Crescent by Phil Rossi Page A

went still with such suddenness that Marisa took a step backward. He turned and looked at her with sable eyes. They were darker than the water. Marisa took another stuttering step backward and the vatter began running at her. The water was still up to his waist, but he managed to cut through the liquid with a horrible speed that left her paralyzed. He closed much of the space between them by the time Marisa convinced her body to move. She turned and began to trudge away from him. Well ahead of her, the rectangle of light stayed no bigger than a shoe box. Marisa knew the water was slowing her down way too much. There was no way she could escape. Terror poked holes in her brain stem. Breath puffed out before her in quick white clouds. Panic spoke up full now, and it said, Scream for your life, bitch!
    Marisa screamed. The rectangle of light began to fill with black—slow black, like tar. The light from above was choked out. It reminded her of the dream.
    Around her, the shadows began to slink off the walls. Penumbral tentacles reached out to wrap around her.
    An icy hand grabbed her by the back of the neck and plunged her beneath the water’s black, undulating surface.
     
    (•••)
     
    “Is she going to be okay?” a distant and familiar voice asked. Her eyelids were so goddamned heavy. They felt gummed together.
    “I think so. She was mildly hypothermic when the maintenance crew stumbled across her. I managed to get her core temperature back up with little problem. And her circulation is fine.” She didn’t recognize that voice.
    “Doc, how long was she down there?” She liked that voice, but she felt bad because he sounded so concerned.
    “I’d say at least several hours.”
    “Good Christ. Did she say anything to you? Like why the hell she was in the cistern?”
    Were they talking about her? Marisa couldn’t figure it out. Understanding teetered on the edge of her struggling mind, but she could only brush her fingertips against it. She didn’t remember anything about being in any cistern. Not really, anyhow. For some reason, she did remember water. Regardless, she thought the people in the room were talking about crazy things and she wished they would stop. She opened her eyes and the light hurt. She saw Gerald. He was facing away from her. She tried to reach for him, but was too weak to lift her arm. He was talking with a man in a white coat. A doctor.
    “She mumbled something about a vatter —about having to find something for him,” the doctor said. Marisa’s skin prickled at the word and she felt herself jerked closer to full consciousness. The cistern. The vatter . The Black. Yes. The Black.
    She blinked and behind closed lids, she saw Heathen’s. She saw the chaos from the night before, but it moved in still frame. Cords of shadow slinked through the shuddering crowd.
    The Black had been at Heathen’s.
    She knew the Black from somewhere else, too. Where? Somewhere deep.
    Her whole being felt suddenly heavy again. She let the thoughts slip from her like sand through extended fingers.
    “That was pretty much it,” the voice of the doctor said. “ That, and that she was cold—obviously. The tox screen showed carthine in her system. Does she use it regularly?”
    “Only when she can’t sleep. We had an interesting night last night. I’m not surprised she took some.”
    “At high levels, carthine can and generally does cause powerful hallucinations.”
    “How much did she take?” Gerald asked.
    “It’s difficult to say. The body metabolizes it pretty quickly. Her blood alcohol level was also high.”
    Marisa had heard enough. She was tired. Too tired to deal with any of it. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep.
    She did not have to wait long.

     

(Part IV)
     
    “ETA fifteen minutes, Captain. Time to wake up.”
    “Thanks, Bean. I’m not sleeping.”
    “No?” said the ship’s computer. “You have been awfully quiet since we left Crescent.”
    “I feel bad for leaving Marisa