June 28th, 2021
0430 hours
Stan grunted and heaved a little on the valve wheel, his hands wet with perspiration, making it difficult to get tight grip on the slick metal. He threw his body weight into it, but it didn't budge an inch. Wiping sweat from his wrinkled brow, he inwardly cursed his crew. Where were all those young, strapping lads, with nothing to do but enjoy the spoils of youth?
Stan, at age sixty-two, was old by drilling derrick standards. His protruding belly, chronic smoker's cough, and severely receded hairline easily distinguished him as the patron of his crew. Hell, if I'm not the oldest on the whole damn rig, he thought ruefully.
A strong breeze blew in from the south, pulling along with it the acrid smell of sea and salt: and fish, he mused, always fish. With the whole damn ocean filled with a significant water to fish ratio, he assumed it shouldn't smell fishy, but after thirty years on rig 'x', the same odor still burned his nose.
Except tonight. Something different lingered on the wind, something rotten, almost like the smell of dark, wet places, and something sinister. It reminded Stan of corpses decomposing, beetles eating away at their lifeless flesh. Whatever it was, he didn't like the way the hair on the nape of his neck prickled, or the way he suddenly felt like running; running and launching himself from the deck, hitting the icy water and swimming the hundred miles back to shore.
Ridiculous, he thought, shaking his head. Nothing was there. Nothing except fish, water, and more damn water. The closest thing to civilization was the nearest rig. Where was it? East, he thought, he was sure it was east. It was so far that if anything happened they wouldn't find help in time. He shrugged, shaking away the shivers running down his spine.
Nothing will happen, he thought. It's this damn freeze dried food, just making you hallucinate. In spite of himself, he shuddered again and opened his mouth to speak. "Hey, Tony!" He called, bellowing toward the rusty step that led to the platform above.
"Yeah, Stan?"
"Gimmie a budge with this valve, it won't move for nothing. Can't get the fucker to open."
Tony, a man in his mid-twenties, with dark, unruly hair and bulging, tanned arms, poked his head over the railing. "Gettin' out of shape, Stan?" he smirked, tossing his hair out of his eyes.
"Yeah, pretty boy, you laugh it up. Just get your lazy ass down here and help me unseal it."
Tony sauntered down the steps, grinning broadly at the old man. "Well, Stan, I think it's time you retired." He winked and took hold of the wheel, his grip firm.
"And miss all the fun?" the older man chuckled. "Besides, they need somebody to keep you heathens in check." He elbowed the younger man playfully.
"Hey pops, speaking of fun, did you hear?" Tony asked as he grunted and strained, arms bursting with effort. "They found Nessie in a net last night."
"What?" Stan grunted, stopping to wipe his brow. Despite the early hour and the breeze rushing over the water, the humidity was already stifling.
"Yeah, some guy from group D fished up something. He ran off screaming about monsters and shit."
"Who?"
"Vince. Said it was like nothing he'd ever seen."
Stan laughed heartily, slapping the youth on the back. "Tony, Vince is a pot head. I wouldn't put too much faith in anything he says he's seen."
"They took him to the hospital, though." Tony's brow furrowed. "He was hurt, Stan. What if he did find something?"
"Shut up, Tony. You're giving me the creeps." Stan shivered, remembering the ominous feeling he'd experienced earlier. He shook it off and motioned toward the gently hissing valve. "Why don't we get this over with, huh? I'm starved."
"Sure thing." Tony shifted uneasily, but rested his large hands on the wheel.
Finally, after several long, agonizing minutes of straining muscles, using Tony's strength to push up on one side and Stan's sheer fat weight to heave down on the other, they heard the familiar hiss of steam releasing from the pressurized pipe. Another good tug later and they jumped back as a noxious cloud of pea green gas exploded from the valve.
"Damn," Tony swore as steam seared his wrist "don't those guys in sector three ever check their waste output? That shit isn't normal."
Stan shrugged, eyeing a mud colored lubricant that was seeping from the wheel shaft. He grimaced in disgust, wiping his hands on his pant leg. "Ah, who knows what those guys get into down there? We don't ever see the likes of those cooks anyways, so if all I have to do is open their valve, I can handle that. Bunch of wackos down there."
Tony glanced at him, slight nervousness flitting through his dark eyes. "Yeah, you're right. Still, the boss might want to keep her pups on a tighter leash. If this arm falls off, I'm going at her for a million."
Stan chuckled. "You'd be hard pressed to win that one. But hey, if your arm does fall off, at least it wasn't your cock." He grinned roguishly and slapped the younger man on the back. "Go on up, the mess hall opens in a quarter hour. I have to stay and check up on something."
"Sure thing, dad." Tony joked. "You got it?"
"Yeah, go on up. Save me a biscuit, though. I never manage to snag one."
"Kay, pops." Tony grinned again and sidled up the stairs, taking two at a time. Just before he reached the top Stan called out to him. "Hey Tony?"
"Sir?"
"Thanks for the help, kid. Get some aloe on that burn."
Tony gave a small half-smile and tilted his head slightly in Stan's direction. "Sure. No problem."
And then he was gone, up onto the next riser and out of Stan's sight. Stan made his way precariously over the slick rigging, metal bars, and plastic coverings toward the valves on the outer rim of the landing. From there he could see the faint outline of dawn coming on the horizon, just barely discernible where the black of the sky tinged a hue lighter than the ocean. He could almost make out where the water ended and the sky began.
Stan lived for this moment, watching the sun come up over the Gulf, sending sparkles of the purest golden light over the water. He pulled up his sagging work pants and lit a cigarette, settling in to see the magic. At least, he figured it was as close to magic as anything got. He chuckled softly to himself, imagining Tony picking on him. The kid would say, as Stan stood, looking out over the rippling tides, 'Hey, Stan? You see the magic yet, Houdini? Let's see how magical this deck of cards is. Let's say, Poker? I bet they're in my favor!'
And Stan would laugh, but oblige, sometimes using pennies, more often betting cigarettes or a clean pair of socks. That was about the most fun you found in a place like this.
He's a good kid, that Tony, he thought, really good kid. Makes me wish I would have had kid- he stopped mid thought. The smell was back, that awful, rotting stench. This time it was stronger, filling his nostrils with the rancidity of it, making every breath he took unbearable. He gagged, stomach churning as the air got even thicker and more foul-smelling.
It was then he heard the noise. Somewhere to his right, towards the drop-off into the ocean, something was slithering, like a serpent over wet leaves. Stan paused, listening, still trying to keep the bile in his throat at bay. Things don't slither on a rig.
He heard it again, this time closer, and with it came a wall of pungent fumes that nearly knocked him off his feet. It's just the wind, he thought, making that strange, damp sounding noise, blowing in the smell of a rotting whale carcass or something. Lately they had been cropping up all over the area.
Yeah, that's it. He convinced himself to turn, to make his way back toward the stairs, back towards safety. He almost made it, had he not stopped and thought. He thought it was mighty strange, that smell. Then his brain clicked, like gears turning and he almost smiled. As the mysterious slithering continued to move closer and the smell nearly choked him, he realized the wind had uncharacteristically stopped.
Stan spun toward the platform edge as this thought filled his mind. The slapping of something wet and dank neared his feet. His brain fired warnings off like a blitzkrieg, but he couldn't get his legs to move.
Then his eyes widened in shock as searing pain ripped through his lower abdomen. He felt his own innards tearing, organs being sliced open and he watched, transfixed, as his entrails slipped toward his feet.
His last thought, as his eyes rose level with the horizon, was that he was sure it would have been those damn cigarettes that killed him. Instead, he found himself staring into a pair of haunting, yellow eyes.
Stan's body shuddered, his eyes flickering as they gazed upon the ocean for the last time, and his mutilated remains crumpled in a pool of his own blood.