Unspeakable Horror

by Joseph B. Healy

The Captain headed directly for the boat, where a light had just flashed on. As though on cue, a man who must be the mate emerged from the cabin.

  “What … what are those, uh, rabbits for,” Tommy asked, keeping pace.

  The Captain stepped on board. He half turned, mumbling something. It was more the sound of a feeding dog’s growl when you’ve come too near the bowl. Then he ducked into the cabin. Wakeman and Hammond swapped wild glances.

  “Morning,” the mate greeted them. “How’re you fellows this morning?” Compared to the Captain he was a shoulder hugger.

  The cabin door opened and slammed. The Captain came out and climbed the ladder to the bridge.

  “Name’s Guido,” the mate told them. “You fellows have everything?”

  “Just got to get a couple rods,” Ed said.

  “Everything’s here you’ll want,” said Guido.

  “Well, I’ll show you.”

  Hammond returned with two thirty-pound outfits rigged with leadhead jigs. “We’d like to troll out to where you start shark fishing,” Ed said. “Maybe later even try sharks with these.”

  The mate was not enthused. “You might get away with it on the way out. Not sharking.” He raised his eyes to the flying bridge. “We do it his way.”

  “Even if we’re paying?” Tommy said.

  “Yep. But we catch them when others don’t.”

  Starter motors whirred, straining. The engine caught and rumbled alive. The Captain spread unzipped bridge canvas and leaned out. “Cast off,” he told Guido. “We need to kill a shark.”

  Tommy sat shifting on a bare, side storage compartment watching the day brighten in watercolor blends of palest green, yellow, lilac that blushed into orange-red with the sun’s approach.

  Guido was cutting butterfish and menhaden into chunks and fillets for bait and chum. The mate worked methodically, slicing and chopping, a chef preparing some magnificent bouillabaisse. Guido kept some of the pieces in containers and scraped some into what was beginning to resemble thick soup. Some of the bait fish were left whole and placed into another container. When he was finished he tied a line to a pail handle, dipped up seawater, and began scrubbing down cutting board, deck, and transom. When everything was clean he dipped more water, swabbed the deck fresh, cleaned his brushes, and mopped and racked them. He arranged the chum cans and bait containers close at hand. Then he turned to the tackle.

  There was a big 12/0 reel already rigged, but seemingly as a concession Guido went into the cabin and brought back four outfits with 9/0 reels and fifty-pound line. Looking up from rigging his lighter rod, Tommy shook his head.

  “You’d think this was Cairns, Australia, or someplace,” he said.

  Guido smiled faintly, lifting his eyes to the bridge. “A little heavy for blue sharks,” he said. “Maybe not for some other stuff that might be there.” He began twisting a wire leader to the big snap at the end of the double line on the first fifty-pound outfit.

  They headed for the five-mile-wide depression in the ocean floor that was known locally as “the hole.” Less than two miles away, the boat slowed slightly and made a small course change. Taking advantage of the reduced speed, Hammond dropped his bucktail over and free spooled it beyond the wake. Tommy was only seconds behind. The leadhead jigs had silver Mylar in the skirts and green plastic teasers on the hooks. They hadn’t moved a quarter mile when Tommy’s rod bucked once, twice, then held bowed over while line vanished from the reel. He came back unnecessarily hard with the rod, cranked with no effect until the fish slowed. When it did, he lifted and moved the fish. He dropped the rod tip, clamping his thumb on the reel spool, and lifted again. Astern, a bluefish that would weigh well into the teens thrashed the surface but quickly sounded again. One the other side of the boat Ed was into another.

  The boat continued doggedly on course; its momentum, coupled with the anglers’ pumping efforts, soon brought the fish on top, slapping then sliding just below the surface toward the boat. Guido gaffed Tommy’s fish, dropping it into the fish box, turning, hunting the other blue that had skidded to the starboard corner. The two fish drummed hollowly in the empty box while Guido swabbed the deck. The two men checked their terminal rigs, checked for nicks or frays, sent the now tail-torn lures back again.

  “Nice fish,” Tommy said. “Big blues.”

  “I don’t mind starting the day this way,” Ed answered. The impossible hour at which they had left was forgotten.

  In less than a hundred yard’s travel, the sun bulged over the horizon and both lures were hit hard again, almost simultaneously.

  “There must be a big school of them out there,” Ed yelled happily. The hooked fish cooperated, tearing off line in separate directions. Suddenly the pressure on both rods lessened though the fish were still there. The boat had slowed, then ceased forward progress altogether. In neutral, the engines rumbled cavernously, changing tone each time the boat wallowed and one exhaust broke the surface.

  The Captain was before them. The scimitar-like knife in his hand looked like a slaughterhouse relic. He reached Ed’s line first, pulling it down from where it left the tip guide, then slashing the mono with a quick upward thrust.

  “What the hell … ,” Ed started.

  “We don’t want those damned things,” the Captain overpowered the protest. His voice was flat and dry. In a quick turn he was on Tommy’s line, and the man’s rod came back straight, a curl of monofilament hanging limply from its tip.

  “What’s the damned idea?” Tommy began, but again the Captain bulled in.

  “You come to fish shark?” he demanded. The wind blew strands of his fine hair wildly like the telltale on a sailboat mast.

  “Sure, but …”

  “Then we fish shark.” He pointed at their rods. “Put that toy stuff up. I’m almost there. We got a slick to start.” He looked at Guido. “Check that kill stick and rack it behind the bulkhead.”

  The two men reeled their severed lines back on the spools. Ed shook his head. “The guy’s nuts,” he said. The boat turned southeast into the steady breeze and soon began to cross the lip of the hole. The rising sun that had shown so much promise slid into a featureless cloud bank, and now there was only intense glare and endless grayness to the east. By the time Huntress reached the offshore edge of the hole the wind had decreased. The Captain came around, idled checking their drift before he shut down the engines. There was still enough breeze so they would drift generally northwest, crossing the depression, climbing up the far bank.

  The Captain leaned out from the controls. “All right,” he said.

  Guido scooped some of the concentrated mash he had prepared into the larger container that held some seawater and chopped menhaden. Then he stirred and began ladling the swill over. The ocean had gone oily smooth, matching the chum slick that began to coat the surface. There were only occasional heaving swells. With the slick going well, Guido started setting baits. Perhaps as a gesture for the lost bluefish, he set up only the fifty-pound outfits. Instead of the standard long-shank hooks there were giant tuna hooks on the leader ends.

  The mate cut menhaden fillets, hooking two on a hook.

  “A lot of them who fish makos like to hide the hook,” he explained. “That’s not nearly so important as giving a good size mouthful.”

  He stripped twenty feet of line from the first reel, wrapped a small plastic foam float to the line with a rubber band, then sent the baited hook back sixty feet from the boat. The second line was rigged the same way but set back at forty feet. The third line had no float. It drifted free just thirty feet from the boat.

  Gulls screamed overhead, circling the growing slick. Soon the shearwaters moved in across the surface to skim larger bits of fish from the chum. They moved brazenly close to the boat. Guido yelled, waving his arms at them, but it did no good. Up in the bridge the Captain had removed the canvas doors and side curtains. He sat watching, a form without features in the shadows below the bridge overhead. No one spoke. In the silence, at wide-spaced
intervals, a swell would come large enough to break past the boat with a hissing sound. And there were the cries of birds. Nothing else. Suddenly, the click on the port-side reel rattled with a short, staccato burst, jolting Wakeman and Hammond from torpor, onto their feet, hearts pounding. Guido was already at the rod, cursing. One of the shearwaters had hit the line, caught in it briefly. The Captain had not moved.

  The day turned grayer still except for the sky directly overhead, which looked as though it were polished by a rarefied wind. Around them, though, the breeze remained gentle and the day grew hotter. The breeze squirreled occasionally into the east with little puffs that curled the stench of putrefying chum from the containers around in the cockpit. Guido kept the slick going. Occasional spatterings of the liquid hit the transom or gunwales, turning brown as they dried. The boat wallowed in the valleys of the swells drifting slowly, and dullness settled in, deadening senses. As they neared the inside slope of the hole, the bottom began its long, gentle climb to two hundred feet.

  A quarter mile away and sixty feet beneath the ocean surface, one, then two beautifully sleek cobalt shapes turned to cut the drifting chum trail. From below, their undersides were the dead white of something that has never seen the sun. They were male blue sharks, and as they crossed the trail of chum again, their excitement grew, visible in quickening tail beats and body thrusts. A third shark joined them, and as a loose group they rose higher, gliding forward, hunting the source of the rich slick that signaled something helpless on which to feed.

  More large pieces of fish flesh were suspended in the water the closer the sharks came to the boat, and the blues took them with quick snapping movements, rising, rising, until 150 feet from Huntress their fins cut the surface.

  There was a thud of feet on the bridge deck. Tommy and Ed turned to see the Captain standing, his long-muscled arm pointing out straight. His mouth stretched in a wolfish grin. “They’ve come, boys,” he said without looking down. “There they are.” It was the closest they had seen him express something that resembled happiness.

  Guido scattered two more ladlefuls of chum, slammed several butterfish overboard, then took two rod belt harnesses from their hooks.

  “Unless we’re into something really big we don’t use the chair,” he told the anglers. “Give you more fun with those blue sharks standing up.”

  From the bridge burst a rumble of deep laughter that bordered on the demonic. Ed and Tommy looked up but could see nothing. Guido continued to watch the sharks. Smiling his great slit-mouthed smile, the Captain went to a mahogany cabinet. He removed a bottle of blended rye whisky from its shelf, cracked open the screw top, and took two long, gurgling pulls. “So they came again,” he muttered, as though it were a personal triumph. “They never get enough.” He returned the bottle to the locker. A drop of amber distillate glistened in the beard stubble near one corner of his mouth. He wiped it with the back of a sun-pocked calloused hand, without brushing away the smile.

  “They’re here all right, boys,” he boomed down. “Now get yourselves ready.” Once again the deep laughter thundered at them.

  Hammond rolled his eyes. Tommy just shook his head, watching the closing fins.

  The blue sharks reached the middle bait, snapping small morsels of flesh.

  “Lead fish is a damned big blue,” Guido said. “He’ll do nine feet, anyway.”

  As he spoke, the fish sounded and the cork on the middle line popped free. Immediately, the reel click went off like an old-time New Year’s Eve noisemaker. As Guido lifted the rod to Hammond, who was closest to him, the fish came up again, moved to the float of the near line, and confidently ate it. Yelling, Guido yanked the line, which somehow popped free. “Get that line in and check if it’s frayed,” he yelled at Tommy.

  Ed snapped off the click, jammed the rod butt into his fighting belt, and used his thumb to control the line that was running steadily out.

  “Hit him now!” Guido ordered.

  Ed slapped the lever over and came back hard twice. The rod bent and stayed that way. Line skidded from the reel, against the drag.

  Another burst of laughter rippled from the bridge.

  “Watch that far line now,” Guido told Tommy. “You see him take that float? They do that sometimes. They take the farthest bait, then come in and eat the other baits or floats before you know it. They don’t even know they’ve swallowed hooks,” he said. “That line all right?”

  “It looked fine,” Tommy said.

  “Now watch that far line,” Guido repeated. “If his fish doesn’t get in the way you may get tight.”

  The blue shark made two dogged runs out and down and Ed pumped it back nicely. Now it was closer to the boat, trying to beat straight down. The float on the outboard line began moving off. It had not popped but was skidding across the surface.

  “There you go,” Guido warned.

  Tommy had the rod, and when he struck the float came free.

  It was a smaller shark than Ed’s but it ran strongly against the drag and Tommy let it go, enjoying the power of the run before trying to turn the fish. The first blue was at boatside now, spinning wildly. Guido grabbed the leader with gloved hands. Water exploded into his face.

  “This is a good blue; you want him?” The mate yelled. The shark thrashed against the side. “We cut them off unless they’re this big or you want the jaws.”

  “No, let him go,” Ed said.

  Guido ran his pliers down the wire, cutting as close as possible to the shark’s head. The wire parted instantly and the shark rolled over once before gliding out of sight.

  “Blues eat rotten anyway,” Guido said. “We should get something else if you want to keep teeth. Maybe dusky. Mako, if we’re lucky. Don’t count on whites. We’ll keep any mako.”

  Tommy had worked his fish in now, and Guido took the leader.

  “Cut it off,” Tommy said. “I’ll gamble for something bigger.”

  Again, the Captain was behind them, having appeared almost magically.

  “First blood, boys,” he said happily. “It’s going to be a good day.” He ducked into the cabin, reappeared with another rod and reel. “Another bait,” he told them. “If they all go off together you’ll have to dance.”

  Guido was already sending out fresh baits, keeping the chum going with his other hand. The Captain placed the bait on the new rod just slightly inside of Guido’s sixty-foot float. There were four rigs set now, three with foam floats bobbing nicely. The sharks came again.

  The first blue sharks, including the ones they released, had circled out, but there were others closer to the boat, sliding just below the surface, rolling easily. A grayer form with blunter snout appeared briefly near the float of the second line out.

  “Dusky there,” the Captain pointed. “We’re on a roll, boys. Get them now before it dries up.”

  Before he could speak again, the float where the dusky had been disappeared. The Captain plucked the rod from its holder, swinging to Ed nearest him, thrusting the rig into his belt and hands with such force that Hammond felt as though he were impaled. When he set the hook the fish went down like lead. This was nothing like the fight of the blue shark. Ed spread his feet, tried to brace himself, tried to lean back but stumbled forward.

  “Pull,” boomed the Captain. “Break your backs, boys.” He was not looking at them but watching the floats and the shark fins cutting the surface. “Pull your guts out boys, it’s what you’re paying for.”

  “More blues out there,” Guido said. As though in response, the farthest float began to move off at the same moment the closest rig disappeared. Tommy saw Guido had the far rig and took up the near rod. Before he could do anything the Captain’s voice hit him.

  “Feed line,” he ordered Tommy. “Don’t put pressure on.” He grabbed the rod he himself had rigged. “Damned blues, now,” he rumbled. He pulled the float, trying to take the bait away from a blue shark near it, but was too late. The rod bucked. There were four fish on now, and bedlam reigned. The Cap
tain responded like an overwound spring, suddenly released. He screwed down the drag dangerously, came back on the blue so hard with a series of lightning fast jolts that the fish must have been pulled up and over like a chained maddened dog hitting the end of its tether. The small shark never had a chance. It was pulled in like some planning board, first on the surface, then just below. The Captain countered every sideways thrust it attempted, forced around its head, totally dominated the creature.

  “I’m off,” Guido yelled. His fish had broken free and the mate cranked his hook-less line in wildly. “Your fish still there?” he asked Tommy.

  “I think … yes, there goes the line a little again.”

  Over in the port corner where the fish had brought him, Ed strained against the dusky, trying to bring the rod up to get line, watching what little he gained slip out again.

  Teeth clamped, his face void of expression, the Captain bulled his shark in mercilessly, dropped his rod, held the leader with one hand, clipped the wire, then ran the rod and reel back out of the way near the cabin bulkhead. There was a bump then a thunking vibration from below decks. “They’re on the props,” he said.

  Tommy looked at him wide-eyed.

  “They’ll try to eat anything in the water, now,” the Captain said.

  To prove him right, two blue sharks emerged from beneath the boat and ran its length. One of them rolled, looking up for a moment, its catlike eye just below the surface. Then it disappeared.

  The Captain turned on Tommy. “Take that slack up, see where he is and hit that fish.”

  On the free line, Wakeman’s shark had never gone from the chum slick. It was still on the opposite side of the boat from the dusky. Tommy took slack line in quickly, tightening up, then knocking the reel into gear. He hit the fish. It was maybe thirty feet from the boat.

  In actual time, it took just seconds, but to Wakeman it was like a slow-motion film. The ocean surface blew apart in a perfect, foam-fringed circle, and something pale colored, something very big, rose into the air and seemed to hang there at the apex of its leap before turning over backwards, almost lazily, in a nearly complete flip. The creature crashed heavily back, slamming the surface like a concrete slab pushed off a three-story building.