Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

Idiot! Miller cursed himself, as he searched for the shark.

It circled, ten feet away.

A fourteen-foot tiger shark. It was second in size only to the great white, but its unpredictability and ferocity more than made up for the size difference. And right now it clearly had little interest in the tiny pink flakes or scores of small dying fish. It was interested in larger, still-living prey, most likely drawn by Miller’s oozing blood and rapid heartbeat.

Staying alert, he moved carefully toward the way station while turning in time with the striped shark. He unstrapped the pony bottle and readied it for use. In about thirty seconds he was going to need it to breathe. He also planned to expel some of the air to scare the shark off. If the beast managed to get hold of him again, he could always use the bottle to pummel the shark’s snout. Without help, without air, he wouldn’t survive, anyway, but he’d rather not be eaten alive.

As the shark came between him and the way station, it twitched twice and then, with a snap of its tail, turned toward him. There was no time to blow the pony bottle. Miller reacted instinctively, kicking up and reaching out. His hands caught the shark’s snout as it charged. He pushed up, moving his torso away from the open maw and squeezing the predator’s sensitive, jelly-filled snout. The shark thrashed and slipped away from Miller’s grip, but its large body smashed into him, spinning him around and knocking the pony bottle free. It sank to the seabed like a falling leaf. A puff of red debris exploded upward as the bottle landed.

He desperately wanted to swim down to that bottle, but his gut told him to watch out. He spun, looking for the shark, and found it bearing down on him from his left. With only a single breath remaining in the air tank, he removed the regulator from his mouth, held it out, and purged the tank. The shark veered off at the last moment, circling once again as it tried to figure out the best way to attack this defiant prey.

Miller let his last breath escape from his mouth and sank to the seafloor, never taking his eyes off the ocean’s tiger. When he reached the bottom, he knelt by the pony bottle, picked it up, and put its regulator in his mouth.

He could breathe again.

He had fifteen minutes.

Staying close to the seafloor, Miller kicked toward the way station, hoping his proximity to the bottom and the large cloud of pink kicked up by his movements would confuse the predator. He reached the station, breathing heavily. He realized that if he kept sucking on the pony bottle like a hungry baby, it wasn’t going to last nearly as long as it was supposed to. So he took one long, deep breath, and held it. After a count of three seconds, he slowly let out his pent-up breath, and, calmer now, set to work on refilling his air tank.

After removing his tank and detaching the regulator, he attached the tank to the way station valve, screwing the connector tight. The entire process took less than thirty seconds. He opened the way station valve and watched his pressure gauge.

It didn’t move.

He closed and opened the valve again.

Nothing.

Panic set in and he began breathing heavily again. He’d done everything right. This was a basic setup! What could be—

Miller closed his eyes and shook his head.

The way station was empty.

But how?

As he searched his mind for answers, a looming shadow caught his eye. The shark still circled, but was now above him. As his eyes followed the shark around, his vision caught an aberration on the ocean surface. A long cigar shape.

A hull!

The sailboat he’d seen before.

Damn them! he thought. Whoever was on the sailboat had taken his air!

He pulled himself to the top of the way station. He was fifty feet down with a pony bottle and a fourteen-foot man-eater. One fin was ruined and his foot was bleeding. He would never make it. With all the air in the world, he would never make it.

Then I’ll make it with no air, he thought.

He removed the pony bottle from his mouth and looked at it. For all he knew, it contained all the breathable air left in the world. Maybe five minutes. But he could hold his breath for three. He took one last, long pull from the pony bottle, crouched, and as the shark circled closer, he banged the bottle’s valve against the solid way station. A dull bong echoed through the water.

The shark jolted and turned toward him.

Miller struck with the bottle again.

The shark twitched its tail, moving in.

The third strike was followed by a loud hiss and a violent stream of bubbles. Miller twisted the bottle away from the boat’s hull and let go. It took off like an injured fish. The shark snapped at the bottle as it surged past, then twisted around and gave chase.

Miller pushed off the way station and swam for the surface, holding on to that precious last breath of air.

Twenty feet from the surface, the urge to breathe welled up within him.

After another ten feet the desire became almost unbearable. The surface loomed and he kicked harder, adrenaline and fear for his life fueling his ascent.

With a quick glance back he saw the pony bottle resting on the ocean floor, still bubbling away its life-giving air. The shark had given up on the bottle and had returned its attention to Miller.

The predator rose from below, pumping its tail hard, gaining on its prey with the speed of a creature that moved much more efficiently through water than man did on land.

Miller knew that death would find him above the surface, just as surely as it raced to claim him from below, but he still did not want his last moment on earth to be one of violent gore. So he kicked hard and reached out as he approached the back of the hull. As his hands pierced the thick film coating the ocean’s surface he stretched out and pushed down, hoping for a dive deck. He found one.

Using his momentum and several last frantic kicks, he flung himself from the water and onto the deck. A fin cut through the pink sludge inches from his leg, then slid beneath again, disappearing as though it had never been there.

Miller threw himself over the rail and onto the sailboat’s aft deck. When he landed, he coughed out the air clutched within his lungs, and feeling safe for the briefest of moments, took a breath.

The painful sensation of drowning gripped his body like a python. His muscles tightened and he curled into a ball. Pain filled his body and clouded his mind. This was it. This was death. His vision grew blurry. His eyes darted frantically about as his body shut down. No one was aboard, he realized.

Not a soul.

He was alone, and his air—all of it—was gone.

Nearly unconscious, Miller still wasn’t quite ready to give up the fight. Eyes bulging, head pounding, he pushed himself to his feet. Staggering forward, he gripped the large polished wheel located at the back of the thirty-foot sloop, and it rolled under his weight, flinging him off. He hit the deck hard, landing in a thick pile of scratchy pink flakes. His fading vision darkened, but the white cabin door in front of him beckoned with hope. He reached for the small handle, yanked it, and forced his head up for a look.

His vision was nearly gone, but a familiar, bright yellow shape managed to make itself known. He dragged himself into the cabin, down the three stairs, and onto something soft. The air tank was sitting on the floor in front of him. He grabbed it and fumbled his hands all over the metal cylinder until he found the regulator hose. He yanked on it, but the hose resisted.

With the last of his strength—his vision dimmed to near nothing—he pulled again. The hose came free. Miller slid a trembling hand up the hose, found the regulator, and slammed it in his mouth. He breathed in.