Sea Creature

by Victor Methos

  “Look at the top shows and you’ll see nothing but drunks and morons. Sports heroes are turning out to be junkies, politicians sex maniacs or idiots. The fools are running the ship, cobber. The idiots are held up as role models and every successive generation will emulate them.

  “But the squid, cobber. I tell you, the bloody squid are not like that. Most species with intelligence, like chimps or hyenas or dolphins, they have some kind’a what you’d call rudimentary morality. Not perfect morality, they’re still animals, but they display mercy and compassion and giving like we do. The squid doesn’t do that. It kills for pleasure even when it puts its own life in danger.”

  He finished the beer and placed it down on the deck before picking another one out of a six pack next to him.

  “I was diving offshore in California couple years back, Baja I think, studying the Humboldt squid and one of my assistants, Grieg, was there. We started feeding them to get more of ‘em around and we got up maybe four or five. And they aren’t big, bout a meter and half at their largest. So they ate everything we had and the mood changed. Many predators, even sharks, would’a swam off after they knew dinner was over. But the squid attacked. One ripped off Greig’s mask and another pulled out the tubing of his air tank. Then they just held on to his legs and pulled him down so far that I couldn’t reach him. By the time I got help there, he had already drowned. They figured out that we couldn’t breathe underwater. That’s higher reasoning, Janey girl. It’s rare.”

  He took a swig of beer and continued.

  “Now the squid are growing in numbers cause their only predators are sperm whales and the whales are nearly extinct from us. So we have a species that is getting smarter, that has no use for morality, and that can analyze prey to find weaknesses. Once the whales are all gone, they’ll run the ocean. When we’re off the land, it’s not too science fiction to think they may take over.”

  Mitch stood up and guzzled the rest of his beer, the foaming liquid running down his neck and over his collar. “But what the hell do I know I’m rotten right now. Too much’a this piss beer. Good night Ms. Jane, Patrick.”

  He stumbled across the deck and went down below. Jane sat in his deck chair, gooseflesh covering her arms and legs.

  Patrick looked from her out to the sea, the water glistening blue from the moon; and beyond the blue, emptiness.

  * * *

  51

  Patrick awoke and felt next to him for Jane but there was no one there. He sat up and stretched his back and looked for his clothes.

  He came out to the deck and saw that the men were already full on into the day though it was barely seven in the morning. It was bright and cloudless but cool from an ocean wind. He saw Jane in one of the shark cages, Mitch instructing her.

  Patrick went to them and listened as Mitch told her about a time when a great white broke into a cage he was in and how flimsy the cages used to be when he first started diving.

  “Morning bright eyes,” he said. “Just showing your woman here the finer points’a shark cage diving.”

  Jane hopped out of the cage and gave him a kiss. She was wearing shorts and her legs were smooth and lotioned and Patrick could see the men leering at her.

  “What time did you get up?” Patrick asked.

  “Not too long ago. An hour or so. You eaten yet?”

  “No.”

  “There’s waffles with whip cream and fruit.”

  “Actually I need some exercise. I was going to jog around the deck.”

  “There’s a gym here. It’s on the lowest deck; I don’t know what you call that. Just go down the stairs until you can’t go anymore and you’ll find it.”

  “It’s on the lower deck near the stern,” Mitch said as he picked up a harpoon gun and placed it in one of the cages.

  There was yelling near the port side. The men jumped out of their chairs and rushed over and were shouting at one of the fisherman who was strapped into his chair, his rod bent to the point of snapping in half.

  “He’s got something,” Mitch said.

  They ran over. The man was swearing in Spanish and pressing with his feet against the railing of the ship to pull the rod back as far as it would go. Two other men grabbed him and buckled him in to the chair with another rubber strap which was bolted to the deck.

  The man tried his best but finally caved and shouted for help. The same men grabbed the rod and pushed from the front as the fisherman pulled. Soon, the line was going slack and they were pulling up to the surface whatever they had caught.

  Mitch ran back and got one of the harpoon guns. Patrick watched as he took out a small vial of thick, white liquid and attached it to the tip of the harpoon.

  “Sedative.”

  It was close now. The rod was nearly straight and either the fight had left whatever it was they had hooked, or it was coming to the surface on its own.

  Bubbles rose and burst and the fishing line snapped back to an upright position, the fisherman nearly flying out of the chair, his straps holding him in place.

  A ten foot mako shark thrashed on the end of the line, the six inch hook jutting out of the side of its mouth. It would thrash wildly and then attempt to dart away, only to have the line tug at its face and bring him back.

  Patrick had never seen one from this close. He had gone fishing in some of the most dangerous waters in the world, but only come into contact with blues and white tips and lemons and bulls. Never a mako. It was a magnificently designed animal; the fastest fish in the sea, clocked at over seventy miles an hour.

  As Patrick watched in wonder the crowd began to disperse. One of the fishermen walked up with a rifle and before anyone could do or say anything he shot the mako in the head. The shark spun in a circle, a cloud of crimson blood spraying out of its head near its snout, and disappeared in the deep.

  “What the fuck are you doing!” Mitch yelled.

  “Qué?”

  “My arse! Who told you to shoot it? Que le dijo que se dispara?”

  The man didn’t respond and he looked to his fellows for help but they turned away, knowing what was coming.

  Stewart was nearby and Mitch turned to him and yelled, “Get this man off my ship!”

  The man still had the rifle in his hands and Mitch grabbed it from him as Stewart took his arms and twisted them behind his back. He lifted him like a doll and brought him to the edge of the railing, pushing him over as the man fought and screamed.

  “Stop!” Patrick ran over and grabbed Stewart’s arm. “Stop it now.”

  Stewart ripped his arm away and pushed Patrick back at the chest. He let the man go and stood upright to his full height, towering over Patrick.

  Patrick didn’t back down and came to within inches of him, staring up into his eyes.

  “Now now, boys,” Mitch said. “Calm down. Look, I overreacted.” He looked to the fisherman. “Go back to your station. If I see you with another gun on this trip I’m going to let Stewart finish. Entiende usted?”

  “Sí. Gracias, señor. Usted no tendrá ningún problema de mi.”

  “I hope not. Ahora van.”

  Stewart didn’t move as the fisherman snuck past him and ran below deck. Patrick felt his stare and knew what it was he wanted to do. He could see it in his eyes. He had learned to read eyes. People lied, but their eyes couldn’t. Stewart’s eyes told him he had killed before, and would have no problem doing it now.

  “Let it alone, Stewart,” Mitch said. “That’s enough. It’s resolved.”

  Stewart walked away without a word.

  “That, mate, was a bad enemy to make. You should’a let him thrown the man overboard. We would’ve gotten him out in a minute.”

  “I don’t like bullies.”

  “Me neither but I hate poachers even more. That was a beautiful animal that man killed for no reason at all. He needed a good frightening.”

  Patrick took a deep breath and said, “I’m going to go work out.”

  * * *

  52

 
It was dark and quiet when Juan Rojas finished his dinner and decided to go to the deck and finish his inventory of the lifeboats. There were ten, more than triple what they needed for the twenty-one passengers onboard, but the old man in the wheelchair had insisted that all lifeboats needed to be in good working order. And Juan was not about to disappoint him.

  He had met several people like the man in the wheelchair. His services had been rented to American Navy trainers to help train their men, and to Iranian businessmen looking for a week’s vacation fishing in foreign waters. He loved being on the ocean and this was as good a way as any to reach that goal.

  But the ocean was like a woman and could be cruel and distant went left alone for too long. Juan had lost two wives and a good job working construction in Santiago in order to be on the ocean, sometimes for such little pay it wouldn’t even cover the cost of his meals during the trip. But the old man paid handsomely, and Juan was happy to work a little harder to impress him.

  He stepped up from below deck and felt the chill of an ocean wind. He put his beanie on over his head and slapped on his work gloves. He glanced around and when he was certain no one was watching he took out his flask of navegado—a heated red wine with orange slices and sugar—and took a long gulp. It warmed his throat and belly and he wiped his lips on the back of his glove before walking to the life boats.

  He had completed checking six of them and found various items missing: from first aid kits to rations and life vests. He found number seven and opened up the small door.

  The lifeboats were white bottoms with red covered tops to keep out sun and rain. They were meant to preserve life for fourteen days; two weeks worth of food and water stashed in each one. Juan thought two weeks on this ocean was far too short—some people could be lost for months—but it was what the designers had wanted.

  He climbed in and checked all the seats for belts before going through the first aid kit. He checked for bandages and antiseptics and water purification tablets and aspirin and antibiotics. He then counted the life vests and the packages of rations and bottles of water. Everything appeared in order.

  He sat down on one of the seats and pulled his flask out. His wife had made him a batch of the drink before he had left but he had to heat it every few hours. It was no good cold when it tasted like some sort of fruit punch.

  He heard something outside the lifeboat. A light scratching. He though perhaps the boat was loose on the deck and scraping against something.

  Juan climbed out of the lifeboat and walked to the front. There was nothing. He went around, sliding his hand on the lifeboat’s smooth exterior, and came to the back and saw that there was nothing there either.

  He figured it must’ve been the wind. The ocean wind had played tricks on sailors since the days when his ancestors fished these waters. There were even stories he had heard from elders that the wind could speak to you if you were quiet enough to listen.

  He lifted the flask to his lips, and the world spun.

  Juan couldn’t tell stars from water and they melted together in fragmented scenery of illumination and darkness.

  He hit the cool water hard on his side and felt the snap in his wrist as the bone fractured. He was in blackness; complete and absolute. He kicked, though his heavy boots made it difficult, and broke through the surface, inhaling a massive gulp of air.

  He couldn’t see the ship. He twirled in the water as he kicked to stay afloat but couldn’t see the ship. His wrist ached and pain was shooting up his arm. He spun around and around again and finally, to what he thought was the west, he saw the ship’s lights twinkling in the night.

  He began to swim to it, stroke by painful stroke. He must’ve fallen off. He was drunk and he had fallen off the ship. His wife would’ve been so angry. She didn’t want to make him any drinks.

  He stopped abruptly when he saw he wasn’t making much progress. His legs felt odd and he reached down into the water . . . and felt the slick flesh of stumps where his legs had been.

  A scream echoed through the night as the shock began to wear off. There was pressure suddenly from the ocean; a pushing sensation of something rising underneath him. He screamed again, toward the ship, toward the sky, but nothing came. Nothing but what was underneath him.

  He felt the pressure again around his chest and his head, and as his head was crushed, bits of bone and brains filled the water and began to float to the surface. To be picked off soon by small fish, that would later be eaten by bigger fish, which in turn would be eaten by man.

  Nothing was wasted in the sea.

  * * *

  53

  For two days Patrick had been working out in the gym on the lower deck. It was a cargo hold of some sort; meant to hold enormous crates bound for exotic locations. But the crates had been replaced with the finest gym equipment money could buy.

  There were four treadmills, a few elliptical machines, and the rest of the space was taken up by free-weights. The floor was covered in a thick black rubber and Patrick enjoyed finishing a set with dumbbells or barbells and throwing the weight to bounce off the floor with a loud thump.

  There was never anyone in here with him and he would take his time to finish. Yesterday had been a two hour workout and today was approaching the same length. He would workout until all his muscles felt like jelly and he had no stress left in him. No energy to feel the stress even if he acknowledged it was there.

  Then he would shower, dress, have breakfast or lunch, and spend the rest of his time with Jane.

  He was growing closer to her by the hour and oddly enough, farther away from Christopher. He had asked Christopher to join him to workout and he had replied that he had more important things to do.

  Patrick finished and headed to the showers on the mid-deck. He heard voices in the room near the gym again, and again he checked the door and it was locked. He assumed it was some sort of planning room. Somewhere that Hamilton could go undisturbed and work on whatever it was he thought was important.

  Patrick showered, taking his time, and then dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. He headed upstairs afterward and saw that the deck was slowed down, the men at their stations and not another living soul that he could see.

  There was one part of the ship he hadn’t been to yet: the control room. It wasn’t that he wasn’t allowed up there, but Hamilton was usually there and he wanted to avoid him as much as possible.

  He climbed the stairs to the upper deck and found the control room door. He opened it and saw Christopher standing next to Hamilton, Stewart sitting in a chair asleep. Hamilton would discuss something and then Christopher would voice his approval. Patrick shut the door.

  As he was walking back to the deck he saw one of the men arguing with Mitch. The man was frantic and shouting and making hand gestures as Mitch was attempting to calm him down.

  “Hey, Patrick, I think your Spanish is better than mine. What’s he trying to tell me?”

  Patrick listened and said, “He’s says one of his friends is missing. Juan Rojas.”

  “Tell him I know who Juan is and he’s probably passed out drunk somewhere on the ship.”

  Patrick translated and listened to the man’s reply. “He says they’ve searched the entire ship. He’s not here.”

  “Well we’ll search it again before panicking.”

  Patrick translated and the man threw up his hands and stormed off.

  “I’ll tell ya what, mate. These Chileans aren’t afraid to tell their bosses what they think of them.”

  Patrick saw Rodrigo at one of the fishing stations. “Just be nice and don’t expect too much,” he said as he walked away.

  Rodrigo had his feet up and had a mass in his cheek from chewing tobacco. He leaned over the railing and spit a gooey blob of brown.

  “Buenos días. You look tired, Patrick.”

  “I’ve been working out on the lower deck.”

  “You don’t work out on a boat. It is bad luck.”

  Patrick looked out over the ocean. “Not
hing’s happened yet. You seen Jane?”

  “No. But I saw her yesterday with the gringo over there,” he said, motioning with his head behind him to Mitch. “You have to be careful with that one.”

  “I don’t trust him either.”

  “I meant the chica.”

  “Patrick,” Mitch shouted from across the deck. “I need your help.” He went over and Mitch said, “We’re organizing a little search party for that missing bloke. Mind helping?”

  “Not at all.”

  “All right, you take the lower decks and I’ll send a few men your way. I’ll split the rest up between the middle and upper decks.”

  Patrick headed down, wondering where the hell Jane was, when he saw Christopher on the middle deck going over some supplies. He had his head down over his ipad and looked like he was lost in thought.

  “Anything good?”

  Christopher turned to him and then back to his ipad. “What’d ya mean?”

  “I mean in the crates. Anything good?”

  “Just supplies. I don’t think we brought enough for how long Taylor wants to stay out here.”

  “Shore’s not too far.”

  “No.”

  Patrick, for the first time he could remember, felt uncomfortable around Christopher.

  “I’ll see ya.”

  “Yup.”

  He made his way to the lowest deck and began searching all the rooms. Christopher had been his friend for so long that Patrick had forgotten he was also an employee. He had never thought about what would happen once that tie was severed.

  Patrick was near the gym and as he walked to the storage room across from it, he heard voices again in the only room down here that was locked. But the door wasn’t locked this time.

  It was slightly ajar and he peeked in. He saw the little girl from a few days ago sitting on a chair wearing nothing but the bottom of a swimsuit with no top, her cat clinched tightly in her hands. She looked frightened and was trembling. Patrick opened the door farther and looked in.