Dark Waters Read online

  DARK WATERS

  Lucas Pederson

  www.severedpress.com

  Copyright 2018 by Lucas Pederson

  USS CUTTER-Captain Emily Duncan's final transmission to Admiral Wade - 6:00 am, August 3rd. Received August 6th:

  “Admiral Wade, we have been bumped off course, though by no fault of our own. Per my last transmissions, we are low on fuel and still waiting on the tanker. But I fear with the thing in the water bumping us farther and farther off course the tanker will miss us. I have sent you our last known coordinates via Ping. Though I know we’re doomed. It's toying with us now. The breach in the hull cannot be patched. We are taking on too much water. Our only hopes are the escape pods. That’s if we get to them in time…”

  PART 1

  DEAD GODS, LIVING MONSTERS

  CHAPTER 1

  Sharks! Always the sharks. They swarm in like vultures of the sea, snatching dead fish out of clients’ hands before darting out of sight. And, oh how the people gasp and cheer. How they laugh through the mics in their diving masks. They are so mystified by these gliding beasts, they forget what lurks in the murky waters just beyond their sightline.

  They always forget.

  The sharks feeding from their hands are small blues. Vicious, but with the right protective gear, they’re fairly harmless. And that’s the fairytale aspect of a dive. You’re so well protected from the smaller sharks, you forget the ocean is a very big, very dark place.

  They always forget.

  And that’s why Miles is here. Because, they always forget. While the clients are whooping and awing over the majestic beauty they’re submerged in, he watches. He waits. In the screen of his helmet are three smaller screens, all showing him the perimeter. His drones drift and scan, relaying the images in real time. Even his eyes have eyes.

  It’s what he’s paid to do. To keep these tourists safe while they forget the terrors circling. While they forget they are being hunted constantly.

  This day, however, appears quite calm. Nothing more than a sea turtle with six eyes drifts by Drone 2. A couple small tuna dart by Drone 1. Drone 3 drifts without incident. Works for Miles, though. Gives him a moment to ready himself more. They are about ten minutes into the dive. Nothing deep. About thirty feet or so. In a clean section off the broken California coastline. The state is little more than a sliver after the big quake of 2030. Then came all the melting glaciers and rising seas.

  All this before the Great Climate Change happened. Which really fucked everything – and everyone – up. The world, quite literally, turned itself upside down and inside out and…well…in a sense anyway.

  Oil is a depleting thing, not that Miles cares much about the stuff. It’s his belief oil is a form of evil and drives that evil into the hearts of men. So many wars have been fought over fucking oil, of all things.

  It’s the water that concerns him. Aquafers are drying up and as far as he knows there’s only three or four major ones still bountiful. In America, at least. Why the hell none of those smartass scientists haven’t figured out a way to filter ocean water or something, is beyond Miles. It’s as though the bastards enjoy watching people suffer.

  Of course, it doesn’t help that most of the country is owned by MJ Oil, either. Those bastards are the epicenter of oil. It’s their first concern. The owner, Murdock Jones, even ran for president one time. Miles thanks whatever god there is the pompous asshole didn’t make it to the end. And—

  Something blasts by Drone 2, shaking it. When the image clears, all that remains are silvery bubbles.

  Set twenty yards away from the group, the drones are his first line of defense, and his extra eyes.

  Miles’ heart quickens. Here we go.

  His grip tightens on the AR 300. A special assault rifle designed for underwater combat. Dual clips. One is loaded with deterrent slugs made of nonlethal hard rubber. The other is the real deal. With a press of a button, he can determine a creature’s fate.

  He has only used the real rounds on two occasions. Both fully warranted.

  His finger hovers over both buttons now, waiting to see if there is a true threat, or a rogue dolphin toying with the drones.

  All drones reveal murky waters, and little else.

  He waits. While the tourists laugh and ooo over the wonders of the deep, Miles watches, and waits. He moves away from the group a bit. The group’s guide, Emma, shoots him a concerned look as she hands one of the people a dead mackerel. He waves a dismissive hand at her. Could be nothing. But, as life has shoved in his face again and again, it’s better to be prepared than not at all. Or even a little. One must always be fully prepared for anything. And that’s not just the Navy Seal in him thinking. He has learned that being prepared is the key to everything in this horrendous life.

  He watches. He waits.

  Almost ten minutes pass and he checks his air supply. Still have a good seventy percent left. Which the tourists have as well.

  When he glances at the drone screens, Drone 3 is all large teeth and a gaping maw. The screen goes black.

  Shit. He swivels in the direction of Drone 1, knowing full well what owns those large, dagger-like teeth. He presses the fatal button on his rifle and lifts it, ready.

  And yet, it does not attack.

  Miles glances around, slowly. The murk hides things. It’s a predator’s greatest tool. Still, the thing doesn’t attack. He checks Drone 1 and 2. Nothing but more murk. Another clear sign that shit has gone bad, however, is the lack of fish and other aquatic life. All there is…is silty salt water and seaweed.

  The small blue sharks, obviously realizing shit just got real, dart away from the group.

  There’s a lot of aww’s, and sad faces, and slow detachment from the fairytale water world. But it’s for their own good, really. They need to wake up now.

  Sent via direct link, Emma says, “Should I lead them to the surface?”

  Using the direct link, so the clients don’t hear, Miles says, “Not yet.” He scans the area. “Hold tight. Try to get them in a tighter group.”

  “What’s out there this time?”

  “Could be a White. But…I don’t know.” He ventures farther away from the group. “Just keep them close to each other. Promise them more blues, or something. I don’t want a straggler getting snagged.”

  “Will do.”

  She’s a good woman, Emma. Smart, strong, funny. Although he’ll probably never hear the end of it from her when they surface. She is his voice of reason. When they are out of the water, anyway. Below the surface, he needs to be in command. She’s the guide. He’s the eyes with the gun. Although, she can kick any shark’s ass…there are other things out there. With all the quakes and melting ice caps…things have been released. Mutations have occurred. The oceans are far more dangerous than anything in the world. Especially with all the unknown creatures swimming through them nowadays.

  Like the leviathan beast Miles read about a few months ago. Some incident on an old oil rig. Barely a paragraph in the news. Something about an Iowa oil driller named Braden or Bracken who was the sole survivor in an attack by a sea monster he simply called a leviathan. There were no details, really. Just that he survived, and the monster had tentacles. That it killed his entire team.

  Then there’s the shit he saw before retiring from the Seals. Things nightmares are made of…

  These waters now, however, have fallen still. The murk is like a wall even his remaining drones can’t see through. He needs new drones, though. Ones that track movements would be nice. As it is, however, he’s stuck with what he has, and they haven’t failed him yet.

  Yet…

  “Anything?” Emma sounds a bit irritated. Which is okay. Better irritated than someone dead.

  “Shh,” he says.


  In his ear, she sighs.

  Miles turns slowly, gaze floating over the not so distant murky water with its bits of seaweed and kelp and silt. He glances toward the surface, finding nothing gliding above them.

  He releases a heavy breath, opens his mouth to tell Emma all is well, when something bashes into his back with enough force to drive him a few feet from the clustered group.

  “Oh my God, Miles.”

  He flips, head over flippers, for a moment, then rights himself, trying to ignore the pain spreading through his upper back. At least his tank wasn’t compromised. At least—

  “Miles!”

  He’s half-turned when he sees it. A gaping mouth with rows of long, fang-like teeth. Miles kicks, diving low and somehow manages not to get his legs chomped off. He swivels, sand kicking up and making visibility nearly impossible for a few godless seconds. When the sand clears, the creature is gone. Or rather, out of sight. The terrified group of tourists are holding each other and even though Miles can’t hear them, he’s sure they’re spouting off some kind of prayer or weeping. More than a few have probably pissed themselves.

  Emma floats near the quivering group, gaping at him. She says nothing, but then again, she doesn’t have to. Her wide eyes behind the clear mask are enough.

  They also tell him what he already knows.

  It’s not a shark.

  He rights himself, bubbles wobble in front of him. He checks his drones, though neither show signs of life. Whatever is out there, it knew to avoid the two drones. Snuck in where Drone 3 would have covered.

  Heart crashing against his ribs, Miles swivels, rifle up and ready.

  Silence, only obliterated in fragments by his own breathing and rumble of bubbles from his exhale, surrounds him. His sight drifts over the group, shoots beyond them, flicks to the drone screens, and he turns, back to the group. If the thing attacks again, he doubts it will go by the drones still active. It knows Miles can see it, somehow, through the drones. So, it will avoid the things.

  Or eat them, like it did the other one. If it does that, he’ll be blind out there in the murk.

  Flashes of the past snap at him like vipers. Memories of being in the deep darkness of the warm Atlantic. Of his team being picked off one by one by some unseen, untraceable creature. A creature he killed, though just barely. The very creature that aided in his decision for retirement.

  At thirty-nine, he is the youngest to retire from the Navy Seals. Despite the offers to return, he has gladly never looked back.

  Even so, the memories still haunt him. And, perhaps, they’ll haunt him forever.

  Shaking his head, he refocuses himself to the here and now. He hasn’t lost one tourist yet, that’s what makes him so sought after. He’s the best at what he does.

  Sucking up his fear, he blows out a long breath. His nerves ease and he falls into a thin battle fog. Where everything appears sharper, clearer. The murk doesn’t hinder him. No. Indeed, his focus is like a search beam in the dark. Happens to all soldiers from time to time. Some, more often than not. For him, it happens even during everyday happenings. Like buying groceries. It’s both a curse and a blessing, he supposes. Still irritating as shit when it happens on the outside and in society, though. The looks he gets…

  Focus sharp, Miles scans the area. But as time rolls away, nothing more happens. Nothing shows itself.

  His oxygen tank is at forty percent. Okay, but not ideal. He’ll give it another—

  It blasts out of the murk like nothing he has ever seen before. The tail of a shark, fast and true, but the head is a misshapen version of a Great White. The teeth are far too long, too pointy, but the facial structure is nearly the same.

  Then there are the arms…and hands…

  Arms like a human stretching out, long hands grasping. All covered in gray skin.

  Never has he seen such a monstrosity.

  He lifts the rifle and squeezes the trigger. The creature jerks and twitches, blood swirls in the water. Miles kicks away from the monster’s surge. Its snapping jaws snag onto one of his flippers, yanking back as its massive head thrashes back and forth. One of the long-fingered hands grips onto his leg, dragging toward the sharp maw. Miles bends, slams the muzzle of the AR 300 to the creature’s head, and puts roughly twenty bullets into its brain. Blood tendrils out of dark holes and the hand releases his leg. The jaws relax. He yanks himself away from the thing as it rolls, belly up and bobs in the water.

  Miles closes his eyes, allows himself a few careful breaths and says to Emma, “Get them to the boat. Fun’s over.”

  Emma doesn’t argue and leads the group to the surface.

  Miles stares at the dead creature still bobbing in front of him, trails of scarlet spilling out of the many holes in its head.

  A mutant. Some sort of human/shark hybrid.

  He’s not sure if it’s human pollution that creates such monsters, or spores thawing from the melting ice caps. And really, what does it matter? The beasts are here. They are roaming the waters. There’s no rhyme or reason. They just…are.

  Miles shoves the dead creature away from him, signals for his drones and heads for the surface.

  CHAPTER 2

  The entire ride inland, Emma is staring at him with a strange glare he can’t quite figure out. Something between awe and horror. Maybe a little bit of anger mixed in there somewhere. He can’t really tell and all he can do is shrug. Not knowing what someone else is thinking is the worst. Even if he can somewhat figure out what’s on her mind, he’s never sure until the clients leave.

  Once they are in the office, though…

  Miles shoves the thought out of his mind for now and plasters on a fake smile for the guests. Best not to alarm them any more than they are. And really, they’ve already pretty much forgotten what happened back there. Oh, they’ll go on and on about the little blue sharks feeding from their hands, but the monstrosity that might have killed them…? No. That’s too scary to share. Too scary to even think about. It proves science is right and whatever they believe in is skewed. Can’t have that. No, no, no.

  He turns away from them to look out over the shimmering water behind the charter. The sky is a mix of gold, pastel pinks and purples. Dusk swallowing up the day. The waters reflect these colors, mingling green-blue in with everything creating a gorgeous, glittering stew. How something so beautiful could hold so many horrors has always perplexed Miles. Sunsets are one of the draws of tourists, ah, if they only knew the monsters swimming just under the surface.

  Maybe they’re the lucky ones, though. Not knowing what stalks the oceans must be a blessing of some sort, right?

  Oh well, he’ll listen to Emma yell at him a while when they dock, then go have a few beers with Mike. Little brother is due to port around eight tonight. Been far too long since Miles has hung out with Mike. Then again, Mike is a busy man in the Navy these days. At least he didn’t get into the Seals, like Miles. The Seals do more swimming. And swimming leads to meeting your worse fears eye to eye and praying you live to tell the tale.

  Working on a battleship, though…perfectly safe. Well, from the creatures below anyway. It’s other humans one must worry about on a big ship. Torpedoes and shit.

  The Pacific isn’t like the Atlantic, Miles muses as the charter speeds toward the docks. The Atlantic is choppier. Always at some kind of unrest. Even the southern half, it’s like the waters just can’t sit still these days. Ever since the climate shifts, things are all messed up. North is warm and tropical. South is colder and bleak. Antarctica is little more than a medium sized island, though rich with all kinds of recourses rich men clamor over each other for. Not many succeed however, because the Atlantic has become a violent body of giant waves. Even a huge cutter ship will capsize. Yes, the Atlantic is a stormy, mad bastard.

  The Pacific, though, it’s almost serene. Like a vast sheet of glass stretching on and on into forever without end. The farther south one travels, the waters get a bit unsavory, but nothing at all like old Atlantic. The mid
dle Pacific, although the deepest of all the oceans and harboring the worst of creatures – as far as his experience goes anyway – is no doubt the quietest. Maybe that’s why the monsters dwell in the fathoms here. It’s big and deep and calm.

  “Docking,” Emma shouts and Miles snaps out of his thoughts.

  He moves to port, as Emma slides the charter along their large stretch of dock. He hooks a rope over one of the poles, carefully pulls the charter closer to the dock, ties the rope tight to the loop on the boat. He does the same for the bow. Once the charter is secured, he helps the clients out of the boat and on to the dock. Laughing and patting each other’s backs, the tourists make their way toward the beach.

  Before Miles can gather the diving gear to bring back to the office for recharging, Emma pushes him. Nothing hard. It barely made him step back. But enough to get his attention. Her face is something close to hellfire. Hot, red, eyes like brimstone.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Miles shrugs, continues picking up the gear. “Mutation, I reckon.”

  “Not the monster,” Emma says, voice full of growls. “You. Where were you down there? You’re supposed to communicate with me. That was the deal. That’s why I hired you. To communicate any dangers and help protect the clients.”

  He snorts. “And load and unload the gear. And recharge the tanks. And—”

  “Don’t be an ass.” Emma takes a few slow breaths, nods. “Okay, so you do more than I hire you for, but damnit, today you dropped the ball out there.”

  “I killed it, didn’t I?” Miles tosses some diving gear onto the dock, goes to gather some more. Seagulls cry out all around him. Most annoying fucking things he’s ever encountered, seagulls.

  “You did. But, Jesus, Miles…it was a close one.”

  He grunts, finishes tossing the rest of the gear onto the dock and turns to her.

  Emma is about three years younger than him, deeply bronzed skin and dark hair. She’s gorgeous, and if he didn’t have any morals, he’d ask her out for a beer or something. Maybe even begin a relationship. Ah, but those damn morals keep getting in the way, don’t they? Every time he thinks he might ask her, he chokes the words down and says something dumb.