Dead Water Zone - Kenneth Oppel [34]
His thoughts raced ahead. He tried to plan out a confession, linking words and sentences like paper chains. But was an apology enough? And if he couldn’t even be sure that Sam would forgive him, how could he convince him to stop drinking the dead water? Stop, he told himself. Just get there.
There was less space between the beams now, and at times he had to slip through sideways; but after a few more minutes, the timbers became even more tightly meshed into a narrow opening about two feet in diameter, close to the water’s surface.
“It’s tight,” Decks said over his shoulder, “but I’ve done it before.”
The wood was wet and unpleasantly spongy against Paul’s hands and knees. He tried to take shallow breaths; he didn’t even want to breathe a molecule of that water. He hunched his broad shoulders as he crawled into the opening. Splinters of metal tugged at his clothing. One shoulder lodged tight against a timber. His shoes skittered along the beam, hoping for traction. He was stuck.
He’d never thought of himself as overweight before coming to Watertown. He felt ridiculous; he almost laughed. He tried to wriggle free, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He was suddenly short of breath, imagining himself bound by steel hoops, tightening, collapsing the life out of him.
“Monica,” he whispered. “I can’t move.”
“You’re all right,” she said behind him. “We’ve just got to ease you through.”
A cool tongue lapped across his fingers, and he looked down with a start. The dark water was level with the beam.
“Water,” he managed.
“Tide’s coming up,” said Decks, in front. “I’m reaching back, Paul.”
He watched for Decks’s hand and grabbed hold. He felt himself shift slightly, but he still wasn’t free.
“Again,” said Decks, and Paul pulled with all his might.
“No good,” he panted, looking at the water, only a few inches away. Would it lick against his chest, fill his mouth and nostrils? He felt Monica’s small, cool hands against his ankles and was reassured.
“Once more,” she said.
Paul took a deep breath and yanked hard on Decks’s arm, just as Monica shoved him from behind. He jerked out of the wooden stranglehold and had to cling to the beam to stop himself from going into the water. He scrambled out of the tunnel and pushed himself to his feet, his knees shaking.
“Okay?” Monica asked, standing behind him.
“Saved me again,” he said weakly. “Thanks.”
“Can you hear it?” she asked abruptly. “It sounds so clear.” She cocked her head to one side. “The water.”
Decks nodded dolefully. “Your mother could hear it, too.”
“What’s it like?” asked Paul.
“Mosquitoes, sort of. But higher.”
There was a look of bewildered fascination on Monica’s face that made him nervous. He wanted to shake her. What if Decks was right about the lure of the water? They shouldn’t have let her come. It was too dangerous.
“Come on,” said Decks, “it’s not far now.”
In the distance, Paul could see pale light between the pilings. He picked out his footing with care as the water rose. Finally, he was at the far side, and he jumped from the timbers onto a landing platform floating at the pier’s base. They were on the edge of another canal.
Through the ragged swaths of mist Paul made out the form of a ship across the canal. The dark bulk of it towered above him, the pockmarked hull stretched taut over wooden ribs, like mummified skin.
As if stirring from sleep, the entire hulk shifted slightly, and a moan issued from the chains draped across its hull. Gooseflesh broke out across Paul’s forearms, even though he told himself it was just a dead ship, rolling with the tide.
“Still afloat,” said Decks in a whisper. “It must be lashed tight to the wharf.”
“There.” Monica pointed to the hulk. “The water. It’s coming from there.”
For a moment, Paul thought he heard a shrill mosquito droning, but it quickly faded.
“If your brother was looking for the source, that’s where he’d find it.”
“Take the ladder