James Axler – Watersleep

LATE IN THE SECOND DAY, as Ryan drifted in and out of a dehydrated haze, he thought he saw movement on the horizon. Not wanting to raise false hopes in the others, he kept quiet and rubbed his good eye, trying to keep what he thought he saw into focus. Salt from the dried seawater on the back of his hand stung when he wiped it across his line of vision, and his eyesight momentarily clouded up, but Ryan kept his gaze on the dot.

Dean noticed his father staring and decided to see if his young eyes could help identify whatever had captured his father’s rapt attention.

The boy saw the dot, too, and realized it was mov­ing toward them.

“Hot pipe, Dad! You see what I see?”

“Yes, son, I believe I do,” Ryan murmured.

“Looks like…people,” Dean said. “They’re swimming over here.”

“What’s swimming?” J.B. asked, taking a look. All of the group was now staring at the approaching sight. The one absentee was Doc, who snored on, oblivious to the mounting excitement

“Shit,” J.B. said. “More shipwreck victims? No room in the raft.”

“Relax, John,” Mildred said to him. “As fast as that pair seem to be moving, I doubt they’re interested in setting up quarters with us.”

The couple stopped, then paddled easily in the salt water, peering at the group from a distance of about thirty feet.

“Now what?” Dean asked

“Up to them,” Ryan replied. “Guess we wait.”

The manlike creature that Ryan had seen over the side of the life raft had returned with another of his kind. His companion was smaller. Once or twice, she flashed the group in the raft with an impressive set of breasts that were dotted with the fibrous scales that also covered the male creature’s chest, so they all felt comfortable terming her as female.

A long hour passed and started to spread into a second, yet the creatures wouldn’t go any closer to the raft.

“Muties,” J.B. said.

“Eh? What? No, no, Nanette, not the bailing twine,” Doc cried out as he awakened from his slum­ber.

“Shh! Don’t go insulting our rescuers, John,” Mil­dred admonished. “Just because they’re choosing not to swim over closer and talk doesn’t mean they’re deaf.”

“Rescuers? I think you’re giving those two credit they don’t deserve,” the Armorer replied. “They don’t look like they have half a brain between them.”

“They can communicate,” Ryan said.

“How do you know?”

“I heard one speak to me, J.B.” Ryan said. “I was half out of it at the time, but the big one said ‘Help’ as plain as day. But that doesn’t mean much if they just want to stay where they are and watch us like some kind of free peep show. Hell, they may be wait­ing for this sun to cook us into big slaps of jerky so they can have a snack.”

“Is that what you make of them, Dad?” Dean asked. “Think they’re waiting for all of us to die?”

“No. My gut says that’s not the case. He came back,” Ryan mused, rubbing the beard stubble on his chin. “Came back and brought a friend. No blasters, no blades.”

“No clothes,” Dean said.

“Could be they do want to help us out. I imagine they’re just as nervous about us as we are about them,” Mildred said.

“Such queer-looking mutations almost make one believe in the existence of mythical Atlantis,” Doc said, unable to keep himself from joining the conver­sation, weakened condition or not. “Perhaps our little raft has crossed over into their realm. Their magical jeweled city could be on the floor of the ocean di­rectly below us.”

Doc reached forward and grabbed Ryan’s shirt. “Imagine, Captain,” he said, his eyes misted over, no longer seeing Ryan, but another leader entirely as he continued to spin his theory, “imagine an entire populace of water breathers! What better way to es­cape the hellish holocaust that has spread its poison­ous fire across all of the lands of the planet?”

As Doc continued to speak, his voice became pitched higher and higher. All in the raft recognized the symptoms—the older man was entering into the mind-set he sometimes exhibited after a particularly grueling mat-trans jump, or after any other type of strenuous mental and physical activity. Shipwrecked and afloat with no provisions for several days was exhausting to the healthiest of men, and while Doc was as tough as dried leather, even he had his limits.