Vanguard | Post-Apocalyptic YA

Part 27: Nettle Mettle

This is one of those moments where I know what I am going to do, realize how stupid it really is and also hate myself for being so damn excited about it, all at once. As per usual, Ray is skeptical with that trademark 'silent but pointed' cock of his eyebrow, but he doesn't stop me. Instead, he tightens his safety harness like I had just warned our passengers to do and leans back in his co-pilot's chair.

"Ready for your instructions, sir," he says.

Hitting one of these gelatinous invertebrates should be inconsequential. Even a dozen of them would hardly register against the metal hull of the ferry. But swimming straight into a middle of a massive swarm could be disastrous.

"Descend to fifteen feet, Stingray," I command.

"Fifteen?" he repeats with obvious confusion.

I'm not surprised. We're barely one hundred feet above the sea floor right now. It's not that Ray has never taken a craft so low, but Skippers are more agile. They're designed for easy maneuverability and for turning in tight spots. Unlike the single seat Skipper that's not much bigger than a large car, however, we're in a slow, wide, and cumbersome ferry. We're also transporting dozens of passengers whose lives depend on the choices we make. And that's why—in spite of giving an order that appears ludicrous—Ray is going to have to trust me.

"That's right. Fifteen feet. Is that a problem, Lieutenant?" I ask, glancing at him.

Ray purses his lips and shakes his head. "No, sir. Descending to fifteen feet now."

The jellies are everywhere. Above, below, port, and starboard. The only way to avoid them would have been by reversing the thrusters and retreating, but even that is now impossible without risking the turbines. We're surrounded, but that was my plan.

Embedding ourselves into the swarm will hopefully buy enough time to shake the trailing Skippers. Merman and his three colleagues won't risk following. It's against protocol. They'll find a way around, instead. And because a bloom like this can extend for miles, if I'm right then we'll reach our destination before them.

"Warning. Depth level dangerous at seventy-five feet," the on-board navigation announces in a robotic cadence just as we hit a dense patch of sea nettles. Thud. The ferry wobbles a bit, but we're good.

Unfazed, Ray continues to slowly descend. Bang. We tilt eight degrees to the right, triggering a brief alarm, but my co-pilot quickly pulls her back to a level position. Whack. The ground falls out as the craft suddenly drops and shrieks from the passenger area ring out.

"Warning. Depth level critical at fifty feet," the computer says as we stabilize.

My heart is pounding, and I concentrate on remaining calm. Too many people depend on us right now for me to lose it.

"I'm going to release some ballast," I say to Ray, already adjusting the controls to partially empty secondary storage of seawater. It'll make the ferry lighter, and in theory, easier to control. Hopefully it will also prevent another sudden drop from occurring. This close to the seabed, one more such move would definitely slam the ship against the ground.

"Good call." Ray nods without taking his eyes away from the window. It really wouldn't have made a difference, though. The jellyfish bloom is now so thick there's nothing to see, but the beautiful, floating blobs. We're literally operating blind.

Releasing excess water worked, and according to all the instruments, we're steady at thirty feet. "Continue controlled descent—"

A strained, grinding sound cuts me off. At the same time, the ferry begins to shake. No, not just shake. More like convulse, jerk or spasm like a drowning man struggling for that last breath of air he knows will never come.