Dead Sea

It was bleached, bloated white, oozing with slime. Some sort of marine worm about the thickness of a garden hose and not more than a foot in length. It was winding and curling on the deck, trembling fatly, making slopping, slapping sounds. The outer layer of its flesh was nearly transparent and you could see a tracery of blue veins in there… but not for long. As it coiled, more of that slime bubbled forth, inundating it in a pool of mucus.

They all saw it.

They all stared dumbly at it, repulsed by its form, by its very existence.

Morse took his gaff and smashed it, cutting it in half. A gout of brown fluid spilled to the deck, looking much like spider blood and stinking like a corpse pulled from a river. It made a wet, gulping sound and on one of its ends, something like a puckered, black mouth opened and they could all see something in there… something like a tongue. And then Morse kept smashing it with his gaff hook until it was in five or six pieces and still, floating in a bile of that slimy jelly and brown blood.

Morse was breathing hard, sweat beaded on his brow. “Ain’t right,” he said. “Ain’t right, something like that.”

And all Gosling could think was that it had been in the coat all the time. Hiding in a sleeve or fold. Standing on the ladder, he’d used the gaff to hold it high above his head until Marx hooked it. And at any time, that horror could have dropped down onto his face.

Gosling would have been disgusted, but there was no time.

For something hit the service hatch from below and then hit it again and all he could think of was those bolts laying on the deck, the bolts Marx hadn’t had time yet to screw into the hatch flange. Something hit against it from below and Marx grabbed a bolt, dove on the hatch cover and managed to start a bolt and then the hatch exploded open and both he and the hatch were pitched aside.

What came slithering out of there was not the thickness of a garden hose, but probably big around as a man’s thigh. A worm. But the mother of all marine worms, something mottled gray above and dripping white below, loops of transparent slime hanging from the puckered black mouth like drool.

Marx made a sound and Gosling didn’t have the wind to.

“Oh my God,” Morse said under his breath.

About four feet of it came up through the hatch. It was wet and slimy and stinking, undulating repulsively under the electric lights. Its black, puckered mouth shriveled away from what was inside. A tongue. A tongue that was shaped like a corkscrew, something designed to drill into its victim’s flesh. Like an abyssal hagfish, a slime eel, this monstrosity – like the dead one on the deck – would bore into its victim’s flesh and devour it from the inside out.

At least this is what crossed through Gosling’s mind and he was pretty certain it was close to the truth.

It was moving side to side like a swimming snake, making a hissing sound, that hideous pink tongue jutting from the mouth maybe five or six inches. It was obscene. It was invidious. Morse hit it with his gaff and it made a high, keening sound. He kept hitting it and it reacted by inflating its body like a balloon, rivers of that vile slime pouring from its flesh, tangling it in a snotty web.

All Morse had done was piss it off.

Another two feet of the thing came up through the manway and it was puffed and swollen so thickly in defense mode, that it was big around now as a man’s waist.

Gosling grabbed a wrench and pegged the thing at what he thought might be its head.

Morse kept ducking in and swatting it with his gaff.

But Marx was way ahead of them. He ran off and came back with a CO ^2 fire extinguisher. He pulled the tab and hosed the worm down with a freezing mist of white. The effect was immediate. The creature had inflated itself probably as a defensive mechanism and now it shrank back to its original size, spiraling and looping on the deck, trying to throw off the spray from the extinguisher that was sucking away its body heat.

“Here, have some more, you sonofabitch,” Marx said, spraying the thing down until you couldn’t even see it anymore. Just that white, rolling mist and all the slime the worm was pouring out. With a shrill, deafening squeal, it slipped back through the manway and they all heard it splash below.

Nobody needed prompting.

They threw the hatch cover in place and started turning those bolts into the flange until they could turn them no more. All the while, gagging on the cloud of CO ^2 and the stench of the beast. Coughing, Marx put the ratchet on the bolts and locked the cover in place.

There were no more sounds from below.

Everyone was panting and gasping, just beside themselves with a combination of horror and nausea and bunched nerves.

When Morse found his breath, he said, “Seal off those outlets below, Chief. And… drain that goddamn tank. Flood it with bleach or bug spray or anything you fucking got.”

Under the circumstances, it made perfect sense.

21

“Hey, Paul.”