A Fiction: Part VIII

V

The interior of the sub is bathed intermittently with deep red and pitch black. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings and pull myself up off the floor. The sub floor is slanted towards the back and I struggle to get to the front screen – black as well. Either the screen is damaged or the outside lighting is off. Fuck. I shake my head and take a minute to fully assess the situation. I hear the whirring of fans blowing fresh air from the oxygen converters – that’s good. We at least have emergency power… we... STUART! His body rolled beneath the console on impact and is still there. I sit on the floor next to him, wrap my arms around his torso and drag him out into the main aisle. He was knocked cold – not good. I stand and shut off the emergency systems. The main power comes back up and all the equipment comes to life. Then I pull open the first aid cabinet on the wall. What do I need? A blanket, some bandages for his head, a cold pack…

“Solemn chain flower cold?” I turn and see Stuart sitting up, his hands on his knees. He looks at me curiously. “Flower cold?”

“Stuart, lay down. I don’t know what kind of injuries you have.” Stuart stares hard at me, rolls to one side and lies down. He is shivering. I cover him with the blanket and start to check him for injuries. I gasp as I check his head. The back of his skull is soft and bloody. There is fluid oozing from his ears and his eyes dart back and forth. Oh, Stuart, my friend. It’s not looking good. I need to get help. I stand and move to the instrument panels.

“Fear column lines patsy…” Stuart offers behind me without rising.

“Thanks for the advice, Stu, but I need to try the radio first.” Stuart grunts in what I think is approval. The radio lights up and I hear familiar static. “Angel’s Head, this is Ether. We have an emergency. Please respond…” Static. “Angel’s Head, this is Ether. Please respond. We have an emergency.” Nothing.

I walk over to the SONAR display and watch a full rotation, then another. “Stuart, what am I doing wrong here? I don’t see anything.” Stuart pulls himself up and crawls over to the display before I notice. “Jesus, Stuart. Lie back down! You’re in no shape to…” Stuart puts his hand to my mouth and leans into the display.

“Cage my pollen stone…” he says quietly. He closes his eyes and moves back to the floor.

He may not have said the right words, but Stuart was clear as day: Angel’s Head is gone. We are alone.