The Deep

by Peter Benchley

  “How many loads you got for that thing?”

  “This and two more.”

  “You?”

  “Same. Shit, man, only three down there, and one a splittail.”

  “Just mind you don’t mess with the pink hose. We gon’ need it.”

  Now, Gail thought; they won’t be looking this way. She extended her arm, leaned forward, and grabbed the butt of the shotgun. She lifted it off the shelf with no trouble, but, at arm’s length, it was heavier than she remembered: the barrel sank a few inches and struck the steering wheel.

  “What that noise?”

  “What noise?”

  Gail clutched the shotgun to her middle, one hand around the trigger guard, the other on the pump slide.

  “That noise.”

  “I don’t hear no noise.”

  “Well, I do. Somethin’ on that boat.”

  “Shit. Dog only thing on that boat.”

  “Somethin’ inside that boat.”

  “You jumpy, man.”

  “You go ’head over. I gon’ cuddle this boat up to that boat and have me a look.”

  A laugh. “You be careful. That dog bite your ass.”

  “I shoot that sucker with a spear gun.”

  A splash, another, a few incoherent words, then silence.

  Gail waited. She heard the sound of a paddle sweeping through the water, looked aft, and saw the shadow of the other boat drawing near.

  She stepped around the bulkhead, the shotgun at her waist. The man was in the stern of the other boat, looking down at the water and paddling. She didn’t have to see his face; the angry red scar shone black against his dark chest: Slake.

  “What do you want?”

  Slake looked up.

  In the brief glimpse Gail had of his face, she saw surprise, then glee. What followed seemed a single motion: he dropped the paddle, bent to the deck, righted himself. Something shiny in his hand. A twanging sound, tightened elastic released. A flash of metal. The thunk of a steel spear in the bulkhead six inches from her neck.

  Then (she would not remember all of this) the click-clack of the shotgun cocking. The roaring boom of the twelve-gauge shell exploding. The sight of Slake, three yards away, as the nine pellets struck him in the sternum—a baseball-size hole, red ooze flecked with white—staggering backward across the cockpit, striking the windward gunwale, sagging, hands clutching at his chest. A gurgling rush of breath. Echo of the explosion across the still water. Eyes rolling up in his head. Skin color graying as the blood left the head. Slump to the deck.

  The steady chug of the compressor.

  Open-mouthed, she watched the twitching body. The slap of water against Corsair’s hull brought her out of shock. She put the shotgun on the deck, walked aft to the compressor, found the wing nut, and turned it. The motor sputtered and died.

  Sanders freed the last two inches of gold rope. He tapped the aluminum tube and saw it withdraw from the hole, gathered the rope in his right hand, and backed out onto the reef. The light was fading fast, but in the blue-gray mist he could still see Treece and the reflections off the air lift and the outline of the reef. Assuming that they would keep digging for more gold, Sanders opened his wet-suit jacket and stuffed the gold rope inside.

  Sanders sensed a change in the sound patterns; something was missing. He exhaled, drew another breath, and realized what was missing: the compressor. He strained to fill his lungs one last time, looked at Treece, and saw a glint and a shadow falling toward him. The glint moved—a knife. Treece’s air hose stiffened, the glint slashed back and forth, and the air hose went limp. Treece turned and raised his arms over his head.

  Two men struggled in a twisting ball of shadows, a flurry of arms and hoses and bubbles, the shape of the knife falling to the bottom. Thrashing and kicking, the forms rose toward the surface.

  Sanders held his breath, fighting panic. He kicked off the bottom and followed the thrashing figures, rising slowly, remembering to exhale, searching for other shadows in the gloom.

  The shape of the figures changed. He could see Treece clearly now, his long body extended vertically, flippers kicking steadily. His hands were clasped around the other man’s head. The man’s regulator and mouthpiece floated away from his tank. For a moment, Sanders thought Treece was helping the man reach the surface. Then, as he saw the man’s arms—pinned to his sides—struggling to wrestle free, saw the legs kicking feebly, Sanders knew what Treece was doing: his hand was clamped over the man’s mouth and nose, preventing him from exhaling. The compressed air in the man’s lungs would be expanding as he was dragged to the surface. With no exit from mouth or nose, the air would be forced through the lining of the lungs.

  Sanders had a split-second recollection of a diagram he had seen in a diving book: a ruptured lung, a pocket of air in the chest cavity collapsing the lung, forcing still more air into the chest cavity, that air ramming the collapsed lung and other organs across the chest cavity and collapsing the other lung. Bilateral spontaneous pneumothorax. The man might well be dead before he reached the surface. Briefly, Sanders wondered if the man would feel pain or would simply pass out and die of anoxia.

  Sanders was ten feet from the surface, and now all he could think of was getting air. The tightness in his chest lessened as he rose nearer the top; he knew he could make it. But what was up there waiting for him?

  Suddenly his head was snapped backward, and he was pulled toward the bottom. Something had grabbed his air hose. He reached for his mask, trying to wrench it off his head, but the pressure on the straps was too great. His flailing hands found the hose and pulled against the downward force. In the twilight blue, he could only see a few feet of the yellow hose. Then there was a flicker of steel, and he saw, rising at him—climbing his air hose—a man with a spear gun.

  Sanders’ head throbbed with the need for oxygen. He yanked frantically at the hose, but the man had a firm grip.

  They were six feet apart when the man released the air hose, raised the spear gun, and aimed it at Sanders’ chest. Sanders kicked at the gun with his flippers, hoping to deflect the aim, but the man was patient. His cold eyes watched and waited for an interval between kicks.

  A fuzz of dizziness passed through Sanders’ brain, and he knew he was dead. He waited for the flash of pain that would come as the spear pierced his wet suit and stabbed between his ribs. Maybe he would pass out first . . .

  The man fired. Sanders saw the spear coming at him, felt the blow as it struck his chest, waited for the pain. But there was no pain.

  A yellow blur. The spear gun jerked upward, spun out of the man’s hand, and fell. The man’s fingers tore at his throat; the mouthpiece flew from his mouth. Huge, gloved hands on each side of his neck knotted a length of air hose around his throat.

  Then Sanders fainted. The pain in his head was gone, and he felt as if he were flying through a warm darkness.

  He awoke on the surface. Gail’s hands cradled his face, holding the back of his head against the diving platform. He became aware of a face against his, a wet mouth engulfing his mouth, a blast of breath rattling down his throat. His eyes fluttered open and saw Treece’s face pull away.

  “Welcome back,” Treece said.

  Sanders’ mind was still foggy. “Did I drown?”

  “Gave it a try. Another couple of seconds, you’d’ve been up there with Adam giving us the celestial eyeball. You’d better be glad the duchess was a greedy bitch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That bastard hit you full in the chest with his spear. If it hadn’t been for the gold, you were dead.”

  Sanders looked down and saw a neat hole in his wet suit. The spear had penetrated the rubber but had caromed off the gold rope he had stuffed inside his jacket.

  Gail put her hands under Sanders’ armpits and, with Treece pushing from below, hauled Sanders onto the platform.

  “How many were there?”

  “Three. One’s floating out there somewhere, making terms with the devi
l. Your girl splashed another one all over their boat. The third one’s here.” Treece yanked his right hand, and a rubber-hooded head popped out of the water, a piece of yellow hose still wrapped around his neck.

  Sanders looked at Gail. “You killed one?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I had no choice. He . . .”

  Treece said, “What’d I tell you? When you’re up against it, you do the damnedest things.”

  Sanders rolled onto his stomach and stood up.

  “Here,” Treece said, extending the still body to Sanders. “Take this trash and haul it aboard while I dive to fetch the gear.”

  Sanders took the hose. “Is he dead?”

  “I imagine. But don’t take it for granted. Dump him on the deck and put the shotgun on him till I get back.”

  “Don’t you want to start the compressor?” Gail asked.

  “No, just toss me a mask. If I can’t make it on one good heave, it’s time to find another line of work.”

  While Gail looked for a face mask, Sanders pulled the inert man onto the platform. He let go of the hose, bent down, and took the man’s arms.

  “Don’t bother with that,” Treece said. “Just haul him up with the hose.”

  “I . . .” Sanders knew that, practically, Treece was right: it would be much easier to pull the man aboard by the hose around his neck. But he couldn’t do it. If he knew the man was already dead, that would be one thing. If he wasn’t dead . . . Sanders was not ready to be his executioner.

  “Don’t be so delicate,” Treece said. “He’s as good as dead.” He took the mask from Gail, hyperventilated for a few seconds, breathed deeply one last time, and slipped below the surface.

  “What did he mean by that?” Gail said.

  “I don’t know. Help me with this, will you?”

  Each holding one arm, they pulled the man over the transom and lay him on the deck.

  “He’s heavier than he looks,” Gail said.

  “Dead people are.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I read it somewhere.”

  “You mean really heavier, or just heavier than they look?”

  “I don’t know. Where’s the shotgun?”

  “Over there.” Gail pointed. “I don’t think you’ll need it.” She looked at the still black form and shivered.

  Sanders picked up the gun, sat on the gunwale, and rested the gun across his knees. “What was it like?” He nodded toward the other boat. Sanders found that he envied Gail for having killed Slake. The thought of killing the man who lay helpless at their feet was repulsive. Unfair. But to kill a man in pure self-defense, to take up the challenge and beat the man who was trying to kill you—a fair fight. Vengeance.

  “It was horrible,” Gail said. “I didn’t know what I was doing, not till afterward.”

  It was dark now; the moon was creeping over the horizon, and the stars were pale dots against the black sky. Sitting on opposite gunwales, David and Gail saw each other as faceless silhouettes.

  They did not see the first faint tremors in the black rubber body on the deck, nor the opening of the eyes, nor the slight movement of fingers toward the calf of the left leg; did not hear the soft snap of the strap on the sheath around the leg or the sliding of the blade from the sheath.

  The dog was the first to hear the new sounds. It whined.

  Sanders looked toward the bow, and as he turned his head, the body sprang into a crouch and screamed—a high-pitched guttural yowl that sounded like a cat fight.

  Sanders whirled back and leveled the gun. “Hey . . .”

  He did not finish the command. The man leaped at him. Sanders squeezed the trigger. Nothing. The gun wasn’t cocked. He pulled on the pump slide, leaning backward to gain one extra tenth of a second. He saw the blade swooping down at him, raised an arm in self-defense, and fell overboard. The slide snapped forward, and as Sanders hit the water, feeling a new, unspecific pain—in his arm or his side; he couldn’t tell which—his finger squeezed the trigger. The shotgun fired into the air.

  The man turned to Gail—crouching, waving the knife slowly in front of him, daring her to grab for it. He murmured low, throaty sounds, yips and growls and half-words, feinted with the knife, and, little by little, moved closer. Moonlight illuminated his face, and Gail saw his eyes—wild, fevered—and saw a trickle of drool on his chin. She wanted to talk to him, plead with him, but she was not sure the man even knew where he was or what he was doing. He yowled again.

  Gail backed against the gunwale, glanced down at the water, and wondered if she should dive overboard. No: he’d be on her in an instant. She hedged forward along the gunwale, hoping that, when the man lunged, she could dodge him in the darkness of the cockpit.

  The man screamed and jumped, swinging the knife in a wide arc.

  Gail ducked and threw herself to the left, hearing the sound of breaking glass: the momentum of his swing had carried the man’s hand through the pane of glass in the bulkhead. She crouched by the steering wheel.

  The man turned, whispering incomprehensible curses, searching for her in the shadows. He saw her and raised the knife.

  A noise behind him stopped his move. He half-turned.

  Gail decided to dash for the stern. She took a step, then saw that escape was unnecessary: there was a heavy thump, the man’s eyes rolled back in his head until only two slivers of white were showing, and he fell to the deck.

  Sanders stood where the man had been, a wrench in his right hand. He had hit the man with the flat side of the wrench, and it was matted with blood and hair.

  Sanders said, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Gail said. She saw that he was holding his left arm across his chest, as if in a sling. “You’re hurt.”

  Sanders touched his arm. “I can’t tell, but I don’t think it’s too bad.”

  They heard Treece come aboard.

  “He try something?” Treece said, noticing how the body now lay on the deck.

  “Yeah. I wasn’t quick enough.”

  “Well, looks like you made up for it.” Treece bent over and felt for a pulse on the man’s neck. “Iced him clean.”

  “He’s dead?” Sanders said.

  “I’ll say.” Treece went below.

  Sanders still held the wrench. He looked at it, then at the body on the deck. A moment before, it had been a man, alive; now it was a corpse. One swing of one arm, and life had become death. Killing should not be that easy.

  Sanders heard Treece say, “Where’s the shotgun?”

  He looked up and saw Treece playing a flashlight over the water, searching for the other boat.

  “In the water,” Sanders said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you get a sudden attack of the mercies? They can be fatal.”

  “No. I tried to shoot him, but the gun wasn’t cocked.”

  “You’re lucky.” Treece handed him the flashlight, dove overboard, swam to the other boat, boarded it, walked forward, found a length of rope, and made it fast to a cleat on the bow. Then he dove off the bow, holding the free end of the rope, and towed the boat to Corsair.

  He lay the dead man on the gunwale and tied the rope around his neck.

  “What are you doing?” Gail asked.

  Treece looked at her, but said nothing. He found a knife, slit the corpse’s belly, and before any viscera could ooze onto the deck, rolled the man overboard.

  “What are you doing?” Gail said again.

  “Feedin’ him to the sharks.”

  “But why?”

  “A warning. Cloche is loading these animals with some fiery shit, to hop ’em up, turn ’em into kamikazes. It’s all bush, but you feed a bird like that hallucinogenics and then talk bush to him, and he’s a rightful maniac. Believes he’s serving some crazy-ass god, and when he wakes up in the morning he’ll be in Valhalla or some such. But they believe the only way you’ll get there is whole; can’t have anything missing, so being lunch is bad bush. Cloche’s people find what’s left of that fello
w hanging off the bow rope, maybe they’ll think twice before pulling a stunt like this again.”

  They could see the other boat, outlined against the moonlight. The corpse’s head bobbed to the surface, jerked up by the rope, then sank again.

  Gail turned away and said, “My God!”

  “Don’t waste sympathy on him,” Treece said. “He can’t feel a thing.”

  There was a thump against the leeward side of Corsair, followed by a grunt and another thump.

  “What’s that?” Sanders said, worried that, somehow, more of Cloche’s divers were attacking. He looked over the side and saw white foam boiling up beside the boat.

  Treece shined the light on the water, then quickly turned it off and said, “Next thing, they’ll eat the boat.” He went forward.

  Sanders felt an acid pool rise in his throat, and he gagged at the taste. The few seconds of light had branded a nightmare image on his brain. What had thumped against the boat was a body, not that of the man tied to the other boat, but of the man Treece had killed earlier by preventing him from exhaling. And what had slammed the body against the boat was the broad, flat head of a shark. The head was the size of a manhole cover. Two nostrils flared on the snout, and the jaws snapped as the tail thrust forward, forcing more and more rubber and flesh into the mouth. The eyes looked sleepily evil, two-thirds covered by a white shield of membrane. While Sanders had watched, the head shook fiercely from side to side, and a two-foot crescent of flesh had begun to tear away.

  Now, in darkness, Sanders could still see the white foam and hear the slapping of the tail and the crunch of teeth against bone and sinew.

  “What is it?” Gail asked.

  Sanders shook his head, trying not to vomit.

  Gail looked out over the dark water at the receding shape of the other boat. “It’s so quiet,” she said.

  “Aye,” Treece said, standing at the wheel. “Death is that.” He started the engine.

  The trip back to St. David’s didn’t take long, for the night was calm and the moonlight bright.

  They were still several hundred yards at sea when the offshore breeze brought them the strident sounds of taxi horns.