Slimer

One

Christ, it’s cold! thought Paul Latham. His face was red raw from the wind except for two white patches on either side of his mouth caused by the effort of keeping his jaws clenched together. He wasn’t going to let his teeth chatter like those stupid clockwork dentures that Mark had found so funny back on the yacht.

He knew he would have to give in to the weather soon but for the moment it was important to him to be the last to surrender. Four of the other five in the small boat were holding their thin clothes tightly together and pressing hard into the only source of warmth they had — each other. Mark and Chris looked like they were welded into a single, motionless statue, the only sign of movement being Chris’s long red hair whipping across the front of Mark’s blue plaid shirt. Linda was burrowed against Paul, her face turned from the wind and Rochelle was similarly clinging to Alex.

Alex, like Paul, was playing the stoic. Both sat upright in the dinghy, shirt collars undone, taunting the cold unnecessarily. Paul’s eyes never met Alex’s, but his peripheral vision was on full alert for any sign of Alex giving in to common sense. And he knew that Alex was waiting for the same sign from him.

It was, Paul realised, a stupid and futile game they were playing. There could be no clear winner, except the weather itself. But at least it kept him occupied and stopped him from sinking into the despair that he knew gripped the other four.

Not that they didn’t have good reason for feeling low — they had been adrift now for nearly three days and their meagre supply of food and water had practically run out. At first they had been confident that they would be quickly rescued; the yacht had sunk, after all, in the middle of one of the busiest sections of the North Sea. Mark, whose father’s yacht it had been, had said it would only be a matter of hours before they were picked up. But then dawn had broken to reveal a grey mist that hadn’t been there the day before. And the mist had stayed ever since, reducing visibility to less than a hundred feet in any direction. On several occasions during the last three days they had heard the sound of a helicopter flying overhead, no doubt on its way to or from one of the many oil rigs in the area, and once they had heard the sound of a ship’s fog horn close by, but though they had yelled themselves hoarse they had remained undetected.

The only thing in their favour was the calmness of the sea. True, it was the middle of summer but that was no guarantee of good weather in the North Sea. Yet ever since the yacht had sunk the water had been remarkably calm and even now with this cold wind that had suddenly sprung up there was only a light swell. It was as if the small dinghy had been nailed to a huge, grey board.

He felt Linda shift slightly. She raised her head, put her lips to his ear. ‘I need to take another piss,’ she whispered.

He felt a stab of annoyance. ‘Again? You had one only a few hours ago. Where’s it all coming from? All you’ve had to drink today is a half a cup of water.’

‘I can’t help it,’ she protested, a little louder. ‘It must be the cold.’

Paul looked directly at Alex. He was obviously straining to hear what they were saying. Paul whispered, ‘Try and hang on for a while longer. It must be late afternoon by now. It should be getting dark soon.’

She sighed. ‘Okay, I’ll try. But I don’t know if I can wait that long.’

Alex was the cause of this exchange. Whenever anyone had to answer a call of nature over the side of the boat the others all politely looked away. With the exception of Alex. He regarded it as a great joke, particularly when one of the women was involved, even Rochelle. He would leer openly at them and make obscene comments. On the last occasion, when Linda had needed to urinate that morning, Paul had come close to attacking Alex even though he knew that any kind of struggle in the small boat would capsize it. But Linda had succeeded in calming him down just in time.

Alex. Paul hadn’t known it was possible to hate another human being so much. Before the trip he hadn’t even disliked him. On the contrary, he admired the good looking Mexican-American with his cool, street-wise manner and the impressive stories of doing drug-runs from Columbia to Florida. But then on the voyage to Morocco, living with him in such close proximity for several days, he realised he was an arrogant, unpleasant pain in the arse. And then, when he had made a blatant play for Linda right in front of Paul…

Since the sinking of the yacht he’d become even worse. He’d become increasingly belligerent and cruel, goading them all the time and acting like super-macho man. It was odd, reflected Paul, how the crisis had affected each of them differently. Mark’s reaction had been to retreat behind a screen of nervous jokes while his girlfriend, Chris, had sunk into a cocoon of self-pity. Alex’s girl, Rochelle, coped with the situation by becoming a sleep-walker, taking very little interest in what was happening. Paul himself, he knew, had taken on the role of the stoic, level-headed, natural-born leader. He wondered how long he’d be able to maintain the performance.

The only person who hadn’t changed was Linda. She was a little more irritable than usual, true, but otherwise she was the same calm, selfless Linda. He squeezed her shoulder, not caring if Alex interpreted the gesture as an attempt to get extra warmth. She held him more tightly and Paul felt a wave of sick guilt sweep through him. It was because of him she was in the mess. She had been against the trip from the start but he wouldn’t listen to her. Alex’s grandiose scheme for making a certain £200,000 by doing a dope run to Morocco had blinded him. Now they had lost everything — the dope was at the bottom of the North Sea with the yacht, along with the £4,000 that Linda and he had invested in the trip. And now they might even lose their lives…

How much longer could they last, he wondered? All of them were fit — well, perhaps not Mark. But none of them were suffering any serious discomfort yet. That wouldn’t start until the last of the food and water were gone, which would be tonight. After then? What would get them first? Exposure? Perhaps, if this cold got any worse. After that thirst would be the big problem. Death by starvation was the least likely scenario. There was a fishing line in the dinghy so they could always catch fish. The trouble was he hated fish. The smell, the taste, even the feel of them were loathsome to him. The thought of eating raw fish made him want to gag.

‘God, I’m hungry,’ said Chris in a clear, loud voice.

Her voice had the effect of rousing everyone from their private thoughts. It was as if they were a bunch of robots whose power had suddenly been restored. Alex grinned at her and gripped his crotch. ‘I got some meat right here you’re welcome to chew on anytime, kid, long as you don’t bite too hard.’

Chris flushed and looked away. Mark pretended he hadn’t heard what Alex said. ‘Don’t talk about food, Chris-sie,’ he told her, ‘you’ll only make things worse.’

Rochelle groaned and moved slowly as though afraid she might crack. Sleepily, she said, ‘Jesus, I’m freezing. What time is it?’

‘Almost dinner time,’ said Alex. ‘We drew straws while you were asleep and you lost, baby You’re it. I get the breasts and thighs so unwrap them and we’ll get started.’

‘Asshole,’ said Rochelle and closed her eyes again. Nothing Alex said ever seemed to rattle her. Not for the first time Paul wondered what the hell she saw in the creep.

Alex grinned. ‘Okay, so what are we gonna do, guys?’ He looked straight at Paul. ‘What about you, Action Man? Any clever ideas?’

His laid-back Californian accent couldn’t have got further up Paul’s nose if it had been pushed in with a stick. He almost sneered openly at Alex. He knew the game he was playing now. He was trying to make Paul look small; trying to take over. Well, they both knew that Paul had established himself as the leader early on and had the backing of the others. Alex was outnumbered.

‘Surely you have some smart ideas, Rinaldo,’ said Paul, his voice annoying him by cracking slightly from dryness.

‘I say we start using the paddles again. Just sitting here is dumb.’

‘And paddle in which direction? We don’t have a compass. It’s a waste of time,’ said Paul.

‘At least we’d keep warm.’

Paul shook his head. ‘As soon as you stopped you’d get cold again, and probably a chill too. It would be a waste of energy. We’ve got to conserve our strength. But you go ahead if you want, Rinaldo. If there’s one person I’d like to watch buried at sea it’s you…’.

Linda squeezed his hand in warning. She was right. A comment like that didn’t help anyone. He should be trying to keep the situation calm, not stir up trouble.

Alex glared at him through narrowed eyes. ‘You think if we just sit here we’re going to get rescued, hey? Come on, Action Man, face facts. Nobody’s even looking for us. Nobody even knows we’re out here.’

That was true. When the fire had started on the yacht they hadn’t radioed for help. How could they, with three-quarters of a ton of dope on board?

Paul said nothing.

Alex went on, ‘We could be waiting months out here in this pea-soup for someone to stumble over us. And by that time we’ll be providing a buffet meal for the sea-gulls.’

‘The mist will clear soon,’ said Paul with a conviction he didn’t feel.

‘Yeah? Can I have that in writing, Action Man?’ laughed Alex.

‘Look, smart-arse, you’re the man as far as you’re concerned — you got us into this, so why don’t you get us out of it.’

‘I didn’t set fire to the goddamned boat,’ said Alex and looked at Mark. ‘He did.’

Mark looked hurt. ‘Hey, I told you before it wasn’t my fault. There must have been a build-up of gasoline fumes down below. Petrol vapour is heavier than air — it collects in the bilges…’

‘And who went down there to work on the pump with a lighted joint in his mouth?’ sneered Alex.

Mark winced. ‘My old man is going to kill me. He loved that damned boat.’

‘Serves you right, you stupid dork,’ said Alex, ‘We were that close to making a fortune and you blew it for all of us.’ ‘Leave him alone,’ said Chris, ‘it was an accident.’

‘Yeah, an accident of birth. The guy’s a pinhead.’

Paul sighed. He was about to tell them to shut up and stop squabbling but before he could say anything Linda started to rise to her feet beside him. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. ‘Are you crazy? You’ll tip us over.’

T saw something,’ she said in a dazed voice. She pointed ahead. ‘Out there! There was a break in the mist.’

They all looked in the direction she was pointing. Paul couldn’t see anything but the usual grey wall of mist. ‘What did you see?’

‘I don’t know, but it was big.'

Then Paul saw it too. A massive shape loomimg over them; something the size of a city block standing on four giant legs.

‘It’s an oil rig!’ cried Linda.

‘Thank God, we’re saved!’ shouted Chris. The dinghy began to wobble alarmingly as everyone tried to get a better view.

‘Hey, you guys, take it easy!’ ordered Alex. ‘We tip this thing over and it won’t matter what’s out there.’

‘Alex is right,’ said Paul, grabbing one of the plastic loops attached to the side of the boat. ‘For once. Everyone calm down. We’re gonna get the paddles out and head towards it nice and easy. In a half an hour from now we’ll be sitting down to bacon and eggs and all the coffee we can drink…’

As they got closer to the platform Mark saw it was bigger than he’d realised. He had always been impressed by the underside of fly-overs, with the huge sweep of concrete supported on comparatively thin pillars. Staring up at the rig produced a similar sensation.

The platform was about 150 feet above the sea and consisted of five different levels, each one with a separate deck around it connected by a series of gangways and ladders. On the top level he could see four large cranes but dwarfing them were two large towers, one of which, on. the corner of the platform, looked like a smaller version of the Blackpool Tower. This was the one he remembered from TV documentaries and commercials that always had a flame burning on the top — to burn off the excess gas, he presumed. But there was no flame on the top of this one.

Nor was there any sound of heavy machinery being used. The rig was completely silent.

Frowning, Mark squinted up at the platform. It had a very uninhabited look to it. He was reminded of an old derelict house he’d sneaked into as a kid for a dare. He knew the house was empty and he’d banged around making a noise to hide his fear. But the racket had disturbed an old tramp who’d been hiding in there. He came yelling out of a bedroom straight at Mark, who’d run screaming from the house and had nightmares about the incident for weeks afterward. Even now the memory of his terror made him shiver.

‘It’s deserted,’ said Linda, echoing his thoughts.

‘It can’t be,’ said Paul.

They had stopped paddling now and were all staring up at the huge structure that was almost overhead. There was not a sign of anyone on the rig.

Paul put his hands up to his mouth and let loose with an ear-splitting yell. ‘Hey, up there! Help! Helllpppp… ’ The others joined in and for the next minute they were all yelling and screaming up at the platform.- Then, breathless, they waited for a reaction.

There was none. The only sound came from the waves lapping against the giant cylindrical legs supporting the platform. Mark noticed that the sea was beginning to get a little rougher. Perhaps they had got to the rig just in time.

‘It is deserted,’ said Alex resentfully. ‘They must have pumped the field dry and abandoned it.’

‘No way,’ said.Mark. ‘Even if the field’s not being worked any more there is sure to be someone still up on the thing. A couple of caretakers at least. If you leave a rig empty anyone can just come along and claim salvage rights.’

‘Okay, wise guy,’ said Alex, ‘where are these caretakers of yours?’

Mark shrugged. ‘Asleep maybe. How should I know?’ Paul pointed at the sign visible on the nearest side of the platform. ‘The Brinkstone Oil Company,’ he read aloud. ‘Never heard of it.’

‘I have,’ said Alex. ‘It’s one of the smaller American outfits. Owned by one guy, I think.’

‘We can’t just sit here,’ said Linda. ‘We’ve got to get up there…’

‘But how?’ asked Rochelle, ‘you see any escalators?’

She was right. Neither the four supporting legs nor the network of girder struts between them offered any visible means of climbing up to the platform.

‘There has to be a way to get up there,’ said Paul. ‘They can’t just use helicopters all the time to get on and off. What if they want to transfer people or equipment from boats.?’

Unexpectedly, he got his answer. There was the sound of an engine suddenly starting up somewhere on the rig and then one of the cranes began to move. In startled silence they watched as the arm of the crane swung out over the top of the platform holding a large metal cage. Then they all started to cheer as they realised what was happening.

The cage was swiftly lowered until it was suspended just above the water a mere ten yards or so from their boat. As quickly as possible they paddled over to it. The cage was about eight feet wide and had only'three sides. The fourth side was open, apart from a chain stretched across it.

Getting from the boat into the cage was a tricky manoeuvre and all of them were soaked to the waist by the time they were inside and clinging to the wide steel mesh of the sides.

There was a jerk and the cage began to rise rapidly. Mark watched the life-boat get smaller and smaller as it drifted away. It looked a disturbingly fragile little vessel seen from above in this way and he wondered how much longer they could have survived in it, particularly as the sea was beginning to turn ominous.

The cage continued to rise and Mark felt a wave of dizziness overcome him. He didn’t like heights at the best of times. Swallowing hard he shut his eyes and clung tightly to the mesh, hoping the others weren’t noticing his distress:

‘Now I know what a fish feels like when it’s hauled out of the sea in a net,’ he heard Linda gasp.

Then came a jarring bump and he opened his eyes. The cage was now sitting safely on the top deck of the platform. Nearby were three huge chimneys and looming overhead was the boom of the crane that had rescued them but there was no sign of any welcoming committee. The place was deserted.

They got shakily out of the cage and stood looking around. After all that time at sea it felt strange to be on something solid again.

‘Where is everyone?’ asked Chris.

Paul was staring up at the driver’s cabin on the crane. Sounding puzzled, he said, ‘I can’t even see anyone inside that thing.’

‘There’s gotta be!’ cried Alex. ‘You think it picked us up all by itself?’

‘Then where is he?’

‘I’ll go see,’ said Mark suddenly and hurried over to the ladder leading up to the cabin. It wasn’t too high and he was anxious to make up for his display of weakness in the cage. While the others watched he began to climb.

Halfway up he knew he’d made a mistake. The familiar dizziness swept over him and he was forced to stop and shut his eyes for a few moments. But then he forced himself to continue on and, to his relief, he finally made it to the open cabin doorway.

He was so thankful to have got up there the fact that the cabin was empty didn’t sink in at first. Then, when it did, he stared around the cramped interior with a growing sense of confusion. It was crazy! There was no way the driver could have got down the ladder without them seeing him. So where was he?

Then Mark saw the overalls. They were lying in a corner at the rear of the cabin. Mark frowned as he bent over them for a closer look. There was something strange in the way they were lying there — as if someone had spent time arranging the arms and legs instead of just dropping the garment on the floor.

He picked up one of the sleeves then recoiled with disgust as a black, oily tendril of slime slowly dropped from the cuff onto the metal floor. A horrible smell filled the cabin and Mark started to choke. He knew he had to get out of there and fast.