Home From the Sea

by William Meikle

  Muir reacted the fastest of us.

  "Get below. Get below now. It could happen again at any moment."

  We didn't all make it. Captain Squires had momentarily lost his air of command, and looked more like a startled accountant than a naval officer; he stood, rooted to the spot, staring at the bloody smears that were all that was left of the crewmen. Muir and I had to manhandle him away forcibly, and when he finally decided to move he did so with the blank, almost lifeless, stare of a man in deep shock. We got as far as the main storm door leading below just as thicker fog wafted over the bulwarks. Metal warped, buckled and melted. A young lieutenant – to this day I have never even learned his name – leapt between us and the approaching fog.

  "Get the Captain below," he yelled.

  And those were his last words. The fog fell on him, and once again the result was the same as before. Muir didn't let me wait to see the man's final end. He dragged the Captain to the opening, I dove in after them, and the Professor heaved the storm door shut behind us with an almighty clang. The metal warped, rippled, then hardened again with a series of creaks and moans that sounded almost human. The fog had moved off again.

  I remembered to breathe. We were still alive.

  But for how long?

  *

  It took a lot of shouting, ordering and threats of a spell in the brig, but eventually the remaining officers got the crew together in the main mess room. As a man they looked to the Captain, expecting orders, reassurance. . . leadership. I saw in their eyes the fear that threatened to grip me so tight I'd no longer function. All of us eyed the walls and ceiling, ready for flight at the slightest hint of softness. We jumped at even the most quiet of sounds and tried not to think of what the fog might do to us if we were caught in it.

  To start with the Captain was in no better state than the rest of us, but Muir, who seemed made of sterner stuff, took charge of that matter at least. He went to the officer's quarters and returned with three fingers of Scotch in a tumbler, refusing to let the Captain abstain from drinking it.

  "Get it inside you, man," he said. "There's a reason it's called the water of life."

  Twin spots of color appeared at the Captain's cheeks as the liquor hit his stomach and went to work. His eyes cleared and he looked at Muir as if seeing him for the first time.

  "What the blazes have you done, man?" he whispered.

  "I don't know. Yet," Muir replied. "But leave that part to me. You need to get control of this ship. Your crew need you."

  That simple call to duty was what the Captain needed. He stood up straight, his training and experience took over, and he stepped up onto a table to address the men. Muir pulled me aside for a confab, so I missed Squires' speech, but even from the far corner of the galley I saw that he had the men's attention, and the fear had receded somewhat from their eyes.

  We might get out of this yet.

  "I hope you have a plan, old man," I said to Muir. "For I'm afraid I haven't a clue."

  Muir looked grim.

  "Somehow we've managed to alter the very fabric of space," he said. "And I'm not sure there is anything that can be done about it."

  "You'd best get your thinking cap on then," I replied. "I don't intend to just hang around to be melted like a wax candle."

  My statement was amplified by a shout from one of the crew. It was addressed to the Captain.

  "We should take to the lifeboats. Right now."

  Both Muir and I saw that the Captain was considering the option. Muir strode over and stood below the officer looking up.

  "It's not safe," he said.

  Squires laughed bitterly.

  "Where is?"

  Muir had no answer to that one, but he still had his bluster.

  "We have no idea as to the extent of this fog. At least in here we have some kind of protection that the lifeboats would not afford us. The metal in the hull seems sufficient to hold it at bay."

  "And what exactly is it?" Jones the Purser said, loud enough for all to hear.

  Everyone fell silent. That was the single question we all needed to be answered. Muir's reply echoed what he had told me seconds before.

  "It's some kind of flux in the fabric of space. We may have inadvertently caused a tear, allowing something from beyond, or between, to slip through to this plane of existence."

  "Dinnae talk pish, man," a heavily accented Scots sailor shouted, and that got a nervous laugh from around the room.

  "I ain't never heard of a place where they've got fog that bloody eats people," a Cockney voice chimed in.

  "Maybe we're in Hell?" another answered, and as quickly as that they were all talking and shouting above each other. The meeting threatened to descend into chaos until Squires bellowed at the top of his voice.

  "That's quite enough of that nonsense," he shouted. "This is still a ship of His Majesty's Navy. Let's act like it."

  Muir stepped up onto the table alongside the Captain.

  "We just need to keep calm," he said. "There's a scientific explanation for this, I'm sure of it."

  "Aye?" the Scotsman who'd spoken before shouted back. "Well, you can take your scientific explanation, and shove it up your scientific arse."

  Another round of laughter ran around the room, but I didn't join in. Something had caught my attention; at first I thought it was caused by a nervous tic in the corner of my eye, but it was more than that.

  Much more.

  One of the large extractor units in the ceiling above the main stoves was melting, running like hot wax.

  The phenomenon, whatever it was, wasn't just back. It had penetrated the hull and was inside with us.

  *

  I tried had to remain calm as I walked forward to stand beneath Muir. I kept my voice low, hoping only he and maybe the Captain, would hear.

  "We've got trouble," I said. "It's got inside."

  Muir nodded and forced a smile, as if I'd just told him a joke. He looked out over the crew.

  "Given that the hull seems to be providing us some degree of protection, I suggest we put a much metal as possible between us and the outside? Somewhere further below deck perhaps?"

  The Captain nodded.

  "We shall make for the engine room," he said. "And give the Professor here time to think out way out of this."

  "Bugger that for a lark," the Scots sailor shouted. "I'll no' be cooped up like a rat in a trap. I'm headed for a lifeboat. And if you want to stop me, you'll have to shoot me."

  "That can be arranged," the Captain said coolly, and when I looked round at him he had a pistol in his hand, aiming straight at the Scot. "Mutiny is a hanging offence, but we're short of a rope right now."

  The big Scot looked around, looking for support from his shipmates.

  "We can rush him. He can't shoot us all."

  But no one seemed keen to attempt it. Besides, I saw that the melting area was growing fast, encroaching further into the room.

  "Captain," I said. "We have to go. Now."

  He nodded, but never took his eyes off the big Scot.

  "Get to the engine room, on the double," he barked. "We'll deal with your impudence once we're safe."

  Squires turned and pointed to the door.

  "Civilians first," he said, and waved the pistol in such a manner that we knew better than to argue. Muir and I headed to the doorway. We had just reached it when there was an almighty commotion behind us in the mess.

  We'd left our retreat too late.

  The fog had found its way fully inside, and the crew had now seen it. A melee immediately formed as too many men tried to cram through the narrow door. Muir, the Purser, Squires and myself were the only ones that had made it out before the scrum.

  "I will have order," Squire shouted, but fear held the crew in its grip. That, and the sound of screams rising from back inside caused the frantic mob to get even more agitated.

  A single scream rang out, so anguished and forlorn that it stunned everyone else into silence for a moment, before the scr
ambling resumed with even greater intensity. Punches were thrown that would floor an ox, eyes were gouged, heads were stamped on and hair was pulled from its roots as men climbed over their friends and crewmates to try to reach safety. And all the time the screams grew wilder and more piteous behind them.

  Men started to make their way out into the corridor, the press of bodies finally forcing us to back away to avoid being crushed ourselves. The metal in the doorway from which the crew was making their escape began to melt and buckle.

  "Fall back," Squires shouted. "We'll regroup in the engine room."

  It was obvious there was no alternative. We made off at speed down the corridor.

  The screams of the dying followed us all the way.

  *

  We did not make it to the engine room. In fact we only made it ten yards before Muir stopped dead in his tracks ahead of me. I almost ran him over, and Jones the Purser barreled into me too before we all came to a stumbling halt. I immediately saw why the Professor had acted. The whole corridor ahead of us seemed vague and unformed; the walls themselves were only a little more substantial than smoke. The floor rippled and swelled, as if pulled and pushed by tidal forces, the wavelets reaching almost to our toes.

  I stepped back, hoping to move out of reach, but felt the weight and press of bodies at our rear.

  "Stay back," Muir shouted.

  "You don't get to tell me what to do," a voice I recognized replied, and the loud Scots sailor pushed his way past me. I tried to hold him back, but he shrugged me off easily.

  "Come on lads, let's take to the boats."

  He took another step, his foot hit the deck. . . and kept on going. The big man lost his balance and fell forward, floundering. He shouted an oath, flapped his arms, then he was just gone, swallowed up as the deck rippled, then calmed. The metal pinged and creaked as it hardened once more. Something lay at my feet. I bent, and almost retched at the sight. It was a thumb, callused and tough. . . and neatly severed at the base, as if sliced by the keenest of blades. A dribble of blood ran from it. It was all that was left to show that the Scot had ever been there.

  I'm afraid to say that I almost lost my composure, gripped by the certainty that we were all mere seconds from the same doom. If Muir hadn't taken matters in hand I might have just sat down and waited for my fate. Before I could do anything he took a step forward of his own. I held my breath as his foot touched the deck. Muir planted his foot firmly, putting his weight on it. The deck held, and I remember to breathe; the sense of mist and vagueness in the corridor had passed again.

  For now.

  "Quickly," Muir said. "I'm starting to get an idea of what's going on here."

  We followed him down the corridor. Then, instead of heading down towards the engine room, he made for the storm door that led back out onto deck. He tried to push it open, but the previous damage done to it meant it was badly warped in its fitting. It creaked under his efforts, but did not give.

  "Lend me a hand here, Duncan," the Professor said.

  "Wouldn't we be safer below?"

  He shook his head.

  "I'm coming to believe we are not safe anywhere. Now push."

  I did as I was bid, and between us we forced the door open. The screech of metal on metal was almost deafening. Then again, so was the silence that fell as we got the door fully opened and looked outside.

  The whole length of the deck looked like a candle that had been left in bright sunlight, having gone slightly soft then hardened again. The metal rose and fell in hard ripples, as if a wave had washed over it then gone firm.

  "Look Duncan. Do you see?" Muir whispered at my ear.

  At first all I could see was fog, curling and roiling everywhere. I had no wish to step out into it.

  "Do you see," Muir said, more insistent this time. "It hasn't been affected at all."

  He was speaking about the coils and chrome of the experiment. The machinery still sat on a seeming unaffected part of deck, and there was no sign that any of it had been melted or malformed in any way.

  "Get the crew over there," Muir said to Squires. "Get everybody in a circle around it. It may be our only hope."

  If the Captain took any slight from being given what amounted to an order, he didn't have time to complain. A wail of terror from back in the corridor was the signal of another appearance of the phenomenon. I could not see through the throng of bodies, but the sound froze the blood in my veins, and the memory of that severed thumb reminded me all too well of what must be happening.

  Muir didn't wait. He stepped out onto deck.

  "Come on, Duncan. We must take the chance. It may be our only hope."

  A fresh scream from the corridor made my mind up for me. I followed Muir out the door, expecting at any second for my foot to disappear into melted metal, or for a thicker fog to fall on me and start to burn. But for those few seconds it took to cross the deck, luck was finally on our side and we reached the experiment with no further mishap. I helped Squires and the Purser arrange the crew around the contraption, and was dismayed to see that less than half of the men who had gathered in the mess room had made it out to the relative safety of where we now stood.

  "Maybe they have found another route," Jones the Purser said, hopefully, but I saw the look that passed between Squires and Muir.

  Those of us who had made it out on to the deck were the only survivors.

  *

  The fog swirled and rolled thickly around us, and we drew back into a tighter circle around Muir's contraption. The deck beyond the circle buckled, flowed and hardened where the fog passed. But none of us were in the least affected, and I started to hope that the worst might be over, that Muir had indeed found a way to keep us safe, for a time at least.

  I even relaxed enough to remember the pack of cigarettes in my pocket, and for a few seconds I was the most popular man on deck as I passed smokes around. Normally Muir would have joined me, but he was now completely intent on the contraption. I went over and stood at his side.

  "What's the plan?" I asked.

  He didn't reply at first, then took my smoke from me, took a lung-full and handed it back.

  "I'm considering our next move," he said. "We might have to switch it on again."

  I hadn't heard Squires approach, but when he spoke he was at my shoulder.

  "After what it's done already? I can't allowed that."

  "We may not have a choice," Muir said. "Or do you intend to stand here for eternity waiting for conditions to change in our favor?"

  "This fog will clear," Squires said. "Fog always does, eventually."

  "Not this one," Muir said softly. "I have been considering its behavior. The phenomena associated with it have been appearing in a loose spiral pattern. . . and we are currently at the center of that spiral.

  I mapped out the ship and the deaths so far, in my mind. Muir was right in his thinking, but I didn't see how it helped. He however, had thought it through more than I.

  "I believe I might be able to predict where the soft spots occur; and I also believe that if I switch this machine on, we can effectively freeze the fog in place around us allowing us a clear passage to the lifeboats."

  I saw hope grow in the Captain's face.

  "I thought the boats were a bad idea?" he said.

  Muir looked grim.

  "And well they might be. But I for one will not stand around here just waiting to die."

  Squires laughed with little humor.

  "We may make a naval man out of you yet, Professor. Do what needs to be done. I'll prepare the men."

  *

  I spent the next twenty minutes alternately watching Muir fiddle with wiring and dials and eyeing the swirling fog, trying to ascertain any pattern in its movements. Squires had passed orders to be ready to make for the boats on his order. The crewmen around us grew increasingly restless, especially as the deck just outside our protected circle was now contorted and buckled into a nightmare landscape of peaks and troughs, spires and deep dark ho
les.

  "Nearly done," Muir said when I asked. At almost the same instant the deck bucked beneath us. Two crewmen fell, off-balance, and tumbled away from the protected area. The fog fell on them as if it was a predator that had been waiting for the opportune moment to strike, and once again we were forced to watch as death melted through the sailors.

  "It's penetrated the hull below water level," Squires said. "Whatever you're going to do, best do it now. We're sinking."

  "On my mark, run," Muir said. He reached for a lever and pulled it down. The air filled with a resonant hum. The fog swirled up and away from where it had descended on the two men and danced around where we stood.

  "It's working," Squires shouted.

  Muir still looked grim. "Well, it's doing something at least." He turned a dial. The hum grew to a drone and raised in pitch, ever higher, to a high whine that grated at the ears. The fog stopped swirling and hung, like a blanket, just above our heads.

  "Run," Muir shouted.

  None of us needed a second telling. We ran, picking our way though the ruin of the deck, trying to not look at the fog just above us.

  The whine from Muir's contraption went up another notch, pressure bringing a sharp ache in my ears. The deck bucked beneath us again and the ship listed sharply to starboard. One man fell into a hole and went, screaming, down into a black deep that soon went silent. Another tumbled head-first into a metal spire that impaled him through the chest, stopping his heart in an instant.

  The rest of us didn't stop. We rushed headlong for the port side hoping against hope that the boats there were still seaworthy. The deck was now at such a slope that it became almost a matter of climbing to reach the hanging lifeboats, but it was with enormous relief that we found two boats still there, showing no signs of having been affected by the ravages of the fog. We clambered into them as best as we were able; luckily there was no repeat of the scrum that had occurred in the mess room.

  Muir and Squires were last aboard. Squires gave the order, and my stomach leapt to my throat as we fell through mist to land with a bone-crashing splash in the sea.

  We had only just righted ourselves when the ship above us listed sharply again, the prow rising as the rear sank. The whine from Muir's contraption cut off, as if someone had pulled a plug. The static fog once again started to seethe and roil in the air above the sinking vessel. And it was now spreading, sending out tendrils across the deck. . . and down the sides of the hull.