Leviathan

by Jared Sandman

  Amber retrieved the blanket. She turned to head back when she stopped. Her head cocked and she saw something so powerful, so terrifying, it rendered her speechless.

  Written in the compressed sand underneath the cover was a single question: WILL YOU MARRY ME? Tears beaded in her eyes. She took a minute to compose herself, after which she returned to her boyfriend as if nothing happened.

  Brad didn’t glance at her, maintained his gaze on the ocean. “So whaddya say?” he asked.

  “What about?” Amber knew very well what about.

  He shot her a bewildered look. “You didn’t see?” he asked. “I-I left a message for you.” He hoped the wind hadn’t swept it away.

  “Oh . . . oh, that.” She feigned disinterest. “Yeah, I saw it.”

  “And?”

  Amber furrowed her eyebrows, deep in thought. She’d already made her decision. After several lingering seconds she couldn’t hold back a grin. “I’d say you got yourself a wife, Mister Miller.”

  Brad rushed from his sitting position and lifted her in a bear hug. They kissed, and he tasted the saltwater on her lips. He took an engagement ring from the zippered pocket of his swim trunks. He’d checked his shorts over a dozen times that afternoon to make sure the valuable hadn’t been lost.

  The ring sparkled in what was left of the twilight. The carat sapphire gleamed as he slid it on her finger. It was her birthstone, a gem for which she held an affinity. “Perfect fit,” he said.

  “How’d you know what size to get?”

  “I went to the jeweler with one of your other rings. Remember when you couldn’t find that emerald one? That was me.”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she kissed him again.

  The afterglow of dusk transformed into the afterglow of sex as they made love on the cover. They’d done the same on vacation in Aruba; it had been romantic then, even more so now. They’d neglected to use a sheet last time and each had spent a week afterward digging sand out of unmentionable places.

  Later they lied together as future husband and wife, enjoying the comfortable silence between them. The smell of musk and brine drifted on the air. The temperatures had cooled, forcing them to conserve heat by wrapping the cover around themselves.

  Both of them stared at the stars. The moon was full tonight and cast the waves as dark shadows. There was no cloud cover, so they had a panoramic view of the constellations. Above them Polaris sparkled as part of the Big Dipper.

  A meteor burned through the atmosphere, ripped a bright trail across the sky. “Look, a shooting star,” Brad said. His finger traced the arc of its path. “You have to make a wish,” he told her.

  “Already got one.”

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

  Amber shook her head. “Not only wouldn’t it be a secret then, it wouldn’t come true.”

  “I promise not to tell a soul,” he said. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “I wished to freeze this moment forever.” It sounded naïve, like when she was a young girl and thought she really would marry some charming prince from a faraway land.

  “That’s what I wished for too,” Brad said.

  “Really?”

  “Nah,” he admitted, “I asked for a convertible. But yours sounds pretty good, so I’ll change mine.”

  She poked him in the side. “You can’t take it back. It’s too late.”

  “Oh well.” He sat up and stretched. She knew what he was about to say, and she wasn’t ready to hear those words. “We should be pushing off.”

  “Do we have to go now?” Amber wanted to stay here, on this magical spit of an island. The Isle of Ambergris was special to her, a kingdom she wasn’t prepared to relinquish.

  “I got work tomorrow,” he said. “And it’ll take another half hour to row back to shore.” Brad stole a look at his watch, estimated they’d be back at the apartment around eleven.

  “Can’t we stay and celebrate a little longer?”

  “I’d love to but we’re out of booze, babe. Party’s over.” He stood and collected the blanket and picnic items, including the half-empty bottle of Merlot. Amber sighed and joined him, wiping the sand from her knees and bikini bottom.

  They refitted their lifejackets and packed their belongings. Amber helped her boyfriend — fiancé now, that would take some getting used to — overturn the kayaks again. He handed her an oar then dragged one boat to the water’s edge. Brad assisted her to get situated in the kayak’s tight space, and he pushed the craft into the water. He turned to his own while Amber drifted nearby.

  It took a bit more skill to maneuver himself into the kayak. It was easier launching from a ramp than shore. He almost tipped once but regained his balance. “Careful hon,” she said. Amber peered at the city lights on the coast. “How do you know where we parked?” she asked.

  He pointed. “You see that cluster of orange lights? That’s the harbor.”

  There was a surreal quality in the air that came from seeing a town in the distance yet being far enough away not to hear the city noises. It felt like a dream, one from which Amber didn’t want to waken. She gave a prolonged glance at what was left of Ambergris, then she set her paddle in the water and started toward land.

  They rowed for twenty minutes before she saw something familiar, a shimmer in the water like before. “There it is again,” she said.

  “What?”

  “A spark.” It reflected off the moonlight. “Over there.” She motioned to the south but didn’t see it again.

  “Dunno what it is,” he said. Marathon Key was close, the sounds from land faint on the wind. The sky had started to cloud, though that didn’t worry Brad. The rain wouldn’t reach them until they arrived home. After a while Brad turned and said, “I’ll race you.”

  Amber smiled. “You’re dust.”

  “I’ll even give you a head start.”

  “I don’t need charity to kick your butt. I can do it fair and square.”

  “Loser has to cook breakfast. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “And just so you know, I’ll be hungry for bacon and eggs.”

  “Tough talk,” she said, “especially from a man who’ll be serving me pancakes in bed.”

  Sea spray splashed them as they rocketed toward shore. Pumping arms kept the crafts moving at a swift pace. The harbor wasn’t too far out, no more than five hundred yards. Amber gritted her teeth, ignored the growing stitch in her side. Brad’s kayak was beside hers. She didn’t focus on it for fear of losing her concentration and the edge. In time the pain in her ribs grew too great, so she slowed for a second to catch her breath. In that moment Brad took the lead, and now she permitted herself to look at him.

  She eyed the kayak and it eyed her back.

  A saucer-sized obsidian pupil stared at her, the moon mirrored in its dark abyss. Amber realized that had been what caught her attention twice before, the shimmer. Now she spied the monstrosity to which it belonged. The beast rose from the water with the stealth of a U-boat. Its massive jaws sprang wide, its head tilted backward.

  Brad was oblivious to the creature as it swam behind him with gaping maw. Once he recognized the gravity of the situation — when he saw six-inch teeth closing around him like the entrance to a bottomless cavern — it was too late. Amber didn’t have time to warn him before the mouth snapped shut like a bear trap. Because its snout ran the length of a canoe, it had no difficulty devouring Brad and the kayak whole.

  Amber stifled a scream. There was no thinking on her part, only instinct. The beast that had eaten her fiancé slipped underneath the black water. Amber pushed her alcohol-numbed body beyond its limits as she paddled for shore. The marina was close enough she heard the rumbling of ship engines and discerned lovers having dinner on the outback terrace of La Noche Café.

  “Help,” she yelled. “Help me.” The diners were unaware of her presence, too wrapped up in their meals and conversations. Despite her side feeling ready to rupture, Amber worked throu
gh the searing agony. Her arms seemed heavy, so heavy, yet she willed herself onward. She would make it to land. “Somebody help,” she hollered, her voice already hoarse. Fearful of the creature that took Brad to a watery grave, she thought of nothing except the safety of the pier.

  Jaws suddenly opened ahead of her, dripping saltwater and bits of shredded flesh.

  Amber paddled hard to the left, sideswiping the beast. Its head twisted sideways and crushed the front end of the kayak with pointed, bloodstained teeth. It pulled the craft under the waves, trapping Amber inside.

  The sudden change of environment shocked her system. She became disoriented as the boat sank. Amber kicked free of the kayak and thrashed upward, the lifejacket helping propel her.

  Air flooded her lungs when she hit the surface. Arms and legs worked in tandem as she stormed toward the wharf. Whatever was after her, she prayed the craft kept it occupied.

  Her prayers went unanswered.

  The eye peered out from between her and land, between her and sanctuary. When its head lifted above the waterline, she spotted it clear in the moonlight for the first time. Here she recognized what it truly was, a monster from the deep.

  She tried to call for attention but her vocal cords wouldn’t cooperate, frozen in fear. The scream died in Amber’s throat, and a moment later she did the same in the beast’s.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS A perfect day to explore the world’s mysteries. There was much humanity had yet to discover, the oceans topping that list. Modern society largely ignored the planet. Governments had more interest in sending men to Mars and weaponizing the atom than protecting the environment. People gazed into the universe for answers to mankind’s existence, instead of investigating the earth’s seas. Untold species yearned to be indexed, untold cures extracted. The most important answers scientists sought were in those depths, a fact Kelly Andrews was certain would be proven true.

  And she was the one to do it.

  She stood on the dock, her research vessel moored in port. The Aurora was a beautiful ship to the casual onlooker, let alone a professional seafarer. Named for the Roman goddess of dawn, a being who personified eternal progress, it had been built in 1990 by the Florida Aquatic Foundation. Driven to bankruptcy from several factors — the Aurora’s expensive construction among them — the FAF was forced to sell its prized possession. Kelly’s corporate employer, the Siesta Key Research Institute, bought it at auction for the tidy sum of seven million dollars. It was a bargain.

  Its length extended one hundred and sixty feet from bow to stern, fifty feet across the beam, with a draft of seven feet. Attached to the stern was an observation platform that rested ten feet above water. While the ship didn’t compare to the luxury cruise liners anchored in Fort Lauderdale, it was twice as large as the average research vessel. The Aurora also came equipped with a photo lab, a Yumbo crane, a decompression chamber and other amenities.

  A man approached her from behind. His boots echoed like gunshots on the wooden pier. “Miss Andrews? They’re about ready,” he said.

  She did not turn to him. “I’ll be right up.” She took off her sunglasses, wiped them with her untucked shirt. The early morning sun burned her sensitive blue eyes. Kelly made her way across the gangway. Though the plank swayed from the gentle waves, she didn’t use the handrail. Her balance was used to such discrepancies, and she had a svelte pair of sea legs.

  Having spent more of the last two decades on water than land, little fazed her. The last time she remembered being frightened was five years ago, during Hurricane Evette. She’d been on the Aurora at the time and instructed Captain Bart to chart a course north to avoid the storm. It was headed west toward Hialeah when a ridge of high pressure settled on southern Florida. During the middle of the night, the tempest switched direction to due north. The Aurora had been caught between fifty-foot ocean swells and over one-hundred-mile-an-hour winds. Around two in the morning the engines flooded. The ship was batted about like a tennis ball for ten hours until the clouds dissipated, the winds downgraded from fatal to merely dangerous. She never wanted to go through that experience again if she could help it.

  A black man greeted her on deck. He wore a greasy, pale blue jumpsuit and headphones that blared rap lyrics. The mechanic, Rafe Maliki, had eclectic tastes and listened to everything from heavy metal to jazz to audio books. “I got that pipe replaced,” he told her.

  “That’s what I heard. Glad you decided to get around to it.”

  “Hey, I said I was gonna do it. It’s just a matter of when.” He smiled, a crooked front tooth poking from between his lips, a contagious grin.

  “I appreciate that.” The Coast Guard had suspended their maritime license until a rusty steam pipe in the engine room was repaired. That was the hold up, the reason they had to leave today instead of yesterday as scheduled. Upon re-inspection, the USCG reinstated all privileges.

  She had known Rafe since he took the job as Aurora’s mechanic when the previous engineer, Joseph Kincaid, transferred to work in Palau. The young man had apprenticed for the vocation since moving from Jamaica. At twenty-four years old, Rafe already had a high level of experience. He was an expert in anything mechanical. More valuable was his knack for fixing complicated problems with simple solutions, a keen sense of improvisation.

  She took the main stairs to the pilothouse. Inside she found Captain Bart hard at work. Napping. She spied him through the window and quietly opened the door. Kelly waited a few seconds before slamming it and bellowing, “Coast Guard inspection.”

  Bartholomew Michaels almost fell out of his chair as his eyes snapped open. “Christ, Kel, you scared the shit outta me.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “I don’t need a third heart attack, y’know.”

  “Are those the maps?” she asked. On the table behind him were several navigational charts. “You got everything plotted out?”

  He stood and joined her. “Don’t worry, I followed your instructions. Same place as before, right?”

  “Give or take,” she said. Before them lay a rainbow-colored bathymetric map. Whereas topographical charts depicted elevation above sea level, bathymetry represented deviations below. The diagram here recorded an elliptical crack near the seventy-five-degree latitude shown in bright yellow. The Aurora was headed to a valley two hundred miles offshore, where the ocean floor plummeted to a depth of almost fifteen thousand feet. The fissure was a half-mile wide, its original formation unknown since there were no major tectonic plates in the Atlantic basin to cause such a rift. It had been named the Sylvian Trench after Doctor Conrad Sylvian, the marine geophysicist who first mapped the flat-bottomed area in the ‘80s.

  They’d been to the same spot a week ago and had performed the exact routine they planned to execute today. The first leg had been the controlled portion of the experiment. This new trip would hopefully produce better evidence for her research. “Are we ready to head out?”

  “That we are.”

  “Then let’s get this show on the road.”

  Bart took the intercom at his captain’s post. “Make preparations for departure and secure the hatches. Repeat: ready to depart, secure the hatches.” Workers scrambled to pull up the gangway. The turbines in the engine room whirred slowly to life like giants woken from a restless slumber. Bart next contacted the harbormaster by marine radio, a handheld walkie-talkie set to VHF channels. “This is the Aurora. Permission to leave port, over.”

  The line hissed static for several seconds until a voice responded. “Permission granted. Aurora is logged out. Have a safe voyage, over.”

  “Copy that, over and out.” It took another ten minutes before the Aurora pulled slowly out of harbor.

  Kelly watched as the ship coasted from mainland. After a while she said, “If everything’s under control here, I’m gonna check the equipment one last time.”

  Bart took off an orange and teal Miami Dolphins ballcap, ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Little late for that,
but suit yourself.”

  Kelly left the pilothouse and took a starboard ladder to the observation deck. Under the sun and on the water, she felt better. Kelly often experienced severe headaches that disappeared in the ocean air, her body’s way of telling her to get back to work.

  She spotted Rafe on deck and called out, “Everything up to snuff?” He was turned from her, listening to music again. She tapped his shoulder and startled him.

  “You say something?”

  “I asked if everything’s ready for use.”

  The man nodded, dreadlocks bouncing around his head. “Checked it meself.”

  “No offense, but I wanna go over it too.”

  A company that specialized in nautical instruments for the military and scientific community had manufactured the camera itself. The size and shape of a large beachball, it had clear Plexiglas on the anterior side so one could visually inspect its internal gears. The lens had a three-inch-diameter aperture, which Kelly triple-checked for stability. Also included were two florescent spotlights. A cube of titanium rods had been constructed around the device to give it a form more suitable to rest on the seafloor.

  “Fancy a bit of trivia?” he asked.

  “Sock it to me.”

  Rafe regularly questioned anyone within earshot on tidbits from American history. He was still on a work visa while living in the United States and had been studying for his naturalization exam, learning information about America’s past and government. His research was thorough, far surpassing the requirements needed to become a U.S. citizen. He routinely brought up facts and figures that Kelly herself didn’t know.

  “John Adams was the second president, after Washington and before Jefferson. But as coincidence both he and Jefferson died on the same day. Guess when that was.” Kelly thought about it, failed to come up with a date. “I’ll give you a hint,” Rafe said, “it’s the nation’s birthday.”

  She wouldn’t have guessed the right answer without his clue. “The Fourth of July?”