THE NIGHT WATCHMAN
By John Henry Carrozza
Nothing ever happens during the night shift, Simon thought, as he sat in
his swivel chair with his arms behind his head, feet propped up on the desk,
heels holding down the loose pages of a journal that was empty, as usual.
He puffed on a short cigarette and watched the corners of the papers
beneath his shoes riffle as the wind trickled past, carrying the musty-sweet
smell of the sea in through an open window and depositing it gently on
whatever would have it. His nostrils flared and examined the scent, which
was followed immediately by a tingling river of smoke from the object of
his vice. The combination was an aroma not unlike that of burning seaweed.
Six months of idle nights have trudged passed these tower walls, he
mused, like soldiers marching off to battle, never to return. Their
expressionless faces stare only ahead of them, with nary a wave to
acknowledge the existence of the lone spectator who watches the parade,
waiting for just one misstep — one sideways glance in his direction. Alas,
three hundred and sixty-four eyes have failed to turn his way. Occasionally,
he gets up from his chair and flicks a cigarette butt out of an open window
toward the troops, hoping for a reaction. But the burning ember merely
drifts through the ghosts of time, spinning downward, only to be snuffed out
eventually by the fingers of Poseidon. At least the God of the sea is kind
enough to wave, he thought.
Patches of light danced quietly on the eastern horizon. Perhaps the storm
would come this way, he mused. Storms over the Pacific can be magnificent
at best, and a welcome change of scenery at the very least. Once in a while,
the tiny lights of ships could be seen far to the north, but these were almost
always cargo ships headed to Hawaii or the Philippines from the mainland.
He had a log of all of the ships which were likely to venture within sighting
distance overnight, and on such occasions as he witnessed these things he
would simply note the incident in his journal and continue reading or
playing whatever mind games he could think to busy himself with.
Sometimes he would time the passing of a vessel in the distance as it passed
from one point on the horizon to another, trying to guess how far away it
was, and how fast it was traveling. He also took up the hobby of carving
driftwood that he picked up from the beach into the shapes of fish, boats, or
even the faces of other officers who were stationed at the island base. The
images were usually unrecognizable, but it kept the grains of sand from
slowing, so he made the pastime a nightly ritual — to be followed by the
routine sharpening of his knife, which tended to dull rather quickly against
the coarse grain of the sun-dried wood.
His eyes wandered across the desk to the piece of driftwood on the
corner. He studied its twisted shape, and witnessed the emergence of a
dolphin, leaping over a wave. He pulled out his knife and began to sharpen
it with a piece of flint, which he pulled from the top drawer of the desk.
A flash of light outside caught his attention momentarily. It seemed to be
reflecting off the surface of the water below. The storm must be close, he
thought. He stood up and wandered over the window ledge and peered out
and up. There were no clouds overhead, only stars. Perhaps it was a
shooting star, he thought. He should have made a wish — like, to be
transferred to Pearl Harbor … or anywhere. He sighed and turned inside,
just as he caught another glimpse of a flashing light over the ocean. But
then again … not over the ocean, exactly. He stared into the darkness for
perhaps another minute. There — again, he saw a light, only this time it was
more than a flash. It blinked twice and then remained aglow, turning from
white to red in hue. The light seemed to be moving, slowly, toward the
tower, from somewhere beneath the surface of the water.
He watched the light as it moved closer, second by second, growing
larger. It seemed for a time to dissipate, but soon it became clear that it had
merely taken on the shape of a ring. As it drew nearer, he estimated the
apparition to be an oval with dimensions of about six feet by ten feet. It was
now only a hundred yards away from the edge of the cliff face, which
kissed the sea some eighty feet below his windowsill. It stopped then, for a
moment, and then began to grow larger. He realized after a few seconds that
it was rising toward the surface.
He didn’t recall any submarine with lights such as those on top – at least
not any of American make. And he knew that there were no scheduled
excursions or training missions for the evening. Whatever it was didn’t
belong to the base, and therefore it probably wasn’t friendly.
He gripped the knife tightly in his right hand and turned loose of the flint
with his left. It banged to the floor unnoticed as the outlines of an object
took shape just below the shallow waves, illuminated through the clear
water by the fiery circle of light that now seemed to be emanating from the
underside of the manifestation. It was a pinkish-white disc, with a dark
center, and it appeared to have a very rough surface texture, like a huge
chunk of coral from one of the nearby reefs where he and some of the other
officers enjoyed snorkeling on Sunday afternoons. As it broke free of the
waves and lifted itself above their reach, he realized that the craft was
indeed fashioned from pieces of coral similar to that which he had seen
surrounding the island. The red glow had dimmed somewhat in the open air,
no doubt due to the lack of water to diffuse and refract the light. Now, the
lower part of the thing simply pulsated like a hot coal. He became aware of
an audible humming, which grew louder as the device drew nearer, and he
could see that the dark shape in the center was actually a protrusion on top
of the thing, like a canopy of some sort. The inside of the canopy was dim,
but it appeared to be full of water, as the part of the craft he could see
through it appeared wavy and refracted. When the thing, which he had by
this time surmised to be some sort of vehicle, had come within fifty yards of
his window, he could see the canopy wiggling from side to side, and
decided that it was actually a solid mass made of some variety of gelatin. It
was within the canopy, however, that the more impossible image began to
materialize.
The craft floated closer to the building as it ascended, and as it did so, a
figure could be seen inside the translucent bubble which sat atop it. It was
moving, so Simon surmised that this figure was piloting the machine. It
seemed to be a large human head — very large indeed. But as instants
crawled by, he realized that whatever it was, it was not human. The head
was the only portion of the creature visible in its position, and that was
perhaps three feet in height.
Several or many seconds or minutes later, the machine came to a stop
adjacent to the window, only ten feet away from Simon’s gaping mouth.
The two faces studied each other intently. Finally, Simon recognized what
form of creature he beheld, when one of its appendages came into view
from beneath the base of the cockpit. The tentacle slithered upwards,
followed by another, and they waved toward nothing in particular. The head
of the octopus expanded suddenly, nearly filling the gelatinous chamber
within which it was contained, and then deflated itself just as quickly.
Simon wasn’t sure whether or not the display was meant to be a sign of
aggression, but he jerked backwards instinctively, and then lunged forward
through the window, waving his knife toward the vessel and its occupant.
The craft abruptly moved forward, narrowly missing Simon’s extended
hand, causing him to draw his arm back quickly, dropping the knife as he
did so. The blade plummeted quietly downward, spinning as it fell, finally
stabbing the sea. The wound closed itself immediately, swallowed the
weapon and gurgled. A similar sound found its way from Simon’s mouth
and fled into the night as he backed away from the window.
The expression on the face that regarded him was unsettling indeed. The
cephalopod glared at him as though it were upset about something. Its giant
head expanded and contracted at quick, regular intervals. Simon’s brain
began to hurt, and then he heard a voice. It wasn’t a voice, really — but an
impression of a voice that echoed within his head. The sound took on a
distant, metallic quality, like a radio broadcast from the states — only this
message was emanating from the ship before him. The words were
surprisingly clear, and were spoken in Simon’s native tongue.
Your race has survived for many centuries and has prospered, the voice
began, while ours has lived for countless millennia beneath the sea and
watched your progress. We do not agree with the actions of those who call
themselves humans, but we have learned much about the construction and
deconstruction of civilization, and now know what mistakes to avoid when
our time comes to rule this planet. Obviously, your race is on a path of
annihilation, which will no doubt culminate during the course of the war
which has begun among your kind. The sect you call Japan is about to wipe
out the American fleet that is stationed to the southwest, and the testing of
destructive weapons that could destroy your race have proven successful.
Soon, humans will be no more. We have witnessed the mass extinctions of
many different species on the Earth, including the great beasts you call
dinosaurs — which occurred during the dark period after the great rock fell
from space and covered the sky with dust for many years. We survived in the
deep waters, feeding on the plentiful creatures that slowly died of starvation
and sank to the bottom of the ocean. And we will likewise survive your own
self-annihilation and rise to become the dominant species. The dawn of our
greatness approaches, as the twilight of yours is upon us. Farewell, and
goodnight.
With that, the voice stopped, and Simon blinked, because it was the only
reaction he could muster.
Slowly, the craft began moving away from the stunned officer, and soon
started to descend back from whence it came until, at last, the hungry sea
consumed it just as it had Simon’s knife, only with more gurgling.
How much further the ghostly soldiers had trudged along their path,
Simon could not ascertain when he finally felt his heart beating at its most
usual pace. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed … or maybe an hour. It
didn’t really matter. He had pulled his chair away from the desk and sat
backwards upon it, staring out the window for untold minutes, wondering
from what nightmare the visions he had just witnessed had come. He had
not been drinking that evening, although he had on previous nights the
occasion to sip from the flask he usually carried hidden in the inside pocket
of his jacket. He felt his breast — yep, the container was there. He pulled
out the small metal vial, unscrewed the top and drained it. With a flick of
his wrist, he fed the sea once more. There was probably a gurgle, but Simon
did not hear it. His eyes were focused on the horizon, upon the stars which
danced their way across it, sometimes flickering, always moving — or was
it an illusion caused by the motion of the water beneath them?
As he stared forward, he recalled what he had seen, and an eerie feeling
came upon him, as though he were not alone in the room. An octopus? How
could it be? He had heard stories of the creatures solving mazes in
laboratories and opening jars to get at a morsel of food, but … flying
machines? Had they devised a means of traveling through the air, invented a
method for retaining the environment of the sea within the semisolid mass
that comprised what appeared to be the ship’s cockpit? He recalled that
seaweed was used as a source for creating the agar used by biologists for
growing bacteria. Were underwater plants being harvested by the creatures
for the purpose of manufacturing a part of the spectacular invention that he
had just seen … or at least imagined seeing?
And what had it said about Japan destroying the American fleet to the
southwest? Was it referring to Pearl Harbor? That’s impossible … the
Japanese were not prepared to launch an attack of that magnitude. And
besides, their planes would be intercepted before they could get within
striking distance of the base. More unsettling was the creature’s description
of the new atomic weapon technology that the government was testing. He
had heard rumors about the power of the bombs — but were they capable of
wiping out the entire human race? Was the twilight of mankind indeed
approaching?
The sensation of another presence nearby grew stronger, and without
warning his gaze was disturbed by a fuzzy, triangular shape that emerged
from below. His focus immediately fixated upon the shape, and he knew it
to be the tip of a tentacle. The appendage was rising slowly and deliberately
from beneath the windowsill, and as it grasped the ledge, a second tendril
appeared and rose, like a tamed asp, into the frame, creating a living picture
that turned more disturbing by the second. Simon was glued to his chair as
another limb appeared, and another. Soon the lower portion of the frame
grew wavy, and Simon knew, when his heart abruptly picked up its tempo,
that he was seeing the same agar-like substance that he had seen earlier. As
the image changed, the waviness gave way to a horrifying face, entombed
in the substance – that seemed to be a helmet, which, if nothing else,
magnified the size of the sinister eyes that regarded him.
Suddenly, a glint of light caught Simon’s attention, as yet another
tentacle came into view. He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck raise up as
he watched the entity before him lift his own knife over the ledge and wave
it in his direction. The brow of the creature furled … was it a scowl that the
beast wore upon its face?
Simon felt another headache coming on. We have decided that you
cannot jeopardize our species with the knowledge you have received from
one of our test pilots. He was not authorized to contact you, and he will be
punished. It is not the first time something like this has happened. I am
certain that with the military background you have, you understand the
importance of maintaining the secrecy of sensitive information. It is a
regrettable situation, but one which must be dealt with, nevertheless.
As he watched the dance of the blade before him, he felt something
brush against his leg. He jerked away, but it was too late. Two of the
tentacles had already fixed themselves upon his ankles, and he fell sideways
from the chair, kicking wildly in an attempt to free himself from the beast’s
grasp.
Thank you for your cooperation in this matter of diplomacy, the voice
was saying.
To no avail he struggled, and moments later he was against the wall, his
torso wrapped by yet another of the thing’s arms. The sea-smell
overwhelmed him, and he felt a twinge of sharp pain across his back just
before the dim light of the room was snuffed.
Darkness. Throbbing pain. Sensations … falling, drifting, sinking. Water.
Heaviness. Panic. Freedom. And that was all.
Lieutenant Graves opened the door and looked about. Simon was not
there. That’s why he didn’t answer when he had shouted from the stairs that
Pearl Harbor had just been bombed. It was, of course, against orders for
him to leave his post, but it wouldn’t have been the first time. He walked
across the room and examined the journal that lay open on the desk. The
pages were damp, and the entry for the previous evening was sloppily
written, but read simply: nuthing unyusual hapend.
It obviously was a joke … Simon did not spell that poorly. He certainly
did have a peculiar sense of humor, however. Well, he was probably outside
on the beach, or maybe he already heard the news and was on board the
ship preparing to leave the island. He closed the journal and picked it up,
then grabbed the pack of cigarettes that was lying on the desk and shoved it
in his pocket as he turned to go.
Of course, he thought, it was funny … nothing ever happened during the
night shift.
