Authors: Amy Cross
“Can you hear me?” Mark asks over the radio.
“Just set me down wherever you can!” I shout back. “We don’t have time to be exact, I can cover the difference.”
I wait as I’m lowered further and further, until I’m swaying in the wind just a couple of feet above the rain-soaked hull. Slowly, the helicopter moves around, bringing me closer to the deck, and finally I’m lowered a little further until my feet bump hard against the tilted wooden deck. I reach out to steady myself, but a gust of wind blows me back and I have to wait for another chance as I swing back out over the sea. I mutter a few expletives under my breath as I get ready to try again. This time, I swing faster and manage to grab onto one of the ferry’s guardrails, but when I try to gain a purchase with my boots, I realize that the incessant rain is making everything far too slippery.
I might also be
slightly
out of shape.
“Are you down?” Mark shouts over the radio.
“Making my way to the cargo hold now!” I shout back, holding onto the railing as I inch across the deck. A gust of wind tries to pull me back, but I hold on tight and let out a strained gasp as I just about manage to keep from swinging back away from the ferry. As much as I want to hurry, I can’t afford to make any mistakes.
“Sophie?” Mark shouts. “Talk to me!”
“I’m fine!” Pulling myself further along, I reach the door to the ferry’s dark bridge. For a moment, I lean closer and cup one gloved hand around my eyes so I can try to see inside. There’s no-one in there, just a dark room with old, decrepit navigation equipment, a chair and a wheel. “The bridge has been abandoned!” I shout over the radio as I try the door, finding it locked. “Whoever was in charge of this thing, they’re probably long gone by now!”
Spotting a faint number etched into the metal, I look closer.
“I think I’ve found an ID mark,” I continue. “Write this down. Four… Eight…” I peer at the number, trying to make it out as rain continues to come crashing down. “Eight again… Nine… Zero… One… Three. That’s definitely not an IMO number, is it?”
“It might be a national registration system,” he replies. “We’ll figure it out later.”
Making my way past the bridge, I reach the wide-open section of deck. The ferry is listing now at a thirty, maybe thirty-five degree angle, so I have to hold onto the railing as I pull myself across, heading for the yawning hole of the cargo hold where the main hatch has been pulled aside. Before I can take another step, however, a huge wave comes crashing over the bow, sending a cascade of water into the hold and forcing me back. I steady myself against the front of the bridge until the worst has passed, and then I start making my way forward again.
“Careful,” Mark tells me over the radio. “Hurry but take your time, if that makes sense.”
“Sure,” I mutter, as I finally reach the edge of the hatch. I pause for a moment, before letting go of the railing and letting the wind blow me in the right direction until I bump against the tilted deck and grab hold of the cargo hatch’s open side. The impact is strong, catching me in the gut and knocking the breath out of me for a moment, and I know that if I let go, I’ll be blown clear off the ferry. The deck is wet and slippery, and I almost lose my grip before managing to hold myself steady. Five years ago, I would’ve had no trouble with something like this, but I’m out of condition and I can feel muscles aching all over my body. Still, I’m so close, and as I pull myself to the edge of the hatch, I brace myself for the sight within.
Finally, I see them.
Even though the boat is being constantly rocked by the waves, and despite the pouring rain that continues to drive down, the figures in the cargo hold are all standing calmly, staring up at me from about ten feet below. I swear to God, it’s almost as if they were expecting me to arrive. I open my mouth to call out to them, but now that I’m closer, I can see their faces more clearly and there’s something extremely uncanny about their expressionless eyes, and about the way they’re watching me. They all seem so thin and ragged, as if their skin is clinging tight to their faces, and in the bad light I could swear that the skin has worn through in places, exposing sections of their skulls. There’s no panic, no sense that they’re even worried about their fate, it’s almost as if they don’t mind the storm at all. They’re all dressed in rags, too, and it’s clear that wherever they’re from, they must have been on the boat for a while now.
Refugees. They’re definitely refugees from somewhere.
“Hey!” I shout. “Are there any children on-board?”
I wait for a reply, but they continue to just stare up at me with dark, heavily-shadowed eyes. They’re all so thin and pale, and it’s hard not to feel a little unnerved by the way they’re watching me so calmly.
“Children!” I shout. “I’m going to get you off this ferry, but I need to take the children first! Ninos! Les enfants! Watoto!”
When they fail to reply, I pull myself a little further forward and look down into the cargo hold. It’s a large space, and there are more figures in the shadows, but so far they all seem to be adults.
“Do you speak English?” I ask. “Does
anyone
here speak English?”
No reply.
“Damn it,” I mutter, figuring that I need to dust down my other languages. All two and a half of them. “Habla, uh… Ingles?”
Again, no reply.
“Hadlin… Ingiriisiga?” I continue, racking my brain for any other languages I can use. I used to be better than this, back in the old days. “Snakke du Engelsk?”
I wait, but they don’t even seem to have noticed that I’m speaking to them.
“Fine,” I mutter, reaching a hand down and waiting for one of them to accept my help. “Come on! We don’t have time to -”
“Watch out!” Mark shouts over the radio.
“What?” I ask. “What’s -”
Before I can finish, the entire boat shudders as another huge wave hits, sending a torrent of water crashing over me and into the cargo hold. I manage to hold onto the edge, despite the massive forces that are trying to pull me away, and for a moment the sheer force of the impact is so strong, I feel as if my arms are going to be torn out of the sockets. When the worst of the wave is gone and I look back into the hold, I see that the figures down there have barely even reacted, despite the water pooling around their legs. A moment later, I hear an ominous creaking sound coming from somewhere deeper in the boat, and it’s clear that the hull is at risk of breaking apart. We’re running out of time here.
“You need to get out of there!” Mark shouts.
“Wait!” I tell him, still looking down at the figures. “Something’s wrong. They’re not panicking at all!”
“One more big wave,” Mark replies, “and that whole boat is going to split in two!”
“Hang on,” I mutter, dragging myself closer to the edge. “I have to go inside. I have to find out what’s wrong with them. Maybe there are fumes, or -”
“There’s another wave headed your way,” Mark says suddenly. “I’m pulling you out!”
“Not yet!”
“Sophie -”
“Not yet!” I yell, hauling myself into the cargo hold until I’m just a few feet above the figures. They’re still looking at me, and they seem to be following my movements, so they’re definitely conscious and aware of my presence, but they don’t seem to care about the fact that their boat is about to go down. Figuring that I have to try again, I reach down until the tips of my fingers are almost touching them. “You have to come with me!” I shout, staring into the dark, passionless eyes of one of the figures. “This whole boat is going to sink! Please, just -”
Suddenly I stop as I stare at the man’s face and realize that I was right: the skin on his face
has
partially peeled away, and sections of pure bone are glinting in the moonlight.
“Brace yourself!” Mark shouts over the radio. “I’m not going to risk losing you!”
Before I can respond, I feel the rope tightening around my waist, and a moment later I’m pulled back, away from the cargo hold. A couple of seconds after that, however, I feel the rope snagging on the edge of the hatch, and I look up to see that part of the cord is caught on a twisted section of metal.
“Sophie?” Mark shouts. “What’s wrong?”
“Hang on,” I tell him, struggling to get the rope loose. “I just need a few more seconds! I have to at least bring one of them up!”
“There’s no time!”
“There,” I add, pulling the rope loose before turning to look back down at the figures. “I’m going to have to grab one of them and hope for the -”
“It’s here!”
I don’t have time to react before another wave crashes into the boat, hitting me with such force that I’m sent swinging across the tilted deck. I kick out and manage to keep myself from hitting the railing, but as the boat creaks and starts breaking apart I’m sent swinging wildly back toward the bridge, finally slamming into the roof. I let out a cry of pain as I feel something snapping in my chest. Turning, I see that the rear of the boat has broken loose and is rising up, while I’m still on the front section, which is tilting to one side and starting to sink.
“Sophie!” Mark shouts.
I look up and see the lights of the helicopter above me as I spin around on the end of the rope. Before I can make another move, however, a third wave crashes into the boat. I’m sent slamming into the deck, before finally swinging out past the aft and over the rough sea, skimming the waves as I struggle to get myself back under control. With the helicopter above and the sinking boat to one side, and huge waves below, I feel as if I’m swinging through pure chaos. A moment later, a gust of wind blows me back over the boat as it continues to sink, and then I feel the rope shuddering as the winch is activated again. As I’m pulled up toward the helicopter, I can’t help but look down at the boat as the rest of the hull slips beneath the surface.
We were too late. All those people are drowning.
“I saw it on the news,” Rob says over the phone, sounding exhausted. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I can’t imagine how it feels to have it slip away like that.”
Sitting on the steps of one of the trailers, I’ve got my phone in one hand and a towel in the other, and I’m using the latter to dry my hair. The storm has begun to die down a little, and the first rays of morning sun are starting to show on the horizon, picking out the cliffs and a house nestled high up on the other side of the bay. Nearby, several coastguard workers are involved in a discussion, while a little further off there are several police officers working to keep curious journalists from getting too close. When I arrived earlier, the nascent rescue operation was just getting started, but now a little more order has been brought to the scene. Rain is still falling, but with a little less intensity.
“So you’re coming home now, right?” Rob continues. “You’re coming home because this crazy job is done and you’ve realized you don’t need to be there.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but I’m starting to feel far too exhausted. In my mind’s eye, I keep thinking about all those people drowning. I’ve just been replaying that image over and over again, and I can’t stop.
“Sophie? You’re coming home, aren’t you?”
“We have to locate the wreck,” I tell him, struggling to find the right words. “There’s still a slight chance that some of them could be alive in there, maybe trapped in an air pocket or…” My voice trails off, and I know deep down that the chance is basically zero. They’re gone, in which case Rob’s right. I should leave. Back to London, back to school, back to my ‘new’ life.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Rob continues. “You know that, right?”
Spotting movement nearby, I look to my left and see her.
I freeze.
“Sophie?” Rob continues. “You have to know it’s not your fault. You did your best, but you don’t belong there now.”
Standing a little way back, with rain falling all around her, the little Sullivan girl from five years ago is watching me. There are still worms burrowing through her skin, and parts of her chest have rotted away to reveal the ribs beneath. I’ve never told anyone that I still see her, that she comes to me sometimes. In her eyes, there’s a hint of pure, cold hatred.
She knows I should have saved her.
Hearing raised voices nearby, I look toward one of the other trailers. Mark and David Stratton have been arguing in there ever since we got back. Stratton’s in charge of things around here these days, and it’s clear that he didn’t take kindly to the way Mark and I set out in the helicopter. At the same time, he can’t have seriously expected us to just sit around and wait. At least we tried, although I can’t shake the feeling that there must have been something else we could have done.
“Sophie?” Rob says after a moment. “Are you still there?”
Looking back toward the little girl, I see to my relief that she’s gone.
“Yeah,” I reply, “of course, I just… I need to stick around at least for the rest of the day. Mark -” I stop myself just in time. Rob probably wouldn’t appreciate it if I told him that Mark still needs me, and I certainly can’t tell him about our history with the ferry. He’d never understand.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” Rob mutters, clearly keen not to discuss Mark at all. “What about the school? You can’t just not show up for work this morning. People here are relying on you.”
“I’ll call them.”
“And say what? That you had to run off and do your old job for a night, and that you almost got killed?”
“I didn’t almost get killed.”
“So that wasn’t you I saw on the news, hanging from a helicopter as it headed back to shore?”
“That’s not almost getting killed,” I reply wearily. “That’s doing my job.”
“It’s not your job anymore!”
I sigh.
“And there’s no pain in your voice?” he asks. “You’re not hurt and trying to hide it?”
“Hanging from a helicopter is perfectly safe,” I tell him, ignoring the pain in my heavily-bruised chest. “You don’t understand how things are around here or -” Hearing a door slam, I look up just in time to see Mark storming out of one of the other trailers. A moment later, another man emerges; he’s older than Mark, with closely-cropped hair and jowly features, and when he spots me it’s clear that he knows who I am, and that he doesn’t approve. After a moment, he looks down at his clipboard and makes a note.
“I want you to come home,” Rob says after a moment. “You quit the coastguard for a reason, remember? That reason is still relevant. You’re not well enough to be out there!”
“I’m -”
Before I can finish, I spot movement off to the right, and when I look over I realize that a couple of the rescue-workers are frantically waving at one another. Hearing raised voices, I get to my feet and take a few steps forward, back out into the rain. Something’s wrong.
“Sophie?” Rob says. “For God’s sake, are you even listening to me?”
“Sure,” I reply, “just… Hold on a moment.”
Making my way past a couple of the trailers, I head to the spot where some of the rescue workers are hurriedly hauling their equipment onto their backs.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
They’re all too busy to tell me.
“What is it?” I continue, tapping one of them on the shoulder.
“Possible survivor,” she replies. “We might have someone in the water, just along the coast in the next bay.”
“Sophie, talk to me,” Rob continues over the phone. “Jesus Christ, this is important. What train are you -”
“Later,” I tell him, cutting the call. After slipping the phone into my pocket, I start to make my way along the rough, muddy coastal path, following the workers who have already set off ahead of me. As I catch up, I realize they’re talking about a figure having been spotted drifting in Carswell Bay, which is about five hundred meters to the east of our current position. The idea sounds insane, but the whole
night
has been insane, so I figure it’s worth checking out.
“Come on, let’s move!” one of the team-members shouts, waving at people back at the makeshift base. “Sighting confirmed! Everyone this way!”
“What else do you know?” I ask, as their radios start to crackle.
“Just that there’s been a sighting,” replies one of the women as she hurries along next to me. “Watch your step.”
With rain still falling, the coastal path has become a muddy slog, with several deep puddles that seem to almost want to suck my boots down. The wind is strong up here, too, and whereas the rescue workers are all in their protective gear, I’m woefully under-prepared in just a t-shirt, trousers and boots. Still, I manage to keep up with them, and with the gaggle of journalists who are further up on the gravel road that runs parallel to the edge of the cliff. Their cameras are flashing already as they try to get the money shot of someone being pulled from the water.
Goddamn jackals.
“It’s a miracle if anyone’s out there,” says another of the workers. “In these conditions, you’d be lucky to survive even in a lifeboat.”
Looking out at the sea, I have to agree with him. The waves are still high, crashing against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff as heavy rain drives down. With the morning sun still having not quite cleared the horizon, conditions for finding and helping someone are far from ideal, but from the constant radio chatter and the snippets of conversation I’m overhearing, it’s clear that someone has been spotted out there. It’s probably just a body, but while there’s still a chance of finding survivors, we have to act. Besides, even a body might help us work out where those people came from.
“Do we know if this person’s alive?” I ask, as we reach a crest on the muddy path and start making our way carefully down toward Carswell Bay.
No-one replies. They’re all too focused on getting to the site as quickly as possible.
Spread out before us, Carswell Bay is a large, dulled cove with a pebbly beach that stretches a couple of hundred feet to the east, with rocks at both the near and far ends. Waves are crashing against the shore, sending water across the beach almost to the foot of the cliff, and as we make our way down the narrow path it’s hard to believe that anyone could possibly be alive out there in such rough weather. Nevertheless, as we reach a turning point in the path, I stop for a moment as I spot a shape in the water, being tossed about by the waves. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out my phone and activate the camera app, before zooming in and trying to focus on the shape, which isn’t easy since whatever it is, it’s being buffeted by the waves. Finally, however, I see that the rescuers were right.
There’s a human figure out there.
Just as I’m about to call out to the others, who are making their way down the path toward the shore, I watch in horror as the figure is dashed against the rocks at the bay’s near end. I lose sight of him for a moment, before he reappears in the mix of a set of large waves that are running close to the shore. There’s no sign of the figure moving, and my first instinct as I watch him being tossed about by the storm is that he must be dead. After all, the waves are strong enough to break a man’s neck, and the figure is showing no signs of movement. A moment later, he disappears from view again as more waves crash into one another, but he bobs back into sight after a few seconds before being sent surging onto the rocks and then slipping down into another set of waves, which carry him a little further out.
“We need an inflatable down here!” a voice shouts from below, as one of the rescuers reaches the shore.
At my waist, my radio crackles, and I hear one of the other rescuers asking how they’re going to get out into the water so they can grab the body.
That’s the word they use:
body
. They clearly don’t think there’s much chance of this person being alive. I can’t say I disagree with them, as the figure is once again carried by a large wave and tossed against the rocks, before being carried back out again. It’s as if the sea, having plucked him from the ferry, still isn’t done.
“Be advised,” says a voice over the radio, “we see no way to conduct a safe rescue at this point. Please stand by. Stratton says all safety procedures are to be followed. Let’s not go taking any risks.”
“God, no,” I mutter sarcastically. “The last thing we need is to take risks.”
All the rescuers are now down on the shore, watching helplessly as the waves toss the figure about and as water continues to crash against the beach. Still up on the path’s turning point, I have a slightly better vantage point, although the driving wind and rain doesn’t help and I feel as if the storm is trying to blow me clean away. After a moment, however, I see the figure being smashed onto the rocks a little closer, but this time the waves fail to pull him away again as they fall back, leaving him caught on one of the larger rocks.
This is our chance.
“Over here!” I shout, hurrying back along the path and then skidding down a muddy embankment that leads toward the shore. My heart is racing as I get to the first of the rocks and try to scramble the final thirty feet or so to the figure’s location, only for my boots to lose traction on the slippery surface. I tumble down and land hard on my shoulder, letting out a gasp of pain in the process, but I force myself back up and continue to clamber over the rocks, keeping the figure in view up ahead. I’m not far now, and there’s only -
Suddenly another heavy wave crashes into the rocks. I see the figure being dislodged and tossed further, before the wave washes over me and I have to look away. Holding onto a nearby rock, I brace myself as the force of the storm briefly hits me; my hands slip against the wet, dirty rock, but I manage to stay upright. A moment later my radio crackles to life.
“Get back from there!” a voice shouts. “You need a harness to be so close to the edge!”
Great. This must be David Stratton. The worst part is, he’s right.
“I know,” I splutter, poised to turn back before seeing that the figure is barely twenty feet away, having apparently been washed into a little pool that has collected between some of the rocks. I know I should turn back, but finally I start scrambling toward the figure, while keeping an eye on the waves so that I can brace myself better next time there’s something coming my way.
“I’m ordering you to move back,” Stratton continues. “The individual is most likely dead, and I haven’t seen the paperwork confirming you as a consultant on this rescue mission.”
A moment later, there’s a blindingly bright light above, and I have to shield my eyes as a helicopter swoops in low over the top of the cliff. Struggling to stay standing, I grab hold of a jagged rock and hold on for dear life, as the helicopter comes lower and approaches the prostrate figure. A moment later, I see to my shock that the figure is starting to move, and I watch as he turns slightly and reaches out a hand, as if he’s trying to find something he can hold onto.
“He’s alive!” I shout, scrambling over the rocks despite the turbulence caused by the helicopter’s rotors.
There are voices shouting at me from nearby, but I ignore them as I hurry to the figure. Getting closer, I see the back of his head and realize that he has the same thin, pale features as the other people from the boat. A moment later, he turns and looks straight at me with dark, ringed eyes. Part of the skin on his face has been worn away around the cheeks and eyes, exposing patches of pale, bloodless bone, but his eyes are intact. A moment later he opens his mouth, as if he’s about to say something, and I see a row of yellowed teeth.