The Deep (28 page)

Nyah-nyah, missed me, missed me, now you’ve gotta kiss me.

The hand was visible at the end of the chute.
Huge
—even bigger than he remembered. Its five fingers—
no no no it has eight fingers eight like a spider
—its fingers rested on the swell of the tube, each a good five inches apart.

Luke’s mind performed a few lunatic calculations. What was the distance between the access chute’s mouth and the crate? A hundred feet, at least. That hand had crawled across the purification room and through the chute . . . how much farther could it reach? Perhaps that hand was attached to an arm that unspooled endlessly . . .

. . . no, it had to eventually attach to something, didn’t it? A body. A host.

When Luke tried to envision that body—an image flared briefly in his skull—his mind sprinted swiftly away from its nightmarish outline.

The hand raised up ever so slightly. Rocking side to side.

Waving good-bye.

Taa-taa, Lukey-loo. We’ll be seeing each other again real soon. We’ll be close by. We’ve always
been
close. Bye for now. TTFN.

16.

LB YIPPED EXCITEDLY
as they staggered out of the hatch. They looked to have aged half a decade since they’d stepped through it.

They were slick with the kind of adrenal perspiration that squeezes from the pores like the sweat off foreign cheese. Their overalls were stained with that unnameable oil coating the chute, the fabric ripped from their . . . escape? What had they been running from? Al’s overalls were torn across her belly, a slash like a sagging mouth that revealed her abdominal muscles.

They hunched, hands on knees, gathering their breath, unable to look each other in the eye. The fear Luke had felt—the nattering, mindless fear of a child—already seemed foolish . . . mostly. Were he to stare through the porthole into the cramped, dimly lit tunnel, he knew he’d see nothing. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to look.

He couldn’t convince himself that what he’d seen hadn’t been real, either—if not enough to hurt him physically, then at least to damage or even destroy his mind.

You’re being played, Luke
.

It felt that way. Stupidly, he almost believed it, too. Every angle cut off, every attempt to escape thwarted. He felt much like a rat down a hole with the terriers chewing after him and the rat-catcher somewhere above, stomping his feet to make the ground thunder. As if some calculating force was funneling him toward a dire certainty, the contours of which Luke could only dimly grasp.

Let’s be serious here, brother. It’s probably a classic case of the sea-sillies.

Clayton’s voice.

You mustn’t discount that possibility, O brother of mine.

Luke hadn’t discounted it. Or that it could be the ’Gets taking hold. It could happen just this way. A person began to imagine things. That they are pursued by faceless hunters, their childhood nightmares come back to snatch them. The world warped and their brains warped right along with it.

And if two sad souls catch it at the same time?
Clayton chimed in.
Well, it can certainly accelerate their mutual deterioration. They both start grasping at the same straws; they’re plagued by the same phantoms. Wouldn’t you agree?

Luke glanced at Al. He didn’t see any sores on her face or hands—if she was spotting already, he couldn’t see it. As for Luke, he could feel a stress pimple beginning to hatch under his lip but that was about it.

LB rucked under his elbow, prodding him with her snout. She licked his palm, her head cocked at a quizzical angle.

I know this dog,
Luke thought, scrupulously itemizing his surroundings.
Her name is LB. She is a chocolate Lab, a bit small for her breed. We are eight miles below the surface of the Pacific. The woman beside me is Lieutenant Alice Sykes, U.S. Navy. I am Luke Nelson, a veterinarian. I live at 34 Cherryhill Lane in Iowa City. My wife’s name is Abby. My son has a chevron-shaped birthmark on his right arm.

He shook his head, angry at himself.

My
ex
-wife’s name is Abby. My son
had
a chevron-shaped birthmark.

“What do you think, Doc?” Al asked. “Are we going bugfuck nuts down here or what? What I saw in there”—pointing toward the purification room—“can’t exist. I
know
that. But I saw it. I saw that Henke kid crawl out of that fucking crate, scuttling like a crab with his wet flesh falling off his bones . . . and he never took his gaze off me, Doc. His eyes were clear and cold and so fucking
angry
. That can’t
be
, but it is. Down here it is.”

Luke lifted his foot to get a look at the sole of his boot. A ragged trench was gouged through the rubber. He was only mildly shocked to see it.

“We’ve got to find that generator, Al.”

Al nodded, content to have a plan. “We can do that.”

THEY RETURNED
to the main lab. Returned to the buzz behind the door marked LW—dulcet now, even harmonic. Al’s gaze flitted toward Westlake’s lab. Luke sensed it took a great effort for her to pry her eyes away from it.

Clayton was inside his lab. Luke saw him through the porthole and hammered his fist on the glass.

“Clay! Open up! We’ve got to talk!”

Clayton’s hand was bandaged to the wrist now. Viscid fluid leaked through the gauze—thick and translucent, the consistency of 5 Minute Epoxy. It had gummed to the sleeve of his overalls, forming a white crust like the stuff that forms at the edges of a horse’s mouth when it’s been run too hard.

Clayton approached the hatch, a strange smile pasted on his face. He draped that curtain over the porthole to shield his lab from view.

“Goddamn it, Clay!” Luke hit the glass hard enough to rake the skin off his knuckles. “We need your help! You need
ours
!”

“Screw it. Leave him in there,” Al said. “It’s where he can do the least harm. Think of how long we’ve been down here, Luke. Look at how it’s affecting us already. Look at what it did to Westlake, too. Your brother and Dr. Toy . . . we can’t trust anyone who’s been down here that long.”

They headed down the tunnel that led to Westlake’s quarters. Al said she was pretty sure the generator was stored in that area of the station.

“How’s your hand?” Luke asked once they’d made it to Westlake’s room.

“It’s fucked,” she said simply. “You did what you could—it feels a lot better, but it’s still busted up. I’d love to pop a few heavy-duty pain pills, but they make me sleepy and I’d prefer to stay awake.”

“That’s a good idea,” Luke said grimly. “Or if we do, we should sleep together.”

Al cocked a Spockian eyebrow at him. Belatedly, Luke realized what he’d said; a flush crept up his neck.

“Pretty small beds down here,” she said, with a nod at Westlake’s cot.

Trapped in the tension of that moment, Luke wanted to kiss her. She wasn’t one of the stereotypical corn-fed Iowa beauties he’d grown up around—but then neither was Abby, with her raven hair and Nordic cheekbones. Yet there was something deeply alluring about Alice, an aliveness, a
wildness
even; it would be like making love to a Valkyrie or something. And why not? What could it harm? He was single, lonely, and hadn’t felt a woman’s touch since Abby left. Alice hadn’t mentioned anyone, either. They could have a friendly little romp. Make love in the foxhole, release some tension, then get back to business . . .

. . . but they wouldn’t make love—they would
fuck
. Rut. Luke was certain of it. Fall upon each other like wolves, tearing and ripping and biting; there wouldn’t be an ounce of tenderness or concern for each other’s body or needs; it would be a brutal release, a letting go of the pressure they’d existed under for too long, no different than two swollen clouds splitting open with rain. The
Trieste
would warp the act, making it loveless and mocking—afterward they would be sweaty and bloody in places, ashamed for reasons they couldn’t pinpoint, weaker, mistrustful and less unified than before.

“I’d do the honorable thing and sleep on the floor,” Luke finally said. “I’m real gallant that way.”

The spark that had been kindling in Al’s eyes was snuffed. She gave him a strained smile and offered an awkward curtsy.

“Thank you, m’lord, for keeping me safe from predation.”

Luke smiled. “Think nothing of it, milady. Your virtue must remain untrammeled until you are given away at the grand cotillion ball six months hence.”

The awkwardness passed. Luke’s gaze fell on the stack of Westlake’s journals under the cot. Hadn’t Westlake commented during that final audio file that he’d continued to update his research in those very journals?

“I’d like to leaf through Westlake’s papers,” Luke said. “I may find something.”

Al nodded. “The genny should be just down this tunnel, through another hatch. I’ll check it out while you’re in here.”

Al’s footsteps echoed down the tunnel—she still sounded close by, but sound had a funny way of traveling in the station. Luke did hear a hatch hiss open, and next Al was banging around inside.

“You find it?” he called.

“Yeah,” came her reply. “It’ll need some work. Gimme a holler every so often, okay? It’ll keep us both alert.”

“Ten-four,” said Luke. He sat on the cot. His eyes itched with exhaustion; he screwed his palms into his sockets and blinked to clear the fuzziness. LB hopped up beside him. He rummaged through Westlake’s gear and located a bag of beef jerky. Saliva squirted into his mouth. He was ravenous. He split it with the dog; LB bolted down the tough rags of beef and licked the salt off Luke’s fingers. She tried to stuff her nose inside the bag but Luke snatched it away.

“Where are your manners, girl?”

LB hung her head and watched him indirectly, like a clumsy spy.

Luke reached for Westlake’s journals. Al was still banging away at a comforting cadence. Luke flipped through the first few journals. Scientific jargon, formulas, stuff Luke couldn’t comprehend. He set them aside.

He unzipped his duffel bag and pulled out the journal he’d found in the storage tunnel: Psych Report. The cover was smeared with that weird ooze.

He flipped it open. The first page and many pages thereafter were filled with Westlake’s neat and careful handwriting.

17.

Wednesday, June 18

Let me say first off, the idea of keeping a journal strikes me as foolish. But I’ve been asked to keep a record of my . . . FEELINGS? As my old mentor memorably said: “Scientists don’t have feelings, they have agendas!”

But a little about myself, since you’ve insisted. Cooper Westlake. Forty-five years old. Computational biologist. A wife—my third. A daughter, Hannah, seven years old.

On a more serious note, I’m grateful to have been selected for this mission. Like most everyone on earth, I’ve lost loved ones to the Disease (which I refuse to call by its more popular sobriquet). The Disease is curable, I’m sure of it. My surety is shared by Drs. Nelson and Toy.

That will be all for today. Toodleoo.

Friday, June 20

I’ve been onboard the Hesperus three weeks now. The seasickness is gone, but bad dreams are commonplace. Yet a mood of optimism prevails. Having seen Dr. Eva Parks’ footage of the lantern fish and the results of Clayton’s preliminary research, excitement is running high.

I have been suffering nightmares. No—a specific, recurring nightmare. There is some background to it.

I had my daughter, Hannah, with my second wife. She was born in Belmont, Massachusetts; I was on a grant from MIT. Our neighborhood had wide streets, big lawns, rows of well-kept colonial homes.

When Hannah learned to walk, we reorganized our living quarters. We were fastidious in creating a safe environment.

But the basement door kept opening.

The basement held the detritus of past renters, stored in dusty boxes. The steps were shallow . . . except one step was bigger than the rest; you’d hit that big bastardly step and just about go ass over teakettle every damn time.

The basement ceiling was so low that I’d have to stoop like a crone. There was a sick, fruity odor that thankfully didn’t waft up to the next floor—it smelled a little like death. As if a cat or dog had died of starvation down there, or maybe of fright.

There were spiders, too, big amber-bellied bastards—spiders and the odd skittering movement that may have been rats. I laid down traps but never caught anything. Still, every time I went down I’d hear something pattering through that warren of old boxes.

So yes, the basement door kept opening. And it attracted my daughter.

The first time it happened, my wife alertly swept Hannah into her arms and shut the door. She gave me a recriminatory look, as if I’d left it open.

The next time it happened I was alone, keeping an eye on Hannah without keeping a
direct
eye on her—as a parent, you develop a sixth sense. When my eyes ticked up, the door was open. Hannah was perched a few feet from the basement stairs.

I shot up and gathered her in my arms. She shrieked. Most worryingly, her arms reached toward the basement—as if she’d wanted to fall. As if she believed something down there would catch her.

Afterward I found a wedge of scrap wood and pounded it under the door until the clockwork of veins at my temples thudded with blood.

The last time it happened a blizzard was raging, snow slicing so heavily that we could barely see our neighbor’s porch lights. I was distracted. My grant was in jeopardy, the car needed a new muffler . . . off in my own little world. I wondered afterward if it had sensed that, and taken advantage.