NC2-Dark Tide (standard:fantasy, 1837 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Jun 24 2005	Views/Reads: 3087/2074	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An insurance investigator makes a startling discovery on a beach in Alaska.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Donald went opposite the doctor and reluctantly took some of the weight.
 The boat was filthy, caked with sand and sea weed, he grimaced as it 
brushed against his trench coat. 

"I'm Donald Logan, doctor.  My office said they'd spoken with you." 

"Yes, the insurance guy," said Forrester.  "Like I told your office, Mr
Logan, there isn't enough money in the world to pay for this." 

The boat slipped from Donald's grasp, and he brought his knee up to bare
the weight before taking a firmer grip.  "We, uh, need an idea of 
the...extent of this thing.  Are we looking at something that can be 
contained here?  What about damage limitation?" 

"That's far enough," said Forrester, "put it down here." 

They lowered the boat to the ground and stretched their backs. Forrester
rubbed his hands on his trousers and looked out towards the horizon; at 
the buffeting waves and the darkening clouds, marring the sky like an 
angry bruise. 

He turned and looked Donald in the eye.  "No one was prepared," he said.
 "Exxon, the coastguard - no one.   There were no contingency plans, no 
equipment in place - nothing.  Did you know the government lets the oil 
industry regulate itself?" 

"No, I didn't, but surely -" 

"- Experts have been warning them that something like this might happen
for over ten years now.  I know, I was one of them.  But they don't 
give a damn.  The companies don't give a damn, the employees don't give 
a damn - and what's worse, people don't give a damn.  You know, I 
believe that's the great sickness of our time, Mr. Logan.  No one gives 
a damn." 

He looked out again at the sea, and Donald found himself joining him. 
The sky had darkened in the time they had been talking.  The bruise had 
become blackly livid, hemmed with purple, flecked with blue and yellow. 


"I'll help any way I can," said Forrester.  "But I won't have any
tourists.  If you want to see the damage then you have to see it first 
hand.  We could do with help here, Mr. Logan." 

"Call me Donald." 

They shook hands.  "It's about time someone gave a damn," said
Forrester. 

*** 

The storm couldn't have hit at a worse time.  They could do nothing but
shut themselves in and watch as it passed over.  The winds churned the 
sea, and the sea churned the oil, pushing it onwards, towards land and 
the countless seabirds that sheltered on the shoreline. The next 
morning, Donald, wearing a borrowed pair of boots and waterproofs, 
ventured out. 

There was a shortage of equipment, explained Forrester.  Exxon had
promised skimmers and floating booms to contain the damage, but so far 
all they'd delivered were some high pressure hoses and a couple of 
supply ships.  They loaded the hoses onboard the trawler and set out 
towards Whittier, a point on the Kenai Peninsula that was hit heavy by 
the spill. 

The air was cold and fresh after the storm.  Standing on the deck,
soaked by the spray from the sea, Donald felt like a new man. He 
indulged himself in fantasies of being a ship's captain.  Of embarking 
on a bold new direction, becoming an explorer, privateer or pirate - 
some long dead occupation which time had softened the edges of; 
stripping away the hard veneer of reality until only legend remained.  
The feeling didn't last. 

Whittier was a scene from hell.  All along the coastline, dead and dying
seabirds littered the rocks.  Donald followed Forrester, examining the 
animals that had washed up with the storm.  Sea otters and seals; 
salmon and herring; even a pair of Orca whales lying prone, gasping 
ineffectually for air as the oil splashed around them.  They did the 
best they could, separating those that could be saved from the hopeless 
causes.  They unloaded the hoses and washed down the beach.  The water 
pounded off the rocks, sending oil and spray tumbling into the air, 
creating a rainbow that was both beautiful and melancholy - a reminder 
of broken covenants. 

They worked this way all day, slowly and methodically, moving down the
shore like grim reapers, harvesting the dead. 

It was almost six O'clock.  They had packed up the hoses and were
heading back to the trawler.  Donald and Forrester had exchanged few 
words since arriving at Whittier.  What they witnessed made words 
inconsequential.  Words were thoughts made concrete, and their minds 
were too disturbed, too unbalanced by what they had seen to voice their 
thoughts.  They trudged on in silence, their eyes drinking the damage.  
They had worked all day and yet had barely touched it - their efforts a 
single drop in the limitless ocean. 

"Doctor Forrester," a voice called from far behind them.  "Doctor
Forrester." 

They stopped and turned around.  Across the shore, scrambling amongst
the slippery rocks was a man.  Donald recognized him as Stan - one of 
the NOAA's work team who'd accompanied them on the trawler.  He looked 
panicked and harassed.  He was splashed with mud and oil, his face 
scarlet, almost purple.  He came closer and Donald could see that he 
had ripped a hole in his jeans.  Blood seeped from wounds on his knees, 
turning the denim red.  He didn't seem to know or care that he was 
injured, just ran forward, puffing with exertion. 

"Doctor," he said.  "There's something you should see."  He gasped for
breath, but was barely able to keep still.  He bounced from one foot to 
the other in a dance of excitement. 

"What is it?" asked Forrester. 

"Can't...can't explain Doc...have to see it for yourself."  He pointed
back towards the direction he had come.  He seemed close to tears.  
"I...I've never seen anything like it!" 

*** 

The sky is close.  Mottled clouds, white and downy as a swan's breast,
stretch off to the horizon. 

They follow Stan as he hurries recklessly, slipping on the oil that
clings to the beach.  He's edgy and frightened, can't seem to stop 
glancing behind him, as though he fears they are being watched. 

They climb a small cliff, scratching their hands on the sharp stone, and
come to an inlet.  The sea is like the breath of some immense creature 
here; sucking and blowing between the narrow rocks, shooting spray in a 
foaming flourish. 

Stan steers them to an enormous rock, standing upright like a finger
pointing to the sky.  "Behind here," he says, and leads them around. 

There is something there, soaked in oil, glistening in the light. They
gather around and look at it.  But they can't seem to grasp what they 
are seeing.  It is an amalgam; a cryptogram; meaningless and yet 
meaningful. 

It is large, around six feet long, its tail scaled and serpentine.  A
sleek fin - like a shark's protrudes from its back.  Its upper body is 
pale, the patches of black oil standing out like a stark Rorschach on 
its skin. 

As they watch, the creature flips - a beached fish fighting for air -
and turns so that it is facing them.  They look into its eyes - pale 
and watery blue as the sea itself.  It has the face and body of a 
woman. 

"Mermaid."  Donald feels ridiculous even as he says it.  It cannot be
possible, yet here it is.  There is no doubting what is in front of 
them.  This is no trick or special effect. 

Forrester unzips a pocket on his jacket and removes a handkerchief.  He
crouches down and slowly, tenderly wipes the oil from the creature's 
face.  It looks at him with those eyes, seeking meaning; a reason in a 
reasonless world.  But none of them have an answer.  No one does.  How 
can there be an answer when no one understands the question? 

THE END 


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