“Listen, some of the deckhands might’ve told you there are squid down here that can suck the bolts out of a submarine’s hull. Don’t let that crap get to you. This is an S-155 Conger and it doesn’t have any bolts in its hull.”
The three of us eyed the captain, waiting to see that he was joking.
Mel chuckled.
The captain stared back.
“Nothing funny about the squids, little miss. If one of ‘em got a hold of you it’d bury its beak in your belly and eat the soft parts first. Of course, should one breach the sub, you’ll be dead before squiddy gets its suckers on you.”
Mel, Joong and I exchanged glances.
“Jesus,” said Joong.
“Cthulhu more’n likely,” said captain Snipe.
The sub was dropping fast. 500 meters, 700, a thousand. There were windows, but they might as well have been wall. Blackness.
“So this is considered a prize, huh?” said Mel.
“Plenty of people would trade places with us,” I replied, even though we were only runners-up. First prize was a luxury sub-orbital flight.
“I think it’s pretty cool,” said Joong. He was peering through one of the porthole windows, probably hoping to glimpse some bioluminescence. Joong took marine biology for a year back in college and hadn’t shut up about it since we won our tickets.
“Lights,” announced Captain Snipe. “To the front.”
We shuffled forward and passed into the viewing chamber, where a large round window made up the most of the sub’s bow—a giant pupil, absorbing the ruddy glow we were basked in.
The flood-lights came on, forcing back the dark.
“Look at that!” cried Joong, squashing a finger against the acrylic glass. A pair of pale crustaceans, nearly translucent, had flitted into sight. They were gone a moment later. “Spirit prawns,” he said matter-of-factly. “Incredible.”
“Protein,” captain Snipe sneered. “For the big ‘uns.”
Some kind of ray passed by the window next, also pale white, the size of a wok.
“Do you see that?” marveled Joong.
“More protein,” said Snipe.
Mel whirled on him. “You’re a lot of fun.”
“Protein,” repeated Snipe. “Big ‘uns.”
Now Joong and I turned to face him as well. “What’s wrong with you?” Joong asked.
“Proooteeeiiinnnn,” groaned Snipe. And stopped. He just stopped. His eyes were lusterless marbles. His mouth hung open.
Heavy silence fell around us. We studied the captain. “Dry…” said Mel.
“What?”
“His mouth. It’s…it’s dry inside.”
Snipe fell over, his body unbending. The thump it made on the floor was not quite one of flesh.
The sub rocked without warning, nearly knocking us off our feet, and we were cast once more in red light. The front window was black again.
For a moment we stared.
The blackness shifted, drinking us in.
A pupil.
The sub rocked a second time, filling with the groans of tortured steel.
“The big ones,” said Joong.
