Greg Weisman - Rain of the Ghosts

Rain and Charlie were already swimming away, side by side through the dark silent water. Charlie clicked on the flashlight and swam unawares toward the semitransparent, softly glowing apparition that gently bobbed up and down in the sea. But Rain saw him. The Dark Man, her grandfather, young and handsome and “rakish.” He was completely submerged but dry by all appearances, still dressed in his bomber jacket and standing upright, as if on some nonexistent nodding plateau. He pointed back over her shoulder, his voice—unaffected by being underwater—rang in her mind: “Look out!”

Rain turned in time to see Callahan take aim with the harpoon gun. She tried to move. He pulled the trigger.

Rain was still flailing to get out of the way when she felt the harpoon tear across her skin. She screamed through her regulator as the pain burned from her left arm up into her brain. Charlie yelled too. He reached toward Rain, unsure of how to help. The harpoon had grazed her below the shoulder, and the flashlight revealed the dark red discoloration of her own blood in the surrounding water. Then something slightly lower caught her eye. One of the gold snakes on the armband was beginning to glow, and both Rain and Charlie could feel more than hear a distinct hum in the water, like an electrical charge building. Rain saw the golden glow move rapidly up her arm to her new wound. The glow engulfed the wound and plunged inside it. Just as quickly, the gleam faded—leaving her completely healed.

Rain and Charlie had barely an instant to stare at each other through their masks. Charlie hadn’t seen any glow, but when he’d seen her arm heal—the wound vanishing before his eyes—he nearly swallowed his own regulator. To Rain, the glow had felt warm and wonderful; her pain was gone.

But Callahan wasn’t. He hadn’t reloaded, didn’t have a second harpoon, so he released the gun and swam toward them, brandishing the steel wrench. His massive legs propelled him rapidly through the water, despite the long khakis he wore and his lack of flippers.

’Bastian, furious that this monster would fire on his Rain, moved to intercept, yelling, “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?!” He took a useless swing at Callahan, but of course his ethereal fist passed right through its solid target. Unaware of his ghostly opponent, Callahan swam through ‘Bastian toward the kids. He was almost on top of Rain, who remained stunned and focused on her healed limb. A desperate Charlie rolled back in the water and kicked Callahan with his flippered feet. But kicking Callahan was like kicking a block of granite. Charlie’s heroism delayed their foe for mere seconds, and the kick pushed Charlie further from Rain than Callahan was.

But it snapped Rain out of her stupor. Seeing a slim chance, she lunged for the wrench and managed to snatch it out of Callahan’s distracted grip. Instead, he grabbed her wrist; he held it tight, shaking it. In pain again, she dropped the wrench, which sank out of our lives for a good long while.

Rain struggled in his grasp, but he pulled her toward him by her wrist, and when she got in close, he yanked the regulator right out of her mouth and stuck it in his own. He took a deep breath, while her continued efforts to escape robbed her of what little air remained in her lungs. He began to swim them both to the surface, and though she fought to be free of him, she didn’t fight the upward momentum. She needed air, and she needed it fast. Charlie followed, kicking furiously. ’Bastian rose, pulled by the snake charm and his own desire.

Callahan and Rain broke the surface together. Still locked in his grip, she gasped for air. He spit out her regulator. They were about a dozen yards from the boat. The sky maintained a fine but insistent rain.

“Let go of me!” she yelled, struggling.

“Forget it, girlie!” His jackknife was suddenly out and open in his free hand: a game of Attack of the Killer Tourists played for keeps.

Charlie emerged a few feet away. But before he could do anything (assuming there was anything he could do), all three living players turned their heads toward the sound of the Bootstrap ’s restarting engines. The Eight were gone from the cabin cruiser. Whatever ghostly power they had exerted upon the engine to keep it from turning over had evaporated with them. The cruiser began to slowly pull away from the swimmers.

“My boat!” Callahan took less than a second to register his new dilemma, before releasing Rain with a growl and swimming for all he was worth after the Bootstrap. It was an Herculean effort. I’d call it admirable, had it been achieved by a man whose scent I liked even slightly better. Callahan just managed to intercept the cruiser, making a desperate grab for the diver’s ladder and snagging it. Soaking wet, he pulled himself up onto the deck. Then scanning back and forth for further intruders, he ran to the forecabin, reached in with his long gorilla-esque arm and shut off the engine once more.

Then he was at the bow, snapping on a blinding spotlight and turning it on the dark water for some sign of the two kids. But they had gone back under, out of sight. Dripping and frustrated, he muttered under his breath, “Could be anywhere…” And then it hit him. The first sign that the man knew fear: “The zemi!”

Moments later, he was back in the main cabin, beelining for his duffel. He crouched down, grabbed it up and stuck his hand in, groping blindly. “Come on… Come on…” He felt something hard and cold and metal. His expression changed from desperation to hope. Slowly, he removed it from the bag and held it up to his face. The faux armband glistened under the overhead light. “Yes!”

He sat back on his haunches, relieved and blissfully unaware that Rain had pulled a double switch. Water trickled down his cheek from his flattened blond hair, and he rubbed it away with the side of a thick and equally wet arm. Not without satisfaction, he thought of Rain. Stupid brat. Got away, but didn’t get the zemi. His face contorted into a legitimately evil grin, and he spoke aloud, “S’alright. Have another chance at you, kid. Lay odds I will.”

Scant minutes later, Callahan was back in the forecabin. The engine restarted with ease, and he piloted her off toward his rendezvous.

’Bastian’s softly glowing head stuck up out of the water, watching as the boat pulled away and quickly disappeared from sight. Small crests of waves flowed right through him, which was more than mildly disconcerting. He shook it off and allowed himself to sink, to submerge.

He floated straight down, still in a standing position, arms folded across his chest. Rain and Charlie hung in the water waiting. Charlie had the flashlight trained on her arm, looking for a harpoon wound that no longer existed. Rain, who imagined with disgust that she could taste Callahan’s foul mouth on her regulator, was focused upward, watching ‘Bastian descend, so she didn’t see what her grandfather saw. His men, his crew, staggered below the two kids like a glowing trail of bread crumbs. Leading down, down toward the dark ocean floor.

As he leveled off beside Rain, his sad face grew determined. He spoke evenly: “The coast is clear. You can ditch the tanks and swim for Tío Sam’s.”

Rain nodded, tugging at Charlie and pointing toward the surface. Charlie kicked upward.

“But…” said ’Bastian. Rain grabbed Charlie, stopping him. She turned to face her grandfather, who quietly said, “… I can’t go with you.” Bewildered, Rain stared at him through her mask.

He pointed down toward his former comrades. Their need carried through the water into Rain and ’Bastian’s minds. “Captain, please… The mission… Send us home… home…” She stared at the Eight. Their voices had grown more insistent and crisp, like ’Bastian’s. Less like liquid and smoke. It’s the snake charm , she realized. With it, she could hear them as clearly as the living. Without it, she needed to be in direct contact with their essence, and even then they’d sound distant, like whispers. But I could see them. I could hear them. Even without the charm! WHY? Charlie can’t! Callahan couldn’t! Just… me…