Shaun Jeffrey: Fangtooth

The trawler Silver Queen plunged through the relentless waves, plaything of the Gods. Wood creaked and squealed, crying like an animal in pain as the boat plummeted from the top of a swell.

“What the hell is it?” Howser asked.

Billy Trasker looked up from the echo sounder and shook his head. “It might be a large school of fish… but to be honest, I’m not sure.”

Howser frowned at the display. It was all do to him. His wife, Maureen, had only recently dragged him into the technological age of mobile phones. That’s why he employed people. But sometimes, a man had to go with his feelings, and this was one of those times.

He picked up the microphone from the panel. “Blunt, secure that buoy,” he shouted, his voice coming through the speaker outside and fighting to be heard above the cry of the force eight gale.

The men on deck hurried about their jobs, working with proficiency gained from years of toil at sea. The wind howled around their ears, but they seemed oblivious to its roar.

Billy scratched his unshaven chin. He indicated a large, jagged line on the colour LCD display. “I’ve never seen a school of fish produce a pattern like that before.”

Howser glanced at the display, but it still didn’t make any sense to him. Waves as high as double-decker buses crashed against the bow, making the vessel appear about to sink. Howser struggled to keep the boat on course. After months of finding no fish, he wasn’t going to let a little bad weather and a technological blip stop him from landing what looked like the biggest haul the villagers back home in Mulberry would have seen in years.

Howser rang the alarm bell three times to alert the deck crew he was going to shoot the nets.

Seconds later the motors whined as the net descended into the icy depths, and Howser slowed the boat to two knots to compensate for the drag.

“We should get a better indication about what it is from the net recorder now that they’re in the water,” Billy said.

Howser nodded. He knew the basics of what the equipment did, and the net recorder worked alongside the colour echo sounder to give specific information on the net and the fish moving into it. Experienced skippers could tell not only how much fish they had, but also what kind they were catching. Again, Howser left that to the likes of Billy. All he wanted to know was when to haul it aboard.

“So what we looking at?”

Billy frowned and pressed a couple of buttons. He shook his head. “I haven’t got a clue.”

“Then what the hell do I pay you for?”

Before Billy could answer, a huge wave swept over the bow, knocking a man on deck off his feet.

Howser snatched up the microphone. “You okay, Blunt?”

The man struggled to his feet and gave a thumbs up.

Without warning, the boat lurched in the water, the net having caught on something. Howser ground his teeth. This was all he needed. The hydraulic clutch to the winches whined.

The wheelhouse door opened with a clatter and Blunt stepped into the room, his body moving in time to the waves, in tune with the rhythm of the sea.

“Skipper, we’ve got a problem. The starboard trawl wire’s leading across the afterdeck to port and the spare net’s blocking the freeing ports, so we’re taking on water fast.”

Howser was about to respond when the vessel lurched to port. He gripped the wheel as tight as he could.

Wave after wave crashed over the boat.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Howser felt calm. He clenched his teeth. “See if you can help free the trawl wire.”

Blunt nodded and staggered outside.

Another wave rolled across the boat, smashing down like a giant fist. Through the spray, Howser saw Blunt sliding across the deck, but there was someone beside him. Even with the wipers going, visibility through the windscreen was poor. Who the fuck is that out there? At a glance, the figure didn’t look natural. Although hunched over, even from a distance it looked stocky; the spray distorted the scene further, made the figure look deformed.

Howser frowned and picked up the microphone. “Blunt,” he shouted. “Who’s that with you?”

Blunt turned.

Next minute, the figure beside Blunt lunged forwards. The hands on the end of its stubby looking arms latched onto Blunt and it opened its mouth impossibly wide and bit the deckhand’s throat. Blood gushed out, turning pink as it spread across the deck.

Howser gagged. What the hell is going on out there?

In his fright, he let go of the wheel, allowing it to spin like something possessed, and the hull of the boat squealed as the sea contracted against it.

Regaining his composure, Howser strapped himself into the chair, reached out to grab the wheel and the boat listed violently. The vessel seemed to teeter on its side for a moment, then rolled over like a dog offering its hull to the malevolent Gods to scratch. Unsecured equipment rained down on the ceiling. Hanging upside down, Howser felt the blood rush to his head. The vessel’s lights illuminated the turbulent sea, highlighting Blunt’s face as it smashed against the glass. Scraps of skin flapped on the deckhand’s cheeks like grotesque gills.

What the fuck has happened out there?

Next minute something sleek and black snatched Blunt’s body away. Howser stared aghast at the swirl of bloody water beyond the glass.

He reached up to undo the harness securing him to the chair, and the glass around the wheelhouse shattered as gallons of water gushed in.

With the water came something else. Something that moved with ease through the swirling current.

The force of the water gushing through the broken windows pressed Howser into his chair. He felt as though he were in a washing machine filled with glass shards slicing his flesh. He tried to move, but the force of water pinned him more securely than shackles.

Something swam past his face, something that danced in the turbulent currents. Too afraid to close his eyes, he stared through the stinging water. Blood from cuts on his face swirled around his head, hampering visibility. His lungs felt about to burst. He needed to undo the harness and swim to the surface. No way was this captain going down with his boat.

With a final desperate attempt to move, he managed to raise his right hand and grab the buckle, but the last of his breath gushed out in a gargled scream of absolute terror as the thing that had entered the wheelhouse swam into view.

He gagged and saltwater filled his lungs, but death didn’t come quick enough to relieve him of the horror of the creature closing in for the kill.

“So what do you think, Jack?”

When he didn’t receive a reply, Bruce Holden looked across at his son. He’d forgotten Jack had his earphones in, the volume on his mp3 player cranked up. He tapped him on the leg.

Jack pulled one of the earphones out, the tinny sound of The Prodigy filtering through. “What?” he snapped as he peered from beneath the brow of his baseball cap.

Bruce pointed at the view. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s a crock of shit and I want to go home.”

Despite his son’s sharp rebuttal, Bruce held his tongue. He gazed down through the windscreen of his Ford Focus at the small fishing village. The whitewashed wooden houses looked like a picture postcard, and the array of fishing boats moored to the horseshoe shaped harbour looked almost toy-like from so high up. It had always been his dream to live by the sea; a dream he’d shared with Veronica until the cancer took the light from her eyes and the life from her body. Knowing she wasn’t here to share it with him brought a sudden tear that he quickly wiped away.