Sacculina

by Philip Fracassi

  Jack turned, his eyes wide and stark in the gloaming light. He looked at Jim for a blank moment, said nothing, then turned back.

  Jim looked into the wheelhouse, then to his father, then back to Jack and Chris. Something was off. His sleep-addled brain wasn’t making all the connections, he was still fuzzy, thirsty, so thirsty. He thought of grabbing an ice cube from the cooler, sucking on it.

  The captain. Where was Captain Ron? The thought struck him like a bolt of energy, snapping his mind to attention. He took a couple steps toward Jack and Chris.

  “Boys, please...” he heard his father say weakly, insignificantly.

  Jim reached his brother’s side. He and Chris were holding a thick rope. They both wore gloves, rubber gloves that Jim knew they didn’t bring with them. He looked down, toward the thing they were... lifting? dropping?

  Captain Ron.

  The lower half of the captain’s body was submerged in the icy sea. The upper part was dry, and unconscious. They had strapped a life vest to him, pulled the rope through behind the shoulders, and were now lowering him into the water. His trucker hat was nowhere in sight.

  “Jack?”

  “Not now, Jimmy,” his brother said, snarling under the strain of his effort.

  Jim looked at their stressed, serious faces, then down at the captain. He could think of nothing that would help this make sense. Nothing that, as far as he could figure, would help him better understand the situation. He crossed his arms, tried to warm himself.

  “What’s wrong with him?” was what he ended up with, hoping the answer would clarify things, shed some light on the strange scene he’d stepped into.

  “He’s dead, Jimmy,” Jack said, and the captain lowered a few inches more, so that now only his shoulders and head were above the water, buoyed somewhat by the life vest.

  “I don’t...”

  “Jim,” his father said.

  Jim turned, and his father beckoned him with his good hand. Jim went to him, sat down, feeling more assured about things when his father sat up as well, leaned against him lightly.

  “Captain Ron had a, well... a stroke? A heart attack? Something. He just kind of yelled out, then collapsed, right here in front of us. He was pacing, angry. Angry that...” Henry licked his lips, gathered his strength, then continued. “Angry that no one had come, see?”

  His father looked into his eyes. Jim noticed they looked a bit wild, a bit haggard. Mad, a voice screamed inside his head. He looks fucking bat-shit insane, Jimmy! Jim shook his head, cleared the voice, looked down at the deck.

  “Stroke?” he said.

  Henry nodded, his tongue rolling along his lips. “Yeah, that’s right. A stroke. And he was dead, son. Dead as anything. No pulse, nothing. Chris, see, Chris, he tried, tried to, uh, revive him. But nothing would bring him back, you could see it. You could see he was dead. You were asleep, you were upfront, asleep.”

  Jim thought a moment, trying to gather himself, gather the facts. It was all so surreal, it almost made sense.

  “So why are they putting him in the water?” he asked quietly. “Are they burying him at sea or something?”

  His father nodded, looked at the two other men, his thin hair falling across his forehead into rapidly blinking eyes.

  “No help is coming,” Henry said, “And... and he got really angry about it. Real upset. No help, no Coast Guard, no response on the radio, and then...”

  His father looked away, as if ashamed. Jim stared at him. “Then what?”

  Henry twisted around, stared ice blue insanity into his son’s eyes. Jim hardly recognized him, this thin, old, crazy man sitting next to him on a broken boat in the deep reaches of the ocean. “Something went wrong with the radio, Jimmy. See, the bottom of the boat is flooding, we think. Slowly, the, uh, the hull is cracked, or something. The weight is too much.” He grabbed Jim’s forearm with his good hand, the strength of his grip frightening. Jim fought every repulsive instinct to pull away from that touch. “We’re sinking, son.”

  Jim stood, took his arm from his father’s cold, hard fingers. He paced, the adrenaline of fear slamming through his veins. “No, no way. Sinking?”

  Henry nodded, the tiredness seeping back into his face. Jim waited for him to lie down again.

  “So what the hell are they doing with Captain Ron? Losing weight? It can’t make that much of a difference!”

  “We ain’t losing weight,” he heard Jack say in response. Jim turned, could see the men were now bent over, straining even harder. My God, he thought, they’re bringing him back up!

  And they were.

  After a few minutes of huffing and the sick sounds of flesh scraping roughly against the layer of crustaceans that covered the shell of the boat, the two men had the captain’s body nearly raised. Jim stood for a better view, could see his giant lolling head looking blindly up at the stars.

  “Damn it!” Chris yelled, and the rope whistled and the captain vanished. There was a loud splash, and another sharp wave of nausea stabbed Jim in the guts.

  “I’ve got him!” Jack said through clenched teeth, the ropey muscles in his neck straining with effort.

  Chris quickly pulled his end tight again, and after a few more minutes of cussing and grunting the men pulled the captain’s obese body back onto the ship. With a last heave, they dragged him over the edge and dropped him. His seawater-soaked body flopped onto the deck with a loud smack, and laid still. Water oozed out from under him, as if he were made of ocean and it was leaking from holes in his skin.

  Jack and Chris, still wearing the strange gloves, pushed the body as far into a corner as they could, keeping him clear of the main floor of the deck.

  Jack took off the gloves, and Chris followed suit. They dropped them onto a bench. Chris sat heavily on the cooler. Jack walked over to Jim, his eyes as sane as a priest’s.

  “Jim,” he said, smoothly and calmly. “Like Dad said, this boat is sinking. It’s breaking apart, been getting lower and lower in the water for the last couple hours while you’ve been shut-eye. No one’s come. No one’s reached out on the radio. The captain, like Dad told ya, he just...” Jack shrugged, shook his head. “He just fucking dropped dead.” He paused, let out a breath, lifted his arms to his sides helplessly, let them fall to his hips. “And so here we are. No radio, no help, boat’s sinking. What’s left?”

  Jack studied the horizon, not knowing what to say, what to do. This was all beyond him now.

  “The water, brother,” Jack said. “If no help comes soon, we’re gonna have to swim.”

  Jim thought about this, impressed with how calm he felt, how at least now they had a plan. And really, how far out from shore could they be? A few miles? Hell, they could all get life vests and float if they got tired. Yeah, sure, they could definitely swim. They would make it. Of course they would.

  “One problem,” Jack said, wriggling his fingers in the air. “The fishies.”

  Jack’s calm began to fissure. “Fishies?”

  “The shit, man,” Jack said. “The barnacles, whatever the fuck is all over this boat. It’s in the water, too. You’ve seen it, I know you have. So have we. The water’s filled with the little fuckers. All around, all beneath us.” He paused, rubbed at his face. “We’d have to swim right through it.”

  Jim nodded, still feeling that calm, but it was laced now. Laced with a deep, rising fear. Was it panic? Perhaps, perhaps... it was possible that somewhere, down in his subconscious, he knew they were all going to die.

  Yes, perhaps, perhaps his mind was somehow... shielding him from this knowledge. Keeping it at bay for the moment. Protecting his sanity. A survival instinct. Of course we’ll live, Jim thought. Because shit like this? Shit like this doesn’t happen. Not really. Not to normal folks like us. It just doesn’t happen.

  “So,” Jim said, his throat dry and suddenly sore, “the captain? You’re... what?”

  “Testing,” Jack said. “Wanna see what these things will
do to flesh. We’ve seen how they gripped onto Dad, but maybe, the ones in the water, maybe... I don’t know, maybe they won’t have a taste for us.”

  Silently, without Jim noticing, Chris had stood and moved a few feet from them. He was watching them. Jim thought, just maybe, that Chris was watching him. Seeing how he’d react. Making sure he didn’t freak out, go nuts. Because then you’d feel a pain in the back of your head, Jim. A hard pain and the lights would go out. Then it’d be you next. Dipping time for Jimmy, into the cold sea, into the mass of the jelly fishies. You’d be the feast, then, Jimmy.

  He took a half-step back, toward his father, away from Jack and Chris. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll wait then?”

  Jack nodded, and Chris sat his massive bulk down onto the cooler once more. He was a broad, dark shadow, his back leaned against the wheelhouse, his head tilted back... but the whites of his eyes were lowered, watching.

  “That’s right, little brother, we wait.” Jack said, reaching out and squeezing Jim’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll get you home safe.” He smiled and the whites of his teeth were phosphorescent against the dying sky. “I promise.”

  * * *

  Chris was the one who found the hatch that led to a small, waist-high cabin below the wheelhouse.

  “It’s where we found the gloves,” he explained when he pulled it open, revealing the black maw beneath. “It’s beginning to get wet down there, so I’m gonna bring everything we can use up here.” Jim stood by while Chris shone the dingy-brown beam of a found waterproof flashlight into the hold.

  Jim looked down, followed the trace of the beam. He saw some boxes, the bottoms now dark with moisture. There was a mass of blankets on a narrow army mattress, likely where the captain slept it off when he stayed out overnight.

  “There’s more than these gloves,” Chris said, almost excited with the thrill of digging through someone else’s life, of trespassing. “There’s suits. You know, rubbers.”

  “Rubbers?” Jim said, eyeing the filthy cot.

  “Suits, man,” Chris said. “Like, whatever, rain gear. Hold on.”

  Chris dropped below. Jim could only see the flashlight beam and the dark curve of Chris’s hunched back as he dug through the debris of the captain’s former life.

  “Jesus, do you need that many porn mags?” Chris said, his voice dull and deep within the hold. “Here!”

  Jim started as a yellow rubber suit was thrust up at him.

  “Take it,” Chris said, already pushing the beam at other parts of the cabin. “Put it to the side. I’m gonna hand you more stuff.”

  Following directly behind was a second rubber suit—including a wide-brimmed hat, jacket, pants and boots. Next came a couple single-serving boxes of cereal, an open box of granola bars, and a plastic jug of water, the sight of which made Jim’s parched mouth salivate.

  “Oh yeah,” Chris said, his breath coming harsh and fast. “Shit man, the water’s really coming in. Take this, I’m coming up.”

  A large, rusted metal can came up from below. The base was rounded and it had a spout and a rough handle. Jim grappled with it, the heavy fluid sloshing around inside causing him to nearly lose his balance before he lifted it over the lip of the hatch and slid the thing onto the deck.

  It reeked of gas.

  Chris climbed up, lifted the large hatch shut and let it slam down. “Gasoline?” Jim said.

  Jack came over from across the deck, where he had been talking quietly with their father.

  “Great,” Jack said. “Extra fuel for a broken engine.”

  Chris dusted himself off, looking closely at his legs with the flashlight, inspecting them. Looking for fishies, the voice in Jim’s head thought with a chuckle.

  “You all right?” Jack asked Chris, the slightest tinge of concern in his voice.

  “Yeah man, I’m fine!” Chris snapped. “Just don’t want those things on me.”

  “No...” Jack said, pausing a moment for emphasis until they were both looking at him. “You don’t.”

  Jack took the light from Chris’s hand, turned and walked to the other side of the deck where the dead captain lay.

  He shone the light at the body.

  Jim, ironically remembering the captain’s very instructions, ran immediately for the side of the boat and puked up whatever remained of his semi-digested sandwich and beer.

  “Don’t get too close to that edge,” Jack said loudly, and Jim pulled himself up, removed his hands from the rail. He noticed barnacles had crept up and lined the length of the bulwark, dotting the rim of the boat’s edge.

  “Shit,” Jim said, spitting. He turned back, saw Chris kneeling, Jack holding the light.

  The captain was covered in them. Head-to-toe.

  Some white hair was visible, sticking out between two hardened black shells where his head should be. Something tube-like wiggled near his belly, seeking purchase.

  Jack moved the light from one end of the captain to the other, the glistening wet ebony of the crustaceans reflecting back at him like hateful eyes. Tentacles moved in and out of the shells all along the corpse, and the great belly appeared to be swelling and sinking, as if the old man were still breathing under there.

  Jim held the thought a moment, tried to let it go, couldn’t. “Jack...” he said, quietly, fearfully.

  “I know, man,” he said. “It’s gross.”

  “Jack,” Jim repeated, taking a step back toward his brother and Chris, the lifelong bodyguard. “Jack, you guys... I mean, the captain...”

  Jack turned the beam of the light, shone it into Jim’s face, blinding him.

  “What about him?” Jack’s voice came cool and steady from the dark beyond the beam.

  “Jack, please tell me... he was dead, right?”

  Jack lowered the beam, stared at Jim a moment, then searched around the interior of the boat.

  “Chris,” he said, locating what he was looking for, “hand me that thing.”

  Chris walked to corner of the deck, picked up a long pole that was secured to the inner bulwark. Jim noticed a large, shining hook at one end.

  Jack took the hook, handed Chris the flashlight.

  “Jack, what are you doing?” Henry said, fighting for relevance to the situation.

  “Take it easy, pop,” Jack said casually. “Jim wants to know if the Cap is really dead.” Then, to Chris. “Hold it on the fat bastard.”

  Chris shone the light onto the writhing mass of barnacles that had been the captain.

  Jack approached, slowly, warily, as if the things might leap from the captain onto his own exposed flesh. He held the long rod in front of him like a tribesman might hold a spear against a voracious tiger.

  He stuck the top, rounded metal of the hook into the middle of the mass on the deck, right where the belly swelled up and down. With a flick, Jack twisted his wrists, then stabbed forward. He grunted as he felt the point of the hook dig in, snag on something meaty.

  He pulled back with a quick tug of his elbows, and yelled a curse.

  The captain split open like a punctured sack; the contents of him splashed furiously out onto the deck. Intestines mixed with wriggling creatures and hard black acorn-sized shells.

  “Oh no,” Henry whined, and now it was Chris backing up quickly, ramming his back against the wheelhouse.

  “Oh shit!” Jack yelled, leaping away from the flow as it splashed toward him. Without thought, Jim hopped up onto the coaming, gripping the handrail above the shelter. He heard his father squeal and tuck his knees up onto the bench, then awkwardly tried to reach his feet, like the cartoon image of a fifties housewife jumping onto a chair at the sight of a mouse. Under different circumstances, it might have been comical.

  “Dad, be careful!” Jack screamed.

  The cushion beneath Henry’s feet slid out from under him and he fell backwards, letting out a loud, whining shriek. His back crashed down against the edge of the boat, and Jim heard so
mething snap, and his father flopped backwards, off the boat, and into the sea with a quiet splash.

  “Dad!” Jim screamed, knowing it was too late.

  “Fuck!” Jack yelled, running to the side of the boat, looking down into the dark water. Carefully, stepping around the massive lake of tubes and goo that was once the captain’s insides, he went to the rear of the boat, looked behind them.

  “Dad!” he yelled, flashing the light into the water. “Dad!” he screamed again, agony in his voice.

  They waited a moment, then a moment more. Waiting for a cry for help, a splashing panic, a scream of terror as the things attached themselves to him. But there was nothing. Just the soft sound of the waves and the creaking of the dying boat. Jack dropped his chin to his chest.

  Their father was gone.

  * * *

  Jim didn’t cry, and Jack didn’t know what to say. They watched the water for nearly an hour, waiting, calling. Jim was numb with the shock of seeing his father die. Now only the three of them remained, scared and desperate, very much alone.

  “Guys, listen,” Chris said, breaking the silence. “We gotta burn them.”

  They were sitting in the front of the boat, huddled against the dark, damp, cold night, the sea whispering sweet songs of death all around them.

  “Burn them how, Chris?” Jack said, only the slightest tinge of mockery in his voice.

  “Look,” Chris continued excitedly, “we pour the fuel all around the perimeter of the boat, right? Then, we light it, burn all the bastards to crispy treats.”

  “And... what?” Jim snapped. “Just sit here on the boat and watch it burn around us?” Jim’s usual fear of Chris was replaced by a depthless anger and sorrow for his father’s death. They were all going to die out here, he knew that now. It was only a matter of time, and he’d be damned if he’d sit and listen to Chris’s stupid-ass ideas while he waited for it. “That’s retarded, Chris.”

  “Hey,” Jack snapped, “don’t use that word.”

  Jim gawped at his brother. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jack. I apologize for my insensitivity.”