by Michael Bray
Greg picked up his vodka shot with a shaking hand and finished it in one, hoping it would hurry and blot out the rest. It never worked though. It never stopped it replaying in his mind. Once again, he knocked on the bar and waited until his glass was filled. The shark attack was terrifying enough, but even that didn’t compare to what came next. The creature had fought them off easily, decimating them as if they were no more than a minor annoyance. One of the sharks the creature had attacked - an eighteen foot male - had slewed away from the creature, its underbelly sheared away, blood and entrails churning into the ocean, and had come to rest on the cage roof, pinning the hatch closed and showering Greg and his customer with hot blood and innards. As terrifying as it was, it paled in comparison to the sight of the creature as it came towards the cage to finish off its meal. That was when he knew they would have to escape, and as the creature approached, Greg swam to the top of the cage, desperately trying to open the hatch and get to freedom. Even now, years after the fact, he liked to convince himself he was looking to help his customer too, yet he knew deep down it was his own self-preservation which was key. Something had happened then. Some kind of immense explosion under the surface, which sealed the fate of both him and Mr Milla, and shaped the future in which he was now a prisoner.
Greg had managed to force enough of the hatch open against the dead weight of the shark's corpse when the concussion wave hit. The shockwave rocked the cage violently, snapping his hand – which was trapped between cage and hatch- like kindling. With no protection from the blast, Paul was slammed against inner wall of the cage, his head smashing against the bars as he was flung like a ragdoll. With his mangled hand trapped in the hatch and the full weight of the shark's body pinning it down, Greg hung helplessly, trying to shake away the ringing in his ears as he peered through his cracked facemask. Something caught his eye. He looked around as multiple species of dead fish began to float to the surface. All sizes, all varieties. He saw a dolphin, floating vertically past the cage rotating in a graceful arc as it climbed. The ocean had gone from battleground to a macabre showcase of the dead, as species after species floated to the surface.
He had heard about this before. Some people used to fish this way back before it was made illegal. Blast fishing where dynamite would be tossed into the water would cause the stunned fish's swim bladders to rupture, resulting in a horrible, painful death. Although he could see a huge number of animals floating to the surface, he knew it could have been worse, as many of the larger species of fish had already fled away from the carnage that had taken place. He shifted position where he hung by his arm, biting down hard on his regulator as pain jolted from his wrist. It was then that he saw the creature. It too was motionless and gently floating belly up towards the surface, its tentacles splayed out and drifting in the current. Again, he was mesmerised by the sheer scale of the animal. It was completely unlike anything else he had ever seen before, and fears aside, he appreciated its majesty.
In the cage, Greg struggled to free himself. His ears were still ringing from the explosion, and salt water dripped into his eyes from the hairline crack in his facemask, but he was otherwise in reasonable shape. He stopped flailing and checked the gauge on his trapped right hand, confirming his fears. The small wristwatch like device told him the air tank on his back was running dangerously close to empty. He estimated he had less than fifteen minutes of air left before he would drown. The thought of death renewed his energy, and he redoubled his efforts, alternating between trying to yank his arm free and getting enough leverage to displace the shark corpse, neither of which seemed to be doing anything but sending explosive jolts of paint through his broken wrist. He began to suck air greedily from the regulator, knowing every breath was precious but still unable to help himself. On the floor of the cage, Paul didn't stir, and had slumped to the side, a steady cloud of blood mushrooming from the wound in the back of his head. Faced with the fact he was never going to be able to move the dead shark that was pinning the lid of the cage closed, Greg knew he would have to make a drastic choice. The floor of the cage was also hinged in case of emergency, and he knew it was his one and only way out. First, he had to free himself. He looked at his mangled hand, and realised what he needed to do.
How much do you want to live?
He asked himself as he twisted and tugged at his arm.
How far will you go to survive?
It was then that absolute clarity came to him and he stopped struggling. It was extreme, and he knew he would have to do it quickly before his air supply ran out. Despite the urgency, there were a lot of questions he didn't have the answer to.
Could he go through with it?
Could he withstand the pain, and if he did, could he get to a doctor in time?
What if he passed out halfway through?
Answers or no answers, it didn't matter. There was no other choice. Taking a deep breath of precious air, he unsheathed the hunting knife from his diving belt, the blade warping the light as he held it to his face. It was a good knife. Sharp too. He hoped it wouldn't hurt, maybe if enough numbness had set in...
No.
Enough delays. He had a job to do, and every second was precious.
Pleasedonthurtpleasedonthurtpleasedonthurt
He repeated it over and over in his head, praying he would have the strength to do what needed to be done. As he began to hack through the soft flesh of his wrist, prying bone away from bone, shearing tendon and flesh, brilliant, white hot agony surged through his body, and he bit on the regulator hard enough to fracture two teeth. As he carved away at his wrist through a cloud of blood, tears streaming down his face and mingling with the salt water that had already penetrated the mask, another question came to him.
What happens if the creature wakes up?
He looked down at his stump, resting it on the bar.
Yes.
There are certain extremes a man will go to in order to survive. Extremes that to some might be beyond their ability to complete or even comprehend. The question was always the same, and a simple one at that. The question was: How much did a person want to live? At that time, Greg wanted to live more than anything else in the world, which made the next decision frighteningly simple. Even so, the pain was unreal. Unlike anything else he had ever experienced or would ever be able to express to anyone who might ask him how it felt. Although he could never explain it, he could remember it more than well enough. Like the rest, it was still fresh in his mind.
Somehow, he hadn't passed out. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the desire to survive. Whatever the reason, Greg was still conscious. It had been close. The soft tissues weren't too bad, but the nerves felt charged with millions of vaults of electricity, as he had sliced through them. Even so, he was still woozy. The knife grinding against bone as he separated his wrist had sounded incredibly loud in his head, and he had to count backwards from ten to keep conscious. Knife blade trembling, he cut through the last of the gristle and was at last free, sinking to the bottom of the cage and leaving a mushrooming cloud of blood behind as if he were some kind of bizarre distress flare. The relief lasted only for seconds until the pain found him, bringing his nerve endings alive with fierce agony. He clutched his bleeding stump to his chest, and sank towards the bottom of the cage.
Fortunately, he had been able to open the secondary hatch in the cage floor and escape, swimming to the surface and coaxing his customer’s wife to help activate the controls and pull the winch to the surface. There was no sign of the creature which had attacked them, and even though they managed to get the cage up, dislodge the dead shark and free Mr Milla, he died before help could arrive, the force of the explosion slamming him against the cage and splitting his skull like a ripe melon. One thing that had eluded Greg almost daily since it happened is why he hadn’t gone for the floor hatch from the start. He supposed it was pointless to worry too much about it, and suspected under the unique circumstances, he could be forgiven. However, that didn’t change things for his recent
ly deceased customer, or the grieving widow he left behind.
Later, Mrs Milla would file charges against him for gross negligence. Advised to settle out of court for way more than he could afford, he had paid her off and lost his business in the process. Nobody of course believed him about the creature. Why would they? Even so, that beast had managed in just a few moments to destroy his life totally. Now, he had become a bitter recluse, living out his days scraping by on what little disability money he received from the government, and drifting through life with an ever burning anger and frustration towards the creature and the mess it had made of his life.
It was because of this he had been listening in to the conversation on the table behind him. He had taken a good look at the group when he had passed them on his way to the bathroom. Three men and two women, late teens to early twenties at a guess. They had been speaking in hushed tones about the Cocoa Beach incident, and Greg was more certain they were involved with every passing moment. More interesting was their description as they spoke of what was in the trailer.
It sounded for all the world like the same creature (although on a smaller scale) which had destroyed his life. Draining his glass, he watched as the bartender approached to refill it. Greg shook his head.
He wanted to stay sober enough to hear what else they had to say. Already, he was starting to formulate an idea.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was the morning after the night before. After being transported by Helicopter from The Pentagon back to his apartment in Portland, Rainwater had spent the rest of the night much like every other - getting absolutely shitfaced on whatever drink he could lay his hands on. It took a few moments to realise that the steady thumping he could hear wasn’t just the onset of a hangover, but someone pounding on his door. He was pretty sure he'd paid his rent, and couldn’t think of anyone else he owed money to. He considered ignoring the door until they went away, and yet, every crash of fist against wood only further aggravated his headache.
"Alrightimcoming," he slurred as he rolled out of bed, sending the empty bottle of scotch rolling across the hardwood floor as he stumbled past it.
Pulling on a pair of jeans, which barely fastened anymore due to his ever expanding waistline, he staggered to the door, intending to give whoever was on the other side of it a piece of his mind for waking him so early. He yanked the door open.
"What?" he grunted.
Clara stood on the other side of the door; not doing anywhere nearly as good a job as Andrews about hiding her shock at his appearance. "Can I come in?" She said.
"I didn’t expect to see you here," Rainwater said, scratching at his thick, matted hair. "It's a bit early for visitors."
"It’s almost four in the afternoon," she said, frowning. "Jesus, you look like shit."
"Thanks," Rainwater muttered, still leaning across the doorframe.
"So…can I come in or not?"
"Whatever," he said, opening the door to allow her access.
She wrinkled her nose as she looked around the room, which was littered with empty bottles, dirty washing and empty plastic ready meal trays for one.
"When was the last time you opened a damn window in here?" she said as she strode across the room, yanking open the curtains.
"I like my privacy," he muttered as he sat on the edge of the bed to roll a cigarette.
Clara opened the window as far as it would go then turned to Rainwater.
"Sit down over there if you like," he said, pointing to the armchair that was piled high with clothes. "Just throw those on the floor."
"I’m fine."
"Alright, then what do you want?" He said, angry at how good she looked, and for the first time ashamed of his own appearance.
"You know why I’m here. It's about last night."
"Andrews?" Rainwater said as he lit his cigarette, enjoying the first hit of nicotine of the day.
"Yeah. He told me all about what had happened. About the creature."
"I hope you told him to go fuck himself. That's what I did."
"Actually, I didn’t. That's why I’m here."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I accepted his offer. I’m leading the team to hunt it down."
"You can’t do that," Henry said, standing and taking a step towards her. Clara took a compensatory step back, face twisting in disgust.
"I can do what I want. You don’t control me," she hissed.
"I’m not trying to control you, but you know what we went through before. What Mackay went through."
"Mackay did what he had to," she fired back, cheeks flushing as she grew angry.
"If you go out there, you're pissing on his memory, on his sacrifice."
"Me?" she said with a disgusted sneer. "What about you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Look at you. You're a mess. Do you think Mackay would want to see you living like this? A worthless hermit who’s slowly drinking himself to death."
"He’d understand. I lost everything."
"We both lost a lot!" She screamed. "I saw Dexter murdered, I lost my credibility in the science world, I lost my career. Do you see me moping around feeling sorry for myself?"
"Don’t try to sell me that self-pity shit. You gained more than anyone from what happened."
"You mean the book?"
"Of course I do. I pleaded with you, begged you not to write it, that no good would come of it, and you just went ahead anyway. That book of yours is what killed our relationship."
"No, Henry, that was all you," she snapped. "I couldn’t handle the drinking and the excuses and the misery. You didn’t want to let me get over it. You didn’t want to let me move forward. The book was my escape."
"No coincidence that it made you an overnight celebrity," he grunted, "all at our expense."
"So the book made money, so what? Writing it was the only way I could cope."
"You could have come to me, you could have talked to me if-"
"How? You were never there for me. Whenever I wanted to talk or tell you how I felt you didn’t want to know. We were together but I was alone."
"You profited from what happened to us, you profited on the death of Dexter, and Mackay, hell even Russo and his men. You were selfish."
"Selfish?" She said, striding towards him, teeth gritted. "You dare call me selfish? Who was the one who wouldn’t get a job? Who was the one who burned through all my money so he could sit around the house drinking himself into oblivion and feeling sorry for himself? Who was it who told me I couldn’t have friends over to the house?"
"I didn’t have friends over. Nobody wanted to know."
"That’s because you alienated everyone and became a recluse. Just look in the mirror for Christ’s sake. You're fat, you stink, and you look a mess. This was the only future I had to look forward to with you and yes, I’ll admit, I got out whilst I could, and you know what? It was the best thing I ever did."
"So you make a nice living for yourself off the back of something we were all involved with, don’t offer to spread the wealth and then blame me for being bitter?"
"Why would I give you money? To see you piss it all away and hammer another nail into your coffin?"
"I can handle it. I know what I’m doing," he muttered.
"That’s all you ever say. It’s always, I know what I’m doing, everything will be fine, or I'll stop drinking tomorrow. You're full of shit."
"I don’t need this," he said, striding across to the filthy kitchenette. He took a bottle of cheap vodka from the cupboard and unscrewed the cap, taking a drink straight from the bottle.
"Is this what you've become?" she said, striding after him. "I can see your hands shaking. You’re drinking yourself into an early grave."
"Like I said, I can handle it."
Without realising she was going to do it, she knocked the bottle out of his hand. It smashed on the hardwood floor.
"Why would you do that?" Henry shouted, disregarding the broken glass as he fell to his knees
and started to suck the Vodka up straight from the floor. "This is my last bottle, I don’t have any more," he whined.
Despite her anger, a tremendous sadness welled up inside her at just how far Rainwater had fallen. She watched him trying to drink vodka from the filthy floor and thought it would be a miracle if he lasted another year.
"I have to go. I just wanted to tell you face to face what I was doing."
"Please, don’t do this," he said, watching as she walked to the door.
She looked at him on his hands and knees, beard wet and dripping onto the floor, eyes wild and yet somehow pleading.
"It's too late. I already agreed to work with Andrews. My publisher wants a second book. This will be perfect material."
"Remember what happened last time. You know how dangerous this thing is. Please… think about what you’re about to do. I don’t want to lose you."
Her eyes were stinging and her lip began to tremble. As determined as she had been not to show weakness in front of him, a tear rolled down her cheek.
"You lost me a long time ago, Henry," she said quietly, and then left the apartment, closing the door behind her. She waited in the hallway, half hoping he would rush after her and say something else. When he didn’t come, she took a deep breath and left the building, wondering when the call would come to say Rainwater had died. Based on his current condition, she didn’t think it would be too far away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The custom built four man submersible glided through the chilly Antarctic waters. The silver structure was emblazoned with the initials C.D. on the side for its owner, billionaire, Charles Decker. Something of a playboy and wannabe adventurer, Decker had already invested millions into the project. Some would raise eyebrows at the astronomical costs involved, yet to Decker, it was pocket change. With a personal fortune of just over six billion dollars, he could afford to throw his millions around. The titanium sub neared its target as the pilot navigated closer to the imposing Ross Ice Shelf.