When Dennis had first met Clint Cargile, he’d projected as much bravado as he possibly could. He’d insisted that he wasn’t scared, that there was no need to call the number and request the CIA’s protection. That he would figure it out on his own.
However, the next day was Saturday, and it put that belief to the ultimate test. And Dennis’ conviction that he’d be safe was unable to complete the “perfect run”, as it were.
From the moment he opened his eyes in the early hours of Saturday morning, Dennis wished he had eyes in the back of his head. The Crawdaunt from his dream might be real, or they might not be. But either way, the seed had been planted in his mind.
If not for Clint, Dennis thought bitterly, I wouldn’t have been worried about the Lobster Mobsters. I wouldn’t even know they existed.
Now, Dennis didn’t want to give up his name. He didn’t want to start a new life halfway across the country just to get away from some gang. He was determined to prove that step would be unnecessary. But that didn’t give him the courage required to step out of his apartment.
He spent all of Saturday in front of his computer, constantly glancing around his apartment as though worried someone was spying on him. To some extent, he was concerned about that, as ridiculous as that sounded.
Dennis didn’t bother watching any aviation videos. If he couldn’t work up the bravery just to leave his one-bedroom flat, taking another permit test was out of the question. Especially when he’d made such a fool of himself the first time.
Clint’s phone number was written on top of the counter; the stationery bearing it had not moved an inch. That sheet of paper was Dennis’ “Get Out Of Jail Free” card. It was his hidden immunity idol to prevent the Lobster Mobsters from voting him out of this life. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to play it. Hell, he was unlikely even to bring it to Tribal Council.
Saturday passed in a blur of boredom. Beautiful spring daylight shone just outside the window, but Dennis couldn’t bring himself to access it. And until he did, he knew that time would crawl ever more slowly with each hour he spent in this dusty room.
When Dennis could take the monotony no more, he returned to his very damp bed and tried to sleep. He eventually achieved this, and his dreams were full of lobsters, most of whom wanted to kill him. The rest wanted food.
Sunday morning dawned humid yet mild, highs in the upper sixties, and that’s when Dennis made his decision.
I’m going to visit the aquarium today.
He would not be an unwitting pawn of the universe anymore. He would not let the Lobster Mobsters win by using fear against him. And he would live his life.
Dennis ordered some food from Starbucks on DoorDash. When said food finally arrived - a bacon, egg, and cheese English muffin and an apple fritter - he scarfed it down. The bags these items had come in soon joined the empty Thai takeout containers in the trash that he hadn’t bothered to empty. It was starting to smell pretty rancid, but he could worry about that once it actually became a health hazard. Or, more likely, when the landlord told him he had to clean it up or face eviction.
After that, Dennis made his way downstairs, where the landlord glared at him.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Bitshoot?” Dennis asked.
Mr. Bitshoot, a beefy, mustached man in a green suit, kept glowering at his tenant, and Dennis was left to wonder if he’d accidentally missed out on the most recent month of rent.
“Two days ago, this man named Clint Cargile came in. Do you remember him?”
“Yes” Dennis replied, because what else was he supposed to say?
“I was wondering if you knew anything about him,” Mr. Bitshoot responded in a calm tone that nonetheless appeared to mask fury.
“Oh. He said he’s from the CIA, and he talked about this group called the Lobster Mobsters.”
Dennis hadn’t possessed any desire to tell his landlord about the protection offer, but he didn’t see any other option. Mr. Bitshoot was known to raise rents whenever he felt like it, and he would do so according to whomever had gotten on his skin the previous month. Withholding important information from the landlord could easily result in a twenty percent hike.
Mr. Bitshoot frowned. “I think that’s a bunch of bullshit. There’s no way Pokémon exist, and you’re certainly not under threat from such a gang. Dorchester is the safest neighborhood in one of the safest cities in the country.”
Dennis was forced to take his landlord’s words as they were, even if he didn’t believe them for a second. If he annoyed Mr. Bitshoot, that man had perfectly legal ways to retaliate.
Even so, as he left his apartment building and made his way toward the nearest T station, Dennis couldn’t help but wonder if his landlord knew something he wasn’t letting on.
But why would he keep that from me? Other than gratuitous cruelty, of course.
Maybe he’s conspiring against me. Perhaps he’s working with the Lobster Mobsters and wants Clint in harm’s way, so that’s why he asked me what I knew about Clint.
Dennis couldn’t allow himself to believe that, mainly because if he were to act on that belief, he’d need to move out of his apartment. And the rental market was brutal anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of Boston, so he’d never be able to afford a new place to live if he had to vacate in a hurry.
No, he had to hope that the doomsday scenarios his mind raced to would not come to pass. And, of course, it was easier to have hope when you visited the aquarium and saw all those exhibits about what they were doing to preserve marine ecosystems and whatnot.
After a long MBTA ride punctuated by multiple delays, Dennis emerged from Aquarium Station on the Blue Line, shuffling up the stairs like a prisoner of war. During that trip, he’d seen a Mightyena, or at least, what he thought was a Mightyena, and the owner hadn’t seemed to notice a thing.
But that was of seemingly no consequence when Dennis saw the New England Aquarium standing before him. He’d forgotten just how grand that silver awning was, how the scenic boardwalk had views of Logan Airport across the harbor, or the Pride flag hanging from the top of the building to signal that everyone was welcome there.
In a way, the aquarium was a reminder that life went on for the rest of the world, no matter how hopeless things might seem in your personal situation. Dennis didn’t know how to feel about that.
When Dennis reached the front of the line, the ticket lady asked if he were a college student. Apparently, students were entitled to a discount whenever they visited the aquarium if they provided a university ID.
“Not anymore, ma’am. I’ll be paying the full price.”
“Very well” the ticket lady responded, wrapping a bracelet around Dennis’ wrist. “Enjoy your visit.”
Once inside the aquarium, Dennis saw that it was just as jam-packed as it would have been any other Sunday. There were the intellectuals who wanted any excuse possible to marvel at the sea life housed here. There were the tourists, both foreign and domestic, who were visiting the aquarium just to tick an item off their Boston Bucket List™ and take Instagram photos. There weren’t any field trip groups owing to it being the weekend, but numerous parents were at the aquarium with their young children.
Dennis wished he could have brought noise-canceling headphones with him. It wouldn’t have been such a difficult thing to do, either - there had been some in his apartment, but he’d talked himself out of bringing them because he wouldn’t be able to sense any danger that approached. He was kicking himself now.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Despite the noise, though, Dennis found himself enjoying the aquarium as much as could reasonably be expected. Many of the exhibits, particularly those not discussing climate change, were clearly geared toward the younger demographic, but that didn’t mean people Dennis’ age couldn’t get something out of them too.
All in all, it was a pleasant, if uneventful visit. Before long, Dennis had climbed the ramp that ringed its way around the edge of the aquarium and had neared the ceiling. The New England Aquarium was built around a single, cylindrical tank that contained a synthetic coral reef and any number of species.
At the top of said tank, an aquarium employee was giving a presentation about the food chain in the Earth’s oceans, as well as how the term “food chain” was somewhat of a misnomer and “food web” made more sense. Kids stood beside the glass fence that surrounded the top of the tank, and the scene made Dennis smile. After all, as fucked up as the world might have been, some children had refused to sacrifice their curiosity on the altar of Fortnite: Battle Royale. (If Dennis had looked more closely, he might have noticed that one of the children held a Pokéball; but then, even if he’d been paying attention to that, Dennis might well have thought it a fake.)
It was only as he made his way down the spiral ramp around the giant, central tank that the unexpected happened.
The ramp shook slightly, and Dennis felt a slight rumble against his foot. He stumbled and grabbed the railing.
Yet he did not panic. Boston might not have been on a major fault line, but minor earthquakes did happen. Modern building codes had been designed to guard against such a possibility, so Dennis didn’t fear for his life yet.
But then the rumbling grew louder, and a fire alarm sounded. The alarm blared so loudly that even noise-canceling headphones would not have been sufficient to drown it out. (Nor should it have been, for in a real fire, everyone had to hear the alarm and get out safely.)
Dennis ran down the slippery railing as quickly as his legs could carry him. Wait, why is it slippery? Did some kid throw up on it?
But that was not, in fact, what had happened. The reality was far worse.
An instant later, right before Dennis reached the bottom of the ramp, the glass on the central tank burst, sending water flooding the ramp. In order to avoid being washed away, Dennis grabbed the railing and kept his mouth shut; he did not know how much water was in that tank, but he didn’t want to take on any if he didn’t have to.
But it was no use. Even though he had broad shoulders and was decently tall, it took everything Dennis had not to let go of the railing. He knew that if he did so, he’d be at the mercy of the current, but his muscles were growing increasingly strained.
As a shard of glass hit Dennis’ left leg, the young man gritted his teeth and dug deeper. Ultimately, it was not Dennis’ lack of resolve that cost him his grip. Rather, it was someone else’s.
Another body slammed into Dennis’ chest, knocking him down like a bowling pin, and amid the blaring alarm and torrential river produced by the broken tank, the young man was thrown off his feet, pushed further down the spiral, and deposited in the pool at the aquarium’s ground level.
When Dennis opened his eyes again, he saw that a giant blue creature, somewhat like a cross between a serpent and a dragon, stood in the center of the aquarium, roaring like a caged lion.
I’ve gotta get out of here!, he realized. But I’ve never seen that creature before!
It looked like a Pokémon, and it wasn’t long before the name came to Dennis: Gyarados. But Dennis couldn’t worry about terminology right now, not when he was stuck in a pool that was probably tainted with penguin shit just like the rocks floating in it.
The rocks. I’m lucky I didn’t land on one - that could’ve been a serious injury, which would be the last thing I need when I have to escape Gyarados!
Dennis waded as quickly as he could out of the pool, though the hardest part was finding the ladder. He’d been to this aquarium before, but never seen it from this perspective. This was the first (and hopefully last) time for that.
He climbed out of the pool, realizing that his left leg was bleeding lightly. Dennis then remembered how he’d sustained that laceration - it was glass from the exploding tank!
He wasn’t in any immediate danger to life or limb, but the leg still hurt like hell whenever he put weight on that side of his body. Nonetheless, Dennis bolted out the door of the now-flooded aquarium, wading through the saltwater that was roughly knee deep. The brine made his wound sting even more.
Speaking of Gyarados, that giant beast was still thrashing about, threatening to tear the aquarium’s central railing apart. From what little Dennis knew about that species, he could assume that it did not like to be contained.
Desperate to escape the chaos of the floodwaters, screaming children, and fire alarm, Dennis ran through the water as quickly as he could. He then burst through the entrance along with a couple dozen gallons of water, which burst out like a miniature waterfall.
Those still waiting in line to enter the aquarium, as well as the seals within the free exhibit, hung their mouths agape at the sight of so many people fleeing the building, but then they got the message.
Dennis, like most of the other aquarium-goers that day, wasn’t eager to stick around. He bolted for the nearby MBTA station, then realized that they probably wouldn’t let him on the train given that he was visibly wounded and soaked to the skin. And Dorchester was far away, too far to walk at any rate.
So his only other option was to call an Uber and hope the driver didn’t mind if their passenger was a little soggy. Somehow, Dennis’ phone still worked after getting wet, though the screen was considerably darker than normal, difficult to read - generally not a good sign.
The downside of calling an Uber was that Dennis had to wait for ten minutes. And given the scene of utmost insanity unfolding inside that aquarium, those ten minutes would pass at a snail’s pace.
The fire alarm, of course, was very effective at its job. By the time three of those ten minutes had elapsed, ambulances and a fire engine were parked just outside the aquarium’s pedestrian zone, right behind a pair of duck tour buses.
Dennis squinted at his darkened screen and saw that his Uber would pick him up near the Marriott hotel located next to the Chart House restaurant. On his way there, however, he noticed what it said on the side of one of those amphibious buses.
Most of the buses had the simple duck tour logo - a duck wearing a hat, splashing around in what looked like a life ring. However, this one bore an image of a lobster wearing a black bowler hat and smoking a cigar. The words Lobster Mobsters were painted right beneath said logo.
Dennis’ heart stopped, and it was all he could do to continue drawing breath. Did I really see it?
That tour bus had been in the process of embarking upon its journey through the city, so Dennis didn’t get another chance to check what the logo said. Still, his blood ran cold, for his memory was about to be sold to a gang that he’d dismissed Clint’s warnings about.
Five minutes until the Uber arrived. Dennis used that time to shake himself off like a dog does after a bath, hoping against hope that he’d be dry enough for the driver not to give him a 1-star rating.
By this time news vans had arrived about a hundred yards away. One of the anchors, a woman with skin the color of coffee and caramel-colored hair, stepped out of the van and strode briskly in Dennis’ direction.
Fuck my life. She’s heading right toward me!
Four minutes left.
The reporter held out a microphone like a knight would wield a sword. She bore the unmistakable air of a journalist who wasn’t going to leave willingly without getting the inside scoop, and Dennis would be the source of that “inside scoop.”
Three minutes to go. But that Uber would arrive three minutes too late.
“Hello, young man,” the reporter said. “I hope I’m not bothering you - you must be processing a lot.”
No shit, Sherlock. That’s what Dennis wanted to say, but he censored himself before those words could leave his lips. It wouldn’t do to act so hostile when you’d no doubt be featured on the news tomorrow (or right now, given the way the news cycle worked these days).
“Would you care to answer a few questions for me?” the reporter requested. “The rest of the world needs to know what happened inside that aquarium.”
“Uh…” Dennis mouthed.
“Please. I know it might be stressful for you, but if it can give the world more closure about why the New England Aquarium suddenly suffered such extensive damage, your help would be appreciated.”
Two minutes to go.
“I’m afraid not,” Dennis muttered weakly.
The reporter furrowed her brows - her benevolent demeanor had all but vanished. She stared directly into Dennis’ soul, and the young man grimaced.
“I mean…”.
“I’ll ask you again, young man: Do you want an interview?”
She’s not mad at me. But she will be disappointed if I don’t grant it.
And yet, Dennis knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he couldn’t risk the interview. If the Lobster Mobsters were after him, that might as well be like shooting a flare into the sky saying I’m right here! Come and get me!
Dennis glanced down at his fluttering phone again. The clock’s digits were barely legible, but he could still judge time to a limited extent. “My Uber will be here in one minute,” he said flatly, “so I don’t have time for an interview.”
“You could cancel the ride,” the reporter suggested. “And we could compensate you greatly for your information about the Gyarados attack. In fact, you could be famous!”
“That’s the thing,” Dennis snapped. “I don’t wanna be famous.”
Somehow, that shut the reporter up quickly. Shortly thereafter, the silver Toyota Corolla with the vanity license plate number EXYUX pulled up to the curb beside the Legal Sea Foods.
“That’s my ride” Dennis stated simply, as though it were non-negotiable. “So if you want to hound me for an inside scoop, you’re gonna have to stalk me for it. And last I checked, stalking is a crime.”
Dennis did not give the reporter the time of day any longer. He sprinted across the street and climbed into the back of the Uber before the driver could object.
“You’re going to Dorchester?” the driver asked him.
Dennis nodded. “I am.”
“Your name?”
“Dennis Summers.”
The driver scratched his mustache. “That’s an interesting name.” He didn’t elaborate, but the connotation was still abundantly clear.