by Stuart Clark
Wyatt looked around. He needed another container that would be big enough to support his pack. He saw one, but it was quite a distance away. He set off towards it.
* * * * *
The thing that had troubled her was here. She could not see it for she had lived in a world of darkness all her life and so her ancestors had lost the use of eyes many generations ago, but all her other senses indicated that something large was in front of her. She had approached it cautiously for it was huge and nature’s unwritten rule stated that any unidentified object was potentially an enemy before it was prey, and any bigger unidentified object commanded even more respect and caution. However, this monstrous structure that faced her now seemed completely oblivious to her presence, or if it heeded her at all, made no action or reaction to suggest this.
Her simple brain registered that it was this foreign object that had caused the disturbance. It was this that had roused her from her slumber. But now she had trouble reconciling this conclusion for the shock wave that had passed through the water had been huge, certainly consistent with an object or creature of this size, but she detected no motion from the thing in front of her. She was aware of something, though. Faint vibrations passing through the water, their signature muffled as if blocked by something, their source difficult to pinpoint.
* * * * *
Wyatt grabbed a metal rung on the Santa Maria and hauled himself up the side of the stricken vessel dragging the container behind him. His pack was where he had dumped it after coming out of the exit hatch. Right on the top of the ship.
Slowly, he clawed his way up the side of the ship, grabbing rungs and bolts and any piece of jutting metal which doubled as a handhold. When he reached the flat top-side of the craft, he stopped there, exhausted, resting his left arm, the one which had worked so hard to get him there, massaging it with his right, now free of the burden it had carried to this point. He stayed there only briefly, only until the circulation in his tired arm had appeared to have returned to normal and the feeling of the threat of imminent cramp had passed. He realized that time was precious, and placing his pack on top of the container, half-scrambled, half slid back down into the water in a fraction of the time that it had taken him to make his ascent.
He looked ahead. Bobby and the other men appeared to be very close to shore now, although he realized that his perspective could be deceptive. Kate was about seventy-five yards behind them, he guessed, and maybe seventy yards from him. He took a look behind him. Only about twenty feet of the Santa Maria remained above water; her rate of decline had accelerated and she was starting to list away from him. He had to get out of here. Now. He pushed the container away in front of him and headed after the others.
* * * * *
“Not far now,” Byron said, encouraging the others. He took a look around. Kit still looked strong and quite easily capable of making it to the shore. Chris was obviously fatigued but he seemed to increase his efforts on hearing Byron’s optimistic appraisal of their situation. But Byron was more concerned about Bobby who, for the first time in all the years he had worked with her and for reasons completely beyond her control, was being beaten by the situation. Her head wound was still bleeding profusely and Byron dreaded to think how much blood she had lost since their splashdown over an hour ago. She was pale and tiring visibly, each kick of her legs becoming more and more of an effort.
“Did you hear me, Bobby?” Byron asked. “I said not far now.”
Bobby said nothing, her eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration, each movement taking every bit of her mental as well as physical strength. It was only her mind that was willing her on now—she was running on overdrive. Byron was worried. This, he knew, was an exceptionally dangerous time. If Bobby’s spirit broke then she could simply stop and slip under the surface, emulating the Santa Maria behind them. What worried him more was that he was worried. So many occasions the pair of them had worked together and he had never had cause to be concerned for her welfare. Bobby was a strong woman who could take care of herself and let any man who thought otherwise know it. He began a silent prayer for her. A voice interrupted his thoughts. It was Bobby’s.
“What if I don’t believe you?” she said, managing a weak smile.
Byron grinned at her joke, thankful that his doubts had been unfounded.
* * * * *
Wyatt heard the Santa Maria’s last gasp behind him. A huge outrush of air as the ship went under and the waters closed together above it with a schlop.
He had no idea how far away from the ship he had got for he had never looked back after setting off, just kicked his legs as fast and as furiously as he could to put as much distance between him and it. He felt a sudden fear rising up inside him. His backward motion suggested he had not gone far enough.
* * * * *
Kate turned to see if Wyatt had been true to his word and he was indeed, right behind her. She had not heard him splashing around in the water and had started to grow concerned. On turning, she was shocked to see no trace of the Santa Maria at all, the ship had slipped silently under the surface and the only thing to ever suggest it was there was an exceptionally flat, calm piece of water punctuated by huge, slow moving, solemn swirls, a contrast to the rest of the lake, whose surface glimmered with sunlight from the dancing ripples. She saw Wyatt some distance behind her. He raised a hand, acknowledging her, so she politely waved back and turned away again, oblivious to his predicament.
* * * * *
Wyatt began to panic. Much as he tried, no amount of kicking was going to stop him sliding backward through the water, back to the spot where his ship had vanished. He looked up, hoping that one of the others might see him and do something, anything, and for a moment he thought his prayers had been answered. Kate turned to look back towards him.
Wyatt struggled against the current to lift his torso out of the water and raise an arm to signal his distress but he did not get the response he was hoping for. Kate lifted her arm to mimic his action. What was she doing? Did she not realize the danger he was in? She was…waving. She thought he was waving at her! As he watched in horror, Kate let the arm fall and turned away from him. Wyatt attempted to shout, but his legs could no longer kick with enough force to keep him in position and he dropped back into the swirling waters to be rewarded with a mouthful of the dirty liquid.
The suction directly underneath him suddenly became incredibly strong. He attempted to climb onto the container and join his pack on top of the float but all he succeeded in doing was upending it and pulling the pack down on top of him. The weight forced him under and he was aware of the pack glancing off his head before it sank past him and into the murky depths. After that, he lost all sense of direction as he was buffeted and spun by the shifting waters somewhere beneath the vast lake’s surface.
* * * * *
Byron stopped kicking, letting his legs fall and his body assume an upright position in the water. Nothing. He lifted his head to the sky and then strained to get a foot touch on the bottom, but again nothing. One last try, he thought, even though what he was about to do repulsed him. He took a mouthful of air and then forced himself under the surface, silently hoping that the effort would not be in vain. It wasn’t. His feet touched something solid underneath him. He pushed off and surfaced again. Infused with a new energy from his discovery he triumphantly announced to the others, “Only a few more feet. Come on, we’re nearly there!”
A minute later his feet touched bottom again, only this time he found he could stand with his head and shoulders clear out of the water. He pushed his pack so that it drifted away from him towards the shore and immediately turned to help Bobby who, being female and shorter than him, was still out of her depth. When he reached her, he grasped her arm firmly and felt her body physically relax under his grip. She was exhausted. He pulled her through the water as best he could until she too could touch bottom and then the pair of them headed for the shore, wading slowly through the deep water. They emerged onto the beach half
walking, half staggering, partly because the soft mud gave under their feet, partly because they were weary from the swim. Par, Chris and Kit were already on the bank, lying on their backs and breathing heavily.
Bobby was struggling to walk alongside Byron, her feet tangling themselves up in each other until the effort became futile and she sagged into his arms. Byron lowered her to the ground and knelt over her, his concern showing as furrows on his old brow. Bobby’s breathing was shallow and in the sunlight her face was pale. Then a shadow came over the pair of them.
Byron turned and squinted into the sunlight, where a figure stood behind him, black, silhouetted against the bright sky. “Let me see her,” the voice from the dark figure ordered. Byron moved away and as the shadow dropped to his knees to join him, the light now on his features confirmed what Byron’s ears had told him. It was Chris.
Chris began to unload his pack, his eyes flitting between the items he removed and Bobby. The cut to her head still bled and the injury looked much worse now due to the trail of blood mixing with the drops of water on her face, spreading to form a substantial crimson mark on the side of her face.
“God knows what was in that water,” Chris said to himself more to anyone as he tore the seal off an antiseptic wipe with his teeth. As he cleaned Bobby’s wound with one hand he sifted through the other items which now lay on the floor around his knees. He picked up a small bag and tossed it over to Byron. Byron caught the small vacuum packed bag reflexively. “Mix that up, quickly!” Chris ordered. “The instructions are on the pack.” Byron looked at Chris, surprised at the tone of voice in which he had been addressed. He didn’t like what he saw in Chris’ eyes. “Do it!” Chris said, “I don’t have time.”
“With the wound cleaned, Chris applied a bandage to Bobby’s head after which he began plunging a syringe into numerous different vials and extracting some fluid from each of them.
Byron opened the bag to find two smaller bags inside, each containing a bit of powder. He was, he read, to mix the contents of both of them together. He did as instructed and shook the bag to ensure a good mix, the smell of one of the fine powders was familiar but he just could not place it.
“This may hurt a little,” he heard Chris say and looked up to see him about to put the syringe into Bobby’s arm, but Bobby was unresponsive, already deeply in shock.
“What’s that?” Byron asked.
“Cocktail of antibiotics,” Chris said, “Much as I hate to use them, especially at these doses, I’d say there’s a damn good chance given the color of that water and the extent of that cut that Bobby will definitely have some kind of infection.”
“You know she’s allergic to the 15th generation penicillins and beyond,” Byron added hastily, anxious that Chris did not put Bobby’s life in further jeopardy.
“Yeah, I know, I read her file,” Chris said, frowning in concentration as he administered the drugs. “Now, you got that mixture for me?”
“Wha…? Byron said, taken aback by Chris’ efficiency, “Yeah! Oh yeah, right here!” he extended the small bag which Chris snatched out of his hand.
“Thanks.”
Chris then turned away from him and pulled a large bottle of water out of his pack, proceeding to pour the liquid into the bag with the powder. The result was a deep red liquid.
“Hey don’t waste that drinking water!” Byron exclaimed.
“It’s sterilized water, not drinking water,” Chris said sharply and then he looked at Byron seriously, “And this is no waste.”
“Why? What is that stuff?”
“Essentially, blood,” Chris explained as he continued to frantically work next to Bobby. “What you mixed up was dehydrated phospholipids and hemoglobin. When you add water, the phospholipids all join up together to form tiny microscopic bubbles called liposomes. Now in medicine we use liposomes for all sorts of delivery systems, to deliver genes in gene therapy, to deliver drugs to specific sites in the body. In this case we’re going to use them to transport hemoglobin into and around the bloodstream until Bobby can regenerate the blood she lost. The nice thing about these liposomes is that they are essentially tiny blood cells but we don’t have to worry about blood groups or rhesus antigens since liposomes don’t carry any of the protein markers that blood cells do.” As he finished speaking, Chris taped the IV line needle into place in the back of Bobby’s hand and then connected the bag of newly mixed blood. Byron had listened and watched Chris in silence. Most of what Chris had said had been incomprehensible to him, and he had just watched Chris go about his work. There was something different about him. The young man in front of him now was not the same kid who had cradled his dead friend in his arms only yesterday. Was it only yesterday? So much had happened since then. Something had snapped. Chris had either lost something or gained something but Byron could not tell which, or what that something was, or if that was a good or a bad thing.
Chris stood holding the bag of blood in front of him at head height. “I think we’re done here Byron. There’s nothing more you can do.”
“She is going to be all right, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Chris said quietly wiping sweat off his forehead with his free hand. He was obviously relieved, “It was touch-and-go there for a little while but I think she’ll be fine.”
Byron nodded and patted Chris on the arm. “Good job, kid,” he said. He looked down at Bobby, laid prostate on the sun-baked mud. He was sure there was already some color returning to her cheeks. Chris smiled, as much to himself as to Byron. The others would probably never realize, but Chris had repaid his debt. He had almost certainly saved Bobby’s life.
With the immediate drama over, Byron turned to take in their new surroundings for the first time and assess their situation. When he looked out across the massive lake, he saw Kate still about forty yards out from the shore. Of course! In the urgency of the situation on the shore, Byron had completely forgotten about Kate and…Wyatt. He looked hard but could not see a second figure in the water. He brought his hand up to shield his eyes from the sunlight shimmering off every tiny ripple in the lake, but still Wyatt was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Wyatt?” Byron asked.
There was no response from anyone else. Byron turned to look at the others. Chris was busy attending Bobby, and Par and Kit were still flat on their backs, exhausted from the swim.
“Par! Kit!” he shouted
“What?” the two men said in unison, lifting their heads off the ground to look at him.
“Where the hell is Wyatt?”
* * * * *
The vibrations were stronger now. The large object was passing slowly down and away from her, sinking into the murky depths. It was that which had blocked the signals from whatever it was that was struggling in the water. She swung her massive head to get a better focus on the vibrations which ran along her lateral line, firing thousands of nerve impulses as they passed down her frame. Perceiving no danger from the sinking bulk, she passed over the top of it and headed toward the noise.
* * * * *
Deep underwater Wyatt was still spinning. His lungs ached for air but he had decided that the best course of action would be to stay absolutely still and hope that, sooner rather than later, his body’s natural buoyancy would overcome the currents under the surface. Once he began to rise, he would know which direction the surface was and he could strike out for it with his arms and legs, speeding his ascent. He would never know it, but his motionlessness probably saved his life.
As he spun in the water, curled into a ball and trying to fight the panic rising inside him, he was vaguely aware of another massive current buffeting him from the left. He struggled to imagine what it could be, but he would have had to have a very vivid imagination to guess correctly.
* * * * *
The creature accelerated towards the source of the vibrations with a sweep of her tail. With each passing second, the signals were getting stronger and she was homing in on the source.
* * * * *
* * * * *
Kate peered around the side of the container she was pushing in front of her. She could see the four men all stood on the shore, all motionless staring out towards her. They seemed quite happy to stand there and watch her struggle the rest of the way to the shore. “Bloody typical,” Kate murmured to herself. “Men! You’ve always got to prove something to them.” She gave the container an aggressive shove, and Furball teetered on top of the pile of equipment balanced precariously on the float. “Sorry,” she said.
Kate looked back at the men on the shore in disgust. It would not hurt them to come back out and help her—and then she wondered why they had not. After all, a U.L.F. team was a team. You looked out for each other, helped each other out. That was what Wyatt had been drumming into her from the moment they arrived. As she watched them, she noticed that the three men nearest the waters edge were all turning their heads, or craning their necks. They were not looking at her, they were looking at or for something else. She wondered what it might be. She stopped kicking and turned to look behind her. Wyatt had vanished!
* * * * *
The vibrations stopped. The creature shook its head quickly, as if irritated by the sudden absence of the commotion in the water. She was close, but not close enough for her primitive brain to pinpoint the source—and the prey. Slowly, the animal began to execute a lazy turn, periodically swinging her head in an attempt to recover the signal.