Blackwater Kraken (The Dystopian Sea Book 3)

by Sean Michael Argo

  BLACKWATER KRAKEN

  The Dystopian Sea Book 3

  By Sean Michael Argo

  www.severedpress.com

  Copyright 2019 by Sean Michael Argo

  Edited by TL Bland

  1.

  A small, empty dinghy floated on the water’s surface. The moon’s rays emitted a soft glow from beneath a thick shroud of clouds. There was hardly any natural light to illuminate the dark waters until light began to appear beneath the gentle waves. A bright, shining orb rose up from the depths next to the boat. Two heads breached the surface, and soon each of the men removed his breathing apparatus.

  “How many you get?” The eldest of the two men asked before lifting himself into the small vessel.

  “One. Just one,” the younger man said.

  The older gentleman let out a heavy sigh. “Same,” he admitted.

  The younger of the two men passed roughly hewn, wooden crates up from the water. The fellow diver shook the salty water from his graying hair before loading the first pot onto the boat. He shined a light on the mutated lobster to stun it before turning for the next crate. The ship rocked as the younger man climbed into the boat.

  “What is it, boss?” He asked, seeing his friend stoop to inspect the second crate.

  The man did not answer.

  The younger man approached the crate. Beneath the bright light, he saw the second lobster. A thick black substance coated the lobster’s three eyes. The lantern’s rays did not shine directly on it like the other one. It should have moved. The claws opened and closed in slow, jarring movements. The legs were paralyzed, coated in the same mysterious black grime.

  “W-what is it?” The young man asked.

  The man with the lantern did not answer. He turned and paced to the aft end of the boat. He thrust the lamp out in front of him. The water seemed normal. The man bent over the edge of the ship, lowering his lantern closer to the sea. It still looked normal. The old fisherman let out a sigh of relief. Just as he sat down on the bench, the clouds parted. The moon’s beams stretched out over the surrounding waters for a moment of clarity.

  The old fisherman looked over his shoulder. His eyes widened as he took in the scene. The man’s heart and tongue froze. As he looked over the waters, thick with the dark substance, his chest stalled with shallow breaths.

  “Blackwater,” he gasped.

  The young man stepped cautiously over to his partner. There was a distinct line 100 meters from the boat. The dark green murky water transformed into an impenetrable black. It stretched out to the horizon.

  The young man’s voice shook, “I-it looks like it’s moving.”

  “Start the engine.”

  The adolescent’s hands shook as he pulled the chord next to him. The engine sputtered. He tried again.

  “Hurry, boy!”

  His hands yanked the chord hard. He looked up at the water. The black line approached them fast, seeming to swallow every scrap of light in its passage.

  The boat started with a lurch forward. Both men kept their eyes trained on the black line approaching them. The moon disappeared once again. All they had was the glow of their lantern to light a small patch of the waters surrounding them.

  “What is it?”

  The old man’s face was pale. It seemed as if he’d aged within moments under the bright wash of artificial light.

  “It ain’t good.” The man looked back into the darkness, “We need to get the fuck outta here. If what I hear—if that’s what I think it is. It’ll kill us.”

  “What is blackwater?” The young man felt the anxiety rise in his chest. His pulse quickened as his heart thrashed against his ribs.

  “Oil, but with a mind of its own,” the old man let out a breath and ran his hand through his damp hair, “It means we’re gonna starve if we don’t die tonight. Can we go any faster?” The old man stood up.

  “N-not unless we lighten the load,” the young man looked in the boat. There was not much to toss overboard. He looked at the two lobsters they caught for their next meal. The gear took them years to build and earn. Some of it was his grandfather’s.

  The young man watched as his father picked up the crate with the oil-slicked lobster in it, “D-dad,” he said, sick at the thought of losing both the meal and the box.

  The old man threw the crate over. Without hesitation, he turned for the second crate and tossed it over. A lump rose in the young man’s throat. The seriousness of the threat sunk in the pit of his stomach. He watched as his father threw their livelihood overboard. Everything went into the dark waters churning below.

  The father returned. His face was flush, and his eyes danced frantically over the water.

  “Dad, that was everything.”

  “You don’t understand.” His father waved his hand, “That,” he jabbed a finger towards the waters behind him, “Will kill us. Everything it touches is dead. No more fish.” The man’s eyes bulged, and his voice sank in despair, “That means no more whales neither, without the leviathan, folk will have nothing left. This is bad, son. This,” the man’s voice choked for a moment. His son could see the tears in his eyes. “This is bad for all of us.”

  The son’s attention was distracted by a dark mass rising from the sea. The father saw the look in the son’s eyes. He hesitated for a moment before looking up. The gray fluffs of clouds breaking up the night darkened behind a gigantic silhouette. The dark form grew until the moon’s soft glow disappeared altogether.

  The darkness was impenetrable. All the two men could see was the small ring of light illuminating them. The father reached out for his son. They sat there, as the boat bounced over the waves, waiting for whatever was coming for them. It seemed like an eternity passed within the few minutes since the world disappeared.

  In the small rays of light illuminating a fragment of the ocean, a black snake slithered on the ocean surface. The man’s eyes followed in horror as it rose from the water, towering over them, revealing the dark crimson suckers of a tentacle.

  2.

  “Damn it,” Drucilla stood up in the crow’s nest looking through her spyglass.

  The sky was clear, blue, and cloudless. A strong wind filled the brightly colored, patchwork sails of the Penny Dreadful. Vibrant blue, gold, red, purple and orange swatches of silk stitched and reinforced dragged the vessel through the calm waters. Captain Drucilla’s mother has sewn the Polynesian-inspired sails herself.

  Drucilla climbed down from the crow’s nest. The ends of her long, dark dreadlocks flew in the wind, clinking together the small trinkets and bones adorning them. The rope ladder swayed in the breeze. The captain held fast. She had sailed the Penny Dreadful since childhood. The ship was her home, and she was its master.

  Captain Dru took long strides across the deck of the Penny Dreadful. Riddle, the ship's enforcer, leaned up against one of the masts. A robotic arm replaced the flesh and bone she was missing. When she had first come aboard the Penny Dreadful, Drucilla’s father was still captain. Captain Raj introduced Riddle to the talented tinkerer aboard named Vladimir. He built her first mechanical arm. Then, he taught her how to make her own.

  Today Riddle sported an arm of her creation. The cables and structure weaved together to create the appearance of a polished, slender, and nearly feminine prosthetic. At the elbow, where it hinged, however, her robotic forearm widened into the multi-barrels of a patch-made Gatling gun. She held the weight of it with her free hand. It was her job to keep everyone in line. They knew it as much as she did. Bullets were for people and not the dark creatures of the sea. The gun made her look tinier than she already was. She stood at a fierce five feet—five foot two if y
ou include her halo of kinky red curls.

  Riddle puffed on a cigar as she leaned with one foot pressed against the mast. Drucilla gave her a nod of acknowledgment as she crossed the deck. Abigail lay beside the banister over three crates. She heard Drucilla’s footfall and raised her hand to her eyes to shield them from the blinding sun. Her green eyes glowed like bright balls of pure energy in contrast to her complexion. She swung her feet over the side of the crate and sat up when she saw Drucilla’s expression.

  “It’s not good, is it?” Abigail asked.

  Drucilla shook her head. She braced her hands on her hips. Her brows knit together as she looked out over the ocean’s waves. Riddle straightened and walked over to them. Other members of the crew perked up, apparently trying to eavesdrop on what the Captain and Abigail discussed.

  “It’s just as I feared. The blackwater has reached the Cascadian cross current. It’s spreading fast. It won’t be long before the toxic slick taints the waters we’re in now.”

  Abigail stood. She was tall, slender, and curvy. Drucilla was only slightly shorter than Abigail, but her boots brought her almost even with her height. They towered far above Riddle who stood with her gun slung over her shoulder.

  “We are going to have to go further South to find a Leviathan pod.”

  “Damn it,” Riddle cursed.

  Drucilla sighed. All of them were irritable from the long stretch at sea.

  “I understand we've been at sea awhile, yet even if I pulled us into port, none of you would have anything to trade with. We’d all end up right back here.” Drucilla said this loud enough for the disgruntled deckhands to hear her reasoning. She rubbed her forehead for a moment. Her voice calmed. It still carried out to the people around her.

  “We’re not the only ones suffering. Most of the other ships can’t support the fuel to go out this far. The chances of us finding a pod, if--” she emphasized the last word with a pause, “if we can put enough distance between us and the black water. Abigail, round up Bard, Mr. Pit, and Kalak to meet in my quarters. Riddle, I’ll have Abigail fill you in tonight after taps.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Riddle gave Abigail a half salute.

  The Captain immediately disappeared down the ladder well towards her quarters. Abigail went in search of the officers.

  Mr. Pit was in the diving lockers. Abigail’s heart sank when she found him there. Ever since Croatoa died in the Battle of Seattle, Mr. Pit tried to take up his job patching and maintaining the remaining diving equipment. Most of the suits were lost or severely damaged during the battle. The hulking mass of the Australian First Mate sat in the middle of the room.

  Abigail rapped on the bulkhead before entering.

  He looked up. “Abigail,” he nodded. He continued to spread a substance over the thinning neoprene of one ancient suit.

  “Dru wants us in her quarters.”

  Mr. Pit nodded, but he did not look up.

  Abigail’s hips swayed as she walked over to him. Her long slender fingers touched Mr. Pits’ bald head and grazed across his upper shoulders in a consoling caress, “How are you holding up?” She asked.

  Mr. Pit looked out the open hatch to make sure no one was eavesdropping or watching in the hallway. He shrugged his shoulders. “I'm no dive master. I miss him.”

  Abigail let out a heavy sigh and dropped herself into a squat beside her superior. She laid her other hand on his shoulder in a half hug. “I know. Me too,” she sighed. “Dru doesn’t have good news. The blackwater is spreading.”

  “Shit,” Mr. Pit set down the diving suit. The huge man stood up. When Abigail rose alongside him, she stood a foot shorter than Mr. Pit. “Go get the others.”

  Abigail followed Mr. Pit out of the room and exited up the ladder well closest to the diving locker. She could hear the grunts and thuds of sparring coming from one of the storage units. They only managed to fill one of the Penny’s holds with meat and oil thus far. When she opened the first empty chamber, she found Kalak and Artisema.

  Artisema used her wooden staff to block a blow from Kalak. The impact of the strike caused her to fall back with a loud thump and skid across the floor a few inches. Kalak went to attack her again, but the young girl rolled out of the way. She was fast compared to Kalak. Abigail could see Artisema was growing flustered. Her face was red from the effort. Kalak noticed as well and quickened his attacks. Artisema dodged and ran from what she could and blocked the rest.

  Kalak had Artisema cornered. Whack. Whack. Whack. The girl raised her staff with both hands to block each blow. Each down thrust or sideswipe backed her closer and closer into a corner. She decided to duck and run away at the last moment. Abigail thought this was the best time to interject. She withdrew her curved blade and stepped directly in Kalak’s path.

  Kalak’s face twisted into a smirk. “You want to play, too?” His deep voice boomed.

  Abigail tossed her blade to her other hand and back again. She bit her lip and smiled at her shipmate and friend. “What? A landlubber like you can only take on little girls?”

  A full boil of laughter bubbled up through Kalak’s diaphragm. Within seconds he withdrew a blade the length of his forearm from his belt. In one hand he wielded the stick, in the other the knife. He tried to smack Abigail in the arm with the staff. Like Artisema, Abigail was fast and graceful. She danced more than fought as she evaded his blow and sliced down with her blade. Kalak’s steel met hers to block. He took a moment to wallop her in the stomach with the butt of his staff.

  Abigail’s eyes narrowed into slits. Kalak tried to hit her with another blow to gain ground.

  “Watch this,” Abigail said to the girl, between grit teeth.

  Kalak had attacked Abigail again, hitting her with a series of quick blows. Each one required Abigail to block instead of attack. Each one forced Abigail to react and allowed Kalak to herd her where he wanted. Abigail smiled as she timed her next move with the rhythm of Kalak swings. When Kalak pulled back his staff to hit her from the left flank, Abigail dove down into a squat. His blow missed her. She used the momentum of the movement to push herself off into a back handspring. Both of her feet kicked Kalak in the jaw on the way up.

  Artisema’s stick rattled against the deck as she clapped violently with it under her arm. “Oh! Please show me how to do that!” The girl squealed. She had a black eye. Her lip was busted, and she looked exhausted.

  Kalak rubbed his jaw as Abigail re-sheathed her blade.

  “Okay, watch.” Abigail showed Artisema how to do the maneuver. She then taught her how to perform it with the staff in her hand. “Practice it while Kalak and I meet with the Captain, okay?”

  Artisema nodded. Her face broke into a broad smile.

  Abigail turned to Kalak, “Meet in Drucilla’s quarters as soon as possible.”

  Kalak grunted his assent as Abigail exited through the bulkhead.

  Bard was the last person for her to collect. She found him in the officer’s berthing. As soon as Abigail entered the passageway, the twang of Bard’s banjo reached her ears. Her step quickened towards the sound. She paused just outside of the berthing and listened to the melody bouncing off the steel bulkheads.

  Bard knew Abigail was there. He could hear her soft footsteps as she approached. The harpooner could see the light shadow blocking the thin strip of light peeking from the slight crack in the doorway. He could not help but smile and continue playing as he waited for her to pop her head through the hatch.

  Abigail entered the room to find Bard alone on his rack. He watched her as she turned her back on him and sealed the entrance to the berthing, ensuring their privacy. Bard sat up from his slouched position before she turned around. The tune he played changed ever so slightly with Abigail in his presence. He looked at her, and his fingers strummed an unconscious, lulling rhythm.

  Abigail’s green eyes brightened as she approached the rack. Bard serenaded her playfully. “… and her skin was like black calla lilies. Her hair—it smells of the sea. Abigail of the ocean
… Why can’t you love me and only me?”

  “That’s cute,” a deep crimson flushed her cheeks as she cast her eyes away from his.

  Bard set his banjo down next to him and scooted to the end of his bed so that his feet dangled care free from the top rack. After looking at Abigail for a moment, he leaped down and caused her to gasp by grabbing her suddenly by the hips and pulling her into him. She stood so close to him that his inner thighs grazed her sides, his eyes were parallel to her own, and their noses almost touched. They looked at each other for a moment until Bard pressed his lips against hers. Abigail’s tongue danced with Bard’s. Her full lips were wet with anticipation when he pulled away.

  “How can I help you, M'lady? Hook a leviathan for me to spear? An idle sailor is no good to anyone.”

  Bard spoke with a smile as he stroked her soft cheek beneath his rough, calloused thumb. Her head fitted into his hand with delicate perfection. Abigail never let Bard touch him in this way for too long. No man could ever own her—not like the way they wanted. Her independent spirit always led her to react in the same manner. She smiled, released herself from his caress, and addressed him with the same authoritative swagger as she did the other crew members.

  “Drucilla wants us to meet in her cabin.”

  “Is she going to let us pull into port for a few days?”

  “No,” Abigail shook her head, “I didn’t even bother to ask. You know how she is.”

  Bard sighed and ran his hand through his hair, “Yeah, relentless and stubborn.” he patted the sides of Abigail’s thighs with both hands. “Well, we might as well go and get this over with.”

  3.

  That evening, when Riddle went below decks to ready herself for the night, she was met by the sight of Abigail. The taller woman approached her as Riddle removed her mechanical arm for the night. Riddle was exhausted from pacing the decks all day.

  “Hey,” Abby said.

  “Yeah?”