Veronica Stone

Pt. 12

Her limbs felt like lead, her joints rusted over. Run. Petrified. Run. A sick dread crawling over her skin. Run. She could feel it, nightmarishly slow. Run. Slower than a dying breath but doubly as inevitable. Run. It was only a matter of time. RUN. Nature or the universe or something even beyond decided it had had enough. 

RUN RUN RUN RUN RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN-

The sting of seawater pouring into Veronica’s airways was what jump-started her primal instincts, driving her to struggle back to the surface. Hacking, coughing, trying her hardest not to turn around to witness that thing again by mistake. She was paddling away from death itself and its paralyzing dread permeated outwards, radiating like the sun's rays but seeping through everything including her bones like a wicked song.

Cold water dug under her fingernails threatening to pry them off with the force she was paddling. It was almost dark out now, the sun had just set and Veronica had no clue where she was going or what she would do, she just knew she needed to get away. She knew she was traveling further away yet that feeling never grew any smaller, it was as if she were swimming in place. Images of that thing violated her mind. Memories... a sick feeling. There was that time she led a "Psyops" mission. Some village near Al-Khoder, she had tried not to remember. It was really terror, "psyops" just sounded better. The crying. One of her most dreadful memories. Terrible feeling. She could barely grip the 9 inch knife because of all the blood, the woman was still writhing despite her men's boots on the screaming woman's wrists crushing them into the hot gravel. The orders were specific, those bastards wanted the village to hear the baby cry BEFORE it died, she had to be careful. They gave her that giant clumsy knife. It was all to get into their heads, the "optics'' they coldly called it. She managed to do it, the woman hollered and cried and begged and cursed all Veronica’s generations in a blend of Arabic and profane English all throughout. She refused to lose consciousness, truly a rebel's wife. The only thing more horrific than the raw memory were the nightmares with all their embellishments. One of her worst night terrors to date, the pay wasn't nearly worth it. Veronica had always been grateful for growing past them. Perfected the art of forgetting. All until now. Now she'd do anything to feel that sickening terror again because anything was better than this. 

At the same time Veronica fought to keep the images out of her mind, she also fought to ignore the fact that her limbs grew slower and stiffer. She had gotten this far but at this point there was no ignoring it. She was rattling because although she pushed the thoughts from her mind, the images soaked terror into her very flesh. At Victoria she was trained in giving, receiving and enduring terror, she acquired years of on the job training as well, and yet the most her wealth of experience could do was keep her from sinking into the sea. As she rigidly tread the water, it became harder and harder to ignore them. The memories. Dull white, slightly glistening, maybe slimy, some small some three times as wide as her trunk, and so many...so so many...one couldn't even begin to imagine a number. From that distance it was hard to tell for sure but something instinctual within Veronica knew they were moving. Sliding up the ship's hull, spawning smaller tendrils of themselves branching out to inevitably consume more and more of the vessel. A sprawling oozing network of white. As a marine specialist and witch at that, she'd seen innumerable creatures this ocean had to offer but these things…could she even call them tentacles? Nothing could come close. They moved so independently, formless, yet there was an unsettling sense within Veronica's gut that whatever they were, they were connected to something lurking beneath the ship...something conscious. What was the protocol?! Her stomach churned, nausea bubbling as her mind became overwhelmed with memories of the sheer vastness of that sprawling thing. Machine gun? Mansa Musa? Torpedo? What was the point!? Spitting in a cane-fire. It was spitting in a cane-fire. Nothing made sense. There was no point fighting and now even running seemed futile, it poisoned the mind. She was slipping, water rising higher tickling her chin, splashing her face, crawling up her nose. Her thoughts made less and less sense.

Gran used to drag her to the dusty old Anglican church down the road in those ugly frocks, clickity clackity kitten heels and white frilly socks every Sunday. By definition mercenaries couldn't believe in God. She didn't have to look back to know they had reached the deck by now. She’d no idea what those things would do to everyone on deck, but she knew it could be nothing good. It was really just her. Was it her sins finally catching up to her? It felt like when pastor Cumberbatch would cry out about the end times, the loneliness and forsakenness of the rapture. This was God. Some kind of god. 

Veronica surrendered. Sea water had all but made itself at home in her lungs. Her eyes underwater, arms and legs still lazily roving around as if it made a difference. Somehow her heart remained steady, almost resigned, maybe too frightened to make sudden movements. Veronica was an expert diver but this was different, as if her body had given up on survival at an instinctual level. That was good. She'd committed atrocity after atrocity, everything was evil, from the time she enrolled at Victoria. She ignored it all, pushed it to the side, stepped on it to get closer to that amazing woman. Because in the end it would have been worth it. Now she was looking back. Forced to look back. She would never reach her. Would have never reached her. That woman was a soldier, she was a mercenary. It was pointless from the start, and this thing was here to punish her. She knew what she was doing was wrong all along but if she gave herself some excuse she could play ignorant right? Maybe hell was a bit better for the ones that were at least honest with themselves. She could feel it finally. Her body quietly revolting. Heart bashing against her ribs, chest on fire. Veronica tried to hush her body as one would a cranky baby. It was working, her eyes were closed but things grew dark, a different type of dark, more freeing. The pulsing of her bladder gave way to a soothing warmth around her groin and thighs. Her arms had finally stopped thrashing and the final embers of sensation in her fingertips dimmed slowly. This was it. Finally.

Ticklish fibers flirted with her numb fingertips. She could feel them. Curious. Her fingers made out the shape of a combat-inappropriate dolphin earring. Puppy-dog eyes stared up at her, full of excitement and yearning.

Huh??