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$45 upfront payment equivalent to $15 per month. New customers on first three-month plan only. Taxes and fees extra. Speeds lower above 40 gigabytes. See details. The storm pummeled us as we lurched from the lifeboat to the metal platform, grasping at the slick metal. Above us, the dark oil rig loomed into the sky, briefly illuminated by lightning. The flash gave me two seconds to brace myself as a rogue wave rose, sweeping across the platform.
It slammed me into the side railing, hitting Rib first as pain lanced up my side. Next to me, Lyle cried out as the wave almost swept him completely off. I couldn't imagine how the salt water felt across his scorched skin. Blisters covering the right side of his body. Regaining my feet, I grabbed Lyle by his left arm and hauled him up the stairs. We had a brief break between the waves and had to take it.
Within seconds, we moved from the platform to a safer spot under the oil rig. Ernesto followed behind us, shouting for us to keep moving. He carried a bright orange survival kit slung over one shoulder and a flashlight in one hand. Another wave swept over us, rocking the entire structure.
I crashed against the railing again and fell, the hard metal's edge scraping my shins. This time, I managed to hang on to Lyle. He cried out in delirious pain. "Hang in there, buddy," I said. "We'll get you fixed up soon." I hoped he couldn't hear the fearful disbelief in my voice. As I hauled Lyle ever upward, I glanced behind us and spotted the mooring line attached to the small lifeboat.
In this storm, the railing wouldn't last long. Lightning flashed again, lighting up the ocean around the rig. A long rattling crack of thunder followed. I just hoped to God we'd find some way to call for help. However, the fact that the entire structure was completely dark didn't give me hope. Usually, these things were lit up like Christmas trees at night, not this one. We finally left the roiling sea below, coming to the underside of the platform.
A large metal door blocked our path. I tried it, but it was locked from the other side. Banging on the door, I called for help. "Anyone there? Hello? Our trawler went down. Please, let us in. Move!" Ernesto said, stepping forward with a small, lightweight hatchet in one hand. Must have been from the survival kit. But before he could swing at the door, metal screeched, sliding from the other side. The door cracked open before anyone could touch it.
Ernesto and I shared a quick glance before he shone his flashlight at the newly cracked door. "Hello?" Only the increasingly violent storm answered from all around. Ernesto reached out and shoved the door open all the way, shining his flashlight inside. The hallway was utilitarian and completely dark, no signs of any crew. "Hello?" Ernesto called again. Still, there was no answer. "You sure you didn't open the door yourself?" he asked me.
You saw me try to open it. It was locked, I said. Lyle groaned next to me. Ernesto checked Lyle's forehead before aiming a grimace at me. We had to get Lyle inside and treat his burns. We stepped through the door and into the interior hallway. With the exterior door shut behind us, we stood, waiting for something to happen. I was helping to hold Lyle up, his legs unsteady as he swayed and groaned.
After a long moment, Ernesto stepped to the nearest door on our left and shone his light into the room. "We're in the accommodations," he said. "This is a bunk room." Lyle and I ventured forward and peered inside, seeing that the bunk room looked as if it was still in use. The beds were neatly made, and personal effects littered the room. Family pictures were taped to the walls. Ernesto stepped in and tried the light switch. It didn't work.
"It's fine, we'll make it work," I said, pulling Lyle into the room and directing him to a bed. He lay on his left side without prompting. Ernesto set the emergency kit on the floor next to the bunk and pulled out the first aid kit, handing it to me. Then he produced another flashlight. "Get him fixed up," he said. "I'm going to see if I can find a radio." I nodded absently, concerned for Lyle. He looked awful. The fire had done some serious damage.
We could stabilize him, but he'll need a hospital soon. Ernesto waited for a moment while I got the flashlight on and sat nearby so I could see what I was doing. Then he ventured out into the hallway, following the flashlight beam like a puppy following its human. I had rudimentary first aid training, as did everyone who worked on our fishing trawler, now sitting on the ocean floor, if not on its way. I worked as best I could to treat the burns, but there wasn't much I could do.
I managed to get a couple of over-the-counter painkillers into Lyle, but I doubted they would help much, if at all. When I had done all I could, I realized that 10 or 15 minutes had passed and Ernesto still wasn't back. Standing with the flashlight in hand, I glanced down at Lyle. He was semi-conscious, making pained sounds and mumbling to himself.
I didn't think he would go anywhere, so I stepped out into the hall and headed deeper into the accommodations, shining my light into the empty bedrooms as I went. "Yo, Ernesto!" I called when I came to a T-intersection. If he answered, I didn't hear him. I had never been on an oil rig before, so I had no idea where I was going. All I knew was that the thing was about as big as a large office building, and with as many rooms.
I went left down the hallway, passing a common room, a gym, and a commissary. They all looked like they had been abandoned in the middle of a shift. Finding nothing on this floor, I headed up the stairs to the next. As I stepped out of the stairwell, I saw a man sitting on the floor in the middle of the hall, facing away from me. He sat as if meditating, legs crossed and hands on his knees.
He wore a strange cap on his head that looked as if it was made from thick lines of dark fabric that stretched down under his collar. Some sort of cowl, I thought. "Hello?" I said, feeling suddenly uneasy. The man made no move. I eased toward him, heart tap-dancing against my ribcage. "Are you okay?" Still, he didn't answer. I got within ten feet of him before I stopped, staring at what I originally thought was a cap.
but what i thought had been thick lines of fabric were moving independently they looked like long dark fingers massaging the man's scalp with gentle rhythmic movements what the the man's head snapped directly backward followed by a chorus of loud crunches and pops as his spine folded back on itself he stared at me with his upside down eyes chin pointed straight at the ceiling
It was only then that I saw those dark, strange fingers extended onto his face, not quite obscuring his features. Those strange fingers branched out, pulling open the man's face like a gory flower and revealing a grotesque mouth big enough to chomp down on a softball. Flapping backward, the man's arms crackled as they reversed in their sockets. He darted toward me on all fours, moving faster than possible for a man contorted backwards.
Every neck hair stood on end as I flew back into the stairwell, my body reacting before I could process whatever the fuck that was. But I couldn't lead this thing back to Lyle, so I burst through the stairwell door and headed up the stairs instead of back down.
The creature crashed through the door behind me, and I lurched up the stairs three at a time, followed by the slow palm slaps and crunching bones. I moved past the door to the next floor, up one more flight of stairs, and then darted through a door next to a large four on the wall. The creature kept pace, chasing me down the hallway, past more bedrooms until I came to a doorway that led outside. Rain pelted me from my left as I ran along an exterior corridor, the sea royally, angrily below.
The noise of the storm masked the sound of my pursuer, and part of me latched onto the possibility that it had stopped following me. I chanced a backward look over my shoulder, shining my flashlight behind me, only to see that the creature was there, gaining on me. It sprang at me, that strange face-mouth yawning wide, widely spaced, triangular teeth glinting in the flashlight beam.
Unable to decide between running and fighting, I panicked and tripped over my own feet, falling onto my back on the non-slip steel grating. Rearing back, I swung the flashlight at the creature's head as it landed on me. It was the wrong thing to do. The face-sized mouth with its six triangular lips closed around the tool, engulfing several of my fingers as well. It chomped down, severing both my fingers and the plastic flashlight.
Screaming, I shoved the creature with my left hand, surprised to find that it didn't weigh anywhere close to what I expected. For a man that size, I would have guessed 200 pounds, but it was barely half that. Still shoving with my left hand, I got my legs up and my feet pressed against the creature's body. Then I kicked, angling towards the railing. The creature sailed over the railing and fell over the side, disappearing into the storm. The rain and thunder were too loud for me to hear if it hit the ocean's surface.
I grabbed my mangled right hand with my left, inspecting the damage, while groaning against the shocking pain. The only digits left intact were my pinky and thumb. The other three had been sheared off at different points, leaving three uneven nubs that bled freely. My only concern turned to fixing the wounds. I remembered the first aid kit, then Lyle. "Oh no, Lyle!" A flood of thoughts pounded me, and our best bet was to get back to the life raft and take our chances at sea.
Maybe the creature I'd just thrown off was the only one. Not likely. The place had clearly been in full operation recently. Now, it seemed abandoned. So where is everyone else? I thought as I got to my feet. And where is Ernesto? I moved through the darkness and the pelting rain, back the way I'd come. I avoided looking over the railing. As I came within six feet of the door, it opened, freezing me in place. But I recognized the shape. Lyle? I asked.
"What are you doing here?" He didn't answer. He just stepped out onto the walkway and let the door close behind him. It looked as if he had blood around his mouth, but as I stepped toward him to look closer, I saw that it was darker than blood. It was a brownish-black liquid smeared around his lips. "We need to get out of here," I said, stepping toward him. Thinking he was still in shock, he reached his burned right hand up to his head and dug his fingers into the scorched flesh there.
The skin came away from his skull like slow-cooked meat from bone. I stopped breathing, disgusted and unable to look away as he ripped his face off and tossed the ruined skin to the metal grating. The door opened again, and two strangers, both men, stepped outside. They stared at me, the strange black fingers along their skulls barely visible in the low light. I took a step back, and Lyle's mouth shot open, a column of black liquid shooting out and splashing against my already soaked chest.
I turned and ran, and the two men pursued me. At the end of the walkway, I barged through a metal door and started down the stairs before another stranger blocked my path. I darted the other way, back up the two steps and through another door. Complex and inscrutable machinery crowded out of the darkness in the cramped hallway. My breath turned ragged, but just hearing the footsteps behind me propelled me forward, driven by pure terror, adrenaline thrumming through my chest. I moved through another door and came to a halting stop.
Mannequins stood all around me in the darkness. But that couldn't be right. Dozens of men crowded the dark room, standing around large vertical pipes with strange black rubber couplers around them. Each man had those odd black fingers that stretched up from under the black collars of their coveralls and onto their heads. I tried to quietly turn to run out of the room, but my pursuers caught off the exit. They hadn't caught up to me, even though they were faster. Dread gripped my heart. They had herded me here.
With my damaged right hand, I knew I couldn't put up a decent fight. Soon, these completely silent men encircled me, cutting off my options. One of them produced a flashlight and turned it on, pointing it at a man on the floor nearby. I recognized Ernesto immediately. He lay on the metal grating, face up. Brownish black liquid smeared around his mouth. He twitched and spasmed, eyes fixed on some unknowable point overhead. What did you do to him? I asked.
No one answered. I moved toward my friend and coworker, but hands grasped me and kept me still. A long minute passed before Ernesto stopped twitching. He sat up and looked at me blankly with a wet ripping sound. Several long black fingers crawled up from his back and settled onto his skull, digging into the skin along his forehead and around the sides of his face.
Now, he got easily to his feet and then stepped over to a large metal box with several small pipes leading to it. There was a spigot on one side and a breaker sitting underneath. Ernesto turned the spigot handle and brown-black liquid poured into the beaker. When it was about half full, he turned it off, picked up the beaker, and walked over to me. The hands held me fast.
In the flashlight beam, the liquid bubbled on its own, foaming around the beaker's rim with tiny grasping tendrils. Ernesto held the beaker up in front of my face. I pressed my lips together and turned my head away. Hands gripped my head from behind and turned it back. I jerked my arms and got my captors to move off balance for a moment, but they quickly recovered. "Why are they so light?" I asked myself, remembering how light the one I'd kicked off the platform had been. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered if I couldn't get out of this.
My head held steady. Ernesto eased the beaker forward, but I still kept my lips shut. The glass touched my lips, and Ernesto tipped it up. But before the liquid could reach my lips, something rippled through the crowd of people. Faces opened up to reveal those awful mouths, each one releasing screams that made me wish for death just to stop the noise. Ernesto brought the beaker down, looking around as if communicating with the others. Suddenly, dozens of them raced out of the room.
I felt the tension ease on my arms, and I took advantage, jerking away and shoving the lightweight man aside. I ducked around Ernesto and ran through the room, into uncharted territory. There was a door ahead, hopefully leading outside. Sure enough, I burst outside onto another exterior walkway, this one on a different side of the rig. Over the noise of the storm, I heard the "whomp, whomp, whomp" of a helicopter. My first thought was that it was insane to be flying a helicopter in this weather.
My second thought was of rescue. I looked up to see a military helicopter hovering a good distance away. I waved my arms and yelled, even though I was sure they couldn't see me. Then something happened. Something fell from the bottom of the helicopter. Something that was on fire? Then the pieces clicked into place. It wasn't something falling. The helicopter was shooting at the rig. The missile streaked toward me. And I acted without thinking, jumping over the railing and toward the rowdy sea below.
I hit the water just as the missile hit the rig. Looking up through the ocean, bright orange flames blossomed against the stormy clouds. I swam away as hard as I could before coming up for air. Several more missiles hit the structure. I swam and swam while debris rained down around me. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the helicopter left. The storm was dying as well. Treading water, I turned and looked at the oil rig.
It was engulfed in flames, the structures mostly destroyed. Something caught my eye off to the left, and I looked over to see the life raft Lyle, Ernesto, and I had taken from our sinking trawler. It was floating there, as if waiting for me. I swam to it and crawled in, dumping myself in a heap and huffing for my efforts. I lay like that for a long time before I heard boats approaching. I sat up and saw the cavalry coming.
the Coast Guard and the Navy, breathing a sigh of relief. I waved at them until the spotlight touched me. I was saved. I say a prayer as the helicopter settles onto the rig's landing pad, splashing brilliant colors across the horizon. The sun touches the edge of a seemingly endless ocean. God is a magnificent creator, I think to myself. It's a thought born of habit instead of true appreciation, and my attention soon turns toward the matter at hand.
I look out the helicopter's window, searching for signs of life on the rig and finding none. How is it possible for 134 people to suddenly go silent overnight as a member of the Coast Guard? I've never heard of such a thing happening, but I also know nothing about oil rigs or their dangers. Could something like this happen? On the ride over in the company's helicopter, I guessed they had an equipment malfunction. Power outage maybe?
something that would disconnect the internet and radio. As I peppered the helicopter pilot with questions, I found it wasn't likely. But that was before one of my two escorts, Mr. Jeffers and Mr. Engelman, told the pilot to stop talking to me. The two men, both of whom work for the oil company, thought to bar me from this rescue mission, and they only gave in when we threatened to send a Coast Guard helicopter from our end.
After all, we had received a strange SOS call from the rig last night, but the excited voice was garbled, and the transmission staticky to the point of being unintelligible. When we couldn't raise anyone on the rig again, we knew something was up, but until now, the weather wasn't cooperating for a safe flight. Despite the calm seas and cloudless skies, I feel a deep sense of unease as I step off the helicopter and onto the rig.
Jeffers and Engelman disembark behind me. My bag is heavy and my mission is clear: find out if anything is wrong. If so, call it in. If not, catch a ride back and report my findings. In my bag is a satellite phone because there are no cell towers out here. There's also a first aid kit and other emergency supplies. I doubt my first aid kit will be of much use. This rig should have an infirmary with everything I could ever need and more.
Jeffers, Engelman and I move away from the helicopter. I expect the motor to die down, or at least slow down, while the pilot waits for us. So when the rotors speed up and I turn to see the helicopter lifting off again, I drop my bag and wave both my hands. "Wait!" I shout. "You're supposed to wait!" It does no good. The helicopter lifts into the sky, and then banks, heading back toward the mainland.
I turn to look at Jeffers, who told the pilot to stop answering my questions on the ride over. He's a cruel-faced man with expressionless eyes and the build of an NFL tight end. He wears cargo pants and a hoodie with black boots, carrying a large duffle bag in one hand that I hadn't noticed before. "He'll be back as soon as we call him," Jeffers tells me. "Not to worry." I glance at Engelman, who wears a beanie pulled down to his red-tinged eyebrows.
A puffy brown-red beard takes up the lower half of his face. He's dressed similarly to Jeffers, although instead of a hoodie, he wears a black waterproof jacket. He too carries a large duffel bag, which he currently drops to the deck and kneels next to. I don't like this at all. First, there was the fight these guys put up about bringing me along. They arrived at the Coast Guard headquarters shortly after I received the garbled SOS call.
I remembered them swearing up and down that everything was fine when my CMC started asking them questions. "Good, let me talk to them then," CMC Braxton said as the four of us sat in his office discussing the issue. "I'm afraid that's not possible," Jeffers said. "The communication is through our encrypted lines. That's not good enough," Braxton said. "I need to talk to someone on that rig. Otherwise, I'm sending out a dolphin as soon as the weather clears."
A Dolphin is a type of helicopter the Coast Guard uses, and the two oil company guys knew this. Which was clear because Jeffers quickly changed tack. "We're going out ourselves to see to the issue as soon as we can," he said. "We can bring one of your men along. No need to waste precious resources and manpower when we know nothing is wrong." Braxton and I shared a brief look before he nodded at me. Then he turned back to Jeffers.
"Fine, you can bring Cervantes." I smiled at the two men. "That's me. Very good," Jeffers said. Angleman simply eyed me. Now, as we stand on the helicopter pad, Angleman is eyeing me again as he pulls an MP5 out of his duffel bag and points it at my chest. "No need to be alarmed," Jeffers says, stepping forward and pulling the Glock 17 out of my holster. "We won't hurt you unless you do something stupid."
I put my hands up, remembering what Braxton said to me after our meeting was over and the two oil company men left. "I don't trust them at all," he said. "Watch your back." That's easier said than done when there's only one of me and two of them. "What the hell is going on here, guys?" I ask. "Just relax, alright, Cervantes?" Jeffers says. "We'll have this sorted out in no time. Put your hands down and your wrists together." Thinking he means behind my back, that's what I do.
But Jeffers shakes his head. "Put them in front." I do what he says, but the look I give him is unmistakable. As he produces a pair of flex cuffs and slides them over my hands, he relents. "If we get into trouble, I don't want you completely useless." That's an odd thing to say, I think, regretting coming on this little trip. Automatically, I recite the Lord's Prayer in my mind. But I know the words are falling on deaf ears. I've known for some time.
Despite that, I can't help myself, and the prayer brings me some minor comfort as we head off into the oil rig. I still haven't seen a soul, and we've been walking for a good 15 minutes by the time we reach what looks like a control room. I've been peppering Jeffers and Engelman with questions, but there is silent as the long-dead algae and plankton that now make up the oil this rig was built to pump out of the earth.
"Why do you think they abandoned this place?" I ask as we step into the control room. "Shut up!" Engelman says from behind me, prodding me forward with the tip of his MP5. Jeffers sits down at one of the control panels and logs in. "That's one thing I've noticed. The power seems to be unaffected by whatever happened here. Lights burn brightly and computers work just fine." Jeffers brings up a camera feed and searches through the footage, fast-forwarding through what looks like a regular workday.
Some guys are doing maintenance in one feed, others are checking instruments in another. A couple of guys sit in a room and control the massive drill that's the whole purpose behind the operation. He switches feeds again, showing a small cafeteria. People are eating, cooks are cooking, cleaners are cleaning. Then something strange happens. Everyone stops moving at exactly the same time. At first, I think it's because the feed is frozen.
but the little numbers in the top left corner keep moving. Then, rapidly, the people resume moving, but now they're using their tools, utensils, whatever is in their hands to harm themselves. Violently, one guy opens his mouth wide and plunges his fork deep down his throat. He brings his hand back out without the fork and then coughs blood, a spray of red across the cafeteria table. Another guy stabs himself in the eye with a butter knife.
One of the cooks, who's slicing veggies, jams his knife into his gut and slices it across Harry Carey style. His intestines spill out onto his cutting board. I stare at this, slack-jawed, my mind trying to simultaneously make sense, form a question, and recite the Lord's Prayer.
Jeffers navigates away, cycling through the feeds again until he comes across footage from a different cafeteria camera. From this angle, I can see a man standing in the cafeteria doorway, staring at the carnage still unfolding. He's a rangy-looking gray-haired guy who reminds me of Bruce Dern. All bones and angular features. "What the hell is this?" I ask.
"You guys don't work for the oil company, do you?" "Shut up!" Engelman says. "What is this?" I ask again. "Some mind control shit? Why did those people do that to themselves?" I said shut up. Before Engelman can finish his sentence, the door to the control room lies open. Three men with tools rush in. Two of them have heavy-duty wrenches, while the third has a kitchen knife like the disemboweled cooks.
Engelmann spins around and squeezes off a couple of shots, killing one of the wrench guys before the other one whacks him in the temple with the heavy tool. Engelmann's head whips sideways with the impact. I'm sure he's dead before he hits the ground. Meanwhile, the knife man slashes at me. I get my hands up and the knife slices down my wrist, but I avoid serious damage thanks to the flex cuffs. Jeffers pulls out his pistol as the remaining wrench wielder rounds on him.
I'm too busy fending off the knife guy, gripping his wrist and holding tight while he punches me in the ribs with his other hand. A gunshot rings out. Blood splatters the wall. The wrench guy falls to the floor, and his wrench goes clattering against the wall. Jeffers steps up next to me and puts a bullet in the knife man's head, who immediately slumps to the floor, half his skull gone. I stare down at him, blood dripping down my wrist to mingle with the gore splashed across the floor.
"We need to move," Jeffers says, kneeling and grabbing the knife. He uses the blade to cut my flex cuffs off. Then he hands me the pistol while he grabs the MP5 out of Engelman's dead hands. "What the hell is happening?" I whisper, shocked. The only thing is the gun in my hand. "You were right. It's mind control. Now let's find Ramsay before he figures out a way to use this shit on us."
"Ramsay? That was the old guy from the footage?" "Let's move, Cervantes. I need your help," Jeffers says, rushing out of the room. I follow along numbly, leaving behind more dead bodies than I've ever seen in my life. "Is this an oil rig at all?" I ask as we move down the corridor. "Of course it is." "I mean, were they pumping oil? Or is this some government experiment?" I ask.
"Those two things aren't mutually exclusive," Jeffers says. "How does it work?" I ask. "Is it some weird frequency? Hypnosis? Should we be wearing earphones or what? We need protection." Jeffers stops in the hall and turns to me. "It's a hell of a lot worse than that," he says. "And if we don't stop it, things are going to get bad for the human race." He turns and resumes his walk, but I stand fixed in place for a long moment. "Wait, did you say stop it?"
"Don't you mean stop him?" Jeffers stops at a door on the industrial side of the oil rig, opposite the area with the living quarters. He turns and whispers to me, "How's your memory?" "What?" I ask, bewildered. "Can you remember a few lines and keep repeating them in your head when we go in there?" "Jeffers, tell me what the hell is happening?" I whisper. "What's on the other side of that door?"
"That's the drill floor," he says. "And you will not believe what we'll find there. I can guarantee you that. So I ask you again: can you remember a few lines and keep repeating them in your head no matter what you see?" I shrug. "I don't know. I can try. Try really goddamn hard. And look for the old guy, Ramsay. He's its emissary. We kill him, we dampen its power." "What is this 'it' you keep talking about?"
"Kuzerath, Demerath, Lester satan, licht button, lichter," Jeffers says. "What?" "Those are the lines you need to remember," Jeffers repeats them again, and then once more. Then he makes me repeat them several times, correcting my pronunciation until I have it down. It's strange, but as I say the words, I can almost feel their power. They seem to reverberate down my throat and through my body with each syllable. Even thinking them makes me feel oddly powerful.
Keep saying them in your head, or out loud if that's easier. Whatever you do, whatever you see, don't stop saying them. "I'm not going in there until you tell me what's happening," I say. "Why did Ramsay make those people kill themselves? What will we find on the drill floor? What the hell is going on in here?" "Ramsay is just a vessel. An emissary, like I said. He's unleashed an ancient beast. A god, almost. Those people who killed themselves? They were sacrifices to the beast.
They helped it grow even more powerful. So that's what's on the other side of that door. The Beast. Hopefully Ramsay. But they already know we're here, so I don't like our odds. But we still have to try. What happens if we fail? Let's just say there's a backup plan in place. A backup plan that involves a very large bomb dropped on this oil rig. But there's some doubt whether that bomb will actually work, or if it will simply make the Beast more powerful. I shake my head in bewilderment.
"Let's go, son," Jeffress says. "You're a member of the United States Coast Guard, and the coast is in danger. Hell, every coast all over the world is in danger. So let's do this. You ready?" I swallow and then nod as I recite the Lord's Prayer once again. "Keep saying the words," Jeffress says.
then he turns back to the door and without waiting rips it open i rush inside behind him and am struck dumb by a massive creature that clings to the walls of the drill floor stretching up 30 or 40 feet next to the drill itself the beast is made of an amalgamation of melted humans and sea creatures and it has no coherent form like some kind of moss or fungus growing on a cave wall
I immediately stop reciting the words in my head, feeling a hundred thousand ancient voices reaching into my mind with sharp, prodding fingers. Just as those fingers slide into the depths of my mind, I force myself to say the words: "Kuzerath, Demerath, Lester-Sotten, Richt-Butten, Leithr." The fingers recoil, the voices growing faint but not disappearing completely. I've never felt anything like this, and the sheer scale of it makes me dizzy with terrified awe.
The power of the creature, the way the fingers felt as they reached into my mind. It's too much to comprehend. I've believed in God all my life, and I've always hoped for some kind of interaction with Him. Some kind of sign that He actually exists. All those unanswered prayers, all those dark times when I had asked for help and received only silence in return for my heartfelt pleas. All the pain, heartache, disappointment. Yet I've carried the last shreds of my faith.
Now, I stand in front of a being that is made of all things, and it's trying to speak to me. Even though I'm still reciting the words in my mind, I realize that I'm in the presence of a veritable god. It's the most amazing thing I've ever experienced. But I keep saying the strange words Jeffers taught me, because I want what happens next to really count. I want it to be of my own volition. I want to show this god what I'm willing to do for it. Ahead of me, Jeffers fires the MP5 wildly at the creature.
Dozens of mouths scream from all over the being. I raise my pistol and point it at Jeffers, and I pull the trigger. The bullet takes him low in the back. He drops to the floor and I run up, kicking his gun away. Gasping, he looks up at me, eyes filled with pain and betrayal. "You didn't say the words?" he asks weakly. I shake my head. "This is all me. It's of my own free will. I've been waiting to meet God my whole life, and I won't try to kill him now.
"That's no god," Jeffers says. "Maybe not," I say, pointing the pistol at his head. "But it's real, so I'll take my chances." I pull the trigger, blasting Jeffers' head apart. Then I toss the pistol down and get to my knees in front of the creature. As soon as I stop reciting the words in my mind, I feel those fingers made of voices reaching further into me. This time, I let them come. And as my essence is disassembled by this real, living god,
I can't help but feel utter terror and sheer bliss. The hum of the boat's motor reverberated softly through the structure and into the helm chair in which I sat. Ocean waves created a rhythm as the boat powered through them. It was dark out, and I had made sure the running lights were off, thrumming wheel in hand. I steered the boat by instruments alone, although I kept a sharp lookout for other vessels. I knew if the Coast Guard spotted us, they would have questions I couldn't answer.
but that was the risk I took. That was why I got paid well. Not well enough to afford a boat like this one, but well enough to take care of what was left of my family. "Grab me another beer, will ya?" I said to Carter. The young man who stood next to me at the helm nodded and smiled eagerly, then turned to grab another can out of the cooler I'd brought aboard. There was a fridge in the galley, but my boss didn't like me using it. He didn't even like me going down into the cabins if I could help it.
I noted Carter's carefree gait, his clear skin, and the new shiny gold wedding ring on his left ring finger. He was only 23 for God's sake. Just a kid. A sharp thump from below jumped my heart into my throat, and I searched downward instinctively, not like my eyes can see directly through a solid metal deck. "You're losing it, old man," a grizzled voice like mine put off somehow, whispered in my head.
"What else is new?" I muttered, glancing at the instruments again, trying to ignore the slithery black fear warming its way through my chest. I knew the abandoned oil rig was out there, standing tall in the dark, just as it had been for the better part of a decade. It was cheaper for the oil companies to strip them of anything valuable and then leave them there to rust, then dismantle them.
There were hundreds of them dotting the vast oceans, maybe thousands, standing like giant trash heaps in the middle of the sea. But underneath the surface, they were teeming with life, which was exactly why I was headed for this one. It was why I had used it many times before, and I would probably use it many times again. Even if the thought made that slithery black fear tighten around my heart. Beer. The beer helped. Carter arrived with a single can and handed it to me.
"You're not going to have any?" I asked. The brown-eyed young man shook his head. "No. I want to remember everything. I want to get this right." I held back a cynical laugh. Kit doesn't know what's coming. I didn't want to laugh. I wanted to scream. It seemed like I always wanted to scream these days. "Right," I said, turning away from him and cracking the beer. "So what else do I need to know about driving this thing?" "Piloting," I said. "It's called piloting, not driving."
"Okay, so what else do I need to know about piloting this thing?" I chugged half the beer down, thinking, "What's the point?" But I had to keep the ruse up. I had to keep him from suspecting anything, otherwise the game was up. "Would that be such a bad thing?" That grizzled voice in my head asked. Another thump came from down inside the boat, from one of the cabins, I thought. "Did you hear that?" I asked. "No, I don't think so. What was it?"
The thumps sounded again, much louder this time, and my beer splattered across me and the deck as I jumped. "You okay?" Carter asked. Another thump sounded, and a scratching sound followed it. "Jesus!" I said, standing up from the helm with dripping fingers and shirt, before turning to Carter. "Take the wheel!" "What? But I don't..." "Just keep it going straight. I'll be right back."
I moved out of the cockpit and down the stairs to the cabins. As I went, I brought my pistol out and slid the safety off with my thumb. "I shot him in the head," I whispered as I went. "I swear, I shot him in the head." At the last stare, the black fear squeezed my heart, forcing me to stop and grip my chest with a free hand. My teeth ground together against the pain. The noises had stopped, the scratching and thumping, but I could feel him in there, waiting for me.
"They're all in there," the grizzled voice said. "Shut up," I gasped, finally getting my breathing under control again. Once I had myself right, I stepped over to the closed cabin door. The other cabin doors were open, just as I'd left them. Moving fast, I gripped the knob and yanked the door open, stepping inside to see the bundled man-shaped figure lying on the floor where I had left it. The thick trash bags I'd put around him were still intact, as was the heavy-duty twine
It was important to keep the deck clear of blood, and not just to keep the boss happy. The dead man lay on the floor near the foot of the bed. Above his head was a closed closet. Behind me was a bathroom. The door also closed. I looked wildly around the room, and then towed the wrapped corpse. He felt dead. "You're losing it," that voice said again.
I shook my head, but as I turned to leave the cabin, I noticed water seeping from underneath the accordion closet door. It soaked into the carpet. "What the fuck?" I said, stepping toward the closet. With limited space, I had to straddle the dead man's head. I pulled the closet door open and an avalanche of rotten, waterlogged corpses poured out, crashing into me and slamming me onto the dead man's trash bag-shrouded legs.
Bony, flesh-eaten fingers reached out for me as the closet corpses piled on, gibbering and groaning. Their skeletons were mostly bare, with only small patches of discolored flesh remaining. A strange eel snaked out of one's eye socket and went back in through the corpse's gaping mouth.
Crustaceans clung to their bones, and coral sprouted from their limbs. I yelled, chest heaving, heart pounding, struggling to scramble out from under the heavy, slimy pile. But they gripped me, making each flailing move weaker and weaker. Bony fingers reached out and slid into my open mouth. I could taste the brackish water that had soaked the finger bones. Still, I screamed as the hard fingers went down my throat and triggered my gag reflex.
I vomited up the four beers I had downed since getting onto the boat. "What the hell are you doing?" Carter yelled. I looked up at him from my place on the floor, still lying on the dead man's legs. But there were no other corpses. No animated skeletons clamoring for my soul. And there was no water soaking the carpet. Only my foamy vomit. Scrambling off the dead man, I got to my feet, still holding my gun. But I couldn't come up with an answer that would sound sane.
"Are you okay?" Carter asked finally. "You look like shit." "I had too much to drink," I said lamely. "Well, I had to stop the boat because I didn't know what else to do. I don't know how close we are." "Too close," I said, staring at the closed closet door. "Too fucking close." Carter and I hauled the body up from the cabin and out onto the deck, setting it down near the back.
The abandoned oil rig reached into the sky above us. I had anchored the boat, near enough for us without risk of wrecking into the damn thing. I pulled supplies out of my duffel bag and got to work. First, I snipped all the twine around the body. Then, I cut the bags off, opening them so we could easily get the body out. He was dressed in his pajamas, and his one remaining eye stared up at the night sky. The other had been blown apart when I shot him in the back of the head.
I found myself staring at that eye until Carter caught my attention. He was looking at me strangely. He had been ever since my little breakdown in the cabin, but it didn't matter. Soon, nothing about Carter would matter. Together, we fastened chains around each of the man's four limbs. I kept reaching back for my pistol as I worked, touching it to make sure it was there. Then we attached a 40-pound kettlebell to each of the chains. Once that was done, we stood up,
"Okay," I said. "Now, we toss the kettlebells into the ocean, and the man will follow." Carter nodded. "Okay." As he leaned down to grab the kettlebells at the man's legs, I pulled my pistol out and shot him, but he reacted quickly, jerking away and falling into the water. I thought I nailed him in the head, but I wasn't sure.
"Shit!" I said, rushing over and looking down into the dark water. I couldn't see a thing. Still, I reached down and felt around for his body. I had to weigh him down too. I stuck my arm in up to the shoulder, but felt nothing in the cold sea.
As I got up, a crimson splash caught my eye. Blood on the deck. I had hit him. Looking back to the water, I searched more, panic rising as the dark slithery fear clenched my heart. Then I saw them in the water. The corpses from the cabin closet. They emerged from the depths, floating up toward the surface, grinning their skeletal grins.
I knew exactly how many bodies I had dumped here over the years. I knew all their names. And I knew all too well that each body meant food on the table for me and my family. Each one meant a roof over our heads, and health insurance, and dental care, and a white fucking picket fence. But it also meant that the cursed thing around my heart swelled. With each body, it grew larger and blacker and more powerful. Panicking, I knelt and set my pistol down between the dead man's legs.
Without thinking, I shoved the closest kettlebell off into the water. This was enough to pull the man's other leg into the water, sweeping my gun down with it. "Shit!" I cursed, diving to save my weapon before the corpse tumbled in. Kettlebells clanging against the boat's hull as it fell overboard. But as I reached into the dark ocean, a hand grabbed my wrist. Screaming, I jerked my arm away and sprinted back to the cockpit. I started the motor and pushed the throttle.
The boat traveled a little way before it started dragging. I hadn't retracted the anchor. I pulled the throttle back and the sound of the motor faded, replaced by a slow drip of water behind me. I turned to see Carter standing there, a bloody gash down the side of his head, a chain hanging from one hand. It was a chain that had been meant for him, but it wasn't Carter's presence that caused that slithery black fear to squeeze my heart one final time. It was the 14 corpses arrayed behind him,
My most recent victim stared at me with his one good eye. The rest of them stared with empty sockets and skinless, grinning mouths. Carter whipped the chain out, and the metal cracked into my temple. I went down to the floor in the cockpit, and then they came for me. There was no escape, nothing awaiting me but a watery grave.