Siren Suicides (Second Edition)

Chapter 9. Fish Factory

Hunter grunts and groans with every twist of the shaft. I don't have a chance to look at him, to make sure he's okay, as my head bangs against metal walls, unable to stop the work of gravity. As abruptly as our fall started, we stop moving,slamming into a flat surface. I land on top of Hunter again and he cries out involuntarily. I test my voice. It's feeble at first, and then after coughing up saltwater, shaky but clear for the most part. Good, at least I have my weapon back.

A soft gray light emanates from the low ceiling painted a dirty beige, jammed full of pipes, aluminum chutes, and bundles of wires, with a few flickering fluorescent lamps in between. We're both lying flat on what appears to be a three-foot-wide conveyor belt used to sort and process fish. Or sirens. Who knows what these guys are catching here.

Hunter's body twitches underneath me, his head face down and propped against the low metallic lip that prevented us from sliding to the floor. My legs are still up in the chute's opening behind me. I hold on to the slippery belt-rim, wiggle, and roll off to the left, scrambling to all fours and leaning to look.

"Hunter?" I try. It comes out warbled. I clear my throat, feeling weak all over. "Hunter, you all right?" I shake his shoulder, the wet cotton of his sweatshirt clammy under my palm. My arm gives out from the effort.

"Huh...Wha...I...Sssss..." he mutters.

"Talk to me, please. Are you—"

Before I have a chance to finish, a low whine of a motor comes to life and the belt jerks to the right, its rubbery surface squeaking. I fall over, and by the time I gain balance and scramble on all fours again, the belt falls out from under us and we get dumped onto the floor, roll forward, and end up hitting a freezing wall. It's covered with frost and crunches lightly as my forehead rams into it.

I manage to sit; trembling from the strain to stay upright, I rub my face and eyes, gagging from the stink of what smells like spoiled herring, on top of an oozing, condensed coldness.

"Oh my God," I say involuntarily. Because my hunch was right, this does look like a freezer. Worse. What's directly in front of me resembles cells, sort of like cooling compartments for fish except they appear too large for that purpose. They remind me of tiny rooms, the likes of which you see in prison, complete with black iron grate doors that can be locked, judging from the heavy locks hanging by their knob handles.

Four, no, five units about six feet high and four feet wide line the wall; or, rather, they are dug into the wall, if you were to dig out cells in a mountain of ice. Underneath the ice there are places where paint is visible, white perhaps years and years ago, but now it's dirty and peeling, reeking of iron. Rusty, eroded, tarnished.

A heavy thump from above yanks me from my horror.

"Hunter!" I yelp.

He is curled up on the floor, shivering.

"Hey, look at me." I lean in and cradle his face in my hands, when another thump shakes the ceiling and causes the lights to flicker out briefly.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" His breath warms my palm in short, raspy gasps.

"Can you talk? Are you cold? Darn it, of course you are. It's freezing here, and you're wet all over. I wonder if I can..." I don't finish, perking up at the noise coming from above. Hunter's face slides from my grip back onto the floor.

It's Glen—I can hear his soul. It's a mix of loud chewing, fire crackers, and some annoying, mechanical whine on top of it, all promising to taste of raw fish and iron. He walks across the deck away from the chute hole where the net was unzipped. I tilt my head up for a moment, listening. Ragged breathing comes in. It's Jimmy. His soul has a simple melody to it—the shuffling of hard paper, perhaps playing cards, and a tinkering with metal-sounding tools or bells. He appears to be leaning in to check, to make sure we got swallowed properly into the depth of the trawler, yet still uncertain, muttering under his breath.