From The Depths: A Deep Sea Thriller

by JE Gurley

  He ignited the wood and it burst into a circle of flames. The first creatures crawled into the flames and were immediately consumed, bursting from the heat, spraying blood and intestines around them. The blood, he assumed, came from their victims. The others stopped a few feet away. Their antenna waved as they sensed the heat. Within minutes, he was surrounded. Every now and then, another sea louse or two would attempt the circle of fire, but quickly died. All too quickly, his fire began to die. He splashed his remaining petrol on the flames, trying to urge them higher, but with no more wood for fuel, the last flames flickered and died.

  As if on command, the sea lice surged forward over the dying embers. He lit the torch, set it for a wide flame, and fanned it around him. The sea lice popped like popcorn as the hot flame touched them and they exploded into flames.

  “Come on, you little buggers,” he yelled, “Come eat some fire.”

  He spun in a circle to keep them from creeping up behind him. The creatures crawled over the bodies of their dead. Soon, a foot-high wall of burning sea lice surrounded him, making it more difficult for the remaining creatures to get at him. The flame on his torch grew weaker. He tried cranking it up, and then checked the gauge and saw that it was almost empty. He failed to notice one creature launch itself at him. It landed on his leg. A sharp pain lanced through his calf. His head almost exploded in agony. He brushed the creature off with his hand, but the damage had been done. Blood trickled down his leg. The strong odor of blood seemed to drive the creatures into a fury. They redoubled their efforts to get at him. He waved the torch frantically, roasting them as quickly as he could. His leg was growing numb, but he knew that if he stumbled or fell, it would all be over.

  When the torch sputtered its last flame, he beat at them with the tank, swinging it with the hose like a medieval mace. He was still flailing at them when they stopped moving. Their bodies were shaking, their antennas quivering. After a few seconds, they curled up and quit moving. He dropped the torch, his arms aching from the effort of swinging it, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Carefully, with his still numb leg, he stepped over them, kicking at them with the toe of his shoe. They were dead, unable to survive long out of water. He had won the war.

  His leg throbbed and his vision was blurred. He hoped a single bite wasn’t fatal. Too dizzy to stand, he sat down beside the sea of giant dead lice and lit a cigarette. As an afterthought, he held his lighter to one of the dead creatures until, with a satisfying pop, it exploded. He inhaled the cigarette smoke, but it had the stench of petrol and death on it, so he tossed it aside.

  6

  Oct. 24, Adrift off Little Cayman Island, Caribbean –

  Josh opened his eyes, not quite certain if he was in heaven or hell. He tried to move, but his body sent messages of pain shooting through his nervous system. He had to be alive. Death couldn’t hurt so much. He felt as if he had been bitch slapped with a shovel. His chest was on fire. He lay back down and concentrated on opening his eyes. The light stabbed his eyes, forcing him to shut them immediately. Slowly, he tried again. Thankfully, the sun was hidden behind clouds, reducing its glare. By his estimate, it was mid-morning. The slight bobbing of whatever he was lying on meant he was adrift. He turned his head to one side, reeling from the effort and the rush of nausea, and scanned his surroundings. He saw wooden roof tiles, water, and nothing else. A ten-feet-square section of the roof had become a raft, saving his life. He was battered, hungry, and thirsty, but he was alive. He wondered how many other residents of the island had survived.

  He remembered the wave, the isopods and the Ogrefish. With a start, he quickly scanned the water, but saw nothing. He also remembered … something else. The imaged flashed in his mind, an image illuminated by a flash of lightning, a head and an eye … He shook his head to clear it and regretted the action, as he threw up salt water and the remains of his last meal. My imagination, he thought. He assessed his situation. He was adrift in the middle of the Caribbean after a major hurricane. He had no supplies, and it was unlikely that anyone would come searching for him. If the damage he saw during the storm were any indication, there would be casualties enough to deal with on land.

  Carefully, he sat up. His ribs ached and his right arm was numb from being twisted in the net, but he didn’t complain. It had saved his life. Other than a few scrapes, some shallow cuts on his hands and face, and a plethora of bruises, he was all right. A distant speck north of him could be Little Cayman or even Cayman Brac, but it didn’t matter. He had no way of reaching them other than by swimming, and the current was moving him away from land. After what he had witnessed, he was reluctant to get in the water.

  In spite of the cloud cover, the heat was insufferable. He had no shade and no way of quenching his growing thirst. Food would be a problem, but not before, he died from thirst. For a moment, he wished he hadn’t survived, but the horrific vision of the creatures devouring Nigel Hawthorne made him take back that wish. He remembered his cell phone. He took it from his pocket, but was dismayed to find it didn’t work. He carefully removed the cover and spread it out to dry, hoping the battery was still good. He searched his pockets to see what his survival depended on. The pickings were slim. He had his wallet, some change, a small pocketknife, and a few half-melted mints he had picked up after a meal – not much of a survival kit. He popped one of the mints in his mouth to get a little saliva flowing.

  Once, he saw a fin break the surface a few hundred yards away. Whether it was a shark or a dolphin, he couldn’t tell, but it came no closer. Sharks were the least of his worries. Giant isopods and Ogrefish didn’t exist in a vacuum. Whatever had produced them had probably created other enormous species. He attributed their emergence from the depths to the hurricane, but as to what force, man or nature, they owed their existence, he had no clue.

  Individual species long thought extinct or myths kept turning up – a coelacanth in the waters off South Africa, giant squid in the Sea of Japan, enormous Oarfish in California, giant stingrays, and photos of a possible Mauisaurus in Loch Ness. His professor had caused a stir during one lecture by proposing that Godzilla could exist somewhere in the deep, a product of underwater nuclear testing in the fifties and sixties. Having seen an armada of giant carnivorous isopods and six-foot Ogrefish, Josh wasn’t as quick to dismiss Godzilla now.

  Sleeping used less energy than remaining awake. He tried napping, allowing the steady rhythm of the waves to lull him to sleep, but each time he awoke from dark, troubled dreams that would not leave him even while awake. The waters he once thought so serene, so full of life, now were the home of nightmarish creatures. They could be lurking just beneath him, ready to devour him as they had Hawthorne.

  No, Isopods don’t swim. They walk. They walked onto the beach. Nothing to fear from them out here.

  He chuckled. “Now, all I have to worry about are giant Ogrefish,” he said aloud, then laughed again.

  Get a grip, Josh, he chided himself. Don’t fall apart this early.

  Since he couldn’t sleep, he passed the time listing whatever sea creature popped into his head by Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, and Species. He deliberately ignored the giants he had seen, though someone would have to classify them eventually. It bothered him that he couldn’t remember to which species the six-gill shark belonged, griseus or warreni. He knew the genus was Hexanchus. Finally, he remembered that the bluntnose six-gill shark was Hexanchus griseus, and that the six-gill saw shark belonged in its own genus, Pliotrema warreni. His satisfaction at solving that mystery dissolved as two fins appeared just yards away – sharks. He mentally kicked himself for calling his own demons. By their metallic bronze-gray coloring, the rear curved first dorsal fin, and long rear tip second dorsal fin, he recognized them as silky sharks, Carcharhinus falciformis. He judged their size to be around seven feet long. He had encountered them once before while diving along the Caymans’ North Wall. They were more nuisance than aggressive. Relief swept over him when he saw that the pair wa
s herding a small school of bar jacks, Caranx ruber. Josh had speared and eaten the tasty game fish numerous times. Bar jacks usually remained around the reefs, feeding on crustaceans. The storm had driven them out into deep water. Now, the two-feet-long fish would provide a snack for the silky sharks.

  Better thee than me.

  After a while, the sharks left. To his surprise, he discovered that he missed their presence. At least they were known to him, and not some hellish creature dredged up from the deep. The day wore on. The invisible sun baked him, dried out his skin and parched his throat. He splashed water on his skin, but knew better than to quench his raging thirst with salt water. To do so would mean a quick, agonizing death.

  As bad as the day had been, night was worse. After the sunset, a light breeze reduced the temperature, leaving him shivering. With no moon, he sat bobbing with the current in utter darkness. He could barely discern the other end of his small, makeshift raft. He forced the idea of some deadly creature lurking just out of arm’s reach from his mind. Again, he tried sleeping, but each time, the nightmares were too strong, the memories too vivid. The smell of the creatures, the sight of the blood, and the roar of the giant wave rushing at him overloaded his sleeping senses. He sat huddled, trying to conserve his body heat. The calories he expended heating his body would reduce the time he could survive adrift. His shoes were gone, sucked off by the giant wave. His shirt was in rags. He tucked his feet beneath him in a lotus position to keep them warm.

  He reassembled his cell phone, and to his delight, it worked. He had no signal with which to contact anyone, but by occasionally using its flashlight feature, he drove back the all- encompassing darkness. He considered playing some of his game apps to pass the time, but couldn’t deplete his battery. He pulled up the photo of the Ogrefish. His professor’s lecture on Godzilla jostled a few memories. How could such a creature as giant Ogrefish or isopods evolve? If only one species suddenly grew in size, the cause could be natural, but two species? That involved something more than natural selection. What could stimulate growth in an animal – radiation, growth hormones, some toxic substance? Mankind had been using the oceans as a dumping ground for decades. Anything poured into the rivers or on land eventually made its way to the ocean. The oceans had become a cauldron of chemicals, and with the Japan reactor disaster, radiation. However, that was on the West Coast. What could account for uncontrolled growth in the Caribbean? He knew he wouldn’t find the answer sitting on a piece of roof.

  He spent the night in frigid misery. How the tropics could be so damned cold eluded him. He longed for a fire, but even if he had a lighter or dry match, he couldn’t risk burning his only means of transportation. Every sound, every splash became a monster intent on his death. He tried to pray, but found he couldn’t. He had grown up a Christian, a Southern Baptist, but the lure of women, drugs, and booze proved stronger than the word of God. He never considered himself an atheist. Perhaps agnostic was closer to the mark. If there were a God, Josh had never felt his touch. Science had become his religion, marine biology, his philosophy. All other pursuits were merely distractions. By his senior year, even women and drugs had taken a distant fourth. Alcohol had become his drug of choice, and even that, he consumed in moderation, except for this vacation.

  Before morning, a tiny sliver of moon broke through the cloud cover. He relished the small amount of illumination it provided. The sea shimmered like a satin sheet. The waves shattered the moon’s reflection into thousands of miniature moons dancing on the ocean. He stared at one cluster of lights for several minutes before realizing that it was moving – a ship. He grabbed his cell phone with the instinct honed by an era of instant communication, but he had no signal, nor a number to call if he had. Instead, he turned on the flashlight and waved it over his head. He knew this might be his last chance at rescue, and hoarding battery power served no purpose. To his dismay, the lights soon vanished over the horizon.

  He ate his last mint, letting it dissolve slowly on his tongue. It deceived his stomach but not his intestines. They growled and writhed like a nest of vipers. He regretted eating nothing but chips and fruit at the resort the day before. He would kill for a Snickers bar or an apple. A bout of coughing set his chest on fire from the pain in his bruised ribs. The passing of the ship almost broke his spirit, but he refused to give into despair. To quench his thirst, he used his penknife to jab the tip of his finger. It hurt like hell, but he put the finger in his mouth and sucked the blood. The few calories it provided wouldn’t do much, but the liquid eased the ache in his throat.

  He waited. When dawn came, he greeted the sun with mixed blessings. While he craved its light, its heat was his enemy. The sky was still overcast, but frequent breaks in the clouds turned his small raft into a wooden hotplate. He imagined himself slowly cooking, but that brought on a bout of hunger. He searched the water for fish. He repaired the net as best he could and lay on the edge of the raft with his pocketknife handy. The odds of a fish getting close enough for him to snare it in the net and stab it with the knife were miniscule, but he had nothing to do but wait, watch and hope. No fins broke the surface, and no seagulls ventured near the raft. His hunger mounted.

  As the day progressed and the temperature increased, he passed in and out of consciousness. He knew he was suffering from heatstroke, but he could do nothing about it. He rolled over on his stomach to keep the sun from blinding him. He had heard of men lost in the desert or in the snow going blind from excessive sun exposure to their retinas. During his periods of unconsciousness, his nightmares attacked him. He struggled against invisible demons. Once, he awoke half off the raft, his right arm and shoulder in the water.

  Night came again, as exorable as death, as dark as the inside of a coffin. He knew he couldn’t endure another night in the open, let alone another day. He considered suicide, but he didn’t have the strength to let the deep take him, or the courage to open his veins with the penknife. Against his better judgment and the voices inside his head, he endured.

  As he lay staring into the darkness, his eyes half closed from dehydration, a light appeared in the distance. Was it another ship or the same one? Or was it just an illusion? He lacked the strength to lift the cell phone above his head, so he held it in his hand on the deck and wiggled it. He ignored the pain. After what seemed like an interminable time, the lights came closer. He began yelling, but his voice cracked. The taste of salt water touched his parched lips. He was crying.

  * * * *

  Oct. 25, Cruise ship Neptune, Caribbean –

  The ship sliced through the waves like a yacht, riding smoothly with hardly a shudder. The ship’s captain, Luther Amos, smiled to himself as the slight vibration of the engines passed from the deck and traveled up his legs, endowing him with a sense of power. The throb of the engines, the salt tang of the breeze on his deeply tanned face, the clean, crisp lines of his vessel – for Captain Amos, there was no place nearer heaven than the bridge of the Neptune. The Neptune, catering to a smaller, more discerning class of traveler who preferred luxury and comfort to the carnival atmosphere of some of its larger sister lines, had anchored in one of Jamaica’s safe harbors during the worst of the hurricane. Now, her captain was making up for lost time, pushing the ship’s engines to maximum to reach Bermuda on time. He was determined that no delay should mar his otherwise exemplary fifteen-year record as captain of the Bahamian-registered cruise ship.

  The ninety-six passenger hadn’t minded the extra day layover in Jamaica because of the weather. A gala ball had directed their attention from the storm to the freely flowing river of booze from the well-stocked bar and the extravagant buffet presented by the ship’s award winning chef. The ship’s itinerary was always somewhat lax, allowing the passengers to vote for lingering in or avoiding any port during the seven-day cruise. At over twenty-seven hundred dollars per passenger, he overlooked this slight discretion as a matter of passenger satisfaction. His passengers expected their whims to be catered to, and his staff and crew of
sixty-one offered them their complete time and devotion. A spa and fitness room with sauna, a small casino, a theater providing both live entertainment and movies, two pools, and a complete marina with kayaks, small powered craft, scuba and snorkeling equipment, and jet skis made certain no passenger lacked leisure pursuits. If these offerings weren’t sufficient or too vigorous, the ship also boasted a large library of books and videos, or a passenger could simply relax in their cabin.

  Captain Amos checked his watch, a black Movado Ceramic Chronograph given to him by the company on his tenth anniversary. The thousand dollar watch was his prized possession, a reminder that hard work paid off. 11:00 a.m. – time to make his rounds of the decks to mingle with the passengers. They expected the captain to give them a bit of his valuable time, so he obliged. It wasn’t his favorite part of the day, but over the years, it had become routine, like checking the time.

  He began on the sun deck by strolling through the lounge, nodding to the Hollisters and the McGraths playing a game of bridge, exchanging a few words with the Lemonds and the Schusters listening to Isabelle Sikes belting out tunes at the piano bar, and nodding politely to Mr. Crabtree, who, as usual sat alone sipping a gin and tonic. This time, he didn’t make his escape quickly enough.

  “Captain,” Crabtree called.

  Amos turned and smiled. “Mr. Crabtree,” he greeted as he touched the brim of his hat.

  “Will we be over the Deep on the 26th?”

  Raymond Crabtree’s fascination with the Cayman Trench bordered on an obsession. He had often seen the ex-Navy captain pouring over old Navy charts festooned with copious hand-written notations.

  “We’ll be on time, Mr. Crabtree. We will be passing over the Trench just after midnight tonight.”

  Crabtree nodded. Captain Amos couldn’t recall ever seeing the man smile. He took no part in any passenger events or shore excursions, instead staying locked up in his cabin except for meals and his twice daily gin and tonic in the lounge. His reasons for the voyage were his own, but Captain Amos considered even one dissatisfied passenger a blot on his record.