Joel was about to begin the fourth week of what was supposed to be a two-week shift. The “Company,” as everyone called it, had a habit of extending rotations. It was cheaper to pay overtime than to fly out another mechanic, or so the powers claimed. “Fewer bodies on board, more profit for them,” Joel often grumbled.
But the truth was, he’d grown used to it. The extended shifts blurred together, and the thought of heading back to the mainland, with all its chaos, didn’t hold much appeal these days.
He thought about the last time he’d gone home, almost six months ago now. Fort Saint John wasn’t what it used to be, either. Most of the population had moved inland, following the receding borders of safe, dry land. Rumours of skirmishes with raiders from the People's Republic of Alaska were spreading, with northern communities becoming frequent targets for small-scale attacks and looting.
As Joel walked, his mind drifted back to a newspaper article he had seen weeks ago, tucked away in a corner of the break room. It had detailed a brazen raid on the city of Whitehorse, where a group of raiders had struck in the dead of night, targeting the city's dwindling fuel reserves. The article painted a grim picture—locals in a panic as armed intruders looted the supply stations, leaving destruction in their wake. The government had scrambled to bolster security, but Joel couldn’t shake the feeling that their response was too little, too late. The report had served as a chilling reminder of how precarious life had become in the North.
In a twisted stroke of irony, the Company had seized the opportunity to spin the chaos into propaganda. Posters adorned with the tagline "Fuel for the Future!" went up around the rig, urging workers to push harder and produce more. The executives had paraded the article at team meetings, flaunting record profits while the world outside crumbled. Joel clenched his jaw at the memory, a bitter taste rising in his throat. He couldn't understand how they could celebrate success while entire communities suffered. The platform was crucial, but he wished it didn’t feel like they were just fueling the machine that was consuming them all.
He tried to settle his mind. The memory of his quiet, cluttered workshop there tugged at him—a place where he used to tinker away without a care beyond stubborn engines. But the thought of what might be happening back home now stirred a knot of unease in his gut.
The sun’s first light broke over the churning ocean, casting long shadows across the oil rig’s steel frame. The salty wind stung his weathered cheeks as Joel stepped out of the doghouse, letting the heavy door clang shut behind him, steel-toed boots echoed along the catwalk. It was the start of his shift on Oil Platform 520, just off the northern coast of what used to be Kitimat, British Columbia.
He nodded at a few ginsels—new hires still getting their sea legs—who were under the watchful eye of a chain hand. Their faces were pale, a mix of exhaustion and nerves, and their bright yellow safety gear still looked too clean for Joel’s liking. He’d been on rigs like this for over two decades, and fresh faces didn’t stay fresh for long. They’d get a layer of grime soon enough.
Joel stood just over average height, with a sturdy, fit build that came from years of hard labour. His thermal blue coveralls clung snugly to his frame, streaked with grease stains and faded from the endless cycle of washing and wear. His straight brown hair, tousled from the salty breeze, fell just short of brushing his eyebrows. It had been a couple of weeks since his last trim, and the stubble along his jawline had grown thick, hovering at the edge before it would qualify as a full beard.
His square glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, giving him an air of rugged intelligence. The lenses reflected the morning light as he squinted at the distant horizon. They framed his weathered face, which bore a few faint lines around the eyes from a lifetime spent squinting against the glare of sun and steel. Despite the rugged appearance, a hint of youth still lingered in his expression—remnants of the man he’d been before the world started to change.
As he entered the tool cage, the familiar scent of grease and rust hung in the air. He reached for his tool belt, hanging in its usual spot in the lockup. The leather was worn and darkened from years of use, but it fit him like a second skin. It had been a gift from his old man, who’d died in the first waves of the floods. Joel still remembered the day he got the news—how the flash floods came without warning and swallowed his father's school whole. His dad was a teacher, not a hero, but that day he died pulling a kid out of the rising water. They never found his body.
Joel ran his fingers over the faded initials stamped on the belt, J.W., and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He’d lost count of how many times this tool belt had saved his skin. Even now, it was like carrying a piece of his dad with him, keeping him grounded amid the constant hum of the platform.
He tightened the belt around his waist and adjusted the pouches. The routine felt good—like muscle memory. The ocean breeze whistled through the grates as he made his way down to the pump house, where some piece of equipment was bound to be acting up. Something always needed fixing on this rig, and Joel was the kind of guy who found comfort in being needed, even if he was half a world away from civilization.
Joel’s boots thudded rhythmically on the metal catwalk, each step reverberating through the platform's frame. Below him, the ocean stretched like a vast, restless beast, its dark waters churning and slapping against the rig’s massive legs. The salty air stung his nostrils, thick with the smell of brine and the faint hint of oil that seemed to cling to everything out there. As the wind picked up, it carried a damp chill, prickling against the exposed skin of his neck and face.
The rig itself was alive with noise—constant and relentless. The steady hum of machinery buzzed beneath the soles of his boots, punctuated by the rhythmic clanking of chains and the occasional hiss of steam from the pipes. The deep, throaty rumble of the drilling motors resonated through the steel, a sound that Joel had grown to find oddly soothing, like the background music of his life.
A crane let out a long groan somewhere nearby as it shifted its load, adding another layer to the mechanical symphony. It was a chaotic harmony of metal and sea that could drown out a man's thoughts if he let it. The platform groaned as a gust picked up, the metal vibrating beneath his boots. Joel glanced up at the darkening sky.
“Let’s hope this storm doesn’t have any surprises,” Joel overheard someone yelling. His dark, thoughtful eyes peered through the lenses, reflecting the stormy waters below.
“Maybe they are right about the storm,” Joel muttered, “Even though the weather report was for clear skies.” Because the choppy waters and gathering clouds told a different story.
Joel’s gaze drifted toward the mainland, now just a hazy silhouette on the horizon. British Columbia’s coastline had changed dramatically over the years, and Kitimat was a ghost of its former self. The sea had swallowed entire towns, creating a jagged shoreline of broken asphalt, eroded forests, and half-submerged buildings. He focused as he reached the pump house.
“Morning, Joel,” called out Pete, a roughneck from Newfoundland, his thick beard framing a face weathered by years of exposure to the elements. His accent rolled off his tongue like the crashing waves below, deep and rich with the lilt of his homeland. “Heard we’ve got a leak in Line B. Should be a quick fix for a man of your talents.” There was a hearty chuckle in his voice, but Joel could see the weariness behind Pete’s eyes. Travel restrictions had tightened, and returning home had become a distant dream for many of the crew, especially those like Pete, who longed for the rocky shores of their youth. Government and Company flights were the only means of transportation, leaving families divided and communities strained. Joel shot him a dry look, masking his frustration as he braced for another long shift on the rig.
“Quick fix, huh? That’s what you said last time, and I ended up stuck out here till midnight,” Joel retorted, grabbing a wrench from his belt and giving it a spin. The familiar weight felt reassuring in his grip.
Pete shrugged. “What can I say? This place loves keeping you on your toes.”
Joel snorted, his gaze drifting back toward the sky. The wind was picking up, pushing the waves into whitecaps that crashed against the platform’s legs. “Yeah, well, let’s hope this storm doesn’t have any surprises.”
He turned back to Pete, who leaned against a wall, arms crossed, a frown creasing his forehead as he glanced at the sky.
“Looks like that storm is brewing up faster than they predicted,” Pete remarked, his voice low, edged with concern. “I don’t like the look of those clouds. We should have battened down the hatches by now.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Joel replied, moving toward the control panel. “I’ve got to check on that leak in Line B first. If we don’t get it sealed up, we’ll have a serious problem on our hands. And with the winds picking up, who knows how long we’ll be able to work out here?”
Pete nodded, his brow furrowing further. “You think we’ll be okay? I’ve heard stories of the old rigs getting tossed around like toys in storms like this.” He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You know the last crew that had to ride one out? Lost a guy to the ocean—he slipped off the catwalk and was gone before anyone could even react.”
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Joel shivered at the thought but forced a smirk. “Yeah, well, I’m not planning on joining the fish today. Just keep your eyes peeled while I get this sorted. We need to make sure the lines are secure before we worry about getting tossed around.” He grabbed a wrench and a few tools, the weight of them a comfort in his hands.
“Right. You just focus on fixing that leak,” Pete said, slapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll keep watch. If the storm hits hard, I’ll sound the alarm. You can’t fix a leak if you’re floating away, after all.”
“Thanks, Pete,” Joel replied, feeling the familiar camaraderie lift his spirits slightly. “Just keep an eye on the pressure gauges for me, too. I don’t want any surprises when the winds pick up.” He turned toward the access panel, feeling the vibrations of the platform beneath him as he focused on the task ahead, mentally preparing for the oncoming storm.
With a determined nod, Joel steeled himself and made his way to the engine room, climbing the ladder that led to the upper level of the platform. Each rung felt slick beneath his hands, and the wind whipped around him, a fierce gust that rattled the metal framework of the rig like an angry beast. He could feel the entire structure creaking ominously beneath the pressure of the growing storm, the sound echoing in his ears like the ominous foreboding of a warning bell, as if the platform were a living entity, teetering on the brink of collapse.
Once at the engine, he steadied himself against the cold, unyielding metal, the smell of oil and machine grease filling his nostrils. The sound of the waves crashing against the rig's legs transformed into a relentless roar, drowning out all other thoughts as the ocean raged beneath him. He set to work on the leaking line, crouching low to inspect the fittings, his heart pounding in his chest. The wind howled like a banshee, and he gripped the edge of the engine tightly as it shifted beneath him, the vibrations a constant reminder of how vulnerable he was out here.
His thermal blue coveralls clung to his shoulders and chest, accentuating the definition in his arms. The fabric tightened against his biceps as he reached for the tools.
For a moment, a surge of fear gripped him, icy tendrils curling around his spine; the thought of being thrown off balance and plummeting into the churning waters below sent a chill racing through his veins. The dark depths of the ocean loomed in his mind, a vast, swirling abyss that seemed to mock him, beckoning him closer with its cold, watery embrace. He took a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand, feeling the grit of the metal against his palms.
He tightened a bolt, the wrench biting into the stubborn metal, sweat beading on his forehead as he concentrated. Every muscle in his body was engaged, tension coiling like a spring as he pushed away thoughts of the storm and the depths of the ocean waiting to swallow him whole. Just as he adjusted his grip, a sudden gust of wind slammed into him with bone-jarring force, nearly knocking him off his feet. The engine swayed, and he instinctively crouched lower, heart racing as adrenaline surged through him, a reminder of the stakes that were so painfully high.
With a final twist, he secured the connection, relief flooding through him like a warm wave—until, in an instant, his grip on the lucky wrench slipped. Time stretched in that heartbeat; he watched in horror as it tumbled from his hand, falling toward the catwalk below. The clang echoed loudly in the chaos around him, a sharp sound that sliced through the roar of the wind. A surge of gratitude washed over him that it hadn’t plunged into the water beneath, or worse—hadn’t knocked him off balance and sent him spiralling into the depths.
Despite the chaos around him, there was an undeniable magnetism to his presence. Each movement was purposeful, from the way he gripped the wrench to the slight shift of his stance as he navigated the precarious environment. In that moment, with the storm brewing above and the ocean churning below, Joel embodied the rugged charm of a man who had faced the elements and emerged, resolute and ready to tackle whatever came next.
Breathing heavily, Joel steadied himself against the engine, his heart still racing as he tried to calm his frayed nerves. He allowed a small smile to creep onto his face, feeling a flicker of triumph amidst the chaos. He’d done it—the line was fixed, and he was still on solid ground, despite the storm raging all around him. But as the winds howled and the rig shuddered beneath him, he couldn’t shake the sense of unease that hung heavy in the air, like a storm cloud waiting to burst.
Joel gripped the cold metal of the ladder as he descended, the rungs creaking under his weight. Each step sent a jolt through his tired muscles, a reminder of the long hours he’d already put in. The soreness in his thighs and the dull ache in his glutes were constants these days, the kind of fatigue that settled in and refused to let go. As he reached the bottom, he let out a small grunt, shaking off the stiffness. The familiar strain was just part of the job, but today, it felt particularly pronounced, a testament to the relentless grind of life on the rig.
As Joel reached the bottom of the ladder and landed on the platform, Pete leaned against a nearby railing, arms crossed and a grin stretching across his bearded face. “Lucky you, Joel,” he called out, his voice teasingly loud over the din of the machines. “If that wrench had slipped, it might've cracked your head open! Could’ve saved us all the trouble of listening to you moan about overtime.” The roughneck chuckled, his laughter a welcome break in the air thick with tension and machinery. Joel rolled his eyes but couldn’t help a faint smile; even in the grind of their work, Pete had a knack for lightening the mood.
The rest of Joel's shift unfolded without incident. The sun climbed higher in the sky, illuminating the rig and casting long shadows across the metal surface. He moved from station to station, performing the basic scheduled maintenance that kept the platform humming. Tightening bolts, checking fluid levels, and replacing worn gaskets had become second nature to him. Each task, while mundane, carried its own rhythm—a steady beat that filled the hours and kept his mind occupied.
He spent the afternoon crouched beside the generator, the faint smell of diesel wafting through the air as he replaced a fuel filter. The engine purred to life under his hands, a satisfying sound that reminded him of the reliability he could offer in a world growing increasingly chaotic. Joel wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling the heat of the day seep into his bones. The constant roar of machinery formed a comforting backdrop, blending with the sea's gentle roar below.
As the day wore on, he stole glances at the horizon, where dark clouds gathered ominously. Despite the brewing storm, the hours passed slowly, each tick of the clock stretching out like the heavy silence that sometimes fell over the rig. Conversations between the crew were sporadic, punctuated by the sounds of tools clanging and the distant chatter of roughnecks sharing jokes. Joel welcomed the camaraderie but found his thoughts drifting back to the mainland, where uncertainty loomed.
By the time his shift finally came to an end, he felt the familiar fatigue settling into his muscles, a mixture of physical exhaustion and mental weariness. He climbed back up to the main deck, ready to clock out and head to the doghouse for a much-needed break. As he moved through the rig, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the calm before the storm was heavier than usual, hinting at trouble brewing just beyond their floating sanctuary.
As Joel pushed open the door to the doghouse, a sudden explosion of voices filled the room, “Surprise!” The shout startled him, and he instinctively took a step back, blinking as he tried to process what was happening. The space was transformed, with a handful of brightly coloured balloons floating lazily above, their vivid reds, blues, and yellows in stark contrast to the drab, industrial gray of the rig’s metal walls. The flicker of overhead lights reflected off the beer bottles clutched in the hands of his grinning coworkers. The air was thick with the familiar, comforting scent of hops mixed with a faint trace of machine oil—a strange but welcoming combination on a platform like this.
For a moment, Joel was at a loss for words, his breath catching in his throat. Then his gaze drifted to the back wall, where a video call was projected in a soft, bluish glow. His heart leaped at the sight of Oliver’s face filling the screen. His partner’s eyes were brimming with emotion as he gently cradled their newborn daughter in his arms. The baby was swaddled in a pastel pink blanket, her tiny features barely visible except for her round, curious eyes blinking at the world for the first time. The sight of her stole the breath from Joel's lungs, and an overwhelming wave of warmth and disbelief washed over him. It was real—he was a dad.
“Congrats, Dad!” one of the drillers shouted, breaking through his daze, and a chorus of cheers erupted from the rest of the crew. Joel felt strong hands pulling him into the room, claps on his back making him stumble slightly. Laughter and whoops echoed off the walls, and he found himself in the center of the celebration, surrounded by his roughneck brothers who, for a moment, weren’t just coworkers but a kind of makeshift family. The joy that filled the room was palpable, and as he stood there, he could feel the weight of months spent away from home slowly easing off his shoulders. It was as if, for this one fleeting moment, all the fatigue, the isolation, the constant grind on the rig fell away.
He glanced back at the screen, his eyes locking onto Oliver’s face. There was a depth of love and pride there that struck Joel to the core. “She’s beautiful,” he breathed, his voice barely audible, but Oliver must have heard because his smile widened, and he whispered, “Just like you.” Joel’s chest tightened with emotion, and a lump formed in his throat. He had never felt so far away, yet so connected. Here, on this isolated platform in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by the camaraderie of his crew, he could almost pretend he was home.
Joel’s heart pounded in his chest, his pulse quickening as a flood of happiness and disbelief surged through him. The enormity of what had just happened settled in, hitting him with the force of a tidal wave. He was a father—a realization so profound it nearly knocked the breath out of him. His gaze stayed fixed on the screen where Oliver held their daughter, his partner’s face alight with a joy Joel could feel even from across the vast distance. “Look at her!” Oliver exclaimed, his voice thick with emotion. His eyes shimmered with pride as he gently rocked the tiny bundle in his arms. “She’s perfect, Joel. Just like you.” The words wrapped around Joel’s heart, squeezing tight. It was as if the whole world had condensed into this single, beautiful moment—a precious, brilliant point of light piercing the dull, gray haze of rig life.
He felt the urge to reach out, to somehow bridge the gap separating him from his new family. The sight of his daughter, so small and delicate, stirred something deep inside him—a fierce, protective love that was unfamiliar and overwhelming. He wanted to memorize everything about her, to hold on to this feeling of pure, unfiltered happiness before the harsh reality of life on the rig pulled him back under.
But just as he began to speak, the joyous moment was shattered. A piercing alarm split the air, its shrill wail cutting through the laughter and cheers with an unforgiving sharpness. The crew’s voices fell silent, and the shift in the atmosphere was instant. Red warning lights began to pulse, casting harsh, intermittent flashes of crimson across the room. The festive scene was suddenly drowned in an eerie, disorienting glow. Joel’s stomach lurched as he exchanged panicked glances with the others, the gravity of the situation sinking in like a lead weight. He tore his gaze away from the screen, his chest tightening with dread as the celebration collapsed into chaos. Whatever was happening on the rig, it wasn’t good—and the promise of new life that had just filled the room was abruptly overshadowed by an impending sense of danger.