Steven Kent - 100 Fathoms Below

Still optimistic that he might catch some shut-eye before he had to vacate the rack for the next sailor, Jerry was reluctant to get up at all, but the pressure of a full bladder didn’t give him a choice in the matter. He pushed the curtain aside gently so the sound of its runners wouldn’t disturb anyone. The red fluorescent light near the curtained doorway cast a faint crimson light through the room. The only noises were the soft rush of air from the ventilation system and a sound like dueling whipsaws from two snoring crewmates.

One benefit of the red lighting was that it didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust. But in the seconds before he could see clearly, a shape moved through the berthing area. Someone in the darkness, heading toward the curtain that led to the corridor outside. The shape was dusky, purplish in the red light, and moved in a way that struck Jerry as strange. He was jerky and stiff, as if he’d forgotten how to walk and was learning all over again.

The man pushed the curtain aside and passed through the doorway. As he did, a shaft of light fell across his face for an instant before he was gone. Jerry blinked in disbelief. Though he’d only had a glimpse, he recognized the man right away. It was Steve Bodine. But short of a miraculous recovery, how was that possible? And even if Bodine had come back from having one foot in the grave, what was he doing wandering around the boat? He was supposed to be in quarantine. Matson would never have let him go this soon.

There were no ladders on the bunks, but it wasn’t a far drop to the floor. Jerry landed quietly on his sock-covered feet. Boots or shoes of any kind weren’t allowed in the racks, since every sailor shared his with two other men and tried to leave it as clean as possible, but keeping your smelly, sweaty feet in your socks was considered a courtesy. Jerry padded quietly across the floor and paused at the curtained doorway. When the brightness from outside had touched Bodine’s face, his skin looked dry and ashen, and he had winced when the light hit him, as if it hurt his eyes. Jerry pushed the curtain aside and peered out into the corridor, but there was no sign of Bodine.

He turned back and went through the hatch that led from the berthing area to the head to empty his bladder. But when he opened the hatch, he gasped in horror. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could to get Lieutenant Commander Jefferson.

Oran Guidry dropped quickly down the main ladder to the bottom level of the submarine. In preparation for first meal, Lieutenant Abrams had asked him to gather a few cans of tomatoes from the crates stored next to the Big Red Machine in the auxiliary engine room. But when he reached the bottom of the ladder, he paused, feeling a sudden coldness at his back. He turned around. The corridor behind him was empty, but he could have sworn someone had been there a moment ago, watching him. The closed hatch of the torpedo room stood at the other end of the corridor. He had heard that the captain let the hospital corpsman, Matson, use the torpedo room as quarantine for that sick crewman, Steve Bodine. But that was where they’d stored Stubic’s body too, frozen in its body bag. The idea of keeping a sick patient in there with a corpse didn’t sit right with him. It was creepy. And when he thought about how Matson had shut himself in there as well, it felt even creepier.

His instincts told him to stay away from that hatch, and Oran trusted his instincts. He had learned that lesson in New Orleans. Before enlisting with the navy, he hadn’t strayed far from Bayou Bartholomew, except for that one trip to the Big Easy with LeMon and a few of their friends from high school over Christmas break. After a long night of drinking, he had gotten separated from the others and found himself walking down a dark street he wasn’t familiar with. A strange feeling had come over him then, one he had never forgotten. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was some kind of sixth sense—his grandmother had always claimed it ran in the family—but something told him to turn around and go back. No, not just go back— run back. He listened to that feeling, something he might not have done had he been with the others, and ran away from that dark street. He paused only once to look back, and that was when he saw them, a group of men emerging from the darkness at the other end of the street, knives glinting in their hands. He ran all the way back to the hotel and waited for his brother and their friends there, certain in the knowledge that if he had kept walking down that street, those men would have done a lot worse than just rob him. He was alive today only because he had listened.

He got the same feeling looking at that torpedo-room hatch. He turned away from it and hurried into the auxiliary engine room—and was surprised to find it dark. The light fixtures had been broken. Two auxiliary techs were already there, standing in front of the Big Red Machine and sweeping up the shattered glass from the floor. They had square, bulky battle lanterns with them to see by, and one turned his beam on Oran.

“What are you doing down here?” the tech asked.

With the light in his eyes, Oran couldn’t see their faces. “Gettin’ some o’ these cans out your way,” Oran replied, nodding at the stacked boxes.

“Halle-fuckin’-lujah,” the tech said. He lowered his lantern and went back to cleaning up the mess. “Damn stuff’s been in the way since we launched.”

“It hasn’t been that bad,” the other tech joked. “They’ve made it real easy to grab a snack whenever we’re hungry.”

Oran walked over to the boxes, chuckling. “Better not of. Lieutenant Abrams finds out, he’ll cut you off. All you’ll get’s bread and water for a week.” By the ambient light of the techs’ lanterns, he broke open one of the cartons. “Someone knock out these lights too, eh?”

“Someone on this boat’s a real head case,” the second tech said. “How is it they haven’t caught the son of a bitch yet?”

“Thought they did when Stubic died,” Oran said. “Maybe there’s more than one of ’em.”

“Christ,” the second tech said. “Maybe the whole crew is bat-shit crazy.”

“So, what’s that make you?” said the first tech, grinning.

Oran collected an armful of the torn-open cardboard and plastic and carried it down the corridor to the garbage disposal room, where it would be compacted, then ejected into the ocean at the soonest opportunity. As he was walking back to the auxiliary engine room, he paused again. He could have sworn he heard someone walking up behind him, but when he turned, the corridor was as empty as before.

The closed hatch of the torpedo room seemed to stare back at him. He shivered.

Maybe there’s more than one of ’em.

He returned to the auxiliary engine room and started gathering together the armful of cans he needed. He heard footsteps again, but this time when he looked up, he saw someone silhouetted in the doorway, his face in darkness with the light at his back. The techs shined their lanterns on him just as they had on Oran, revealing Ensign Penwarden.

“Get those lights out of my face,” Penwarden said irritably.

“Sorry, sir,” the first tech replied.

“You gave us a start, sir,” the second tech said. “Thought for a moment you might be the mad light-smasher. You never know where he’ll strike next.”

“Except that he already did,” the ensign said. “I ran into the XO up on the middle level. He sent me to get you. He said you’re needed in the head and the lights down here can wait.”

“The head, sir?” the first tech asked. “He broke the lights there too?”

“It’s a little worse than that. You’d better see for yourself.”