Dark Waters

by Lucas Pederson

  A sharp knock on the door cuts the words from Admiral Wade’s mouth. He stares at the door, a single white eyebrow lifting. “We are in a briefing.”

  The door opens, and a man dressed in perhaps the brightest white suit Miles has ever seen strides in.

  “I’m just in time then.”

  The man’s black hair slicks back from his tanned forehead, held by gel…or something slimy by the look. He brings with him the strange mongrelized odors of oil, vanilla, and cinnamon. A scent that makes Miles gag a little. His thick, black mustache lifts as he smiles. His green eyes sparkle in the soft light of Wade’s office. He barely gives Miles a glance on his way to Admiral Wade.

  “Admiral Wade,” the man announces, extending a hand. “How are you?”

  Wade does not shake the offered hand and gives the man a withering glare. “Mr. Jones. Murdock. You can’t just come bursting into my office like this, as I’m sure you know. If you’d like to make an appointment, then maybe—”

  “Oh,” Murdock says waving a flawless, manicured hand. “No, no, no. No appointments. I’m here as an aid to your mission.”

  Wade blinks. “And how do you know about the mission?”

  With a snort, Murdock pats the Admiral on his shoulder. “Come now, you and I both know I know everything that’s going on in this country.”

  Miles’ hands clench into tight fists at his sides. Murdock Jones. The oil overlord of America. The man that is said to have aided in the second Civil War all over race and oil. The man who supposedly owned the old oil rig where that Bracken guy lost his entire team to a leviathan. The tycoon who has practically ruined America single handedly.

  “That doesn’t give you the right to barge into my office like this,” Admiral Wade booms. “I don’t care who you are and what your connections are. Get out of my office until you make a goddamn appointment like everyone else.”

  With his back to Miles, he can’t see Murdock’s expression, but he figures it’s somewhere between shock and disdain. One of the most powerful men in America isn’t used to being talked to like this and Miles has gained a new respect for Admiral Wade for doing so. He never thought the old bastard could be so awesome. And that’s a stretch, really…

  “Well, Admiral,” Murdock says and steps away from Wade. He observes the others in the room, this time his gaze lingers on Miles a bit longer before moving on. “I help fund For Everdeen, as you know. And I have come to provide more funds for this mission. All state of the art equipment. Mechs, if you wish.”

  Miles shakes his head. “No mechs. I read about how they failed against the leviathan a couple years ago.”

  Once more, Murdock’s intense gaze finds him. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong! If not for the mechs there would be no survivors.”

  “There was only one,” Miles says, leveling his sight on Murdock. “And even he said he was lucky in the article I read.”

  Murdock waves a dismissive hand. “All drama, that one. What if I told you there were three survivors and Bracken was just looking for a way to make money because he was poor?”

  “Bullshit,” Miles says and turns to Admiral Wade. “I want my old team.” He hooks a thumb at Murdock. “And I want nothing to do with this asshole.”

  Admiral Wade nods. “Done. Report back here at twenty-one hundred.”

  Miles shoots Wade a salute, spins and hurries out of the office before he kills the human stain known as Murdock Jones.

  He’s just stepping out the doors when a white cloud bursts in front of his face and he knows no more.

  CHAPTER 4

  Emma is locking up the office around nine at night when a vehicle pulls up near the dock.

  She frowns, but keeps to the shadows near the office, kind of happy she hadn’t gotten the outside lightbulb replaced. She presses herself into the deeper shadows, watching.

  From out of nowhere, a black inflatable boat drifts onto the beach near the dock. A man dressed in all black hurries across the small boat, jumps onto the sand, and pulls it onto the beach a bit. Then he glances in Emma’s direction. For a few godless seconds, she feels like she’s totally exposed and he can see her. Soon he’ll sprint over the beach and slit her throat from ear to ear and…

  But he soon looks away and focuses on the vehicle parked in front of him.

  A moment later, two other men drag what looks like a body from the backseat. They haul it, one holding the arms while the other hefts the legs, toward the inflatable black boat.

  Just above the vehicle is a tall lamp and Emma soon realizes who the men are carrying…

  “Miles,” she whispers and claps her hands to her mouth, hoping the men didn’t hear her.

  Apparently they don’t because they never stop and load Miles into the boat. The two who loaded him run back to the vehicle, get in and drive away. The man in the black inflatable boat, pushes off the beach, gets in and starts what she assumes is a trolling motor by how quiet it is. Then it backs away into the darkness of the ocean.

  Heart galloping in her chest, Emma emerges from the shadows and runs to the beach.

  Very faint, she hears the whir of the small motor.

  She almost gets into the charter to follow, then dismisses the idea. The charter is loud. It’s a brutish beast. The man in the boat would hear her the moment she started it up.

  “Shit,” she says, staring into the dark void in front of her. There is no moon. No stars. It’s like looking into a black wall.

  Miles went with the agents earlier. Could this be part of that?

  No…this is something different. The military don’t knock you out and load you into a boat at night. Or do they? Maybe they do now? No. Something else is going on…something bad. And…

  Her sight snags on a fourteen-foot aluminum fishing boat resting on the beach she hasn’t had the heart to get rid of yet. The boat had been her grandpa’s. The motor is long dead, but it has oars, by God.

  Without letting her brain get in the way too much, Emma shoves the boat into the water, places the oar-pins in the holders, and rows away from the dock.

  She’s about thirty yards out before she realizes she has no clue what direction the man in the boat took Miles. And it’s too dark. Too—

  Something thumps against the bottom of the boat. Small waves lap along the sides making hollow thunking sounds. Emma sucks in a sharp breath, as if slapped across the face. The boat rocks for a moment, then stills.

  Okay, so maybe she should have let her brain get in the way a bit more because there are bad things out in the ocean, especially at night. She glances around, but the dark waters reveal nothing. And it’s so damn quiet.

  Emma turns the boat around and begins rowing toward shore.

  God, I’m an idiot. She rows the boat, pushing herself to work faster. Sweat streams down her face. Calm down. Freaking out isn’t gonna help you. Just breathe, lady. Besides, it was probably just a dolphin.

  The bow of the boat shoots upward in a spray of water. Emma screams, and when the bow crashes back down, spraying her with more salty water, she stares straight ahead.

  “So not a dolphin.”

  Not wasting time, she continues rowing. She can make out the parking lamp. The beach isn’t far now. Maybe twenty, or even fifteen yards. Water splashes onto her from the right, drenching her in liquid cold. How can the warmest part of the ocean be so fucking cold? She doesn’t know and right now it’s just her mind babbling on in its panic. As if often does.

  A whine gathers in her throat as she rows. Her arms are on fire, burning and aching. Her lungs sting from all the heavy breaths in salty air. Sea water drips from the tip of her nose. Her heart bashes itself against her ribs.

  She rows.

  Why the hell had she not stopped to think about going after Miles? About not knowing which direction the inflatable black boat went and the darkness of this night?

  She rows.

  How far away from the beach is she? Fifteen yards? Ten? So close. So—

  A shiny, black claw slap
s onto the side of the boat, inches from her left oar, stopping her progress. She can only see the claw from the lamp in the parking lot. A weak light, but just enough. The boat tilts to the left, right side lifting out of the water. Emma scrambles, back slamming to the right side. She grabs the oar out of the holder and brings it down as hard as she can onto the claw.

  There’s a giant spray of water, but the claw releases the boat. It slaps back onto the water.

  Trying to control her breathing, and failing, Emma slips the oar back into the holder and rows. She doesn’t stop until sand grits against the metal bottom of the boat. A shrill squeal sounds behind her and she fumbles over the boat to the bow. She jumps out of the boat onto the beach, landing hard on her side in the sand.

  Before she has time to crawl away, the boat is yanked back into the water and soon pulled under.

  “Jesus,” she mutters and hauls ass away from the water, not stopping until she reaches the parking lot where she collapses in a dripping, wheezing heap.

  Low chuffing noises find her ears. She snaps her head up, eyes widening as she stares down onto the beach into a set of large, glimmering eyes like silver coins. It’s about ten feet from her, stopping in mid-crawl. Its black skin shines under the dull light of the lamp, much like the long extinct orca. Its long, black claws dig deep into the sand. She can’t make out what the head looks like, nor if it has legs or a tail and fin. None of that matters.

  Emma gains her feet, standing on wobbly legs, and the thing on the beach surges forward, moving much like an angry crocodile. And it’s here she sees it does indeed have a tail. One very much similar to a shark. She stumbles backward, but the creature stops just short of the lamp’s full glow. It hisses, revealing rows of long, shimmering teeth, shoots a glare at Emma, then scuttles backward through the sand and into the water.

  A series of shivers runs through Emma.

  She makes it back to the door of her office before her legs give out. She struggles with her keys, unlocks the door, crawls inside and kicks the door shut.

  Wheezing, heart still slamming, she manages to crawl a few feet from the door before collapsing again.

  This time, darkness crowds in and before long…she’s swept up in the dark waves of unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER 5

  Voices in the darkness draw him out of sleep.

  At first, they’re nothing but mumblings, though soon he manages to pick out words here and there.

  “…can’t…”

  “…he’ll be pissed…”

  “…we should step back.”

  “Is he awake?”

  “…dunno…”

  “He’s awake.”

  Miles’ eyelids flutter, letting in tiny glimpses of pale light. He swallows, hating the dry click in his throat.

  “Miles?”

  He doesn’t answer and instead turns onto his side. His mouth and throat are like strips of old carpet. Dry…dusty.

  There’s a constant acrid stench in his nostrils he can’t get away from. His head throbs and by all accounts, he feels like he’s waking up during the worst hangovers in the history of hangovers. His stomach gurgles and a sour belch grumbles out his mouth. Every time he tries to fully open his eyes, the pain in his head slashes like hideous claws.

  “Miles?” Same voice as before, and like before, he ignores it.

  For now, all he cares about is not feeling like hammered shit on a fiery anvil. He needs water. Something cold and wet. Anything. Anything to wash the dry coating on his tongue and throat away.

  Before he can even ask, someone says, “Here. Just a sip, though.”

  The brim of a cup is pressed against his eager lips and slowly lifted. Cool water spills over his cracked lips and into his mouth. He swallows. The water ignites a thirst in him that cannot be denied. He latches onto the offered cup, yanking it out of the person’s hand and upending it and gulping the rest of the water down.

  “You get sick it’s your own fault, man.”

  That voice. He knows it from somewhere. The same smartass tilt in tone.

  But every time he tries to open his eyes, they burn. So, he forces them shut. “Where am I?”

  A snort and then hot, moist breath puffs into his sweaty face. “First rule of a Dagger…ask questions later.”

  Miles opens his mouth, shuts it and tries to open his eyes again. The sting is too much. “Alright, asshole, why do my eyes burn?”

  “Pretty fucking demanding for being a prisoner, aren’t ya?”

  He can’t stop the chuckle bubbling up his throat. Once this subsides, he shakes his head. “I’m not a prisoner.”

  “Oh, you’re not? Weird. Because I think it’s you in the chair and—”

  “Jakob,” Miles says. “Shut the fuck up and tell me what’s in my eyes.”

  The other man sighs. “You’re still a cranky ass, even after all these years.”

  “All these – it’s been three.”

  “Like I said, all these years.”

  “For shit sake, Jakob,” a deeper voice said. “Wash his eyes out.”

  Miles knows that voice too. “Hey, Guether.”

  “Master Chief.”

  Icy water splashes into his face.

  A grunt. Then, “Hold on Master Chief. I gotta get inside the eyes.”

  “Just hurry it up, will ya?” He almost forgot how annoying Jakob is. Almost.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m trying. Ya gotta work with me here, man.”

  Miles forces his eyelids open as far as he can (no more than slits), and another massive splash of ice water hits his face, this time more than a little gets into his eyes. It burns for a moment, but at least he’s able to open his eyes some. His vision is blurry, like looking through an opaque window. Yet one more splash of icy water strikes him full in the face. Then another. And another. And—

  Miles bursts out of the chair, sputtering. “Jesus, you trying to drown me?”

  Jakob laughs, though no one else says anything.

  Gradually, Miles’ vision clears enough to see. Leaning against an old wooden table, large and expressionless, is Guether. He crosses his large arms over his broad chest. His bald head gleams under the lights and his long, blond beard still reminded Miles of some Viking warrior from forever ago. In front of him, Jakob cocks a dark eyebrow. His face is still very boyish, youthful. His vision isn’t fully restored yet.

  “Others are resting up,” Guether says.

  Miles nods, goes to rub his eyes.

  “Uh,” Jakob says. “Don’t do that. I need to keep washing your eyes out until you can see clearly.”

  Miles lowers his hand. “The fuck is in my eyes?”

  Jakob glances away. “It was Milan’s idea.”

  “It was all of our idea,” Guether booms. “Don’t be a damn wuss. Remember our little talk about owning up?”

  Jakob waves a hand at the big man. “Yeah, yeah. Okay, so it was a collective thing. But still, I was kinda against it.”

  “You were the first to agree.”

  “Well, not intentionally.”

  “Bullshi—”

  “Okay,” Miles says, feeling the onset of a damn migraine. “What the hell is going on?”

  “It was Admiral Wade’s idea,” Jakob spouts.

  “More our idea,” Guether says.

  “Whatever. Point is, we got you away from there.”

  Miles sighs. “Keep washing my eyes out.”

  It takes Jakob another four splashes with ice water before Miles can see just as well as he had before they shot the white powder (whatever it is) into his face.

  Vision crystal clear, he glances from Jakob to Guether and back again. “I think you two better tell me what’s going on here.”

  “Wade rounded us up yesterday,” Jakob says.

  “More like a group call,” Guether says.

  Jakob shoots a frown at the big man. “You tellin’ this story, or am I? Jesus jumpin’ on lily pads. Some people…”

  “Listen,” Miles says. “I don�
�t care who tells it, I just want to know what’s happening.”

  “Master Chief,” Guether says.

  “Not anymore. Stop calling me that.”

  The big man pauses, sighs. “Okay, Miles…Admiral Wade contacted us yesterday and said you’d need us. He set-up a plan to make it look like you’ve been abducted.”

  Miles blinks. “Okay? Why?”

  “He said he has a feeling Murdock Jones might make an appearance and he didn’t want that pompous prick to own you,” Jakob says.

  “So, this was all planned?”

  Both men nod.

  “Lovely. And what the hell did you guys spray in my eyes?”

  Jakob gives him a crooked smile. “Mixture of chloroform and Sills Crystal.”

  “Sills—those crystals are forbidden!”

  Jakob titters, appearing utterly insane. “It is! Ah, but it worked out just fine.”

  “For you, maybe,” Miles says. “That about killed me.”

  “Hardly,” Jakob says. “The Sill was minimal. I personally saw to that.”

  There are no windows in what Miles assumes is a basement of some kind. The walls are made of ragged, sweaty stones. The bare light bulbs dangle on red and black wires from the ceiling. There’s also a strong smell. Something earthy and sour. Dank is the word he’s looking for. The floor is old, black dirt. Oiled dirt, he assumes by the other, fainter odor.

  “So,” Miles says. “This was all planned, huh?”

  “Yup,” Jakob says. “He also gave us all the gear we need. This is top-notch shit, man.”

  Miles looks from Jakob to Guether. “You all know I’m going after my brother, then? That I don’t give a shit about the Cutter otherwise?”

  “Our mission,” Guether says, straightening, “is to find any and all survivors and eliminate any and all threats.”

  “Is that so?” Miles smirks. “I say we do what we need to while out there.”

  “You don’t feel a bit sorry about all those who died?” Jakob frowns at him. “Shit, you’re colder than I remember, man.”

  Miles nods. “My personal mission is to find my brother, Mike. But if we find more survivors, we’ll help them.”