Jack Rogan - The Ocean Dark

“Sig Sauer. Nice,” Josh said as he took the gun. “Santa put one of these in my stocking a few years ago.”

“Then you know how to use it,” Miguel replied, eyes slitted and dark.

He checked the safety and slid the gun into his rear waistband. “I know which end goes boom, if that’s what you mean.”

Miguel didn’t laugh, and that troubled Josh. Not that he thought himself especially funny, but the line hadn’t gotten so much as a polite chuckle. Something had unsettled Miguel, and Josh thought the dark, silent, drifting fishing boat was only a part of it.

Papi. Wake up, Papi. I want to play .

Braulio hears the tiny voice, the precious giggle, and his eyes flutter open. Angelique is there before him, hands on her hips. She arches an eyebrow, far too grown-up for a girl of six. So smart, his granddaughter. The future holds great things for her, he knows .

Car engines rumble outside. Tires screech and he listens for the whump of collision, the crunch of metal .

Papi, come on. Get up!

All right, angel. All right, darling .

Angelique takes his hand and half drags him out of bed. Braulio expects the usual aches, the pop of old bones, but as he stands he feels nothing at all. His knees don’t hurt and he doesn’t feel the gravity of age that usually pulls on him. A good night’s rest, maybe, but it must have been the greatest night’s rest he’d ever had .

He smiles, and Angelique smiles back .

On the beach. She’s up to her knees in the surf, hands still demandingly on hips, urging him to come into the water with her .

Papi, come on. You need exercise. You’re getting a big belly .

He laughs at this. The girl spends too much time around adults and listens very well. Too well. And she knows that he will indulge her .

All right, my angel. I’m coming. Just give me a second .

The sand shifts beneath his feet as he steps into the water. Tiny waves burble around his ankles. Another step, and another, and soon he is up to his knees as well. He doesn’t like the soft bottom, the way the sand under the water gives way, causing him to stumble a bit, to shift his weight .

He glances up and sees that Angelique has kept pace with him, so that now she is up to her waist in the water .

Braulio frowns. There is no one else in the ocean. He glances around. No one else on the beach. The only sounds come from a distant buoy, a clank of metal, the dinging of a bell. But something is wrong. They are alone, but not alone .

Not alone at all .

Beyond Angelique, something moves underwater .

She grins. Dark shapes dart beneath the waves, long and sinuous. Braulio knows they are not sharks .

No! She’s not for you, devils. I’m the one!

Braulio rushes toward her in the water, arms out, reaching for his granddaughter. Angelique laughs as if he is playing a game. She doesn’t try to run or swim away, but still he cannot reach her, still she seems farther and farther away, and those dark shapes are sliding around her in the water .

He screams her name — his angel, his blessing .

The soft ocean bottom gives way beneath his feet and he slides under. He cannot breathe. Cannot see. Underwater. With them .

Braulio opened his eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His body was contorted uncomfortably, his hands pressed to his open wound — glued there by tacky drying blood. He felt broken. Understanding dawned slowly, but when his fading mind cleared for a moment and he realized where he was, he managed a slight smile. Angelique was far from here. She was safe.

Numbness, nothingness, embraced him again, and he began to drift.

There came a thump somewhere on the boat’s hull, stoking the spark of terror within him. Wood creaked with the weight of movement up on the deck. The devils had returned after all.

“Angelique,” he whispered.

But that was all. Even fear could not keep the nothingness at bay. The old fisherman surrendered, drifting once more, hoping he would dream of Angelique, and that she would hold his hand in the dark, as he had so often held hers.

As Dwyer maneuvered the lifeboat alongside the fishing boat, Josh saw the writing on the stern that identified her as the Mariposa out of Costa Rica. Dwyer cut the engine and let the transport drift over to bump against the side. In the sudden quiet, Josh caught a sound on the breeze — a lone voice singing high and ethereal. He strained to hear more but it was gone as quickly as it had come, snatched away by the shifting wind, and he wondered if he’d imagined it.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered.

Miguel cocked his head, listening, the H&K slung over one shoulder. “What?”

“Music,” Josh said, feeling foolish.

“Maybe a radio on board,” Dwyer muttered. In the moonlight, his white skin gave him a ghostly countenance.

Miguel grabbed hold of the ladder and kept them in place while Josh and Dwyer tossed a couple of bumpers over the side to keep the boats from smashing together, then tied up to the Mariposa .

Dwyer stepped back and raised the shotgun’s barrel, swung it in an arc, but no one appeared on the deck of the fishing boat. Pulleys clanked against metal posts as the waves rocked both vessels, but nothing moved on board the ship.

With the barrel of his H&K, Miguel gestured for Josh to climb the ladder. He didn’t like the idea much, but couldn’t argue. He’d volunteered to help, after all — practically insisted on coming along. If he tried to balk now, Miguel would not be happy. And given the weapon in his hands, Josh wanted to keep the chief mate in a good mood.

He went up the ladder in about three seconds, stayed low as he came onto the deck, and snatched the Sig Sauer from his belt. Standing, he clicked off the safety, making an arc with the gun, checking the shadowy places. The moon showed details in black and white, bathed in gold. There had been a fire on the port side, though it had been put out before any real damage had been done. Equipment had been bent and broken. All but one of the wheelhouse windows had been shattered. Some serious shit had gone down out here, but the Mariposa was still afloat.

Josh beckoned Miguel and Dwyer to follow and started toward the wheelhouse. His heel slipped in something but he managed to maintain his balance. In the moonlight, the damp, jellied mess on the deck looked like the innards of some fish. There wasn’t much of it; a handful, really. But a trail went across the deck toward the far railing, just a hint of something viscous that had been smeared there and then dried.

What the fuck am I doing here? Josh thought.

Taking a breath, he kept on. Miguel and Dwyer came aboard as quietly as they could, but in the near silence they were far from stealthy. Still no noise came from within the fishing boat. If anyone remained on board, they hadn’t heard or had heard and not responded. This last thought troubled him. Certainly there existed the possibility that someone lay injured below and couldn’t come up to investigate the noises they were making, couldn’t call out. That didn’t worry Josh. His concern was whether or not there might be someone on board who had chosen not to respond, who didn’t want the intruders to know they were not alone.

With a glance back, he confirmed that Dwyer and Miguel were in motion. They moved quickly across the stern — the sticky deck where the fishermen would have hauled much of their catch out of the water. Josh had already confirmed for himself that that section of the boat was clear, but he didn’t blame Miguel for not relying on him. Then they started moving up the port side, past the burnt section, until they were parallel with Josh on the starboard. With a signal from Miguel, all three of them continued forward, weapons at the ready as they reached the wheelhouse.