Hell Rig

by J. E. Gurley

  Jeff and Lisa held hands. Both held their voodoo charms in their other hands, held out like an offering to the fog. The fog dipped, rose and coiled in on itself like a living creature, reluctant to touch the medallions. Together, they made a path through the fog.

  “What’s that?” Lisa asked, pointing to an object on the deck in front of them barely visible through the mist.

  Jeff did not reply as they walked toward it. He suspected he knew what it was but still gasped when he saw Clyde Gleason’s disemboweled body lying on the deck, his back against a pile of garbage, eyes open and staring at them. The stain of a large blood pool surrounded him, but the blood was gone, lapped up by the fog just as Jeff had witnessed earlier with Easton.

  “Oh, my God,” Lisa whispered, and turned her head away from the gruesome scene.

  Jeff reluctantly released his medallion, leaned down and closed Gleason’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Clyde. Tolson didn’t know. It’s not his fault.” He stood up and spoke loudly to the fog, raising his fist in defiance. “It’s this damn platform.”

  Laughter floated to them from the depths of the fog, its source indiscernible, masked by the roiling cloud of death. Lisa clasped his hand tighter.

  “It’s odd the fog didn’t burn Clyde’s body as he lay here,” Jeff commented, remembering his own burns.

  “Maybe…maybe it only burns living tissue.”

  “It corroded the metal,” he reminded her.

  “Maybe it was satisfied by the blood, like an offering.” She squeezed his hand again. “I’m sorry. It’s just…this weird fog…it gets to me.”

  Jeff examined the wound more closely. “See,” he said, pointing to the edges. “The wounds are clean like Sid’s were.” He stood up and looked around. “It would take something sharp, like a knife. What did Tolson use if not his knife and where is it?”

  He checked Gleason’s pocket and found his knife, clean except for tobacco stains where he used it to cut pieces from his plug. He stared into the fog, trying to see the shapes more clearly but the fog was too dense. They left Gleason’s body where it was and continued toward the helideck.

  “Why there?” Lisa asked as he led the way.

  “It’s a place Waters likes.”

  They mounted the steps one at a time. He had to release Lisa’s hand on the narrow stairway. As they neared the edge of the helideck, Jeff pulled his knife from his pocket and opened the blade. It was only three inches of steel but it was better than nothing. It felt good in his hand. He carefully peered over the edge but saw nothing. They climbed onto the pad.

  “He’s not here,” she said. There was relief in her voice.

  Jeff looked around. In the enveloping darkness with no point of reference, his vertigo did not bother him. They were standing above the reach of the fog. It smothered the bulk of the rig like a shroud. The lights were barely visible, soaked up by the all-encompassing fog. His gaze drifted seaward. The fog was less dense farther out and ended sharply, as if sliced with a knife, a few hundred yards away, entirely unnatural. A smudge of light blinking through the fog attracted his attention. He stared at it a few moments before pointing it out to Lisa.

  “I think it’s the supply ship,” he said excitedly.

  “Thank God,” she said with a sigh. “We need a light to signal them. Use your flashlight.”

  Jeff took the flashlight from his back pocket and began flash it on and off. The boat drew closer but did not return his signal.

  “Damn! I think the wash of lights through the fog is masking the flashlight.” He thought furiously. “They will probably lay off the platform until daylight, hoping the fog will thin.”

  “We’ve got to contact them. We need help now.” There was a touch of desperation Lisa’s voice.

  “Maybe the flares in the TEMPSC,” he said. “Let’s get them.”

  They raced down the helideck stairs toward the stairwell to the cellar deck and almost ran headlong into Waters. He stood in their path brandishing a knife. The knife seemed familiar, though Jeff had not seen Waters carrying a knife previously. Waters’ eyes stared into nothingness and his mouth gaped open. His body swayed to some unheard rhythm. He looked like a zombie from a B-movie.

  “Waters!” Jeff yelled. “The supply ship’s here. We can all get off this damn platform now.”

  Waters simply stared at him, tilting his head slightly at the sound of his voice like a bird locating its prey.

  “Waters!” Jeff repeated, trying to get through to him.

  Finally, Waters spoke but his lips did not move. The voice that came from him was not his. It was barely human, deep and echoing.

  “Waters is mine now. It is too late for you. Soon, you will all be mine.”

  “Who are you? What are you?” Lisa cried out.

  To hear laughter erupt from Waters, unmoving mouth seemed a bit too unreal. Jeff shuddered.

  “You will learn soon enough,” Waters replied.

  Jeff held out his voodoo medallion like a shield. Waters backed up a step. Lisa held out hers and Waters looked from one to the other and snarled.

  “Soon, I’ll be too strong for these trinkets to protect you,” the voice said.

  Waters simply melted back into the fog.

  “Did you see that?” Lisa whispered. “It’s like he’s a ghost.”

  “Maybe he always was,” Jeff suggested, “Or at least a half ghost. Let’s get those flares.”

  It took the strength of both of them to wrench open the emergency craft’s door. Jeff reached inside and took out a small watertight box containing a flare gun and three flares. They rushed to the edge of the platform. Jeff was frantic for a few seconds before he saw the light again, now much closer. He raised the flare gun and fired into the air. The flare sailed high into the air, arcing over the ship with a loud whistle, floating slowly down until the sea took it. He waited a few moments for a response.

  “Maybe they’re asleep,” he suggested. He loaded the flare gun again.

  He aimed the second flare so it would be visible from the bridge. He held his breath and fired again. The bright orange flare floated to within a few yards of the bow of the ship before hitting the water with a hiss.

  “Are they deaf?” he yelled in frustration.

  Apprehension made his hands shake as he loaded the third and last flare. He almost dropped it over the side in his haste. He looked at Lisa. She nodded her head.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said. He took a deep breath and fired the flare high into the night sky so that it would be visible longer. He held his breath as the flare drifted to the sea. Still, no response came from the ship.

  “Damn them!” Lisa cried out, almost in tears. “Where are they?”

  In anger, Jeff threw the empty flare gun into the sea. He grabbed Lisa by the waist and pulled her to him. She sobbed her disappointment into his chest.

  “They’ll see us in the morning, I promise,” he told her, trying to convince himself as well. He hoped it was a promise he could keep.

  * * * *

  Captain Luis Lefavre kept a steady eye on the radar. The fog was as thick as he had ever seen it in his twenty-two years on the water and there was still a lot of floating debris two weeks after Katrina. He had taken his 185–foot offshore supply vessel, the Bon Temps Rollez, into deeper water near Mexico before Katrina had hit. Other ships had not been so lucky and had paid the price for their negligence. He did not want to lose her to some damned tree or piece of someone’s dock. He took a sip from his coffee mug and frowned. The coffee was cold and bitter.

  “Bring me some fresh coffee,” he said to First Mate Edward Buras standing by the cabin door staring into the fog.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Edward replied and grabbed the offered cup. “Looks like a bitch of a night.”

  Lefavre looked at his young First Mate, barely twenty-five years old but with ten years on the water. “Number Thirteen’s out there somewhere. I can feel it. With this fog, we’ll never see her. Once we spot her on radar, we’ll come in close
and drop an anchor alee of her until morning.”

  “How come we can’t raise her?”

  Lefavre smiled. “Been listening to stories, Edward? Think number Thirteen is haunted, maybe?”

  Buras blushed. “No. I don’t believe in ghosts, but it is strange we’ve heard nothing since the first day.”

  Lefavre shrugged. He had heard the stories about the rig and had dismissed them as old wives tales. Besides, money was money and he didn’t make anything tied up at dock. “It’s an old rig, older than the Bon Temp. Radios go out. We’ll find out when we get there. Now, how about that coffee?”

  When Buras left the cabin, Lefavre looked at the ship’s clock and cursed. They were already a day late. He had awakened the morning they were due to sail only to find two feet of water in the bilge, a leak in the seal around the starboard propeller shaft. Both shafts needed new seals but he did not have the time. He repaired it as best he could and set out. He had been running at three quarter speed and keeping a close eye on it since their departure and it seemed to be holding. He hoped the leaky seal had just been by chance rather than part of the Global Thirteen curse.

  Lefavre took his crucifix in his hand and kissed it. “Protect us, Holy Mother.”

  * * * *

  “The supply ship’s anchored about one hundred yards out,” Jeff reported to the others. “We fired three flares with no response. They must be asleep.”

  He and Lisa had agreed not to mention their encounter with Waters.

  Ed smiled. “Good news. By morning, we’ll be off this rig and Tolson can get some medical attention.”

  “He needs it,” McAndrews said. “That shoulder is badly infected. His fever’s gotten worse.” He shook his head. “I’ve done all I can do.”

  “We’ll all be home by noon.” Ed rubbed his hands together. “The supply ship can call in a chopper and pick us up.”

  “You look awful chipper for a man about to lose his business,” McAndrews said.

  A flash of pain crossed Ed’s face. “I’m sixty-two, boys. I would have to retire soon anyway. I own my home so they can’t take that away from me, or my pension. I may not be as comfortable in my old age as I would have liked, but the last couple of days have taken a toll on me. I’ve gotten three men killed, maybe four. Losing my business just doesn’t matter as much anymore.”

  “It’s not your fault, Ed.” Jeff spoke up. “It’s this damn hell rig.”

  Ed shook his head. “No, it was my greed. Greed is a deadly vice. I thought I would be able to turn the company around with this deal, there have been too many years of barely scraping by.” He slapped his knees and chuckled. “That’s life, boys and girls, pure and simple.”

  When Ed got up and ambled slowly down the hallway, Lisa looked at Jeff with pity in her eyes.

  “He’s torn up inside,” she said. “He took Gleason’s death hard. He’s just trying to hide it.”

  Jeff felt shame at her show of pity. He knew Ed wouldn’t want or appreciate it.

  “What do you expect?” he snapped. “He spent his whole life working for his future. Now it’s gone in a heartbeat. He always talked about seeing Europe someday.” He laughed. “He probably won’t see New Orleans.”

  Lisa ignored Jeff’s outburst. She placed her hand on Jeff’s, entwining their fingers. He was glad of the warmth of contact. He wasn’t worried about his own problems—mainly a sudden lack of employment. He was young and healthy and could find another job. Ed had fought all his life to make something of Re-Berth and now he was watching it fail. Jeff knew he couldn’t even begin to get a sense of what Ed was going through.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed to Lisa.

  “All we can do now is rush Tolson to the hospital and get the rest of us away from this horrible platform.”

  He leaned against her shoulder. “Tomorrow morning,” he promised.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I can barely see their lights.” Edward Buras peered into the fog surrounding Global Thirteen. “That’s odd. The fog is twice as thick around them as it is here.”

  Lefavre pushed the button on the ship’s horn. It blared out but the fog seemed to absorb the sound before it traveled beyond the deck. He tried again with the same results.

  “I don’t see any lights in the main building,” he said. “They must be asleep. We’ll anchor here. At daylight, you and I will go over and wake them up.”

  Buras nodded. “I’ll tell the others.”

  Lefavre watched him go. The Bon Temp Rollez carried a crew of three besides him and his First Mate. They ranged from a sixteen-year old kid on his first voyage to a fifty-five year old salt. It was a good crew. He knew he could trust them to do their jobs and they knew he would treat them right. During busy season, he often got twice the going rate for rush jobs. He always shared with his crew. This kept them happy and loyal.

  Lefebvre heard the rattling of the anchor chain and killed the engines. “Strange fog,” he muttered as he walked over to the cabin door. “Looks like some kind of sea serpent coiled around the rig that way.” As he waited for daylight, he checked the weather reports. Hurricane Rita was headed their way now, less than two days out. It looked as though New Orleans was due for another round of bad weather. “God help them,” he muttered.

  Working out of Grand Isle, he knew would be in for it too. His best course of action after dropping off the supplies and picking up a load was to head directly for Sabine Pass on the border of Texas to the west. It offered better protection from the storm surge. Lefavre checked his clock. They did not have much time for niceties. He would have to wake up the rig crew and start off loading supplies as soon as possible.

  He reached for the intercom. “Edward, we can’t wait for daylight. Get a move on.” He waited on Buras. A few minutes later Buras poked his head in.

  “Ready, Cap’n.”

  The skiff was already in the water, floating alongside the ship. He climbed in and sat at the tiller as Buras rowed them over to the platform’s landing dock. The sea was glass smooth and the oars hardly made a sound as they bit into the water. The fog opened up before them like drapes pushed aside.

  “That’s strange,” Lefavre said. A sudden chill raised goose bumps on his arm.

  They had no trouble climbing onto the landing dock. Lefavre tried the intercom located beside the stairs.

  “It’s not working,” he said after a few failed attempts.

  “What’s that?” Buras said, pointing upwards.

  Lefavre looked up and saw Waters standing near the top of the stairs. Waters was slack-jawed and his eyes were void of life. He stared down as if looking through them. He reminded Lefavre of a zombie.

  “Who are you?” he yelled up at the man.

  Waters said nothing.

  “I am Captain Lefavre of the Bon Temp Rollez. Permission to come aboard?”

  Still, Waters remained silent.

  “He looks confused,” Buras whispered. “Maybe he’s sick.”

  “Or drunk,” Lefavre whispered as he began to climb the stairs.

  Suddenly, Waters smiled and Lefavre’s heart skipped a beat. Waters’ face had gone from slack-jawed dumbness to a look of total malice. His eyes, so dead and expressionless moments earlier, now bore an animal lust. A knife appeared in Waters’ hand. Lefavre began to back down the stairs.

  “Cap’n!” Buras shouted.

  Lefavre looked back and saw the fog closing in on them. Ominous shadows moved in the midst of it. A tendril of fog shaped like a hand grasped Lefavre’s hand on the rail. He jerked his hand away in pain and saw a large red welt appear on the skin.

  “The fog burns,” he told Buras in amazement. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “No one leaves,” Waters said in a dead voice.

  Lefavre and Buras pushed their way through the fog to their skiff, ignoring the pain. They covered their faces with their hands but the flesh exposed to the fog—hands and ears—burned as if dipped in acid.

  “No one leaves,” Wat
ers repeated.

  Lefavre uncovered his face and saw Waters standing in front of them.

  “How—” Lefavre began. His sentence died in infancy as Waters’ knife sliced deep into the Captain’s throat. Lefavre felt hot sticky blood gushing over his hand and running down his chest. He opened his mouth and blood spilled out, running down his chin. He tasted the salty tang of blood on his tongue. He looked at Buras just as the fog enveloped his First Mate like a shroud and snatched him away screaming. The scream ended abruptly in a sickening crunch.

  Lefavre fell backwards onto the deck in slow motion. The living fog swirled around him supporting his body gently as he fell. Strangely, he felt no pain but he knew he was dying. He lay there staring at the night sky wishing he could see the stars one more time as his life’s blood poured from between his fingers and dripped into the sea through the deck grating. Waters stood over him, grinning inanely with blood staining the knife he held in his hand. Lefavre saw him glance over at the Bon Temp Rollez. He tried uselessly to yell a warning, realizing they were as doomed as he was.

  He touched his crucifix, tried to raise it to his lips, but his strength failed. He died hearing the sound of insane laughter echoing in the living fog.

  * * * *

  “Why don’t they answer?” Lisa asked. She was agitated, jerking at the railing. They had hailed the supply ship several times with no results.

  Jeff didn’t answer. He was looking closely at the supply ship in the early morning light. The fog had cleared and he could see it plainly. “I think it’s sinking,” he announced, stunned by what he saw.

  “What?”

  He pointed. “Look. It’s listing starboard a good ten degrees.”

  “Oh God!” Lisa exclaimed. “What do we do?”

  “The fog’s gone. I’ll swim out there. Maybe I can use the radio to call for help or bring back their skiff.”