Abyss

by Greig Beck

  Sometimes it could take an entire day to haul in the seismic gun and its array of floating buoys, then reset and relaunch, and every minute it was on the surface cost Nexxon time, money and missed data imagery. So if there was even the slightest chance repairs could be accomplished in the drink, then that’s where he’d go.

  Thump!

  Scott ran his hands up through his hair and headed for the john. As he took a leak he couldn’t help his breathing falling into the rhythm of the blaster – thump – count to ten – thump, and then repeat.

  Even though the blaster had been running for days, it still refused to sink into the background of his consciousness.

  Thump!

  Count to ten …

  The Kanaloa jerked in the water.

  Scott paused, waiting, but no thump came. He frowned and walked back to his bunk bed, but stood in the center of his small room, waiting.

  “What the hell?” he whispered.

  He waited some more, but still no thump.

  The comm. system on his desk pinged, and he pressed the button.

  “Markesan.”

  “Hey, buddy, that sound you’re not hearing is our pulser gone AWOL.” Mitch Anderson was the chief operations officer onboard, and an all-round good guy.

  “Hey, Mitch. Yeah, I got that, what’s the skinny?”

  “We think we’ve snagged something deep. We’re bringing it back up, but slowly. The problem is it’s stopped sending out pulses, so whatever it ran into musta caused some damage and it’s also still hooked up on it.”

  “You want me ready?” Scott asked.

  Mitch seemed to think a moment. “Yeah, best suit up. If we can get it up past 300 feet, then it’s worth checking it out, right?”

  “Three hundred, huh?” Shit, Scott thought.

  “Yeah, deep, but we think that might be all we’re gonna be able to haul in. Getting heavier as it comes up, and we don’t want to lose her.”

  “Nope.” Scott needed a special gas mix to work more than a few minutes over 130 feet. Then he either came up like a snail, or had to go into decompression for several long and boring hours. Not a great way to spend your afternoon.

  But that’s why they paid him the big bucks, and why he was here.

  “On my way.” He pushed his shorts down, and searched for his swim trunks.

  CHAPTER 3

  Fingal Bay, Port Stephens, eastern coast of Australia

  Cate slowed her small rental sedan as she checked street numbers, and then pulled in at the sidewalk. It was late morning, and she was exhausted – fifteen hours Los Angeles to Sydney, another hour to get through customs and immigration, and then link up with a small plane flight to the coastal suburbs of Port Stephens. The small twin-prop Jetstream was cramped, loud and bouncy, but this was compensated by the staff being friendly and helpful, and the view from the porthole window was spectacular.

  It was a helluva long way to go for a few interviews and a couple of nights’ stay, but if she learned one thing of value, found one gem of truth, then it would be worth it.

  Cate stepped out of the car, tilted her head back and let the warm morning sunshine fall on her face. She inhaled the sweet sea air. Her biggest regret was that Jack wasn’t with her. He was a marine biologist specializing in Selachimorpha – sharks – and he loved everything about the ocean. Plus, she had to admit it; their romance had finally blossomed into love.

  She opened her eyes and looked along the blinding white sand of Fingal Bay. The water sparkled like diamonds spread on a blue blanket. To her right was a spit of sand, fifty feet wide and close to a mile long, leading out to a small island. At the other end of the horseshoe-shaped bay was a headland. Boats were pulled up on the beach, and further out several were anchored, probably fishing or diving.

  She turned to look along the row of wooden beachfront cottages – there were long, inviting verandahs with flowering vines, hibiscus, swing chairs and wind chimes. Yep, she wished she could have twisted Jack’s arm. She could just imagine the pair of them sitting out there come evening, sipping on ice-cold beers.

  She smiled, No. 32 – perfect. Cate reached back into the car and grabbed her bag, and headed on up the weather-beaten wooden steps. She knocked on the door, and tried to see in through the curtains covering a couple of glass partitions.

  In no time the door was pulled inwards, and a fifty-something woman with rosy cheeks and a tea towel over her shoulder smiled widely.

  “Catherine?”

  “Yes, Cate, that’s me.” Cate stuck out her hand. “Mrs. Mathews?”

  “Yes, welcome, welcome, and it’s Angela.” The woman grabbed her hand, shook it, and then led her into the hallway, still not letting Cate’s hand go. “We don’t get many visitors, off-season and all.”

  Cate glanced around at the interior. “You have a beautiful place.”

  Angela sighed. “We bought this little slice of heaven right after Harold left working on the railways.”

  “Just the two of you here?” Cate asked.

  “No.” Angela’s nose wrinkled. “Harold’s gone now.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She gave Cate an exasperated look. “I mean, gone as in left me for a woman he met on that silly Placebook internet thingy. The foolish old bastard.”

  “Damn social media.” Cate agreed.

  They stopped in the center of the house at the base of a small flight of stairs. “You get the entire top floor. Your bedroom has a balcony overlooking the bay, and also has its own ensuite. Fresh towels and linen daily, and meals served down in the dining room.”

  “Fantastic. Breakfast is fine, but I think I’m having dinner out.” Cate’s brows knitted. “A place called the Cellar Bar and Café; is it close by?”

  “Oh yes, plenty of nice places to eat in Fingal Bay.” Angela leaned a little closer as though about to impart a local secret. “Try the prawns, I mean shrimp, they are to die for.”

  Cate nodded. “Will do. Now, I need to freshen up and walk off some jet lag.”

  “Excellent; there’s juice in the refrigerator in your room, and local maps on the nightstand. Just yell if you need anything.” Angela waved her tea towel, and then vanished into a side room.

  Cate headed up steps that complained with every footfall – there’d be no sneaking in after midnight tonight, she mused. Shouldering her door open, she was assailed by the smell of pressed linen, lavender, and the ocean. The balcony doors had been pushed open and a sea breeze lifted gossamer curtains.

  Her jet lag screamed at her to fall on the bed and grab a nap. But she knew that would mean zero sleep later that night. Besides, a shower, a few minutes on the balcony drinking a juice and she’d be as good as new.

  It was midday by the time she stepped from the shower. She still couldn’t raise any hunger, even though back home it was the middle of the afternoon – yesterday. Time travel is real; she smiled at the thought. Besides, on the plane all they did was force-feed you movies and small meals on plastic trays.

  She poured herself an OJ and stepped out onto the balcony to let the warm air dry her hair. It was hotter now, and the spit between the island and the shore had been consumed by the incoming tide somewhat.

  Cate looked along the coastline. From what she remembered from her research, Port Stephens was a drowned valley estuary. There was a narrow entrance to the wide harbor between two cone-shaped hills that looked like they had volcanic origins. Now they stood like silent sentinels guarding the opening of Port Stephens to the sea.

  Cate sipped the OJ and put a hand over her eyes. Fingal Bay itself was quite shallow and sandy with a few deep channels on the other side of the sandy spit to the island. The channels dropped down quite quickly to 700 feet. Migrating whales were often spotted in the area. The island at the end of the sandspit was only around one square mile, but was an attraction due to its deep fishing access from land. Its tourist-friendly name was Fingal Island, but its other older name, one that predated European settlement
, was Shark Island.

  Walking out to the island was easy at low tide, and the water on both sides looked inviting. But swimmers were urged to only swim in the bay, even though the diving was better on the open side. Unfortunately, the attraction proved deadly for some – there had been three shark attacks and fifteen drownings over the last decade alone. The shelf was some miles out, but Cate could see how the pretty turquoise water turned darker and more intimidating further out before finally reaching a line of deepest dark blue marking extreme depths.

  She looked to Shark Island and saw that its farthest edge touched the channel where the water was darkest. Apparently, you could still hook a marlin from the rocks. There was good fishing and good swimming here; she envied the locals.

  * * *

  At 7 pm, Cate dressed in cotton pants, deck shoes and a blue linen shirt and headed out to find the Cellar Bar and Café. Her contact was a man by the name of Angus Hertzog, a Fingal Bay resident and fisherman of six and a half decades.

  She found the bar with ease. The sun hadn’t quite gone down, and the evening was still warm, so the doors to the bar area were wide open, tables sprawled out onto the sidewalk. Most tables were already filled.

  Cate stood in the doorway for a few moments and inhaled; it smelled of beer, fried food, and good times. She liked it. There were a few tables inside with families, couples, young groups, and one with a posse of about five men. One raised a beefy arm.

  “Ms. Granger.”

  The burly looking man with thick white hair pushed his seat back and stood. He managed to stand, grin, and wave enthusiastically, while still holding onto a large glass of beer.

  “Over here, darling.”

  She chuckled and headed over to the table, conscious of the men scrutinizing every inch of her face and body.

  “Angus?”

  “Yep.” He stuck out one huge paw.

  “How did you know it was me?” His hand felt like roughly sanded wood.

  He kept pumping her hand. “I asked Dr. Google; plenty of pictures, and you look exactly like them.” He pulled a vacant seat out for her, and began to point to each of his companions.

  “These are a few of my old fishing buddies who I thought might be able to help.” He pointed. “This guy here with the big ears is Bill; next to him, the young guy that looks permanently confused is Johnson; and then we have Frank Hodges, the deep thinker …”

  Frank snorted. “Because I’m the only one who made it past high school.”

  “Sure you did.” Angus winked at her and went on. “He’s also our doubting Thomas, so watch out for him.”

  Frank just rolled his eyes.

  Angus laid a hand on the shoulder of an ancient-looking man. “And last, but not least, is old Jock. He’s eighty-five, but still as strong as a mallee bull.”

  “And just as smart.” Jock raised his beer, and grinned back. His eyes shone with good humor and intelligence. “Angus, when you finish your introductions you might like to order this nice lass a drink.”

  “Sure.” Angus turned. “What’ll you have?”

  Cate mouthed thank you to Jock, and then smacked her lips. “Hmm, I don’t know many Australian beers, but I remember you guys have something called Fosters …”

  “Piss,” said Frank.

  She scoffed. “Okay, nix that then. What would you suggest?”

  “Four X,” Frank said quickly.

  “Also piss.” Johnson chuckled.

  “I’ll get you something.” Angus grinned and got to his feet. “Forgive these boneheads; they haven’t seen, let alone talked to, a smart, attractive woman for so many years they’ve forgotten how to behave.”

  He was back in a flash with a long-necked bottle with a gold label. Glistening beads of condensation ran down its sides, and it looked as inviting as hell.

  “Glass?”

  Cate shook her head, and looked at the label.

  Angus lifted his chin. “Crown lager, premium stuff, made by the same guys that make Fosters. They just leave out the piss.” He winked and then raised his own glass.

  Cate did the same and clinked the bottle around the table. They all sipped, swallowed, and a few belched. The silence stretched for a few seconds, before Cate broke it.

  “So.” She put her bottle down. “The stories about something taking the lobster pots in 1918, and the sightings still going on today. True or not?”

  Some of the men seemed to shrink in their seats. Only Angus and old Jock still held her eyes.

  “Pitiless eyes as dark as the devils.” Old Jock slowly put his beer down. Frank groaned, but Jock went on.

  “As big as the tide, and ten axe handles wide.” His vision had turned inwards. “It rises from the deepest wells of hell to feast, and leaves no trace of man or beast.”

  Cate swallowed. It was like the air had been sucked from the room. Angus stared at his beer and only Jock lifted his gaze to her.

  Frank shook his head. “It’s just an old legend. All fishing towns have ’em.”

  Jock glared. “My father taught me that when I was six years old.” He lifted his beer and gulped down half. He licked his lips. “That same year, the Morrison brothers’ boat went missing.”

  Cate frowned as she tried to do some mental calculations. That must have been about seventy-nine years ago, around 1938.

  “I don’t remember seeing anything about a disappearance back then.”

  Jock half smiled. “And you never will.” He looked at Angus. “Because we don’t want to know. We pretend there’s nothing out there, when we all know there is.”

  “Not all of us,” Frank said with a scoff.

  Cate sipped and then sat forward. “The giant shark.”

  “No one’s seen anything for decades,” Johnson said. “It’s just an old fisherman’s tall tale.”

  Jock gave the younger man a half smile. “Been out fishing when there’s no moon, Johnson? What about you, Frank?” He snorted his derision when neither man met his eyes. “Didn’t think so, boys.”

  “Pfft. I’ve fished these parts for twenty years.” Frank waved his beer. “Dawn, dusk, daylight, nighttime. Never seen anything like that.”

  “She only rises on the moonless nights,” Angus said. “Been out then?”

  “No, and only because you can’t see shit.” Frank laughed.

  Jock leaned closer to Cate and motioned with his head toward the younger men. “Both Frank and Johnson, like a lot of people around here, make their money on the tourist trade. Can’t have too many stories about giant sharks now, can we?”

  Frank frowned. “No one’s saying there aren’t sharks out there, Jock. Seen plenty myself. But they’re not big buggers. In fact, there hasn’t been a big shark here for donkey’s years.”

  Cate nodded. “Did you know that super predators chase away, or eat, all other large predators?” She raised an eyebrow.

  Frank shook his head slowly. “There’s no monster out there, Ms. Granger. I’ll prove it one day.”

  “Bet you fifty bucks that you won’t go out on a moonless night.” Jock grinned.

  “Oh piss off.” Frank lifted his beer again, and gulped.

  Jock chuckled but with little mirth. “Yeah, people go missing every year, a few by sharks, but mostly they just go diving or swimming, on dark nights, and they don’t come back.” He sighed. “They’re not drowned, they’re MAS – missing at sea. No bodies ever come back up or wash in. No bits, no torn wetsuits, no nothing. Because it rises from the deepest wells of hell to feast, and leaves no trace of man or beast.” He repeated the words in a soft singsong.

  “What are the stories you’ve heard?” Cate asked, feeling the hairs on her neck prickle.

  “No one has ever seen it,” Johnson said.

  “Seen it and lived,” Angus added.

  “I think they have seen it,” Bill said. His big ears were pink from the beer now. He stared down at the table, and then cleared his throat. “People have seen it, but they think it’s a whale. My father saw it one nig
ht – he said the fin to tail was thirty feet, so add in another ten for head and snout.” He nodded, satisfied with his own calculations. “He said the shape was all wrong for a whale. The scythe of the tail was upright, like a shark.” He held his hand flat and upright, and then turned it horizontal and undulated it. “Not like the whale’s fluke.”

  Jock nodded. “It’s not always here. Sometimes it vanishes for years, decades even. But as soon as people get complacent, then back up it comes.” He snorted. “Like it was only waiting for its feeding ground to restock.”

  “So a night like tonight?” Cate asked. “No moon.”

  Jock nodded. “Yup.”

  “And even though the sea is calm, the weather warm, and the tide might be just right, none of you go out?” She looked along their faces. The men nursed their beers, and stared at the tabletop.

  “What if I wanted someone to take me out?” She reached into her bag and pulled out a camera. “To take a few pictures. I have heat sensitive and infrared film. I’ll pay for your time – 200 bucks, cash.”

  “Ocean and its beasties are cold, Ms. Granger,” Johnson mumbled.

  “Nope; the Carcharodon species is actually warm blooded. That’s how it can survive in colder waters.” She stared. “Well, how about it?”

  Angus put his beer down. “No local is going to take you out there tonight, Cate. This is not a joke, or a test of courage, or old fishermen telling spooky stories. Just let it go.”

  Let it go, there it was again. Just like what Jack had said to her.

  “Maybe Frank’ll take you out,” Jock said with a wicked twinkle in his eye. “Want to earn a quick 200 bucks, Frank?”

  “I don’t need the money.” He turned his lips down.

  “Cluck, cluck, cluck.” Jock stuck his fists under his armpits and flapped his pretend wings.

  “Oh, piss off.” Frank slammed his beer down. “Maybe I’d go out just to win the bet with you, you old goat.”