The Pacific High Read online

  Ibid.

  16.27 hrs:

  Shit! Johnson just tried to climb on deck but screamed from pain when his feet touched the deck. Their voices are lower now. The others say the boat hurts too touch.

  Ibid.

  17.45 hrs:

  They are swearing at me and telling me that I have to bring out Brian. They say they want to talk to both of us. That nothing will happen.

  Ibid.

  20.30 hrs:

  It's getting dark. Voices are going away. Don't know why they haven't come back on board. If the decks were too hot during the day, they surely must be cool enough by now. Johnson, Edward, Darrell, and Matthew have been over the side for hours now. If it weren't for the seaweed they would all be long dead of hypothermia.

  I have to sleep.

  August 18

  04.15 hrs:

  They got Brian. I woke up to slapping sounds. They were throwing seaweed into the cockpit and onto the decks. The seaweed has done something to their feet. They had to cover the decks before they could come aboard, but when they did they broke down the hatch cover and jumped inside. Before Johnson and Darrell could reach us they started jumping up and down and screaming until Matthew and Edward threw seaweed inside the cabin for them to stand on.

  I abandoned Brian. I escaped through the forehatch and climbed the mast as high as the first spreaders. Johnson tried to climb after me but his skin stuck to the aluminum. Horrible scream before he jumped back into the seaweed beds.

  Poor Brian. They pulled him out of the cabin, ripped off his clothes, and then swinging him by his arms and legs threw him over the side. While Johnson and the others were having their fun with him, I came down, fished out the mop and swabbed the seaweed off the boat. What I've been calling fog now seems more like gases arising out of the seaweed.

  I got the bosun's chair, some food and water, and created a nest for myself at the spreaders.

  August 19

  05.15 hrs:

  Spent the night in the bosun's chair lashed to the mast, but sleep was impossible. Weird babbling and splashing and thumping all night. But toward dawn it became nearly silent.

  Brian is the only one still laying on top of the matted bed. The rest are vertical and mostly submerged. Floating like corks, but very little motion. Johnson is sunk nearly to his chin. Matthew, who, next to Brian, has been in the least amount of time, is floating the highest, with most of his upper torso clear. I call to them but Brian is the only one who answers. He says I have to come in. He says I will like it.

  The rest are babbling to themselves, nearly purring. No motion except for their lips, and their eyes, which keep rolling insanely. Matthew is the closest to the boat. Will try to get him back aboard.

  Ibid.

  12.00 hrs:

  What the hell is going on! It's been two hours now and I can hardly think. Something bad has happened. It must be a chemical spill. Or Hell is located at the bottom of the sea.

  Ibid.

  13.45 hrs:

  I've been too sick to write. Also, I've been busy, trying to save someone who must certainly be already dead. I'm now continuing this journal out of a sense of duty. When I'm done I will wrap it in as much plastic and duct tape as I can find and lash it to our man overboard float and flag. Whatever is out there doesn't seem to eat plastic. If I don't make it, perhaps my journal will.

  Matthew was the closest to the boat. I could see he was alive, but he didn't respond when I pleaded to him to get back on board. So I broke out the life-sling and fastened it under his arms and around his chest. Attached the shackle to a halyard, ran the halyard to a primary winch, and began to lift him aboard. I anticipated a heavy load and put all my weight against the handle. I watched him and he watched me as I continued to winch. He wouldn't budge. The halyard ran from the top of the mast and the boat heeled over from the pressure. Matthew was smiling. He was purring: "Lalala. Lalalala." I cranked some more and then he was gone.

  I screamed when he hit me. And I screamed more and more as he dangled in the air dripping upon me. His feet and his legs were bare of all flesh. Remnants of tendons flailed his bones.

  His pelvis was stripped of flesh. His stomach and intestines were gone. The ribs up to the point where he floated were exposed. Only his heart and lungs were still covered by flesh. Yet he was alive.

  Half man. Half skeleton. His hands and arms to just above his elbows were bare bones. Yet still he moved them. And he smiled and sang. And from these motions he swung back and forth from the halyard, hanging from the sling, twisting about just above the deck. And I crawled away vomiting and screaming. I sought a place to hide, but there was no place to hide.

  I passed out for thirty minutes. When I came to he was still dangling from the sling, with nervous twitches from tattered tendons; his bones clattered with the hollow acoustic sound of a bamboo wind chime. And still he lived.

  Ibid.

  16.50 hrs:

  Just went to the winch, untied the halyard, and began to lower what was left of Matthew. But at the point that the bones of his toes touched the deck, I lost courage and tied the winch off.

  I went down below, got a knife, and began to cut long narrow strips from the Egyptian sails. After an hour of this I went back outside to wrap the bones that were so hideously exposed. When Matthew's skeleton kicked out at the touch of its foot, I screamed.

  It took two hours to complete the wrapping of Matthew. When I was finished, I went back to the winch and untied the halyard. There he was: somewhere between being a mummy and a skeleton, still hanging in the sling. Only his eyes and mouth moved. His eyes lolled from sky to sea and then to me. From his lips came the same cat-purr of a contented song. I lowered him onto the deck. I recoiled in horror as his limbs began to shake. His legs disabled, he rolled himself over onto what remained of his chest, and like a partially cocooned maggot wiggled himself toward the side of the boat. I was still backing away when he reached his destination and slipped head first into the weeds.

  I called to Brian. Tried to explain. Brian said the seaweed was good. He said it was soothing. He wouldn't come out.

  Ibid.

  18.20 hrs:

  Brian is still calling to me. I think it is time to launch my journal. I still don't understand what is happening.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 55047d3a-7af2-4e59-989f-4551c1b73767

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 2006-05-20

  Created using: FB Tools software

  Document authors :

  Анатолий Бурдин (Legio)

  Source URLs :

  Undernet, #bookz

  Document history:

  version 0.7 QC

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