon frying in deep grease filled the room. The tentacle slashed down again and this time caught Terrel in the meat of his bicep.

  The XO shrieked as the tentacle drew him backward. Gomez dropped the flashlight and pulled on Terrel’s boot. “No, fucker!” he shouted. Terrel screamed in pain as he was caught between the tentacle pulling him one way and Gomez the other. Blood geysered out of Terrel’s arm as the jagged tentacle ripped through flesh, muscle, and bone. Crimson droplets pattered into the puddle where they pulsed and then disappeared. The tentacle severed the arm near the shoulder and dragged its prize back into itself.

  The remaining skin sizzled and dissolved. Tissue and bone were the last to go, but it was finished in seconds. Gomez continued dragging Terrel’s screaming, shaking body toward the port side. The puddle rippled and then slid forward, its tentacle searching for a new target.

  Gomez dropped his charge and scrambled for the flashlight. His fingers came within an inch of it before the tentacle slammed down into the floor. The puddle rippled and popped again. A smaller tentacle rose from its surface, a green and black eye staring from the end of the stalk. The blade shaped tentacle wavered in the air and then pointed at him as the eye found him.

  He lunged for the flashlight just as the tentacle slammed down beside it. His left pinky finger touched the side of the tentacle. Flesh started to melt from his hand. Screaming, he lifted the flashlight with his other hand and pointed the beam straight at the eye.

  The orb smoked before vaporizing in a flash of light and white smoke. The jagged tentacle whipped around and sliced through the front of his shirt. He shrieked louder as he held his ruined left hand against the cut in his chest, but still managed to keep the flashlight’s beam pointed at the eyestalk. It retreated into the puddle and then the entire mess of goo slid backwards toward the shadows beneath the coffee table.

  He advanced toward it, the flashlight shaking in his hands. The black ooze hit the wall and then slid upwards back into A/C vent. It disappeared leaving smoke and scorched drywall in its wake.

  “Help. Me,” a voice said from behind.

  Gomez whirled, the flashlight beam lighting Terrel’s face. Blood poured from the stump where his bicep should have been. Gomez pulled off his belt and cinched it around Terrel’s arm. “Jesu Christi,” he muttered. The blood slowed, but not enough.

  Terrel’s eyes fluttered. His weather-beaten skin was no longer tan, but pale.

  “Don’t you fucking die on me, bendajo!” Gomez yelled in Terrel’s face. The XO’s eyes closed. He took in a large shuddering breath as his body bucked and shook. The smell of shit and piss wrinkled his nose and then Terrel’s body relaxed. The man’s eyes stared up at the ceiling, but there was nothing in them.

  The sudden silence on the bridge was enough to let him hear the puddle sliding in the ductwork. It was gone. For now. Gomez sat on his ass next to Terrel’s corpse, tears welling from his eyes. “Fucking bendajo,” he said. His breathing was too fast and his heart raced. Gomez pulled off his shirt and looked down. A long line of burned flesh spread from beneath his left underarm and to the right side of his waist. Blood didn’t seep from the wound, but it hurt like hell.

  Gomez held up his left hand. His pinky had been cut in half lengthwise. Bone protruded from missing skin and muscle. He shuffled backward to the wall and turned off the flashlight. The thing would be back. He was sure of it. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and started to type, his eyes jumping back to the grate with each word. He wasn’t sure how long he could stay conscious. But he had to. Or it was all over.

  #

  It was outside the hatch. Every few minutes, he heard it sliding against the metal as it tried to find a crack, a crevice, any gap it could use to get through. But he was safe. For now.

  Sobkowiak lay on the examination table, a scalpel in one hand. He knew the knife wouldn’t do anything against what he’d seen, but it still made him feel better. If nothing else, he could slit his own throat before it got to him.

  He’d eyed the prescriptions and tranquilizers when he’d run back from the hallway. It would be a painless way t
o go. Inject an overdose of morphine and simply slip off into… The black? He shivered.

  It was a word. Just a word. But it was the absence of color. The absence of light. The absence of everything. But the black moved. The black was alive.

  Sobkowiak tapped the scalpel against his knee. When the CDC email had come in, he’d stared at it and reread it so many times, he knew every syllable it contained.

  “We require as much data as possible,” the email had said.

  “Bullshit,” Sobkowiak said aloud. It didn’t take a fucking PhD to read between the lines. If they were willing to admit the Houston lab had been quarantined, requesting data from ground zero meant they had no idea what it was or how to stop it. Evacuation? “Bullshit.”

  He brought the scalpel up before his eyes. The blade was bright steel and incredibly sharp. The rig was like a gangrenous limb. You could clean it, you could cut out the diseased parts, but the rot would just spread. And in the end, you’d have to amputate.

  Amputation was the answer. It was the only answer. If the CDC didn’t understand that, they would soon. And then what? Would they drop a fuel-air bomb on the rig? Or send a submarine to sink it with a torpedo?

  Sobkowiak chuckled. How pissed off would Greenpeace be if the American government sank a fucking oil rig?

  There would be a cover up. PPE would likely go bankrupt under mysterious circumstances. The executives would be sworn to silence, paid off, God only knows what. The world couldn’t afford to know about the black. It would bring the oil industry to a complete and utter halt. The world economy would collapse. No more cars. No more trucks. No more gas stations.

  Sobkowiak touched the cold blade to the tip of his finger. A person could survive without a finger. Hell, remove all four limbs and a person would be able to live. It would be hellish, certainly, but life would remain. But cut out the heart of business and locomotion? It would be a cut the world couldn’t afford.

  Something scratched at the hatch. Sobkowiak glanced over at it. The white rectangular steel door didn’t move. The scratching sound continued. He shifted his legs off the bed and stood. With slow steps, he approached the door.