Page 21 of Currents of Desire

Then, I think of the bait shop.

Old Mrs. Gable’s place near the marina. It is a weather-beaten shack that smells of brine and old secrets. She sells bait, tackle, and ice, but also other things—‘special blends’ for the serious deep-sea charters. Salts imported from places that don’t appear on standard shipping manifests.

It’s a long shot. A stupid shot. But it’s the only shot.

“I have to go,” I say, grabbing a towel and rolling it up, placing it behind her head.

Nerida’s eyes snap open. The predator is gone. The ancient, terrifying creature that had hunted me in my own living room is gone. All that’s left is something small and scared.

“Don’t,” she wheezes, reaching a trembling hand toward me. Her fingers are stiff, the webbing dry and papery. “Don’t leave me.”

The siren voice, that harmonic resonance that can vibrate in my bones is absent. She sounds like a frightened woman.

I take her hand. It’s like holding a handful of dry leaves.

“I’m coming back,” I promise, squeezing gently, afraid I might crush her. “I’m going to get you what you need. Just… stay under. Conserve your energy. Do not die on me, Nerida. Do you hear me? That is an order!”

She looks at me and gives a tiny, jerky nod and sinks back into the water.

I don’t let myself look back.

If I look back, I won’t leave.

I grab my keys from the hook by the door and sprint down the stairs. The air outside is heavy, pressing down with a barometric weight that makes my ears pop. The silence of the eye is still holding, but it feels fragile, like a sheet of glass about to shatter.

My ute is parked under the carport, miraculously untouched by the tree that took out the shed. I jump in, the suspension groaning. The engine turns over with a cough and a roar, a familiar, mechanical comfort in a world gone wrong.

I throw it into reverse and gun it, mud spraying from the tires as I veer out of the driveway.

The drive is a nightmare.

The road to the marina is a gauntlet of destruction. The asphalt is slick with a layer of brown slime. Power lines are down everywhere, black snakes hissing in the puddles. I mount the curb twice to get around fallen gum trees, their massive root balls torn from the earth like bad teeth.

At the intersection of Main and Wharf, the water is deep. I hesitate. If I stall here, it’s over.

“Come on, old girl,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles ache.

I floor it. The ute hits the water with a massive splash, a wave of brown sludge washing over the windshield. The engine sputters, coughs, and for one heart-stopping second, I think I am dead. Then the tires find traction on the submerged road, and I claw my way out to the other side.

I don’t breathe until I’m on higher ground.

The marina is a graveyard. Boats are piled up on the concrete like discarded toys. Masts are snapped, hulls crushed. The smell is overpowering, a mix of diesel, rotting fish, and the copper tang of ozone.

The bait shop is still standing, though it leans heavily to the left. The windows are boarded up with plywood, spray-painted with the words ‘LOOTERS WILL BE SHOT.’

I skid to a halt in front of it, the ute fishtailing in the mud. I don’t bother killing the engine. I jump out and hammer on the door.

“Mrs. Gable!” I shout. “Mrs. Gable, it’s Jack! Jack Ford!”

Silence.

I pound again, harder this time. “I know you’re in there! Open up!”

I hear the scrape of a deadbolt, then the rattle of a chain. A small slat in the door slides open, and a set of eyes peers out.

They aren’t normal eyes. I’ve always known Mrs. Gable was odd. She is rumored to be ninety years old yet moves with the fluidity of a teenager, but I’ve never looked this closely at her before. Her irises are a milky, clouded white, yet I know she can see me perfectly.

“Jack Ford,” she croaks. Her voice sounds like wet leather. “You should be on high ground, boy. The back of the storm is coming. It’s going to be worse than the front.”