Salvage

by Duncan Ralston

  The water was milky green as he descended, flecks and clumps of dirt and algae swirling in the maelstrom. A long, fuzzy weed glommed onto his mask, partially obscuring his vision. He tore it off, then circled, looking skyward for the dock—but it was gone. Already he'd lost his point of reference. He thought of blue orbs. His breathing grew frantic.

  He saw a hazy black shape in the gloom now, the only thing down there not moving violently, and he swam for it, its permanence among the churning chaos, its everlastingness, calming him. His breathing evened. He swam with the current now, though below the surface its drag wasn't so forceful. The closer he got to the church, the more it drew him toward it, like someone tugging him on an invisible rope. He saw it clearly, could make out individual boards and roof tiles. Above him, rising waves revealed the cross—it vanished again as they receded. He swam for it, the surf pulling him up, and a moment later he was standing on the steeple's tiles, grasping at the large, rusted metal cross like a life preserver. His head rose above the surface, the waves pushing and pulling at his chest, threatening to tear him apart.

  He thought: This is it. This is the end. I'm gonna die hugging this cross.

  With that in mind, he heaved himself back underwater, hugging the roof, scaling it in reverse. Gradually, the current's hold began to slacken. The cross appeared and vanished above his head, appeared and vanished. His right flipper slipped under the fascia. He felt a momentary vertigo as he lost his footing, then he thrust himself downward with all his strength.

  Facing an open window, he found the bell that had once called people to church, a bell he could almost hear inside his own head, encrusted now with decades of rust and zebra-striped barnacles. Strands of algae reached out toward him with the current like long, slimy fingers, detracted, and reached again, but the big, heavy bell remained still. It would never ring again.

  As he descended below the window, the current finally lost its hold on him. He swam freely, the way becoming clearer, the murk dispersing. The church was clearly visible now; other buildings came into view a good distance away, the street below pitted and cratered. Here was a bicycle, overtaken by the same zebra-striped creatures that had claimed the church bell. A toilet rested on its side, flat plants like elongated blades of grass in its bowl and tank swaying languidly in the sluggish current. Elsewhere, teams of small fish zipped in and out of the windows of an old junker car, like a scene from an aquarium, an entire ecosystem of plants, barnacles, and bacterium living in its trunk and hood.

  A flash of light startled him. Near the truck, a diver snapped photos with a big underwater camera of a lamppost bent so sharply its mantle touched the road. Two other divers swam hand-in-hand a few feet above the street, moving away from where he stood near the church, on what had once been a sidewalk, now cracked and raised like a collection of tectonic plates as it lead up to the grand double doors of the church.

  What he saw before him was like a badly distorted memory, a sort of dreamy mishmash in which objects and places were no longer where they belonged. He'd stood here before, he knew that the moment he looked up at the old dilapidated church, its windows boarded, its doors chained, the cladding loose and rotting or missing entirely, leaving deep black gaps beyond which anything could be lurking. Even though the church he saw was entirely different from the church in his mind's eye, he knew its shape as he would the silhouette of a long-lost relative, or an old friend.

  The memory came back with perfect clarity of him and his mother standing here, his hand in hers, his mother much taller than him. She'd hesitated at the steps, deciding, he supposed, whether or not to enter. Why, he had no idea. She could have forgotten something at home—her Sunday shoes, maybe?—or realized she'd gotten a run in her stocking and had to go back to change them. She could have been dithering on whether to enter the church for the first time, to offer up herself and her son into the fold… or uncertain whether they should go in one last time, after the "Schism" had turned its parishioners into pariahs.

  Whatever the reason, adult Owen couldn't go in, either. The church stood in opposition to entry, large and ugly and intimidating. It had somehow withstood a force of nature—man-made, but a flood nonetheless—that had turned most of these structures to rubble, though it was no longer a place of sanctuary. Within its walls lived creatures that had never worshipped, had never seen the sun. Any history would have been obliterated with the deluge, leaving only death and decay and a silence almost as long as Owen was old. His breath became hurried at the thought of violating that quiet, that deathly stillness. A burst of bubbles rose from his regulator and ascended to the surface, where the water churned the sky and the church's cross rose and sank as if on the sharp end of a Crusader's lance.

  Now or never, Owns. Lori's name for him rang in his head like the toll of the old bell, sending a shiver up his spine. This is what she brought you here for. Can't give up now, when you're so close to knowing the truth.

  But how the Hell do I get in with all the windows barricaded? The door's got chains on it, for God's sake! Somebody wants to keep us out—probably for our own safety.

  In and out quick, then. If the thing decides to fall down after all these years, what are the odds it'll fall on me?

  But this was his domain: the Shepherd's. This had been his church, Owen was sure of it, and he and his mother had been a part of his congregation, his flock. He was as certain of that as he was that the image of him and his mother standing below the church had been a memory and not his imagination.

  He stood on the steps below the final walkway now, just four rough blocks of concrete leading to the wooden stairs and the doors beyond. He realized suddenly that, all the time he'd been arguing with himself, he'd been unknowingly moving closer, tugged by the slow current. He'd come close enough to see knotholes in the cladding, the sharp remains of stained glass behind old grayed planks nailed to the sash, and just as his gaze fell on one of the windows—the farthest right on the second floor—the boards on it began to shudder, as if merely looking at them made them tremble.

  Fear seized his muscles, freezing him where he stood, his imagination conjuring up a beast large enough to disturb those planks, to split them outward and separate them from the rusted nails until the rotted boards splintered into sharp bits and fluttered lazily to the lake bed.

  The creature emerged from the ancient dark of the church, black and formless, worming out through the hole it had made, and as it descended it unfurled. Owen saw its limbs, four of them, a perfectly normal number, and the limbs splayed out and propelled it forward, and in the instant it turned its very human shape toward him, he recognized—the woman from the dock. She'd opened up a means of entry to the church. She'd shown him the way.

  The past is a bright, shining beacon, he thought, lighting the way home.

  The woman fluttered down to where Owen stood. Immediately, his muscles loosened, his heart rate slowed. His breath evened, steadying. Her dark eyes, dark enough to drown in, studied him for a moment. She raised her left arm and pointed at the diver's watch strapped to it, and then she jerked her head back in the direction of the opened window. When she looked at him again, she raised her eyebrows with a quick shrug: Do you have enough air to take a look?

  Owen checked his gauge. Plenty of air left. He nodded, pointed to her, then at the black hole in the face of the church—an empty eye socket in an old, bare skull: You first.

  She pointed to him, and then rotated a bunched fist by her right eye. Crybaby.

  Owen pried the fingers of his heavy glove down to flip her the bird. A smile showed in her eyes. She turned to swim away, heading up toward the gap. Owen followed in the cloudy wake she'd kicked up from the bottom.

  She was waiting for him at the window, hands on either side of the jagged opening. When he caught up, she twisted her body to slip into the hole and immediately propelled herself into the darkness. Owen put his head through, peering in after her and seeing nothing but black.

  Can't follow her in there. What if
it's a trap? What if she's with him? With the Shepherd? She could be leading me right into his house. God's not home right now—but his Messenger could be in here waiting for me. He'll hold me down, and maybe this time he won't let me up.

  With his hands still on the sill, a flicker of light from behind the church caught his eye.

  A modest two-story home stood nearly hidden on the small rise behind the church, reminding him of the house behind the Bates Motel, where Mother had sat in her chair in the window. He guessed it must have been the priest or minister's house, and like the chapel, it seemed to have suffered very little damage from the flood. There were two windows on either side of the front door, two on the second floor, and an octagonal, slatted opening for an attic crawl space. Its concrete steps had eroded and were covered over in algae. The windows were all gaping black mouths—except the second floor window on the right, from which a light had begun flickering across the glass of his mask, as if someone were signaling to him with a mirror. Dread seized his muscles as he wondered whether objects could reflect sunlight at such intensity, so deep underwater.

  Of course they can, he thought, shaking off his doubts. If they couldn't, you wouldn't be seeing it.

  He realized it was not particularly sound logic, coming from someone whose world now included hallucinations of a psychotic preacher and flock drowning him in his own bathtub. But it persuaded him enough to approach.

  Another flicker came as he swam toward the house, blindingly bright, as if someone had captured the sun and was shining it directly at his eyes through the window. Nobody's there, he reminded himself, though he supposed it could have been another diver, hunting for treasure.

  Something's in there, though. Something shiny. Maybe something valuable.

  Behind the church stood a small cemetery, several of its headstones upturned, eerily tranquil. He saw no divers. No fish, either; not even a small crustacean visible within the gloom. It was as if life refused to dwell in the long, heavy shadow of the church.

  Thoughts of death stirred a sudden fear for his own life, and Owen checked his oxygen gauge. Half-full. He rapped it with his knuckles. The needle moved, and then settled around 200; still roughly half. He must have been down a good half hour already. Another ten minutes wouldn't hurt.

  Assuaging any further doubts, the light in the house flashed again. He was reminded of his encounter with the reading lamp last night, its brightening and dimming. He hoped this time there wouldn't be a bang.

  Swimming to the window, he flicked on the LED. Its green light washed over a small bedroom, but didn't seem to catch on anything particularly shiny. Everything inside seemed to be covered in a thick layer of lake scum. Nothing moved inside. Even the shadows seemed static as the beam illuminated the room.

  He pulled himself in and stepped down onto a single bed, a sodden mattress resting haphazardly on rusted springs and clumped with more of those striped mussels, like a particularly bad case of bedbugs. Up close, they looked like some kind of tacky jewelry. Some wise entrepreneur would do well selling the invasive organisms as earrings and pendants.

  It was a child's bed, in a child's bedroom. Across the room a rocking horse had suffered a fate similar to that of the mattress. Bits and pieces of flocked wallpaper still stuck here and there on bare gray boards, though it could just as likely have been mold. At the foot of the bed, much like in his room at Fisherman's Wharf, a trunk lay opened on the dirty rug. Owen rooted through the few remaining toys inside, finding them impossible to tell apart, many of them stuck together in stony clumps.

  A dark shape moved at the other side of the room. Owen froze in place, heart racing, keeping his eye on the spot where he'd seen the movement. He waited, saw the shape sink as he sank, and realized he was seeing his own reflection in a mirror on a vanity. A teddy bear leaned against it, covered with the same barnacles and algae as everything else. He allowed himself to sigh, bubbles rising to the blackened ceiling.

  Had the mirror brought him in here? He'd seen the light—so to speak, he thought with an inward grin—from outside, seen it flashing him in the face three, four times. Could it have been reflecting off this ugly old mirror, its face scaled with algae?

  He exhaled irritably, and sat on the crusty mattress, exhausted, disappointed. Sitting in some kid's bedroom with his head cradled in his hands, particles of God knew what settling on his head and shoulders, wondering what the hell he was doing out here at Chapel Lake at all, let alone fifty feet below its surface. Lori had died out here, but who was he serving by following her? Following in her footsteps was a somewhat morbid way to memorialize a family member, an obsessive's attempt to preserve her memory. His mother would have been mortified if she'd known what he was doing, where he sat right now.

  Had Lori really called out to him from beyond the grave? Had her letter been meant to draw him here, or steer him away? Coming here was an idea he'd jumped on with the immediacy of a fixation, like an addict on a possible score.

  Will you be embraced by the arms of the Father?

  Owen chuckled contemptuously.

  Jesus, don't get caught up on Papa Saddler again. You know as well as Mom, that deadbeat skipped town and left you with nothing. Less than nothing. Even entertaining the idea he's out here is expending more energy than the man's worth.

  He knew that. Margaret Saddler knew it, too. All Lori had ever known was hearsay.

  Suddenly the flicker came again, from directly behind him, a widening circle of light trailing past his shadow as it swung across the wall and back. Two circles, actually; a larger one surrounded the smaller. Owen turned, expecting to find nothing. But there, hanging from one of the coat hooks on the door, was a shiny yellow chain.

  Forgetting he was underwater for a moment, he leapt from the bed, certain he'd found his salvage. The weight of the water caused a dreamlike slowness, worsened by his flippers, which hadn't been made for walking forward. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached it and held the chain in his hand. No unicorn was attached to this one; no crucifix, either. It was a pocket watch. Grime scaled its face, but he was certain this had been the cause of the flashes. He wiped away the dirt. Its little gold hand had frozen at two, the big one stopped a few minutes past. There was an inscription on the back, but it was too green and faded to read even in the dim light of his LED.

  He tucked the watch in his fanny pack, zipped it securely—a fastidiously languid motion, zipping a zipper under the water—and checked his gauge.

  Bubbles rose from his lips as his eyes widened in horror—In the red, oh God, it's in the red! He didn't know how much air that actually left him, but he wouldn't wait to find out the hard way. He swam for the window, but just as he reached for freedom something jerked him backward. He struggled forward, kicking madly, but couldn't budge.

  He was caught. Something held him in place.

  Dark eyes met his in the mirror, a cold, pale green face glaring grimly over his shoulder, holding him fast to the wall.

  Followed me! Waited for me!

  The same rolled-up sleeves on the same white work shirt, sodden and grimy now. The same loose black pants. His watch and chain were tucked away in Owen's fanny pack. The Shepherd seemed to take no pleasure in drowning him—it was clear from the look in his eyes. It was simply his lot in life, his God-given duty. Those unsmiling lips began to open, and a viscous fluid flowed from them, jet-black tendrils spilling over Owen's shoulder and slipping around his bare throat.

  It struck him then, as his oxygen level dipped further into the red, that this man—this thing—must have done the same to Lori. He'd drowned her in the name of his corrupt God, and would offer Owen the same fate as long as Owen remained frozen, mesmerized by the dead man's reflection in the mirror.

  The knife was on his belt, in its sheath. Not very long, but sharp. Inky filth from the Shepherd's mouth obscured Owen's movements in the mirror. He'd have it out and plunged into the dead man's heart—if it still had one—before the Shepherd knew what was coming for him.r />
  The button unsnapped. The Shepherd's eyes remained transfixed on his, the expression on his gaunt face as unchanged as a post-mortem photograph, while thick ribbons of black vomit gushed up from his innards. Owen saw his own elbow rise ever so slightly as he pulled the knife free.

  The Shepherd's mouth closed suddenly, the wet, hollow clack of his rotted teeth resounding in Owen's ears, his face pinching into a scowl.

  Now or never, Owns…

  He swung the knife over his shoulder, its blade glinting in the same light that had caught in the face of the pocket watch. It plunged to the hilt in the Shepherd's chest, the blade sinking into flesh that was like thick gelatin, the dead man's eyes widening as he realized his fate. The wooden THOCK as the blade hit the wall echoed in the small, submerged room, an explosion of bubbles bursting over Owen's shoulder. His eyes widened as the black hose slithered out like a snake, spewing oxygen. In his haste to get free of the Shepherd's grip, he'd cut his own oxygen line.

  But he was free. That was something, at least. He shot off toward the window in a flash, without even a look back to see if the Shepherd had gotten free and was following him, just swam, holding his breath, heading for the light.

  As he passed through the window, he was grabbed by the shoulders and jerked roughly to the side of the house, and his mouthpiece was torn from his lips. With cold finality, Owen turned to look his killer in the eye, one dead man to another, readying himself for Death's cold embrace.

  She wedged the regulator into his mouth.

  He felt his lungs fill with precious air—not with death, but life. She took the air away, this woman he didn't know, his savior, and gave him a brief, apologetic smile, before yanking him up, up toward the sky, toward air, toward life.

  They broke the surface between the steeple and a large orange buoy, and he gasped for air that had never tasted so sweet. She dragged him to the dock, grunting as she swam until he was able to use his own arms. She helped him up onto the dock, the two of them groaning from the effort. He doubled over suddenly, every single inch of him seizing in excruciating pain, and puked up everything still in his guts from that morning.