Ryan Lockwood - Below

The water was deep.

Miguel couldn’t see the ocean around him in the moonless night. But he knew it was very deep underneath the boat. The lights of shore had vanished behind them many hours ago.

The long, narrow panga rode over the dark swells faster than a man could sprint. Seeing anything in the water would be impossible, even in the daylight. Yet Miguel again peered over the side of the boat. He was certain that beneath the frothy chop dancing on the dark surface were thousands of feet of nothingness.

He turned away to avoid the cold spray that rhythmically slapped the hull and slid back down out of the wind. Huddled against his brother in the bottom of the weathered panga, he tried to make out the faces of the fifteen or so other men in the darkness. All were older than him. He could only see their silhouettes, crammed together and rocking with the swells as the boat rose and fell. Like him, these men headed to an uncertain future wearing cheap T-shirts, Windbreakers, faded jeans. Like him, they carried all their money inside plastic bags zipped into pockets or stuffed into small daypacks containing the few other prized possessions they owned. Almost everyone wore a crucifix around his neck.

Each of them also carried one other item: a small, waterproof flashlight. Miguel felt in his pocket to make sure his was still there.

A man jumped up and hurried past Miguel, kicking his bent legs as he passed before vomiting over the stern. Miguel looked away and tried unsuccessfully to make out the expressions of the other passengers on the far side of the crowded boat. He hoped they couldn’t see his face, either—the young, smooth face of a frightened boy. He wondered if these men were like the dark water around them, if even in the daylight he would be unable to see what was going on beneath their expressions. Miguel was grateful for the darkness. He was scared, and knew his own eyes would show it.

His older brother leaned against him, wrapping a strong arm around his shoulders. It was cold being on the water, especially with the constant headwind as the boat pushed northward. But Miguel knew his brother wasn’t trying to warm him. Elías simply wanted to comfort his teenage brother, even though he must be worried, too. That was how Elías was. He was a good older brother.

Miguel wasn’t sure how they had paid the coyote who now stood at the helm. They had almost run out of money since leaving Honduras a week ago. Then this morning they had met the young, skinny smuggler in the crowded streets of Ensenada.

The coyote’s gaunt face suddenly appeared in the darkness above Miguel, discernible in the faint light cast by a cell phone. He looked anxious as he briefly toyed with the phone; then his face disappeared in the darkness. Miguel remembered that the man was wearing a black cap with an American football logo. He wanted to turn on his flashlight so he could see better, but this coyote had warned them all to leave their lights off. He had assured the brothers he had done this before many times, that they needed to relax. Miguel didn’t trust him.

The loud drone of the engine dropped off as the coyote eased down on the accelerator, causing the bow to dip as the boat slowed rapidly. A minute later, the sound dropped again, to an idle, and the boat leveled off as its own wake caught up to it and nudged it forward. The coyote cut the engine, and suddenly it was as quiet as it was dark. All Miguel could hear now were the small waves smacking against the metal hull of the boat.

He grabbed the curved side and rose, looking out over the night water. There was only darkness. No, wait. There was one small, distant light on the water. Off the bow, he noticed what appeared to be another boat. Was it the one they were looking for? He watched it, wondering if it was headed in their direction yet. He looked at the driver and saw that he, too, was aware of the boat.

The distant light went black, then reappeared again. It blinked on and off repeatedly in a one-two-three pattern, then disappeared. Miguel realized it was probably some sort of signal. The other boat must have been sending it blindly for some time, since the unlit panga Miguel rode in had to be invisible. The coyote reached under the helm and retrieved a small spotlight, which he directed at the other boat. He turned the beam on and off several times. Then, stowing the light, he turned away from the helm in the darkness and spoke in an urgent, hushed voice to the men in the boat.

“ Oye. Este es el lugar.” A few men stood, but most just looked at the coyote . Miguel knew then he was not the only one who was afraid. It was one of the older men who spoke first.

“ Señor, are you sure we will be okay? We are far from shore. How do we know the other boat will find us?”

“Your lights, viejo . Remember to leave them off until the boat is almost to you, though.”

The old man nodded, but looked uncertain as the coyote continued.

“You will probably feel cold after being in the water for a while. Don’t worry. The other boat will be here quickly, before you become numb. The water is very warm tonight. You can all swim, verdad ?”

Everybody was silent. Miguel realized he was nodding in the darkness.

“ Bueno. It will be less than a half hour before you are picked up. Pay the other man the rest that you owe. And remember, everyone must hold on to the others. The currents can separate you if you let go of each other. Nobody will come looking for you if you leave the group.”

It was time, but nobody moved to leave the safety of the boat. Miguel glanced at his brother, who now looked worried.

“Okay. Vámonos! In the water, now. Everyone, into the water!”

Hunger drove them.

Despite their considerable size, they glided in close unison through the deep, unlit water. As a school of small fish or flock of blackbirds moves together, they behaved not as a collection of individuals, but as one large organism. A shoal.

There were more than a thousand of them.

Their collective movements were always executed with grace and fluidity. Their actions were quick but unhurried, their forms powerful, but not bulky. Millions of years of evolution had perfected their form and honed their function. The effortless beauty of their movements concealed their primary purpose, their reason for being.

They were predators.

Beneath their smooth exteriors were hidden the sharp, dangerous tools of the hunter. Tools that seized, tore, maimed, and killed.

The open water around them had remained seemingly the same as they moved in darkness with the cool currents. They were accustomed to this cold, dark, featureless world. To endless expanses of open ocean. Yet these were unfamiliar waters.

The shoal had been migrating for weeks now, always in the same general direction. It was not the first shoal to make this migration, but few had gone before it, and none of this size. The shoal was not aware that others like it had ventured to these waters before, would continue to come this way after they were gone. Its members merely followed the impulses that guided them.

Their world was perpetually dark. Would always be dark.

They cooperated perfectly, operated in coordinated unity. More efficient than any army, they relied upon instinct instead of training to guide their graceful movements and deadly actions. Yet they shared no camaraderie, no loyalty. They were indifferent to one another, with no feelings or concern for the others that moved with them. They needed each other, and simply used each other for survival.