BioShock Rapture

Sullivan’s boots creaked on the planks as he walked to the end of the wharf. The cold came off the water. The smell of fish was strong—the reek of decay. Three wooden crates were lined up together on the wharf with a curious palm-print logo on them—but he figured breaking into them wasn’t likely to provide him proof of the contraband smuggling he knew was going on. They were marked “Rotten—for discard” and smelled like it. He figured Fontaine was too smart to have his contraband right here on the wharf.

The lower wharf resembled a wooden pier. It slanted down toward water released into the big chamber that enclosed part of the fisheries. The shallow water around the wooden projections was mostly just to give a feeling of a real wharf, to break up the claustrophobia—part of the psychology of Rapture design. A big electric sign, hanging from the ceiling, switched off, read FONTAINE’S FISHERIES. The walls here were mostly corrugated metal; above the lower wharf area was the upper wharf, with cafés and taverns like Fighting McDonagh’s—the tavern owned by Bill McDonagh, though he had little time to run it in person.

The wharf area felt, to Sullivan, like a kind of man-made cavern. Wood and sand and a pool of water below, the looming walls, the ceiling overhead—it was like an undersea cave. Only the walls and ceiling were metal.

The actual docking area for the fishing submarines, complete with cold storage vaults, was hidden down in the back, in a fish-reeking labyrinth of passages, conveyor belts for seafood processing, and offices—like the wharf master’s office. The wharf master was Peach Wilkins—Fontaine’s man. So far, Wilkins had stonewalled Sullivan when it came to the smugglers.

Reaching into the pocket of his trench coat to feel the reassuring grip of his revolver, Sullivan descended the switchback ramp to get closer to the water. The briny water lay quiet as a sheet of glass. But something splashed off in the shadows close to the wall.

He drew the pistol but kept it low, thumb ready to cock the hammer back. He bent down, glanced under the pier, thinking he saw a dark shape moving back there in the dimness.

Sullivan squatted a little more, trying to peer into the darkness under the pier, but saw nothing but the glimmer of water. Nothing moved. Whatever he thought he’d seen was gone. But then he saw it, bobbing back there, close to the corrugated metal walls. Someone had been pushing a floating crate along. He wished he had a flashlight.

A distinct splashing sound came from back near the crate. He raised the revolver and shouted, “Come out of there, you!”

He was distantly aware of a creaking noise on the ramp behind him. But his attention was fixed on the darkness under the pier, where that splashing had come from …

“You in there! I’m going to start opening fire if you don’t—”

He broke off, hearing the creaking more distinctly behind him, and turned—in time to see the silhouette of a man against the dim light of the ceiling, leaping down at him from the higher wharf ramp—a monkey wrench in the stranger’s hand poised to bash Sullivan’s skull.

Sullivan just had time to twist himself to the right so that the monkey wrench came whistling down past his left ear, thumping painfully into his shoulder—then the man tackled him.

Sullivan was slammed backward, hand convulsively firing the pistol. He heard the man grunt as they both splashed into the shallow seawater. Sullivan twisted as he fell, coming down on his left side. Salty water roared in his ears and choked him, big rough hands closed around his throat, a great weight bore him downward. He struck out with the gun butt, felt it connect with the back of the man’s head. The two of them thrashed; then Sullivan got his feet under him and managed to stand, thigh deep, water streaming off him. The other man was getting up, staggering, blood dripping from a head wound. A big square-jawed, ham-fisted man in a pea jacket glared at him with one little brown eye through black hair pasted down by water. He’d lost the monkey wrench in the water.

The man swung a bunched fist hard at Sullivan—Sullivan jerked back so that the blow missed, but he was sent off-balance. He tried to fire the gun, but water had gotten in, and it misfired. Sullivan was staggering back to try to stay upright. The man grinned, showing crooked teeth, and sloshed toward him, big hands outstretched.

A flash from up on the wharf—a gunshot—and Sullivan’s brawny assailant grunted, gritted his teeth, took one more step, then fell on his face in the water. He thrashed for a couple of moments—then went limp, floating facedown.

Sullivan steadied himself and looked up to see Karlosky smiling coldly down at him from the wharf ramp, pocketing a smoking pistol. The air smelled of gunsmoke.

“Nice shot,” Sullivan said as blood welled from the hole in the left side of the stranger’s head. “Assuming, that is, you weren’t aiming for me!”

“If I shoot at you,” Karlosky said in his Russian accent, “you already die.”