What Lurks Beneath

by Ryan Lockwood

  Hidden by the darkness, it remained motionless for a short time, observing the darkening deep-ocean reef—a shallow, unfamiliar environment—for signs of prey. Over time, it had learned to ignore the smaller prey animals on which it had once fed—the benthic crabs and blind fish of the depths—and likewise it now ignored the smaller fishes that schooled past.

  For years it had only focused on larger deepwater animals. Six-gill sharks, squids, giant isopods, oversized marine worms. And on the warm-bodied animals that in small pods plied the night waters of the open ocean above it. It saw none of these now.

  Sensing nothing of interest, and comfortable that it was safe, it fully extended its appendages and jetted water downward from its soft body. It rose from the blackness of the hole to reveal its massive form to the open ocean. As its eyes cleared the rim of the pit, it spied a large, spotted ray above it in the gloom, just out of the range of its arms, but the ray saw its hulking mass as well and quickly spun away in a sweep of wings. The potential prey disappeared over the lip of the deep reef.

  The organism moved out over the dark reef and relaxed its body, slowly settling toward the rough surface. Dozens of fish scattered as its flesh draped over a broad area.

  Although the creature was unique in its size, like all of its much smaller relatives in the ocean, it was forced to leave the safety of its lairs to hunt for food. But usually these lairs, and its hunting grounds, were in much deeper waters than this. Now, it felt the powerful urge to descend. Larger prey might still be foraging the deep at this hour, but soon would cease for the night. And once its preferred quarry was back near the surface of the open ocean, the much slower beast would be unable to effectively pursue it.

  Deep on the ocean floor, it had always sought most of its sustenance. Camouflaged on the abyssal plain near a rotting animal’s remains, or some other attractant, it would ensnare larger animals that approached to investigate. Or it would hunt in the open waters above, only at night, its flesh replicating the patterns of schools of mid-size fish or squid to ambush even larger animals coming to feed on them. But the only predator of any real concern to it in its mature state sometimes plied the same depths of the open ocean. Thus, after consuming a meal, it always retreated to the safety found within caverns deep down the walls below the reef.

  After watching the spotted ray depart, it turned its body sideways and gently pushed off the rock escarpment. It jetted sideways by expelling a few pulses of seawater, quickly moving away from the shallower water of the island shelf toward the blackness of much deeper water.

  Toward the abyss.

  It glided out past the edge of the shelf, where the sea floor dropped thousands of feet down a vertical rock face. Below it was a void of absolute darkness. It gathered in its limbs, forming itself into an enormous disc, and sank.

  Occasionally, it extended a limb to rebalance and maintain an upright position, but otherwise it yielded to gravity. Its flesh was slightly denser than the seawater around it, so its foray into the abyss required little energy beyond an occasional pulse of horizontal propulsion. The water temperature plummeted, cooling the creature’s bulbous body and blood.

  It was not an efficient swimmer. Its biology was best suited to hunting along the ocean floor, within its recesses. Life was scarce in the depths of the ocean, but there it might have the best odds of locating a larger meal. A familiar meal. A meal of substance.

  The light quickly faded as it made its long descent. Soon it was black. The creature could not see here, even with its large eyes. But it was not blind. It could still feel. It could sense vibrations.

  And it could taste.

  After descending for some time, the sea floor eventually transformed from the sheer rock face to a more gently sloping bottom that curved toward the abyssal plain. It reached a broad channel in the depths, cut by a northward-flowing current of seawater. Here the quality of the water changed almost imperceptibly, yet the organism sensed that this fluid was somehow denser, laden with a fine silt of particles. The turbidity current sank below and past the cleaner ocean water around it. Dropping into the current, the organism ceased propulsion and reconfigured its body, such that its appendages were splayed broadly beneath it, and after a moment its great form impacted the ocean floor, releasing a cloud of fine silt into the blackness.

  It turned into the current. This required more effort than moving with the flow of water, but it offered advantages to the hunter. The organism retained the advantage of receiving tastes and other stimuli that would alert it to the presence of living things upstream. And by moving toward the oncoming flow of water, the organism’s prey would have difficulty detecting its own presence.

  Rolling its great body upstream on its many writhing limbs, it began to hunt. Despite its massive bulk, it moved with silent grace. Only slightly heavier than seawater, it was not forced to exert significant effort to remain above the ocean floor. Millions of receptors in each arm continually tasted the currents, assessing chemicals and feeling textures, seeking any sign of prey.

  As each limb contacted the seafloor, it gathered information, sending signals back to the organism’s brain. The limbs worked in chaotic concert, managing to avoid one other while tumbling gently into the bottom and pushing off and forward, moving the creature into the oncoming stream of particle-laden water. In this fashion it could continue locomotion while constantly tasting for food.

  It continued into the cold current, a long cloud of sediment billowing hundreds of feet into the black water behind it.

  CHAPTER 6

  Another cold, rainy day.

  Val lay alone in her bed, looking out the window at the pale light filtering through the cheap vertical blinds. She’d hit snooze three times before shutting off her alarm and going back to sleep for an hour. Will had already left, which meant he had gone to his boxing gym before work.

  It was Monday, and it felt like it.

  She imagined that she felt the stare of Will’s dog, Bud, boring into the back of her head. For more than a year, he’d sat a few feet from the bed each morning, his short, floppy ears perked up, waiting for her to rise and hoping for a morning run. The dun-colored mutt would wag his tail and push his muzzle into her face, his tongue lapping at her cheek. She would scratch behind his ears, and he’d groan in pleasure. For so long she had wanted a dog again, and they’d really developed a bond in the brief time he’d been in her life.

  She finally rolled over, hoping in her half-asleep state that he’d somehow be there again. But he was still gone.

  Val sat up and lowered her feet to the cold floor. She threw a sweatshirt on over her tank top and found her slippers, then walked bare-legged down the dim hallway to the kitchen, the dog’s ghost padding silently after her. She smelled coffee, and saw that Will had made a pot. He’d also left her a note on the beige Formica countertop:

  She thought, He used to write Love, W.

  She hadn’t even seen him last night, since he had come home late from the bar and left again so early. She’d pretended to be asleep as he quietly dressed in the predawn darkness, not wanting to have a conversation with him. What was there to say? She knew he was probably hung over again. Only Will Sturman would stay out late drinking and then rise to go to the gym, even though he wasn’t training for anything. The man was nothing if not tough and headstrong.

  At least he’d been honest with her when she’d asked him yesterday if he was headed to watch playoff football again. It’s a bye week, he’d said. Super Bowl’s next weekend. I just need to get out of the apartment.

  Months ago, it had become a familiar late-night routine. She’d wake to him bumping noisily about in their kitchen as he made himself an after-binge snack. Then his tall silhouette would fill the door frame as he staggered in, slid into the bed next to her. Never even realizing she was awake in the darkness. When she’d called him on his growing problem, they’d argued. Then he started sleeping on the couch.

  She told herself it was out of respect for her, so she coul
d sleep. But she knew he was just withdrawing. Again dwelling on the wife he’d lost, on the loss he now shared with Val, and feeling sorry for himself. As he became what she feared he might.

  She had grown up loving a man like this. A man who wasn’t capable of reciprocating her love. She wasn’t going to do it again. Even if he had once saved her life.

  She poured herself a mug of coffee, added cream and walked over to the sliding glass door that opened to their balcony. The rain had stopped for the moment, but it was gray outside. Just need to get out of the apartment, he’d said. What he meant was I just need to be alone.

  Alone. Or with Maria. But not with her.

  Over the green, rolling, chaparral-clad hills in the distance, a red light blinked on a water tower. It was a great view, but she’d planned to move out of this small apartment when Will had first moved up here to be with her. To buy a house. The one-bedroom unit on the outskirts of Marina had simply been a home base for her for four years, when she had always been away doing fieldwork. She’d never intended to spend a lot of time in it, especially if living with a man and a sixty-some pound dog.

  She should probably have already gone into the office, but she’d worked on Saturday evening so her boss, Rob Carman, wouldn’t care if she came in late. What could he say, anyway? They both knew she had paid her dues at PLARG over the years.

  There had been a time when all she had wanted to do was work. When she had been so inspired. What had happened to her, anyway?

  Will had happened. They had happened. And now they weren’t happening anymore. She wasn’t meant for relationships. She would never be able to carry a child, as she knew painfully well, and it looked like her best prospect for marriage was an alcoholic. Maybe she should just become single again, and remain that way forever.

  Looking at the gray outside, she told herself that maybe the sun would come out, but she knew it probably wouldn’t. She sighed and turned away from the window to look for her laptop. She would work from home until she felt enough motivation to shower and head into the lab. There wasn’t much to do today, anyway. She’d just need to clean out the tanks to prepare them for another round of (doomed) squid. And if she didn’t, it probably wouldn’t matter anyway. They weren’t likely to have more live specimens turn up for a few weeks or longer.

  She brought her laptop to the couch and sat cross-legged on it, resting the computer on her knees. She fired it up and opened her Web browser. She accessed her Outlook e-mail account. A hundred and twenty-one unread messages. She sighed. She should at least get through her overflowing inbox today.

  She began scrolling down the page to look for anything urgent. Mostly, the e-mails were just FYIs from colleagues, junk mail, and administrative notifications. She paused on an e-mail from rford@nes.org, received late last night: Richard Ford, from the National Exploration Society. NES had featured her work in a past issue of its monthly, photo-laden magazine, and had partially funded one of her earlier projects through a foundation grant. She opened the e-mail:

  Hi Val—

  How are you? Been a long time.

  I don’t know if you recall, but I’ve been working on a project in the Bahamas. Mapping blue holes on some of the islands, with a focus on Andros, where I just left a few days ago. But there was an accident. We just halted ops.

  I don’t recall you being a cave diver, so I’m hoping you don’t know many in that close-knit community. You might have already heard, but we lost two of our best last week. They never surfaced, and are presumed dead. Operations are now postponed indefinitely.

  Their names were John Breck and Arlo Pelletier, the latter a researcher from France. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news if you did know either man.

  Pelletier’s name sounded familiar—some biologist—but Val knew neither man personally. Her uncle, Mack, might know these men though. He used to be one of the best cave divers this side of the Atlantic. She continued reading the e-mail:

  The main reason I’m e-mailing you is that we did find a camera John had been using. I thought you’d want to see one of the images that turned up on the device—the last one taken. We still can’t figure out what it is, but it looks a hell of a lot like something you’d be familiar with.

  See the attached, and let me know what you think. You can call me to discuss.

  Thanks,

  Rich

  Val double-clicked the attachment icon to open a new window. On her screen popped up a blurry, dark image. She scanned the digital photo. Much of it was dim, almost black. But not all of it. Val stopped breathing.

  On the upper right quadrant was the obvious reason why Ford had sent her an e-mail. Nearly obscured by the dim was a blurred, curved object covered in a field of small, white circles.

  Suckers.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Val, you still there?”

  Valerie Martell blinked, and pressed the cell phone against her ear. “Yeah. Sorry, Rich. I was just looking at your photo again. Are you sure you don’t have any other shots of the object in the corner? Maybe from another angle?”

  On the other end of the call, Richard Ford cleared his throat in obvious irritation. “No, we don’t. I already told you that. Look, I’m really in a hurry here. So if you could just focus for a moment, and let me go over some background . . .”

  “Sorry. I’m listening.” She shut the cover of her laptop. Val had worked with the short, balding Ford before. As the executive vice president for research at the National Exploration Society, based in DC, he was intense, driven. Always in a tie. And never patient.

  She said, “You were giving me background . . . saying you’d gathered mapping data on the holes, collected samples and multimedia. . . .”

  “Right. But we’ve now postponed the operation. Indefinitely. To figure out what happened, and out of respect for the two divers’ families.”

  “They’d probably want you to continue,” she said.

  “Probably. They were a lot like you and me. But you know the drill. Liability issues trump.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  Val sat at the small desk in her apartment, which faced the window. The afternoon had turned clear, sunny, and through the open blinds she had a distant view past the low hills to the flat, blue expanse of Monterey Bay. As Ford talked, her mind drifted again to the printout of the dark, blurry image he had sent her. The curved object in the corner, studded with white dots, possibly had a reddish tinge, or maybe that was just her imagination. Maybe she wanted it to be red. Wanted it to look more like a cephalopod arm, to give her an excuse to pack her bags and head for the Bahamas.

  Ford finished his monologue: “. . . and we’ve been trying to describe a number of the blue holes in the area since.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “This was their fifth foray into this particular hole. It’s nicknamed ‘The Staircase’ by the locals, because the layers of limestone in its shallows look like giant steps leading to the rim of the main shaft. People swim and bathe in the freshwater on the surface, but until we came along, nobody had ever explored its depths.”

  “How did you retrieve the camera?”

  “Another of our teams went in. Followed their safety lines to where one had somehow broken off in the tunnel they were mapping.”

  “But no sign of the men?”

  “Just a few pieces of equipment,” he said. “Let’s see . . .”

  She heard paper rustling before he continued.

  “A swim fin . . . the metal spool for one of their safety lines, a couple other little things. Part of a flashlight.” He paused to let it sink in. “But nothing else so far.”

  “How far did you get? On the larger project, I mean?”

  “We were making relatively good progress before the accident, considering the logistical complications of diving these caverns. Know anything about the Bahamas’s blue holes?”

  “Not much. I know about the ones in Belize, though. The geology of the Bahamas must be similar to the Yucatán.”

  “Re
latively speaking,” Ford said. “The Bahama Bank is karst limestone, which over eons has eroded into impressive submarine cave systems. The more famous ones are perfectly rounded sinkholes, but there are also some fault-line holes offshore that look more like huge cracks.”

  “So some of these blue holes are landlocked?”

  “Most of them, actually. Inland blue holes, like the one Breck and Pelletier were in. But few are really landlocked .”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “Many of them link to the ocean through a network of caves. Like their marine counterparts, they formed over the last few million years, mainly during the Ice Ages.”

  “When sea level was much lower?”

  “Exactly. Hundreds of feet lower. The Bahamian Plateau once towered four hundred feet over the sea. Back then, the limestone platform was exposed to the elements.”

  “And acid rain did all the work. Right?”

  “You got it. Carbonic acid in rainwater pooled on the rock. Wore it down. Then, in periods where the holes were submerged in the ocean, tidal action helped scour out developing caverns. So now it’s a pretty unique place, with a shitload of blue holes.”

  “You said those two divers were in an inland hole?”

  “Yeah. We’d discovered three main arms off this one hole alone. Side tunnels, extending more than three hundred feet beneath the surface, with two of the passages likely extending far offshore.” There was a pause before Ford continued. “They got that shot I sent you on their last dive. I thought it looked like the arm of a squid or something.”