Mortal Remains

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Mark Roper followed sheriff Dan Evans down, staying so close to the man’s flippers that they occasionally brushed his face mask. But he didn’t want to get too far behind the tunnel of light from Dan’s headlamp, which led them ever deeper into the darkness. Unable to see anything but black outside its range, Mark couldn’t tell up, down, or sideways unless he focused on the illuminated streams of algae streaking at them. Like snow against a windshield, they heightened his sense of speed.

The cold penetrated his hood, giving him a doozy of an ice-cream headache; it burrowed through the vulcanized rubber of his dry suit and a double layer of thermal underwear, then through skin, muscle, and bone to settle directly into his marrow. Despite diving gloves, even his fingers threatened to freeze up, but he kept his grip on the safety line, kicking and propelling himself ever lower, moving hand over hand. God, when would they get there? he wondered, repeatedly having to pinch his nose through his mask, then blow to relieve the painful pressure in his ears.

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