Kraken, Rookie Burwick [most motivational books txt] 📗

gone underwater . . . yet. He leaned forward and watched out at the sunny sky, and then the noise sounded again, much closer this time. He looked down and saw his arms, putting pressure on the slanted metal floor. He jerked back, and leaned back against the wall behind him. It was cold, really cold. He shivered again as Goosebumps rose all around his body, and made him ever colder.

The sound repeated itself over and over again, echoing through the walls, and then reaching him. He shut his eyes and tried to steer his focus from the sinking ship that held him in its empty, deserted clutches. His mind began displaying images, flashing in and out. He tried not to listen as the sound rumbled in again, but it was nearly impossible.

His mouth was dry and numb from both the cold air and the lack of water. He hadn't eaten or drunken anything for a full day and a half now, which added to his body's weakness and dryness. He felt dehydrated and half starved-to-death, and his stomach was complaining at a bare minimum for food.

He had sat there, in the dark for nearly eighteen hours now, cold, wet, and hungry. The awful sound of the creaking and rumbling metal was his only companion. It was just the previous night that the ship had hit the rocks, and was hooked on them. The incident killed everyone on board, most of the innocent souls that were involved thrown out the windows. All accept him. His business had been failing, and he needed the money. He was a fisherman, and always kept up a good working show and provided the local market with thousands of fish. But recently, the fishing had been a bit off. Recently, the fishing had been horrible in the area where he lived. Hightide, Florida. It was right along the coast of Florida, and had great business from traveling and local fishermen. He was one of the locals. He had lived in that small town all his life, went to school there, and got married there. He had a wife, Lora, who was now waiting for his return.

She had let him go along on the ship hoping he would bring back a good supply of fish to sell on the market, but not now. He had failed to complete a simple task. He had only gotten three days of fishing in, and had only caught five big ones, and thousands of small, worthless bass. The thought of Lora only made tears fill his eyes, and stream down his face. The saddest part of it all was the fact that Lora didn't matter right now. Right now, all that mattered was getting off this sinking vessel, and find some way to get back to shore. He sniffed, and rubbed the tears away. He imagined her smile, her straight, blonde hair, and the warm feeling she always gave to anyone who really knew her. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, and tried to pull himself together. He knew he'd find a way off the ship. He knew he'd find some way to survive. Everything had gone so perfect, but now, he sat listening to the awful sound of the massive cargo ship, leaning against those rocks . . . slowly slipping further and further down into the water.

His eyes flew open at the sound of his stomach rumbling loudly, its loud roar echoing the opposite direction. Pain shot through his lower stomach, and he winced as it traveled lower. He rolled over onto his side, and peered again out the tiny window, that, despite its size, let in a good portion of warming sunlight. But it wasn't enough to keep him warm. He reached up, and rubbed his forehead. But something came off and onto his hand. He jerked it down into vision. Blood. He was bleeding for some reason. He had hit his head when he fell . . . when the ship had started to turn.

He didn't know for sure if everyone on board was dead, but the silence behind the room told him it was very un-likely that another person had survived. He had just gotten lucky. He had been in his safe, locked tight guest room, safe and sound when the incident occurred. But that wasn't to say that he hadn't fallen to the floor due to the motion of the falling ship. He had felt the motion right away, and he knew something was up. He was walking toward the door when the entire ship started rolling over to its side.

With every breath he took, the metal creaked more and more, and its sound thundered through the dark and empty halls, doorways, rooms, and beyond. He began imagining the ship at that moment, slowly slipping into the dark depths of the sea, and taking him with it. He had to get out of there, time was running out. It would only be another day or so before the ship was on its way to the bottom of the sea, and he didn't find that thought so appealing.

Then, a strange scent hit him like a punch to the gut. It smelled like a rotting corpse. The scent of death. He began to imagine another person on board, hungry and cold like him, but then dying on the floor.  He sat up, and peered forward into the dark abyss, and began crab-crawling across the floor. As he changed positions and began crawling on his stomach, the cent grew stronger. He crawled faster now, clawing and straining to get to the source faster, urging to know what was causing the terrible smell. He had to know, he just had to.  But then he stopped. He listened. The loud creaking was now joined with a loud, deafening rumbling. He covered his ears, hoping and praying the terrible noise would stop . . . then, after a moment or two, it did. He un-clamped his hands from his ears, and began looking around the room. Then, his eyes caught sight of the window again. The ship had begun to descend into the water. Now, time was really running out. The scent of decay caught his nostrils again, and then he continued to crawl towards it, but slower this time. He took caution to not disturb anything, not to assist in the ship sinking . . . but then the scent vanished.

He sighed with agony, and lay there for a moment. He waited for a possible comeback of the cent, or even just a quick whiff to get him back on track again. But nothing came back. No cent. No smell. No food. He quickly turned around, and crawled slowly back to his original position and stayed there. He began to wonder where the cent had come from. What its source was. But, the more he thought of the brief moment when it had smelt it, he longed for it to return. The noise thundered through the ship again, much louder this time. He tensed his muscles, and held his breath, and tried his best not to move, or twitch, or tremble.

The only thing he could think about was escaping, leaving the ship to sink. Floating away in a small life raft, floating off to safety. But he needed more time. Or maybe he just needed more rest. Since the incident, he hadn't slept hardly a wink, but stared here and there for hours, re-living the accident, re-living the feeling he had when the ship hit the rocks, and started to tip over. He needed rest, and lots of it.

He looked over at the window again. The water level was now just above the bottom seal of the window, and was very slowly rising. He needed rest, but didn't have time. But, he had to take a chance. He shut his eyes softly, and tried to sleep. His mind began to wonder, but it never wondered far from that vision . . . the vision of the cargo ship, sailing through a rough storm, and sinking. But the vision worked well enough. He was asleep in no time.

 

 

 

                                          *   *   *

 

The faint dripping of a small water droplet hitting the floor woke Jasper to a start. He sat up with a jolt, and stared for a moment into the room. His breathing was heavy for some reason, but his mind was too foggy to remember why. All he knew was that he was having a dream about something, but he simply couldn't recall what it was about.

He toned down his breathing and let his nerves calm, then leaned back against the wall. He rested his head sternly against the hard metal, and sighed. His stomach now not only rumbled, but hurt also. The pains were consistent and never-ending now, and they seemed to add extra throb into his pains that pressed his skull. He must have hit his head harder than he thought. He reached up and rubbed his eyes, and massaged them for a good long moment. But it felt good. Really good.

His hands then flopped from his face and down into his lap. He looked down, and stared at them. He wasn't sure what had made them so dirty, but they certainly were. Then, he heard something. He looked up, and searched the room. He didn't see anything, except for the quiet drip of the water. There was no other sound. A look of realization swept over his face. What happened to the creaking sound? He turned and looked out the window. The ship hadn't sunk any further down, and was still. He sighed briefly with relief, and placed his head back against the hard, metal wall. His thoughts were still scrambled, some on the past, and some on the present situation. His mind had cleared more, and he remembered the constant visions of the ship, sailing effortlessly through the storm. That's all he could remember. 

He heard it again, a small noise, growing closer, but not louder. He held his breath, and listened. Silence. He listened for as long as his breath would allow, then he let it out, gasping for air. He caught his breath back, and then breathed a few easy, small breaths.

Through his stomach pains and head throbs and sore muscles, his body felt refreshed and energetic. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep, but he knew it must have been long enough. He stretched out his arms, and smiled lightly as the amazing feeling of stretched out muscles evaded his pain. After a good, long stretch, he let his arms flop down onto his side, and relaxed. Then, he heard it again. That same odd noise, now somewhere in the room with him. He leaned forward, and looked around. He looked for anything unusual, from a small glowing light, to a buzzing fly. He didn't see a thing. There was no fly. No light, or any of the items in between. Nothing.

He shrugged, and leaned back again. He sat erect now, at full attention, listening for the noise. Then he heard it again, and looked towards the source. He saw a tiny, black fly. That's all it was. He wiped the few drops of sweat from his forehead, then began planning his escape.

 

 

 

 

                                     

TWO