Deep Beneath: A Psychic Vision Novel

by Dale Mayer

  She looked up and around to find a couple small sailing crafts coming into her view, heading toward the marina themselves. They couldn’t hear her screams nor did anyone notice her panicky waving paddle and arms.

  She thought she heard yelling and screaming, even gunshots, but it came from behind her in the distance. She glanced back at one of the small yachts there. People were on the bow, fighting. They were in a physical altercation, and it looked nasty. Still, it wasn’t her issue.

  Whimsy had bigger problems.

  Exhausted, she turned her face toward the shore. Paddled right, left, right and left.

  Another wave slammed into her, twisting her sideways and sending her even farther from shore. When the next crack sounded overhead, she cried out, terrified, wondering if she could win this fight. … Panic rippled through her. Her arms were too weak now. Her body no longer answered her orders to paddle. She was soaked and freezing and terrified that she’d flip over and out of her kayak and end up floating in the sound with no one the wiser in those early crucial moments.

  At least Mark knew she was in trouble and could send help. She just had to hold on long enough.

  She was a decent roller in the kayak, when needed, and, as long as she kept her paddle, she’d have a chance to right herself. With the harsh rains, she couldn’t see the shore any longer and had no way to orient herself. But she wouldn’t think on that. All she could do was concentrate on staying afloat. To that end she tucked the paddle tight against her chest and just waited out the fury of the squall. Even though cold and wet and miserable, she was still capable of surviving a storm out here.

  She had survived before. She’d survive again.

  The trouble was, her vision was fading, and her muscles were cramping to the extent that she was afraid she couldn’t hold on to the paddle much longer.

  Another huge wave caught her kayak broadside.

  Under she went.

  She still held her paddle, and, holding her breath, she braced up her paddle and used her hip motions to flip herself and her kayak back upright again. As soon as she did, another wave washed her and her ride back under again, and the paddle was wrenched from her hands. Upside down, strapped securely into her kayak, her vessel was tossed about in the waves above as she was tossed about underneath. She was fine with a quick once-over dunk into the waters as she flipped her kayak back upright. But submerged in this weather? No, she’d have to detach from the kayak, and that would leave her floating in the sound, trying to survive until she could be rescued. And drowning was not the way she intended to die. Especially not now.

  Her love of water refused to contemplate that end, despite her current circumstances.

  She quickly slipped out of the rubber skirt edging in the kayak. Hanging on to the frame, hoping it would stay afloat, she popped up to the surface and gasped for air. Another wave broke over her head. She tried to flip the kayak upright, but it was taking on a lot of water. And in no way could she empty it in these squall conditions. A big wave tossed her up and separated her from the kayak. She cried out as she went underwater again, her breath sucked out from the repetitive blows of the churning water. She struggled to return to the surface, and a buckle on her life jacket snapped.

  Finally she made it above water, gasping for air, only to have more unrelenting waves crash down on her before she could fully fill her lungs. Her life jacket then twisted, tugging. So many swells crashed upon her, forcing her under the current, catching her, then pulling at her, that she could feel the air being forcefully expelled from her. A black haze filled her mind. Her lungs burned. Her arms and legs weren’t working.

  Somewhere in the distance she heard voices; … Relief washed over her. She struggled to move toward the words … and failed.

  Something big, black and shiny overtook her and slid by, then beneath her, lifting her from underneath. It should have terrified her when she crested the water, coughing and gulping, gasping for air. And finally, when she could breathe well enough, she dog-paddled around to see what had brought her up to the surface. But it was gone. Whatever it was, it wasn’t here now. Interesting.

  Another wave crashed over her.

  Something brushed against her back, nudging her in a different direction. She could only see a massive form in her peripheral vision but couldn’t tell what it was.

  Or was it just her imagination? Or more likely her nightmare …

  Water once again cascaded over her, filling her mouth and lungs, and she choked on it, coughing to clear her passageways.

  And lost the fight. She slowly sank into the water below.

  Suddenly she was tossed high over the water, her lungs gasping for oxygen, before she fell again, to be engulfed by the sound. At one point she blacked out, only to find herself waking up once again, floating on the surface of the water. The next time it happened, she opened her eyes to realize the storm was off to the side, and she was even farther away from the shore. Coughing and gasping still, she tried to preserve her heat by pulling her knees to her chest and holding her body tightly together, hoping for a quick rescue.

  The beacon on my life jacket. Remembering that, now realizing that maybe somebody could pick up her signal, she punched the button to set it off. On her shoulder a light flashed. She curled up tighter in a ball, the life jacket high on her neck, and tried to hang on, hoping help was coming soon. Then the second buckle on her life jacket snapped.

  She panicked. And gasped, then choked and coughed, trying to clear her lungs.

  If she lost the life jacket, she was lost in a bad way. The Coast Guard would find her jacket, based on the beacon there, but not her. She could float on her own for a little while but not for very long. Not after all her energy was already spent.

  The cold was setting in deep within her body.

  She grabbed the life jacket against her chest, holding on as best she could. But, no longer secured around her chest, it could be taken from her with one more wave, each still powerful even amid this retreating squall. She had made it this far. She refused to lose this battle in the last round. She hung on tight. Her world narrowed to one focus—staying on the surface. Too numb to fight, she felt the waves still tossing and turning her.

  Her arm was through the opening of the life jacket, trying desperately to keep it against her chest, but the next wave ripped it free, and she sank deeper and deeper and deeper into the frigid disturbed waters. Her chest burned, and her limbs refused to follow her commands. She tamped down on her rising panic, looking for air and finding none, her limp body sinking into the deep beneath.

  Once again losing consciousness.

  Only to hear a faint voice somewhere in the far recesses of her fading consciousness telling her to Breathe.

  And again she felt something—that huge strong back—sliding underneath her legs, lifting her, pushing her higher and higher. She reached down with a hand, feeling the silky smooth form beneath her fingers as it pushed her to the surface yet once more.

  “Breathe, breathe to live. … Remember …”

  There were more words, confusing words, and it was so hard to hear, especially when trying to live …

  This time when she came up, gasping for air, choking and spluttering, another killer wave sent her spiraling, tumbling toward … something she couldn’t see.

  And more words whispered through her mind. She barely caught them and understood them less. But they triggered other memories, older memories. Ones she’d tried to forget and even now slipped through her mind as if her life was passing in front of her.

  Then she made contact. And, oh, boy, she felt it. All of a sudden her knees felt the harsh impact; then her face landed among barnacles and rocks. She inhaled a scream. Another wave reached for her. Pushing her higher. Her knees pulled up into her as she crawled forward onto the sandy shore. Two feet later, she collapsed, unconscious once more.

  *

  Samson Cartwright fiddled with the dials of his ham radio, trying to get reception but finding only a noisy buz
z filling the air. “Damn weather.”

  His dogs, King and Queen, barked in agreement. The storm had knocked out the power, and, of course, Samson’s satellite internet was hit-or-miss at the best of times. But given that he was here for as much peace and quiet as possible to do his research, the slow spotty internet was sufficient for his needs. Except for now when, absent the internet, he needed his radio to work for sure.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, a pricking there quickly turning to an ache that then slammed into a throb without pausing.

  His groan ripped free. He got up, gasping as the cry ripped into his mind. He clasped his head, desperately trying to handle the influx of noise and pain.

  Through the din, he heard the urgency. The screams ordering him to obey. Unable to move, he yelled, “Stop!”

  But the voice didn’t. It got worse—louder, more demanding—until Samson was crippled, slowly crumpling to his knees. “Stop,” he roared. “I can’t help if you do this.”

  Silence finally came.

  Samson stood, shuddering as his body slowly recovered. Then, understanding the urgency, he raced outside, thankful he was mostly dressed. The sky was dark, the rain had gone from a light soaking to the ugly promise of so much more. The storm crackled above—the sky would open soon, and walking would be treacherous. Running off an island cliff, lethal.

  But he had no choice. The noise in his head started up again. He needed it to stay calm before it killed him as he navigated the rocks. He couldn’t function when that voice took over. The rain pelted his head, blurring his vision, making the rocks slick under his bare feet.

  The cliff edge loomed in front of him. The dogs, silent this whole journey, stopped on either side of him. Then turned and headed along the cliff edge. He trusted their senses over his. He could barely see for the gray sheets of rain blinding both his long and short vision, and the lightning cracking overhead gave him a partial but eerie look at his world in intermittent flashes. It was late afternoon, yet it looked like minutes from midnight.

  King barked once.

  The more dominant dog and the more psychically connected of the two, King led the way to the beach. Queen, her nose in the air, was the better physical hunter. And much more compassionate. The beach was too far away for Samson to see if anything was there yet.

  Samson made his way to the outcropping that jutted into the sound. The waves rose and crashed over the rocks, soaking him. The noise was deafening as Mother Nature unleashed her fury at the world, and, boy, was she pissed. He squinted at the angry waves that churned close to him. Then noticed … movement. A darker mass in the water. But was it just something harmless the storm had swept in or something else?

  And, if something else, … what? He’d been searching for months now, not finding what he sought.

  “Focus,” roared the voice in his head.

  “I am,” Samson shouted against the storm, but the wind picked up his words and tossed them behind him. In the distance he heard Queen howl.

  She was never wrong.

  Samson turned, slipped and slammed into the rocks. He straightened, used the rocks to stabilize himself and moved as quickly as possible toward the beach. There, close to the rocks, a rag-doll form was pushed forward with the tide, then pulled back as the sound refused to give up her prize.

  The dogs reached the form first. Both dove into the water, grabbed hold and backed up, dragging the form with them.

  Samson hit the beach, running now on sure footing to the dogs’ sides. He reached down and scooped the tiny woman into his arms. Enough water twisted around his ankles that he had to fight its pull to drag him and his burden back into the water. Farther inland on the beach he laid her down. He collapsed at her side, reaching for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

  The dogs whined beside them.

  “And?” the voice roared through Samson’s mind as he started to work on her. Finally she coughed up water several times before collapsing again.

  “She’s alive,” he whispered. “Barely, but she’s alive.”

  “You need to keep her that way,” the voice roared, splitting the words into white noise as they crashed through Samson’s mind. “She’s important. Don’t lose her.”

  For the first time since this latest intrusion had started, the noise in his head disappeared, replaced with a sense of peace.

  Chapter 2

  She woke to whiteness. Both hot and cool white. But she was dragged back under into oblivion once again.

  When she surfaced long enough to open her eyes, she realized the whiteness was a ceiling and a wall. And she wasn’t too sure, but she thought the floor was all too white, making her surroundings blend into each other. She was lying on a bed. White sheets covered her, a white pillow under her head. She lay for a long moment, trying to remember where she was and why she was here. But everything hurt, particularly her head. Just sorting this out made the pain worse.

  She sank back under.

  When she resurfaced again, she was in the same white room. She sat up slowly and looked around. Everything had the same stark, sterile look. A hospital bed? Maybe a mental hospital from the looks of it. There was a bathroom but no privacy around it. Just an exposed toilet and a sink. At that, she frowned.

  “Am I in a prison?” she asked softly, relieved at the normal sound of her voice.

  She stood and cried out as the room spun around her. As soon as the sound left her mouth, the door opened, and somebody raced toward her.

  “Easy, easy. You’re pretty unsteady on your feet.”

  She collapsed onto the bed, instinctively cringing away from the hands reaching for her. She shuddered under the covers, pulling them tightly against her throat.

  A man crouched in front of her. “Take it easy.”

  She stared at him, wondering who he was, why he was here. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Samson, Samson Cartwright. And you, … well, you washed up on my beach.” He hesitated, then looked at her. “You’re safe now. You took a bad blow somewhere along in your travels.”

  “I don’t remember much.”

  “What can you remember?” His gaze seemed a little too intense, a little too searching, … as if he wanted something from her. Only she didn’t know anything.

  “White,” she said instantly, wincing at her own voice, and tried to modulate her tone. “Everything here is white. I kept waking up and seeing more white, just white walls, white everything,” she cried out. “Weird things. Like water. Darkness. Terror. Why can’t I remember anything else?”

  “Because you were hurt,” he said quietly. “That’s not unusual.”

  She sighed. “I don’t like it,” she said with a child’s petulance.

  He grinned at her. “I don’t expect you to like it. But you need to relax and to rest. If you want to get up and go to the bathroom, that’s fine. Let me give you a hand.”

  She glanced at the toilet and then hurriedly shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

  He frowned. “This is no time for modesty.”

  “There’s always time for modesty,” she shot back. “I’ll be fine,” she reiterated firmly. “And I’m not that tired.”

  He stepped back to give her a bit of space. “I’m just outside if you need me.” He turned and walked away.

  She watched him disappear on the other side of the white door. She couldn’t understand why everything was so damn white. It almost hurt her eyes it was so bright. She sat up slowly, made her way to the toilet and used the facilities. She looked around the small room. “Why couldn’t they put up a privacy screen?”

  When she was done, she washed her hands and stared at herself in the small mirror. She looked … terrible. Her hair was in knots; her face had great big bruises on her cheeks and under her eyes. The color of her eyes was dark, bruised looking. And her skin … She hated to say it, but her skin, what wasn’t bruised, was deadly white.

  She checked her arms and her hands. She was covered in bruises, abrasions and sore spots that she hadn�
��t even realized were there. She made her way back to the bed and sat down, wondering at the huge white T-shirt she had on. She wore no underwear, just this soft white cotton shirt.

  Being outside of the bed and covers that long had given her a chill. She quickly slid back underneath, wincing at the movement.

  What had happened to her? Her body had taken a beating. And she was so cold. She shivered underneath the covers, wishing now that she had something other than a cool sheet. She searched under the bed, but it was empty. There were no blankets in this room. They obviously expected her to be warm enough.

  That little bit of exertion had exhausted her to the point that she no longer had any body heat. She curled up as tight as she could, hating the whimpers escaping. She wasn’t the crying kind. At least she didn’t think so. She dredged through her memories looking for answers about who she was and where she was. And came up blank.

  The only thing she knew for sure was that her body was turning to ice.

  Finally unable to handle the cold, she cried out for help. Almost instantly the door opened. The same man walked back in, gave a strangled cry as he saw her shuddering. He quickly threw himself on the bed and pulled her into his arms, giving her his body heat. She accepted it gratefully, just wishing he had thought to bring blankets at the same time.

  With her chattering teeth, she whispered, “So cold.”

  “You’ll warm up in a minute,” he said. “Going to the bathroom must have been too much for you.”

  She gave a half laugh. “Didn’t have a whole lot of choice, and there’s not very many ways to get to the bathroom without exerting some energy.”