Brian Keene - Dead Sea

Chief Maxey wiped his eyes. “Not real ghosts, Malik. Not the scary kind. More like ghosts that existed in my memories. Nobody knew that ship better than me. We were a part of each other. But when they saved her from the scrap yard, I never thought it would end like this. Not after everything she and I have been through together. Never thought she’d die.”

“Look at the bright side,” I said.

“What’s that, Mr. Reed?”

“The Spratling may be dead, but at least she gets to stay that way. She doesn’t have to come back.”

“Good point.”

He continued piloting us through the storm. Carol and the kids huddled together beneath a sheet of plastic and tried to stay warm. I rubbed my tired eyes and tried to stay alert. Runkle hunched over on his bench and closed his eyes.

Lightning crashed overhead. Death lurked beneath the waves. We floated into the darkness.

Once we were far enough away from the wreckage, the chief shut off the motor. He said that he wanted to conserve fuel, but I thought the real reason might be that the sound of the engine could attract underwater predators. Occasionally the GPS would beep, letting us know we were still on course.

It was a miserable night. We were cold and wet. Exhausted. Carol and the kids were still underneath the plastic sheet, clinging together and trying to stay warm. I smiled at them, told them that everything would be okay as soon as we reached the oil rig. They didn’t respond. I didn’t blame them. I knew I was full of shit, and so did they. Sure, maybe things would be cool on the drilling platform. But chances were we’d never reach it, not with an entire ocean full of dead things.

The chief opened up a storage box and took out some plastic oars. He screwed them on to aluminum poles and handed one to me. He and I rowed while Runkle stood guard. The former cop looked worse than any of us. His drooping eyes were bloodshot and he shivered uncontrollably, despite the heavy pea coat. He didn’t say much, just sat there staring out at the water.

I noticed that the supplies we’d rescued from the Spratling’s galley were getting wet, and I passed them over to the chief so he could stow them in the box. He found some glow sticks at the bottom of the storage compartment. He snapped one in half and a fluorescent green glow filled the air. Its radius was small, but I think it made us all feel better. The light held the darkness at bay, if only for a little while. The chief had taken Mitch’s rifle from Tasha and it rested at his side. He laid plastic sheeting over the weapon in an effort to keep it dry, and weighted the plastic down with some emergency flares. I propped the shotgun up next to me. I didn’t know if the rain would hurt it or not, but I had no way to shelter it from the elements. The chief had used the last of the plastic on the rifle.

If there were zombie fish stalking us beneath the ocean’s surface, we didn’t see them. Maybe the sea was too rough. Every few minutes, a wave would crash over us, swamping the boat with several inches of water. Then the kids would have to come out from under their shelter and bail with two buckets the chief had found in the storage compartment. Occasionally, debris from the Spratling that hadn’t been sucked down with the ship bobbed by, tossed on the waves. There were wooden crates, an aluminum lawn chair, seat cushions, a mattress, a coast guard life preserver, and a push broom. We salvaged whatever useful items we could from the stuff that floated within reach and let the rest of it drift away. After rescuing the push broom, Malik unscrewed the long handle and pulled out Mitch’s bayonet. The glow stick’s green light reflected off the serrated blade. Glimpsing the knife made me think of Mitch. I fought down a lump in my throat. I could mourn him later, if there was a later.

“My God,” Chief Maxey groaned. “It’s been a long time since I rowed like this. Quite the workout.”

“You okay?” I asked.

He nodded, but I noticed that he was slowing down. My joints were starting to ache, as well. The storm tossed us back and forth, and for every foot we gained, the waves forced us back again.

“How much farther?” Tasha asked the chief.

He chuckled. “Sounds like we’re on a family vacation, doesn’t it? I increased to our top speed when the trouble started, Tasha. As long as we don’t run into any more obstacles or the storm doesn’t get worse, we should be there before dawn.”

None of us responded. Dawn. That was an eternity.

Malik began sharpening the end of the broom handle, turning it into a makeshift spear. He didn’t speak, just focused intently on the job at hand. I watched him in silent admiration. It was no wonder the kid had stayed alive this long. He had heart and then some. I wasn’t his father, but I felt an immense swell of pride anyway. I thought back to when I’d first met them—just a few days ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. I ain ‘t no punk, Malik had said while sizing me up. I’m hardcore, G. You try messing with my sister and I’ll mess you up instead. I’d laughed at the time, despite the sincerity and ferocity in his voice. Now, there was no doubt left in my mind that he could have followed through on the threat. Malik was a child of this new world—the perfect inheritor. He had an innate survival instinct. He didn’t ask why. He just did.

One of the crates we’d rescued contained oranges—a leftover from our ill-fated supply raid on the rescue station. They’d been fresh then, stored in a walk—in cooler, and hadn’t gone bad while on the Spratling. Carol handed them out. Runkle declined with a grunt. Another crate contained maritime museum tour brochures for the Spratling. Chief Maxey solemnly kept one of the brochures, folding it up and stuffing it into his pocket, and then tossed the rest back over the side. Every few minutes, he’d glance back at the spot where the Spratling had been and sigh, but the ship was gone. The ocean’s surface was unmarred again, except for the rough surf. There were no bursting bubbles or swirling whirlpools. Even the oil fires were gone, dissipated by the current. With the fires extinguished, the darkness seemed to press closer, as if trying to swallow the lifeboat.

’I’m cold. Tasha complained. Her teeth chattered.

“We all are, sweetie,” Carol said, pulling her closer.

Malik jabbed the air with his spear and seemed satisfied with it. He sat it down and peeled his orange.

The wind howled around us as we continued on into the night. It felt like cold razors on our skin. Waves continued swamping the lifeboat. I focused my attention on rowing. My shoulders and chest began to ache. Chief Maxey was obviously having trouble, too. His breath grew short and I noticed him struggling just to raise the oar. He kept rubbing his chest muscles, wincing with pain.

“Hey Runkle,” I said. “How about taking over for the chief for a little while?”

Runkle didn’t respond, didn’t move. Just sat there, slumped over.

“Yo, Runkle! Wake up, man.”

“It’s okay,” Chief Maxey said. “I’ll be fine. Arthritis is just acting up a bit.”

“Ain’t no reason why you can’t act as lookout and let him row for a little while.”

I leaned forward and tapped Runkle on the shoulder. He slowly raised his head and turned around, staring at me with empty eyes. His peacoat was soaking wet, and the pistol was still clutched in his fingers. I glanced down at it, and then noticed the dark stain on the coat—a red splotch at his waist, barely visible in the darkness. My eyes widened.

“Hey man, are you hurt?”

“Leave me… alone,” Runkle slurred, his head drooping down again. “Just… row the fucking boat.”