Hatched

Chapter One

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."