Brian Keene - Dead Sea

We pulled in half a dozen groupers and striped sea bass, and Mitch hooked a small shark, which was about four feet long. Then the professor caught a really nice-sized tuna—enough to feed us all for one meal. He wasn’t strong enough to haul it up over the rail, so Mitch grabbed the line and did it for him. The tuna had swallowed the hook. Blood dribbled from its mouth and ran across the deck. The fish flopped around, thrashing its tail like a hammer. Its gills flapped uselessly.

“Can you take it off the hook for me, Mr. Bollinger?”

Mitch grinned. “No way, Professor. I hauled him in for you. You can take him off yourself. I ain’t baiting your hook again, either.”

“Youth,” Professor Williams said in mock disdain. “No respect for their elders.”

“You know what they say, man-age before beauty.”

Nose wrinkling in disgust, the Professor bent down and grabbed the fish with one hand. His other hand forced its mouth open. Slimy fish blood trickled over his fingers and wrists and dripped onto the deck. He tugged on the line, peering down the tuna’s gullet. It wriggled in his grasp.

“Oh dear,” the professor said. “He really did swallow the hook. This must be what is meant by ‘hook, line and sinker.’ Poor thing. He’s in bad shape. Will one of you gentlemen please hand me the needle-nose pliers out of the tackle box?”

Basil leaned over and picked up the pliers. As he handed them to the professor, he suddenly drew away.

“What the hell’s that on its tail?”

We all looked closer. Near the bottom of the fish’s tail was a small, ulcerated sore. It was raw and open, leaking pale fluid.

The professor frowned. “It appears the fish is infected with something; perhaps a parasite or fungus of some kind, or a reaction to some pollutant.”

Mitch shook his head. “Looks like a bite mark, doesn’t it?”

“That’s not a bite,” Basil argued. “More like a sore. Professor’s right. It’s probably a parasite, maybe a worm of some kind. We won’t know for sure until Tran and Nick clean it.”

The professor took the pliers from Basil and forced them down the tuna’s throat. It was still bleeding, and his grip kept slipping as a result. The fish continued struggling. I had to give it credit. Like us, it kept on fighting, even if death was inevitable. Suddenly, the tuna jerked in the professor’s grasp. He dropped the pliers. The hook ripped free, taking a chunk of fish innards with it. The line went taught and the hook’s point speared the professor’s hand, right between his thumb and forefinger. It dug deep, the barbs slipping beneath his skin. Professor Williams shouted in pain and the fish flopped away across the deck. The professor stared at his hand—his own blood flowing overtop the fish blood.

“Jesus,” Basil gasped. “You okay, Professor?”

The color drained from the older man’s face. “No, I am most assuredly not okay. It hurts a great deal. Could one of you please get it out? I’m feeling light-headed.”

I held him up from behind while Mitch went to work on the hook. The professor was bathed in sweat, but his skin felt cold. He hadn’t been kidding. He was limp in my arms—on the verge of passing out.

“You’ll be fine,” I assured him. “You’re just in mild shock. Take deep breaths and try putting your head between your knees.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’m afraid that I don’t deal very well with pain. I feel pretty silly.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’d freak out too, if I had a fishhook in my hand.”

Frowning, Mitch jiggled the hook. The professor groaned.

“It’s in there pretty good,” Mitch said. “The barbs are underneath your skin. I’m going to have to work it out slowly.”

The professor gulped. “Will it hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I suggest that Lamar and Basil hold me down. I’d hate to lash out at you in the heat of the moment, Mitch.”

Mitch grinned. “I’d hate that, too. Hold still, now.”

Basil held the professor’s legs while I held his free hand. He gritted his teeth and moaned as Mitch began working the hook free. More blood flowed. I looked away from it, glancing over at the fish. Incredibly, it was still flopping around on the deck. It almost seemed as if it were trying to reach Mitch, heaving itself toward him in a series of flips and leaps. Then I realized it was probably just trying to get back into the water. Basil turned to look at it as well, his grip on the professor momentarily forgotten. The professor’s arm jerked and the hook tore free, taking a good chunk of his skin with it. The professor cried out and Mitch cursed Basil.

“What the hell are you doing? I told you to hold him.”

“It’s the tuna. Look at it. Damn thing’s still alive.”

“Throw it back over the side,” Mitch said. “That fish is more trouble than it’s worth. Nobody is going to eat it with that sore on its tail anyway.”

Basil made a grab for the tuna with both hands. The fish was so slippery with blood that it slid from his grasp and fell back to the deck. Its mouth worked soundlessly. He picked it up again and dumped it over the side. The tuna splashed into the ocean and then vanished beneath the surface. Basil looked at his hands in disgust and held them up for us to see.

“Gross. I got blood and scales all over me.”

“Go wash up,” Mitch said. “And take the professor with you. Get him cleaned up. Find out from the chief if we’ve got any hydrogen peroxide or disinfectant onboard.”

“I’m sure we do,” Basil said.

I helped Professor Williams to his feet. “You okay to stand?”

He nodded weakly. “Yes, I think so. I’ll be fine now. Thank you both, gentlemen. You see, I was right. The two of you are the embodiments of the warrior and the hero.”

Mitch flexed his bicep and laughed. “That’s us.”

The professor leaned on Basil for support and the two of them went below. Mitch and I fished for another hour, but didn’t get any more bites. It was weird—as if the tuna had warned away all the other fish in the sea. Finally, we took count of our catch and decided that we had enough to last the crew till tomorrow. Then we dumped the bait bucket over the side. The chum floated atop the waves—a gory treat for any scavengers lurking below the surface. A few of the birds darted down to scoop entrails from the water. We stored the fishing gear and headed below deck to clean up. Both Mitch and I smelled like fish. I remember thinking at least we didn’t have the tuna’s blood all over our hands.

“Is Mitch gonna be your new boyfriend?”

I was stunned by the question, and I stared at Malik for a moment, trying to figure out if he was serious or just joking around. His expression was earnest.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think Mitch is gay, Malik.” Dinner had been over for several hours and the three of us were getting ready to turn in for the night. Mitch was off playing cards again with the guys in the engineering compartment. The ship was quiet, except for the occasional tick or groan from the pipes. Most of the crew had gone to bed. Both Basil and the professor had been absent from the galley during dinner. I’d gone to check on them before we ate. The professor said he wasn’t feeling good—too much excitement for one day. His voice was tired. His hand was bandaged and doctored. Basil didn’t answer when I knocked on the hatch to his berthing compartment. Curiosity got the best of me, and I opened the hatch and peeked inside. He was asleep and did not stir when I whispered his name. After dinner, Joan and Alicia had volunteered to take them each a plate of food and check in on them. We hadn’t seen them since, but I assumed both men were okay. Otherwise, the women would have told us.