Weirdbook #35. Adrian Cole

why so mournful, I cannot surmise,

      Nor why you watch the forest at that hour.

      I only know that on that night antique,

      The wolves all serve you, howling as they scour

      Those haunted mountains, barren, cold, and bleak.

      THE DEAD OF NIGHT, by Christian Riley

      We were against the storm for three days and three nights before our fishing vessel, the Portland’s Pride, finally sank. Failed welds in the hull most likely. She took water in the engine room, tipped from a large wave, and then sank to the bottom of the Bering Sea. Except for me, everyone was trapped inside the galley, or the wheelhouse, and I’m sure that their deaths must have been horrifying.

      Just before our vessel went down a wall of water swept me off the deck and threw me into the sea. I was wearing nothing but raingear. The waves handled me like a toy, tossing me every direction. The currents sucked on my body for what seemed like a lifetime. The icy water drank itself into my soul, tempting me with each passing minute to let go, let the sea take me away.

      But then their ship appeared from out of nowhere: a golem of steel against the early morning horizon. The crew of the Aleutian Whisper plucked me out of the water just in time, and then I blacked out shortly afterward.

      I woke the next morning in a bunk, wrapped in a warm blanket. I lay there for a while, glad to be alive. I felt vibrations from the diesel engine below, pushing us through the mild seas. The storm had broken sometime while I slept, and now the crew was out on deck, fishing for crab. I heard the occasional shout, a laugh, and then the unmistakable pounding of the hydraulic crane swinging crab pots against the rail. Taking a deep breath, I wondered—was it all just a horrible nightmare?

      When I looked around the stateroom, I realized that no, it wasn’t a nightmare at all. And then a chill crept back into my skin. I thought about my friends who had lost their lives and of where their bodies now resided—at the bottom of the sea. I said a prayer for them, and then I said another prayer, thanking God for my rescue.

      Fortunately, the cold water hadn’t robbed me of any appendages or digits. I discovered this when I climbed off the bunk and made a quick inspection of my body. Although comfortable, I still felt the lingering presence of a dampening cold deep within my bones. It was as if a dull current of sadness had nestled into my soul.

      Again, the sounds from the working vessel rang in my ears, as I made my way toward the wheelhouse: the clank and reel of the hydraulic block outside, followed by a few curses from the deckhands; the churn, rattle, and hum from down below, in the engine room. Then, as if someone threw a switch, a loud stereo suddenly cranked through the cabin, playing La Bamba, by Richie Valens. Not the fishing vessel I was used to, but one all the same.

      I climbed the stairs to the wheelhouse and there she was—the vast Bering Sea. My stomach turned into a ball of lead at the sight of her, knowing that just hours before, she had been toying with my life.

      “Well, looky here!” The captain startled me. About fifty, he had a round face, and eyes that twinkled like fire. Thin strands of silver hair draped from his bald head, brushing his shoulders.

      “Back from the dead, are we?” I missed the humor in his words. Seemed like a cruel response to someone who’d just lost a boatload of friends.

      “Name’s Bailey.” And then he threw out an open hand. “Your name, son?”

      “Jake Sanford,” I replied, shaking his hand. “How long have I been out of it, sir?”

      “Just a day, or so. We picked you up—was it yesterday? Shoot, I can’t remember. You know how this crabbing thing works on a man’s mind.”

      “Were there any other survivors?”

      He shrugged his shoulders then turned back toward the sea. “Nah. Just you, I guess.”

      He guessed? I didn’t know what to say in return, so I stumbled over and sat on the bench to the opposite side of the captain’s chair. I looked out the windows, noticing that the Aleutian Whisper had a forward-facing wheelhouse.

      “What’s up with the Coast Guard?” I asked. The captain was staring into the horizon, and I saw that the side of his face went sullen, as if he had just had an unpleasant thought. “Captain?”

      “Huh? Oh yeah, the Coast Guard. I ah…I alerted them. Yeah, that’s what I did.”

      His last sentence came out as a mutter, and it snapped at my nerves like a rubber band. What he should have told me was that the Coast Guard was currently searching the ocean for survivors, dead bodies, debris. He should have told me that the Coast Guard had asked for my name and that he would relay it to them once he found out himself—which he wasn’t doing.

      “Go on down and make yourself some food, son. Get comfortable.”

      “Are we on our way to port?” I asked.

      “All in good time, sailor.” Then, in the blink of an eye, Captain Bailey was out the side door, his back to me and his eyes toward the gloomy sea. His actions were terribly awkward, in those fleeting seconds, it took him to step outside. There was the brisk manner in which he turned away from me, and how he slammed the door on his way out. And then, the swift glance in my direction before he faced the open water. I saw his eyes, and they had turned black as night and sharp as daggers.

      Stop imagining things, sailor, I told myself. On the radio now, was Phil Phillip’s, Sea of Love.

      * * * *

      Down below, there was a porthole in the ready-room door, overlooking the deck. I peeked out and watched as four deckhands in orange rain gear stumbled through the motions of hauling, and stacking pots. I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, but I did see that they were pulling up blanks—no crab often makes for a cranky captain.

      I turned and made my way down the hall and into the galley. A clock above a television was stuck on ten minutes after four. The digital clock on the microwave blinked “12:37.” Not a big deal, as I thought about it. I knew that some crews ran gear without a working clock in the galley. It’s tough to have Father Time stare back at you when you’re cold, tired, and miserable.

      Opening the fridge, I found a mishmash of leftovers and half-empty containers. Nothing looked appetizing, so I rummaged through the cabinets for a candy bar. I never heard the door from the ready-room open, and I jumped at the sound of the man’s voice behind me.

      “Hungry?”

      “Yeah, I guess I am. I’m Jake, by the way.” I reached out to shake his hand, but he ignored me. He walked over and closed the cabinet doors, then gave me a foul look.

      “My name is Taylor. Taylor Bailey… And the food in here is for working crew only. Keep out of it unless you mean to put on some rain gear.” He turned, facing the hall. “Follow me, I’ll show you what you can eat.”

      A river of ice ran down my spine. How could this man treat me like this? Or the captain, for that matter? Nothing about the way both of these men acted seemed remotely normal. My boat went down, for Christ’s sake! I lost friends. I barely survived, myself. And now, to be denied the comfort one would expect from fellow fishermen, after being pulled from the sea. To be denied safe passage.

      I followed him down the hall and into the small storage compartment next to the bathroom. There were containers on the shelves with various dried goods, batteries, and miscellaneous tools. But at the bottom, and on the floor, sat a dilapidated cardboard box tucked into the darkness.

      “You can eat what’s in there,” Taylor said, and then he swept past me, on his way to the wheelhouse.

      Baffled, I pulled the box out from under the shelf. Inside was a head of wilted lettuce and some moldy cheese.

      “This must be a joke,” I said aloud. Captain Bailey and his brother Taylor—as I now presumed, since they both had the same last name—were just messing with me. They’re probably up there