Wet Whispers
Short Fiction | Horror | A Future Ravaged by Global Warming An Angry Ocean
In the before times they were more than a series of barges linked together through detachable cables floating along the sea. Once upon a time, they were a country on an island with rainforests, beaches, and mountains. Some even say they had a drive-thru volcano, but she had only ever heard stories and seen pictures.
It had been about 117 years since they had existed as that old version of a country. The barges varied in size and design but all could shutter themselves off from the aggressive waves and tumultuous winds of the sea. The sea, you see, had gone from a temperamental wife of mankind to a scorned and violent enemy.
Rana found herself in the Market Parish of the Barge Collective that called itself the floating island Helen 58. The Marketing Parish always spiked her anxiety. There was a frantic energy here that made the salty air thrum with the tension of possibility. There were options, too many outcomes, too many possibilities. It made her nervous, the vastness of it.
“A storm front coming. Dey say we mus’ move d barge fass. The water gon lick us down again,” she walked past a lady selling ratty fabric that was dull and looked coarse to touch.
She hurried away too quickly to hear what her companion responded. By the time she made it to the top of the staircase on the second level of the Market Parish, her quads were on fire. She made a mental note to spend more time strengthening her legs. She needed to get to the baker’s stall before he ran out of her favorite coconut turnovers and the cake.
She made it just in time to get 2 of the last three. Ian was always about the money first and although he was expecting her she didn’t put it past him to sell them. Today, thankfully, luck was on her side. She let her mind wander as she headed back to her Residency Parish. There were no clouds out today, and the sharp blue of the sky winked at her. She realized the usual pigeons and seagulls that often circled the Barge Collective were missing today. The absence of their caws and flapping unsettled her. She distracted herself by stuffing her face with a piece of her turnover as the door to her space came into sight.
The earthy smell of her space caressed her spirit. Spicy ginger notes, damp earth, mint, and rosemary made her feel like she was somewhere not made of steel and fatigue. She liked to close her eyes and imagine she was in the places shown in the old books. In her imaginings, there was dirt as far as the eyes could see. Sometimes, she pictured he and her had their own place with a large mango tree in the back, guava trees in the front, and a massive cherry tree that bore the plumpest cherries year after year. She liked to wonder what the taste of his lips was like away from the salty air. He never really fantasized about a non-barge life. He was not a dreamer and preferred more practical musings like improving the air quality of the barges or the proper way to reinforce steel. Brittle, her cat, rubbed its body into her legs. She bent down and scratched the sweet spot under her chin glad to be met with such sweetness.
By the time Marlowe came home, she had finished setting up to surprise him. He had finally turned 27, so she poured them rum, lit the cake, sang to him, and kissed him with the icing still melting on her tongue. Marlowe grinned and leaned into Rana, glad to have her warmth. The cake and the rum become an afterthought. The two with aged rum in their veins, icing on their lips, and the tension of an approaching storm sink into the feeling of each other’s skin. It is as much a distraction as it is a necessity.
In the post-sex euphoria, Rana listens again and is met by a silence that is pulling at the dark corner of her mind. It whispers that something is wrong. She buries her head in the crook of Marlowe’s neck and sniffs trying to drown the nagging thoughts with his spicy velvet scent. She almost succeeds but the two’s euphoric bubble is punctured by an ungodly screech that sounded like Brittle when she’d had a fright. They go back and forth about who will bring the cat inside for the evening. Marlowe loses. She enjoys watching him get dressed. The firm slope of his shoulders and the way the muscles in his back move as he pulls his shirt down almost make her pull him back into bed, but she resists the urge. Marlowe leans down, kisses her swollen lips, and promises to be back in a minute. The room is colder without him there.
One minute turns to three turns to five and the whispering nag is back again. It tells her to get up. It tells her to move quickly. It whispers his name on a loop a prayer and a worry.
The sun has long set, and the weak lamps of the barge do nothing against the aggressive tar darkness of the sky and ocean abandoned by the sun. She yells his name but the only answer is the soft whispering of the waves tumbling over each other and lapping wet tongues against the worn bottom of the barge.
She shouts his name again and is met with nothing but wet whispers. Bellows his name into the wind, and it is snatched away as if knowing he will never hear it so the sound should not linger. Then she is running, running and screaming, as breathless as she had been on top of him mere minutes ago. She sees it then the blood. It is two ugly streaks. Red welts on the floor. She feels her heart tighten and her throat constricts. There is no acceptance because this simply cannot be true. She follows the streaks her feet like anchors hesitant to give chance for movement. She finds him then. His chest is hollow it reminds her of the gaping mouth of one of the ugly fish at the Market Parish except it is crooked and violent not the smooth perfect oval of the scaly creatures.
She is holding him then screeching into the silence of the pre-storm air. She stares down at his throat the same throat she had pressed her lips against in feral heat. It was mauled and she thought she would never hear him say her name, sing his stupid songs, and yell at Brittle for scratching the table or stealing a piece of meat. It hit her again the finality of it. The ruthless coldness of this end for him. Rana heard it again the wet whispers. It was as if the waves had grown lips and were trying to form words. A horrid chill ran down her spine and she felt like she was being watched. She was.
She turned her head upward and saw it there. The creature was part sea, part beast, all nightmare. It had scales that chewed the weak light of the lamps and spat it back, mocking the darkness. She stood so quickly that the force of her movement almost finished snapping his head from his body. She took three steps back so quickly that she almost slipped on Marlowe’s blood.
Then she shrieked. It was as if her shriek woke the creature. The beast slithered down the pole where it had perched with a wet and disturbing grace. Even at this distance, she could tell its eyes were nothing but an empty wasteland, and its long claws were like the terrifying white teeth of the shark heads she had often seen for sale. When she finally turned to run, the smell slapped her. The thing had the stench of old rotting fish left out in the sun for too many days. It almost made her vomit, but the fear kept the bile stuck, and it was only then, running, that she realized she had not seen another soul since she came home. She did not know that the creature had taken its time working through her neighbors. Parish after parish was eviscerated by a single mad and hungry beast.
Blood pooled behind doors, and bodies stiffened an ode to the steel barges that had kept them afloat. Rana’s legs began to burn again, and the gap between her and the creature closed. It was hungry she could feel it. It was true the beast was famished even after making its way through the community, the empty pit that was its belly had room for more.
When it finally fell upon Rana, she pleaded until she could no longer do so. The beast made quick work of her. Yet still, it was hungry. It wept salt tears that hissed when it kissed the steel of the barge. The thing howled a disgusting sound that had anyone been alive to hear it, would’ve turned their blood to a river of ice out of pure fear. It perched on the railing of the barge and screeched again, telling the Ocean that it too was sad and it too was devasted, starving, incomplete. The beast jumped into the water. It dissolved into sea foam and salt. The sea accepted it because the beast was of the water, and the water needed the beast.
In the before times, the beast had not been so hideous but the beast had also not been so hungry. Once upon a time, the ocean did not need vengeance so ruthless, but that was once upon a time and this is now.
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Hope you all enjoyed this creepy number.
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Did this story surprise you? What is a random food that you’d name your cat after if you had one? Do you think you’d be able to survive on a Barge Collective. What was your favorite line/lines?
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if I had a cat I would name her cynthia because I like cats with that HR lady vibe.
But seriously what a BEAST of a story NJ. I couldn’t get enough. wet whispers will be in my head forever.