Chapter One
Brando
We were already on the verge of darkness, the water choppy, and I knew from experience that visibility was going to be slim.
Wilkie, a rookie diver, Boomer, another lead diver, and two tenders came along with me. A diver is basically an underwater rover who, in black conditions, is blind. The tenders’ job is to keep the divers safe, be their eyes and ears on the surface while they monitor times, air pressures, search quality, and breathing rates.
This dive was deep—260 feet down using mixed gas. We’d last for about forty-five minutes. We’d spend another hour and a half to ascend through numerous decompression stops on the way to the surface, and then spend probably around four hours in a decompression chamber, where we’d have to keep our extremities stiff as a board, alternately breathing pure oxygen (for about twenty five minutes), followed by five minutes of regular air, then back to pure oxygen again to avoid getting the bends.
“You up for this?” I asked Wilkie through the captain’s horrible rendition of “Dream On.”
The boys had been ribbing him on the ride about his newlywed status, telling him that a newly popped cherry could attract sharks. The motherfucker had something to prove. All the wrong reasons to do this was written on his face. Below was the last place to settle the score.
Once under, you’re at the mercy of your crew above and that world below. You either go down with no fear, or you don’t go down at all. That’s not our world, and you have to accept it before you give yourself over to the weightlessness of it. Control is a burden, confidence swims with you—no hindrance.
Below the surface, the line between reality and imagination was not far apart. I had a pragmatic way at looking at things though.
If I saw shadows that seemed to come out of nowhere, I reminded myself that they were figments of the water.
If a shark swam past, I reminded myself that this was his world and I was borrowing his space.
If an eel slid past, as slick as a ribbon, I’d let him do his thing, knowing he'd be on his way as long as I didn't mess with him.
The only creature I ever feared was Scarlett Fausti. The line between reality and romance was effing nonexistent.
Before Wilkie answered, one of the tenders looked at me, mouthing, “Boss man’s nephew. Wants him down with the best.” And he nodded toward me.
“Fuck yeah,” Wilkie said, hitting his chest. “Let’s do this.”
Call it a hunch, but something told me this dive wasn’t going to be classified as ‘the usual.’ Before going down, we were always briefed on what could go wrong during the dive, but rarely was all of the information included or correct. This time, I mentally added “Wilkie” to the running list I made of my own of potential hazards.
We were halfway down when a silver glint caught the flashlight, wide mouth open, teeth glinting. Wilkie swung his arms in a wide arc, making the water flutter around. The barracuda reacted, his tail slapping in defense. Sometimes things that went bump underwater didn’t materialize until they were close enough to make the water ripple.
“You okay, man?” I asked Wilkie thorough our inter-team comms.
He gave me the sign for okay, the bubbles from his mask steadily rising.
“He’s lucky that wasn’t an eel. They enjoy the stench of blood just as much as the next shark,” Boomer said, laughing.
“Stop fucking with him, Boomer,” I said.
“Just think of them as long pieces of swaying silk, Wilkie. Just with big teeth. You need to be circumcised?”
By the time we reached our final depth, I knew Wilkie was in trouble. His flashlight swung around wildly, searching in every direction, trying to see through the impenetrable dark abyss, but his light could illuminate maybe fifty feet ahead.
We were close enough to distinguish form from nothing, and every so often the light would hit the massive rusted pylons drilled into the ocean’s floor to keep up the platform. Algae moved with the tide, swaying back and forth in some sort of grim wave.
“Forty-five minutes, Wilkie,” I said as calmly as possible. “Then we start to rise.”
“Yeah,” Wilkie said, starting to find his senses again. He whipped the light around once more to reassure himself. This time the light caught something stuck on the pylon—something white as snow and bloated.
“FUCK!” Wilkie screamed, keeping the light on the floating carcass.
Yeah, what Wilkie said. A dead man floated toward us, eye sockets as dark as the water, numerous crabs and other bottom dwellers feeding on his engorged flesh. His clothes were torn to shreds—boating accident, if I had to guess. He looked like a creature from under the sea. And he was close enough that we could make out particulars.
I would have retrieved him, but we had other issues.
Boomer signaled at me to look at Wilkie. I put a hand on him, trying to get his attention, signaling for him to look at me, to relax.
