Day #7: Subzero by Amber Averay
The world seemed paused in a state of suspended animation. The quiet was eerie, broken only by echoing pings and clicks that passed through the sub at measured intervals. It put Brock in mind of whales communicating, and he wondered why he’d agreed to this. Why he’d accepted the prize. He hated being sealed in small spaces, and cocooned in a submarine thousands of feet below the surface of the ocean was not his idea of a grand prize. Yet he’d won the competition, accepted his award, and here he was.
Sweat beaded his brow, trickled down the back of his neck and soaked into the already damp collar of his shirt. His breathing hitched, and the calm he’d found began to unravel like a thread tugged from its stitching. The crew were efficient, calm, and – where were they? The roaring in his ears intensified, sounding like water rushing through a breach in the hull – oh, God, they were sinking! That’s where the noise was coming from!
He staggered a few steps, rigid hands clutching his head, heart thundering in his chest. The open hatch was just ahead. It should be closed! It was watertight, it should protect him from the questing ocean – goddamn, why was he here?
The crew had abandoned ship, that’s why he was alone. They’d launched a lifeboat and abandoned the SubZero – an ominous name for a submarine, if ever he’d heard one! Zero, as in nothing, not existing, nil…
Hyperventilating, Brock fell to his knees before reaching the hatch. Of course they’d launch the boats and abandon him! He wasn’t crew, he wasn’t one of them. He was an interloper, an outsider, an unwanted attachment that had no place being here. He’d had the audacity to insert himself into the heart of a team that didn’t need or want a spoke in the wheel, a fly in the ointment, a…
A hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him and jolting him from his panic attack. Eyes bulging, breaths gasping, Brock looked up into the kindly, yet concerned, face of Seaman Watson. ‘Heard you from beyond the hatch,’ he said cheerily, almost masking his worry. This wasn’t the first time he or another of the crew had rattled Brock from a nightmare. It was spreading disquiet among the men, who felt the odd echoes of Brock’s screams sounded near demonic as they rebounded through the craft.
Concealing his own discomfort Seaman Watson continued, ‘You were screaming something about launching the lifeboats from the Sub – you know that’s impossible, right?’
Brock sat up in his bunk and rubbed a hand over his weary face. He refused to refer to it as his ‘coffin’, the name the crew gave the compact sleeping areas; after his dream it was too ominous. He fought the shiver threatening to rattle along his spine, instead saying gruffly, ‘Apologies. I had the corpsman give me something to knock me out, hoping it would… Anyway, apologies.’ He offered a grim smile, twisting his face into a frightening caricature of cheerfulness, and noticed the flicker of apprehension on Watson’s face. This nightmare had escalated far quicker than the others he’d had, the fear squeezing him so he had struggled to breathe, and it had felt more real than any that came previously.
He didn’t say anything of this to Watson, though. There was no point. Everybody thought him a milksop – it wouldn’t do him any good to add ‘insane’ to the description. ‘Was there anything I can do? Anything – to help?’ Anything to keep me awake was heard clearly though left unsaid.
Seaman Watson hesitated, contemplating his options. To hell with it, the other crewmen would deal with his decision. ‘We’re having a lunch in the galley. It’s not Christmas yet but this is for us as a team – hopefully we’ll be home with our families in time for the real thing.’
Brock smiled weakly and creaked to his feet. His body felt stiff, the bones rigid, and he arched his back, the pop and crackle of his spine offering minimal relief. He knew the crew hadn’t sent Watson to invite him to lunch. He’d been treated politely enough while there, no doubt, but his behaviour, his nightmares, his curious reluctance to explore the sub or engage in conversation hadn’t exactly endeared him to the men.
The pity in Seaman Watson’s eyes assured him the men hadn’t wanted Brock there, but that Watson didn’t want to leave him alone and risk his pathetic screams winding through the passageways and unsettling the crew even more.
Brock knew he was a coward. Nothing proved it more than when he eagerly accepted the half-hearted invitation simply to ensure he would have company.
Damn the competition, he thought, stepping through the hatch and following Watson to the galley. Damn me for offering up my greatest fear in the hope of winning two hundred thousand dollars, knowing top prize for best essay was the chance to ‘face your fear’. I’m an idiot.
A week on the Subzero isn’t a prize. It’s hell.
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