Ryan Lockwood - Below

“She’s not kidding, John. This one’s a real monster!” Daryl looked as enthusiastic as his daughter. John knew the feeling. The great thing about deep-sea fishing was that you never knew what you had on the other end of the line.

Suddenly, the pole jerked downward with such force that it slammed Megan’s hands into the gunwale.

“Shit! My fingers!” Megan cried out and let go with one hand, but her dad maintained his grip on the pole. She held her hand against her thigh and grimaced.

“Watch your language, honey,” Daryl said. “Here, hand me the pole.”

He took the fishing rod firmly in both hands and pulled up on it in an effort to create enough slack to reel the fish in. The pole jerked violently downward again, pulling Daryl’s portly two-hundred-pound frame into the side of the boat, then popped up again so rapidly that he staggered back into the boat and nearly fell over backward.

“Christ, it broke the line!” Daryl shouted.

“That’s fifty-pound test. Are you sure?”

“There’s nothing on here, John.” He reeled in the slack line.

John slid his own rod into a holder on the stern, then tossed his baseball cap onto the dash and plopped down in the driver’s seat to look at the depth finder. He saw vague, unfamiliar shapes on the display that hadn’t been there before, mostly around a hundred and fifty feet down, with a bottom depth of two hundred and twenty-three feet. He realized they were into something new.

“Looks like we might have a school of albacore or bluefin under us, guys. Holy shit, that’s one big school of fish. Keep an eye on that other pole, Megan!”

“You really think an albacore could have broken that line, John?” Daryl frowned, but his bearded face was still flushed with excitement.

“I don’t know. Maybe a shark’s in the mix.” A mako shark’s teeth could easily have severed the line.

John picked up his rod again, lowered the jig until his pole tip hit the surface of the water, then jerked it several times up and down. Next he would reel it quickly toward the surface to see if anything gave chase. On his fourth and final upward jig, just as he planned to start reeling, his rod was nearly wrenched from his hands as he hooked something heavy.

“Got one!” John tightened his grip as the fish made a powerful run. “Guys, this thing is huge!”

He pulled back on the rod, lifting the tip up, then reeled line in quickly as he lowered the tip, before tension could build on the line. He repeated the process a few times, marveling at the resistance on the other end of the line, as he fought the fish toward the surface.

“Whoa! We’ve got another!” Daryl rushed toward the other rod on the port side, still braced in its holder. “Megan, you better let me get this one.”

John continued reeling in his catch, periodically letting the fish strip out line as it fought to head into deeper water. Gradually the quarry tired, and after several minutes it no longer made powerful runs on the line. John looked over at his niece, who stood beside her father, staring down into the dark water.

“Megan, this is a big one, but it’s tiring. I think you can handle it now.” John looked at the hand she had smacked against the boat, still clutched at her side. “How’s your hand?”

“It’s okay. Can I reel it in? You don’t mind, really?”

“I’ve caught plenty of these before. You ready?”

Megan smiled and nodded. John muscled the tip of the rod high in the air, gaining a moment of slack, then quickly handed the rod down to his niece. Megan grabbed the pole in a white-knuckled grip and started reeling, but almost immediately was stopped as the fish went on another run.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough!”

“You’ll be all right, sweetie. I’m right here if you need help.”

John watched for five more minutes as his niece fought to draw the fish in closer to the boat. When he figured their catch was nearing the boat, he stepped to the far side of the boat and reached into an open side compartment, pulling out a sharp gaff with a long, wooden handle.

“Uncle John, what was that?” Megan’s expression had changed. She looked frightened.

“What was what? What did you see?”

“There was a glow in the water. The water under the boat lit up.”

John stepped near her and looked over the side of the boat, down the taut line, squinting his eyes.

“I don’t see anything, hon. You’re just tired. Don’t worry—you’ve almost got this sucker landed. Just a few more minutes.”

John looked over at his brother, who was still fighting to land his own fish. John peered down into the water again, searching for Megan’s jig. It should be close now. There. The glowing, fluorescent jig appeared, maybe ten or fifteen feet down. Something big was hooked to it, but it was hard to see in the evening light.

“Okay, Megan, there he is. Try to lift your pole tip.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know yet.”

John leaned forward, out over the side of the boat, lowering the fist-sized hook at the end of the gaff into the water, as Megan strained against the line, lifting the tip and grunting.

The glowing lure drew closer. John grasped the chrome boat rail in his left hand and dipped the gaff as deep into the water as he could. The lure moved a few feet closer. Something was squirming around it. The writhing thing in the water was not a tuna.

“What the hell…?” John flinched away from the water, yanking his arm back toward the boat. In the faint glow near the jig, something twisted and turned itself around the line. Something soft. Pulpy.

“What is it, Uncle John?” Megan was breathing hard.

“I don’t know. Let me pull it closer.”

John grasped a fistful of the line with his free hand and pulled the jig toward the boat. He didn’t want to gaff this thing and bring it on board until he knew what it was. As the creature reached the surface, several snakelike arms broke through the waves around the lure. Above the arms appeared a large, black eye, staring up at them. As John looked into the eye, a powerful jet of cold water struck him full in the face, entering his eyes and open mouth. He jerked his head away and closed his eyes.

“Fuck!” John spat out the seawater, which had a funny taste. He kept his eyes shut—he didn’t want his contact lenses to pop out. As he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, they started to burn.

“It’s pulling me!” Megan yelled. “I can’t hold on!”

“Just drop the pole, honey!”

John rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the burning water out of them.

“Uncle John! Dad, help!” Megan shrieked. “My sleeve is caught!”

John managed to open his burning eyes a slit. Megan was leaning far over the side of the boat, bent double toward the water. He could see that her Windbreaker was stuck to the pole or line somehow. As he lunged toward her, her left arm was wrenched downward. Her feet lifted off the wet surface of the boat and she went over the side and into the water with a loud splash.

“Megan!” Her father looked over his shoulder, still struggling with his line. “John, get her back in the boat!”

“I’m trying, goddammit!” John fell forward in the boat, still wiping at his eyes with his sleeve as he searched for the life preserver. He managed to get his eyes open and saw that his arm was covered in a black, inky liquid. He grabbed the life ring from its hook and stepped toward the stern. The black fluid was all over the bottom of the boat. Smeared footprints still showed where Megan had stood.

John looked over the side of the boat. He saw only dark waves rolling into the side of the boat. It was nearly night, and the light was very dim, but the waves were small. Why couldn’t he see her? He felt a surge of panic.