The screaming doesn’t stop for hours. At first, it was simple apologies, shouts begging for forgiveness as the three sailors who attempted to mutiny pleaded to be let out, to be locked up anywhere else. But their fearful cries were ignored. They were given their share of water and rations for the next week, the last week of food that anybody onboard would be getting, then left alone. Their crying echoed through the lower deck, but few were even around to hear it. Those that did listened as their shouting intensified as the night wore on. Though blind in the total darkness of the torpedo room, the three sailors swore up and down that there was something inside with them. They started banging on the door, a sound that could and did travel up to the deck above.

  The sailors working on the lower deck, hearing their pleas, asked Lewis if they should check on them. Lewis forbade it. If there was something in the room with them, he wouldn’t allow the door to be opened so that she could take more the way she took Carter. So everyone sat and tried to ignore the banging that rang from the deck below. Julia’s curious thumps and groans from outside helped to drown them out anyway.

  By morning, they were quiet. Their voices were worn hoarse by the constant screaming. But they still begged. No longer did they ask to be let out, to be freed, or moved elsewhere. They’d given up on that. Now they begged to Julia, to the creature outside. Through their gravelly and weakened voices, they pleaded for her to spare them, to leave them alone. They moaned with sorrow, apologizing for things they hadn’t done or had no control over, offering her anything she wanted to stop. They wept openly, bawled like children who were being scolded by a parent whose patience had worn out. Nobody outside the torpedo room heard any evidence that she was antagonizing them behind the door, but nobody dared open the door to check.

  As the morning wanes, Lewis comes down to personally inspect the situation. There is no longer any audible crying or begging to be heard. He puts his ear to the door and only then can he get the vaguest impression of what’s going on inside. The open sobbing has become a quiet cry, muffled and weak. Between their tears, hushed voices speak words that Lewis can’t identify through the thick metal door. Dissatisfied with not knowing, but far too perturbed to consider opening the door, Lewis returns to the upper deck, to his control room.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  He grabs the submarine’s intercom receiver and tunes directly to the torpedo room.

  “What’s going on down there?” Lewis asks.

  There is no response but the crackle of static.

  Lewis grunts. “I know you’re alive down there, answer me.”

  Again he is met with silence.

  “Dammit, pick up the radio and talk!”

  “Leave us alone.” A voice comes through.

  The voice on the other end is unrecognizable to Lewis. The men’s vocal cords have been so damaged by their screaming that he cannot tell which of the men is speaking. It’s deep and sounds like the croaking of a frog. The words come out slowly, one at a time, like he’s struggling to get them out, like each sound hurts.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Shhhh.”

  “Did you just shush me?”

  There’s no answer again, and a second later, there’s a loud pop through the radio: the sound a speaker makes when it’s been disconnected.

  Lewis clenches his fists and slams the receiver back down, then he stomps out of the control room and back downstairs. Returning to the torpedo room door he shouts.

  “You fuckers are in deep shit when this all over, you know that?! I hope she kills all of you!”

  Lewis feels the burst of anger dissipate, and it with it his energy. He takes a deep breath, unsure why he got so angry in the first place. He loosens his tense body and sighs, then shambles away.

  Behind him he hears the sound of creaking metal, and, stopping in his tracks, Lewis turns his head back down the hall. There’s a feeling of dread as he flicks on his flashlight--now the only one left working on the Narwhal--but he convinces himself to search the darkness. The beam of illumination strikes the floor at his feet and the creaking stops before he can direct it down the hall. The door is still sealed tight, nothing is out of place. Lewis swallows, his throat dry and tasting vaguely of metal. Flipping the flashlight back off, he places his hand against the cold, damp wall, and returns to the deck above.