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The chain dragged against the chamber as the anchor splooshed into the water and began its two-hundred-foot descent to the seafloor, just on the precipice of the vortex. Bark surveyed the calm, moonlit water for any sign that she might have followed, but nothing bubbled to the surface. Though she’d shown no signs of injury, he worried that the coast guard had landed a few hits.
With Madre’s Mayhem anchored, Bark made his way to the deck, dropped a first aid kit, and slid down beneath the wall, collapsing under his own weight and trying to fight off the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He had always been so good at moving on, doing the next thing, and putting the past behind him, but now it promised to all catch up with him. All his decisions. All his mistakes. The dark side of all his goodwill.
He rolled up his pants leg and studied the bullet wound to his shin. With all the blood, it was hard to judge the severity, but he could still walk and maneuver. He hissed when he poured alcohol over the wound, which looked only like a decent-sized scrape. With medical tape and gauze, he dressed it as best he could, then leaned back against the wall to let the pain dissipate.
Since leaving ten dead officers in the water, Bark had considered his options, concluding that he could never return to Cape Madre. Or to America. His only option was to run. To push the Mayhem past waters that it had never seen to find a port somewhere in Mexico, or maybe the Caribbean. Though he often thought he might live forever, he knew the years were catching up with him, and with any luck he could live out the rest of his life before the authorities found him.
He pulled a rough hand across his cheek, at the nagging feeling of something there. It came away wet. A tear.
Bark tried to conjure up the last time he’d cried, but his brain only wanted him to think of her. Waiting for him below the waves. Waiting for the next offering. But when he ran, who would take up his mantle? In trying to survive, Bark would doom Cape Madre to pain, death, and surely the complete destruction of its livelihood.
But, none of that mattered anymore. She couldn’t save him. He pushed himself back up on his feet and stared at the dark passage down to the hold. Before he could run, before he could shirk his responsibilities in the name of survival, he had one last task. One more horrific thing to hang on his conscience.
He climbed down the steep stairwell into the hold, where he turned on an LED lantern. Shadows danced eerily along the inner hull.
“What did you do, Bark?” Stacy said calmly.
Bark wondered what it had all sounded like from down here. The gunshots. The shouting. The screaming. He wondered whether his captives felt hopeful during the chaos, before realizing with dread that no rescue would be coming.
Bark finally replied, “Only what I had to.”
The bonesaw sat on the table, still bloody from the two drunk teenagers. The memories haunted him. The girl, especially, was tiny. Smaller than some fish. Stacy and Tanner were both bigger, the latter closer to the jock with the tiger tattoo. The thought of having to carve them up sickened him.
Bark sighed and slipped into his office for bullets to refill his gun. Flipping the light on, he paused to consider the map taped to his desk. He’d diligently marked every time he saw her. Every time she attacked someone. Every time she surfaced near him. Every time the two of them sat in silence together, with nothing but the sounds of the waves between them.
He didn’t know why he mapped it all, but he gave in to the compulsion once again and marked a green X to signify the loss of the Coast Guard officers. Bark managed to keep her on a tight leash. Other than Joe, and the two college kids, no one had died until today. When judging life on an absolute scale, Bark gave himself accolades for saving at least a few lives.
The bullets rolled around the drawer when he opened it, floating freely along the bottom. He fished two out and loaded the pistol that he pulled from the waistband at the small of his back. He’d only need two.
Bark slipped the gun back into his waistband before squeezing back into the hold, not quite ready to pull the trigger. He desperately wanted absolution. He wanted Stacy, at least, to understand that he couldn’t just turn himself in. He didn’t want to take other lives, but now it had come down to his own life or theirs, and he tried to convince himself that, when it really came down to it, anyone would make the same decision to save their own life.
Intent on having a reasoned conversation, Bark walked across from Stacy and slid down to the floor, sitting eye level with her but far enough way that she wouldn’t be able to lash out at him. The boy, handcuffed to the other end of the table, turned his head to the left so that he could see.
When Bark finally spoke, his voice strained under the tears trickling down his leathery cheeks. “I wish I could explain it, Stacy.”
She didn’t say anything, but her eyes stared intently at him, judging him. Bark continued, “I’m so sorry about Joe. I wanted to save him. Honestly, I did. I knew how it felt to be attacked by her. I knew that drive to go back. To find her again. To spend time with her. I didn’t want Joe to give in to it like I did, so I did the only thing I could think of.”
Stacy shifted, her own eyes starting to bubble with tears. If he thought she’d stay calm, Bark would have released her. Comforted her.
Instead, he kept talking. “I blacklisted him, Stacy. I made sure nobody in Cape Madre would take him on. The fisherman. The marinas. No one. I figured if he couldn’t get out on the water, the urge would just pass. And he’d go back to normal. Go back to you. He stole a boat once. Did you know that?”
Stacy shook her head and whispered, “No.”
“He did. But I caught him before he got out here and forced him right back to the docks. I didn’t know it’d be that strong. I didn’t know he’d try to swim to her. How could I know that?”
He paused again, searching for any sign of forgiveness from her. Or, at the very least, the acknowledgment that Joe’s death affected him as much as her. But she remained steely-eyed and distant. He supposed he didn’t really deserve any more than that.
He stood and reached around for the pistol, then thought better of it. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t watch Stacy die. He knew that letting her drown out in the ocean was the coward’s way out, but his heart just couldn’t take the pain of shooting her, much less dismembering her.
Somberly, Bark worked on dislodging the knots that kept her tied to the table. She let him work in silence, exchanging looks with Tanner that Bark couldn’t understand. He considered that they’d worked on some plan to overpower him, but he couldn’t believe either of them stood a chance in their current states, so he soldiered on until the ropes came loose, and Stacy went free.
He stood along with her, thankful that she remained calm.
“Let’s go,” he said, motioning towards the steps.
He followed behind her, on guard to any attempt at turning on him, but her spirit seemed broken. Behind him, Bark heard Tanner wrestling with the ropes, pulling against the table and grunting in protest. Confident that Stacy would remain compliant, Bark turned his back to her.
“Stop it!” he yelled at the boy. “I’ll let you go next.”
Their eyes met, and then Tanner did the most unexpected thing: he smiled, and as Bark tried to process the meaning of it, he felt the nauseating impact of Stacy’s shoe between his legs. He doubled over in pain. Remembering the gun in his waistband, he grasped for it just as Stacy did the same. The gun fired downward, missing them both and splintering the wood.
Bark twisted, trying to maintain his grip. Stacy won in the end, and he turned to see her pointing the muzzle of the gun at him. He put his hands up, wondering if this might be the end. Maybe he owed his life for Joe’s. He didn’t think she could do it, though.
“Shoot him!” Tanner yelled.
Stacy’s arms tightened, her elbows locking and rattling the gun in place, but her finger didn’t budge.
Bark bet his life on her inability to pull the trigger. It was a good bet— he lashed out and knocked the gun from her hand before moving in and striking her face. The gun clattered to the ground and Stacy crumpled at his feet. Leaving the gun on the floor, Bark jerked Stacy up by her collar.
Blood trickled from her mouth, her eyes open but dazed. The anger burned brightly enough that Bark wanted to hit her again, but he thought better of it and pushed her up the stairs, her feet slowly plodding along. She lost her balance halfway up, but Bark caught her and slammed her onto the deck.
Once beside her, he pulled her up again and held her face inches from his own, staring into her bloodshot eyes. She focused in on him, and he thought she might say something, but instead she spit blood all over his face, the warm goo oozing down his cheeks.
Enraged, Bark dragged her to the edge of the Mayhem, looked at her one last time, and heaved Stacy’s frail body into the still waters of the vortex.
