Tim Curran - Dead Sea

… you’ve got a wife and kid back in the world.

True enough, he knew. But Elizabeth Castle was desirable. There was something very savage and untamed about her, exotic even. Those eyes, that lilt of hungry mouth, the long-limbed muscular grace she exhibited. But George told himself to stop right there. For he was married and even if he wasn’t, this woman looked at him about as cold as cold could be. You got out of line with her, she’d scratch your eyes out. That was the feeling he was getting from her. She reminded him of a warrior maiden. A woman you knew could out-fight you and probably out-think you, too.

Besides, he thought, you see how she’s looking at Cushing. Ain’t the way a sister looks at her brother, you catch my drift.

Sure, Cushing. He had an easy, open way about him. You knew looking into those blue eyes of his that he was intelligent and compassionate, loyal and steady. He was also tall and blond-haired, handsome in a Nordic sort of way. Women probably always went for him.

She told them that she couldn’t honestly remember much of her life before the ship she was on – the Catherine Belling – was pulled into the mist en route from Savannah to Bermuda. George figured she could, but didn’t want to. She said that, after a time, the only thing that really mattered was survival, staying alive. That it became a mantra after awhile. There was always work to be done and her days were occupied, so there was very little time to think about what was and what could have been. George figured that was bullshit, too.

“We have a lot of food,” she told them. “Canned and dried, salt pork and bacon. Often, when a new ship arrives, I find fresh meat and fruit, a variety of things. I grow vegetables on another ship in soil that came in boxes. Things grow very fast here.”

“Like the weed,” George said. “That fungus.”

“Yes.” She looked very stern. “You must always be careful about what you eat or drink. You have to boil the water out there before you drink it. It’s salty, but not as salty as the seas back home. But it has germs in it. They can make you very sick. Mostly, I drain water from the tanks of ships. One more thing. You’re welcome here, but understand that there are rules. And the most important is that you never leave this ship unless I’m with you. Later, once you know this place, you can… but not until then.”

“How long does the night last?” George asked her. “A day? Two days?”

At that question, it seemed like Elizabeth was real close to a smile. Close, but not quite there. “I’m so used to this… sometimes it’s hard to remember day and night back there, back where we came from.” She sat on the settee, placed her hands on her knees. “The day here… what we could call the day… lasts about three of our days, sometimes four. The night lasts about two days.”

She said that the mists were so thick that you never actually saw the sun there, though at certain times of the year you could catch a glimpse of it. But never for long. Not like you could with the moons when they were full. Which got George to thinking that if there was a sun and moons, well, then this wasn’t just some cosmic dead-end, it was a world. A planet caught in the orbit of some star he’d never heard of. One that no earth astronomer had probably ever heard of either.

Cushing asked her how large the seaweed sea was and she couldn’t tell him. It was vast, she knew, maybe hundreds if not thousands of miles in diameter, but the exact dimensions were unknown. “I know that you could travel for two days straight and never find anything but weed and water. I’ve never seen any land and never heard of anyone that has.”

“There must be thousands of ships and planes out there,” George said.

“And they keep coming,” Elizabeth said. “Sometimes nothing for months and then, suddenly, three or four, five or six. In batches, they always come in batches. But as far as you go in the weed, you’ll find wreckage. Some of it very, very old.”

Chesbro had his head bowed over, praying silently.

Elizabeth Castle was watching him intently. “Is he a minister?” she asked.

But Cushing just shook his head. “No, he just has a deep and abiding faith,” Cushing said with all sincerity.

Good for you, George thought.

Anyone else might have said that Chesbro was a Jesus freak, a religious nut… but not Cushing. He wouldn’t go there and you couldn’t make him. That’s the kind of guy he was.

“You are very quiet, Mr. Pollard,” Elizabeth remarked.

He nodded. “I guess… I guess I don’t have much to say.”

“He’s okay,” Cushing told her. “He’s been through a lot.”

She and Cushing sat there discussing the specifics of this mad new world, the sort of things that lived there and all the people that must have perished there through the centuries, through the eons. It was real cheerful stuff. Elizabeth spoke of this place as something to be beaten down, something you had to fight at every turn, but nothing you could ever conquer. She was a stubborn, hard-headed woman by all accounts and maybe that’s how she had survived here – through ingenuity and rigid persistence. Maybe all the death she’d seen had made her cling to life all that much more tenaciously.

George thought she looked healthy. Her eyes were bright and her hair was lustrous, her teeth white and strong. But she was pale, her complexion like flawless porcelain. But that was probably due to the lack of sunshine. If people lived here generation by generation, breeding in this place, sooner or later they would have lost all skin pigment.

“All we’ve been holding out for,” Cushing said, “is a way out.”

“There is no way out,” Elizabeth said, her voice stern.

“Have you ever tried?” George put to her.

She gave him a hard, withering look and he felt himself sneak about two inches closer to death. But he didn’t give a shit if it offended her or not. He hated that smug certainty in her voice. Maybe she was satisfied with this place, but there was no way in hell he ever would be.

“Tried? No, I haven’t. Where would I begin?” She kept looking at him. “After a time, there’s only survival. That’s all you can think about.”

“How long have you been here?” Cushing said. “You said years, but-”

“What year did you sail to Bermuda?” George asked, getting right to it.

“What year? Well, I remember that very well. It was March, the second week of March, 1907.”

That landed like a brick and now everyone was staring at her, eyes wide and mouths hanging open.

“Jesus H. Christ,” George said. “1907? Oh my God…”

There was a sudden vulnerability to her, she looked lost and confused and she was certainly those things. She chewed her lip. “I. .. I’ve been here a long time, haven’t I?”

“I’m just not up to it,” Menhaus announced. “I just don’t have what it takes. I know that now. I played the game and did my best, but, Jesus, I just don’t have the stomach for this.”

Fabrini said, “C’mon now, you can’t give up.”

“Why can’t I?”

But Fabrini didn’t have a good answer for that. He figured Cook might have, but not him. It just wasn’t in him, all the right answers to the right questions. “Because you fucking can’t, that’s why.”

They were sitting on the deck of the fishing boat, an old side trawler out of Florida according to the paperwork in the wheelhouse, trying to figure out what it all meant. What it was all about now that Cook was gone and they were under Saks’s hand again. Something nobody particularly cared for. Saks was down in the captain’s cabin sleeping and Crycek was next door, not sleeping, but lost in one of his blue funks. When he got like that, he was pretty much unreachable. When he spoke, it was all doom and gloom and devils in the fog, prophecies.