Suspense Magazine July 2013

Diving
to Depth
By Joe Becker
Kal heaved his equipment bag upon the truck’s rusty tailgate and took a glance at the ashen sky. It
was quarter past eight, the season of summer coming to an end in the foothills of the desolate western plains, tree insects
claiming their final calls, crops wobbling on tired, ochre ground, sweat still sticking to grimy necks.
“Maybe half-hour before we go down, Sepi.”
“Alright then,” replied Sepi, readying his gear.
Sepi was only a nickname, one given by Kal during one of his frequent barbecue cookouts. As the region’s only diving
instructor, Kal felt all his students needed some kind of moniker, comfort in their relationship being the prime reason. Years
as a diving instructor taught him this, especially when it comes to those destined for night-diving certification. After all,
when you submerge yourself into complete liquid darkness, with nothing but the stark beam from an unearthly light cutting
the path in front of you, partner congeniality is paramount not only to your safety, but your sanity. To Kal, the guy looked
Italian, so “Sepi,” the first name that arose from his then-inebriated lips, was chosen.
For the same reason Kal slung out nicknames—a sense of camaraderie, bonding, goodwill—he’d host the cookouts for his
students. Good grub, too. The very thought of which was beginning to ping around Sepi’s echoing gut.
“So, time’s the next feast, Kal”
Kal shook his head. “Shoot, ain’t no gas ‘round for cooking. Damned place. Haven’t seen propane for weeks. I’d have to
run fifty miles just for a tank. Or charcoal. ‘Cause last time I checked, Meyer’s is clean the fuck out of both. But hell, whatcha
gonna do It’s a distribution thing they always say.”
“Yeah Plenty ‘o wheat around, though.”
They both heard the sound—a thud followed by water crashing against itself—but neither thought so much of it at the
time to interrupt their conversation. Sounds like these were common around the quarry, although more so when college kids
were still around for summer. Rarely, however, was anyone near the quarry so close to twilight hours.
“Guess we can burn that. Got a big ass harvester” laughed Kal.
Sepi looked into the quarry, to the deep-blue water darkening by the minute, to the wide hole in the earth where he would
soon be certified for nighttime diving. It was his last in a series of underwater certifications, before he could get licensed as an
undersea welder. Then he could move out, very far out, if one happened to look at working on oceanic oil platforms that way.
Kal stared out along with him, then flopped himself upon the tailgate. He launched a spit to the dirt and furrowed his
eyes.
“Kids. Rock jumping at this hour,” came his complaint. “Stupid, man. They can get caught on something down there. You
better be careful, too. Happened before, trust me.”
“Dumbasses,” replied Sepi, as a way of seeking mentor approval.
They slipped into their wet suits, attached their buoyancy vests, slung their weights and tanks over their shoulders, and
headed along the quarry’s hardscrabble upper edge. Before long, Kal pointed down towards Monolith Rock, the local name
given to the large abandoned slab that stuck out from the liquid like a shoreline glacier. It was their point of entry, and they
turned into the narrow path that wound in its direction. The path was tight, shadowy at this hour, with only enough of the
moon to distinguish the collection of debris to its side strewn over the years by restless teens.
When they reached the rock’s edge, another thud resounded throughout the quarry, its sound waves lingering over the
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