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  1. #1
    Dedicated Member Teh Doc's Avatar

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    Jan 2009
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    The Atlantic Grave

    [center:q4cnq74c]Salt Lake City, Utah
    September 23rd, 1:27 PM
    [/center:q4cnq74c]

    "Alright everybody, are we ready to go? Once we get started, there's no coming back for awhile." Jonathon Harrison climbed up out of the hatch of a fluorescent yellow YK-669 submarine, gesturing for his friends to come through. Sarah Clarriese was glad to oblige, and get out of the warm summer sun. The moisture was up to 41% over the last few days, and would continue for the next week. She felt glad to jump into something with A/C in it. "You bet, let's get out of here... It's hotter than hell above the water.
    Jon smirked. "It's actually only," he checked his watch, with a built-in thermometer, "eighty-nine out here. Pretty decent for Black Rock."
    Sarah jumped in anyway. Closely following behind her was Jerry Doherty, their marine biologist. Sarah was surprised at how large the capsule was; the airlock itself was nearly 4 feet in height, and 10 in length. Doherty went to open up the airlock hatch when Jon stopped him. "Wait up, we have to pressurize."
    Doherty looked puzzled. "Why? Don't we already have air? I don't think it's really necessary, Jonathon-"
    Jon interrupted him, abruptly. "We still have to pressurize our new atmosphere," Jon said.
    Doherty still looked confused. You're going to have to explain it to him, Jon thought as Sarah closed the exit hatch.
    "You see, Jerry, our normal atmosphere is multiplied as we get deeper into the ocean," he began. "We're going down to 29 atmospheres, or twenty-nine times normal atmospheric pressure. And considering that atmospheric pressure is fifteen pounds...” he trailed off. "That's nearly 450 pounds of atmospheric pressure, Jerry." He seemed to get his point across at that point, as Doherty's eyes widened when he said it.
    "Now, since we can't have a normal atmosphere down here, we're going to pressurize the cabin with an artificial one. It's normally made of helium, though, so your voice is going to get pretty sharp. He pulled a small pill from his pocket and tossed it to Doherty. "It's pretty fast-acting. All you have to do is just set it on your tongue and let it dissolve. It gets into your lungs and alters your voice box when you breathe out, so you'll talk... mostly normally. Might want to get a good, tasty drink before," he paused to take a heaving swig of Coke, "-you take it, 'cause the taste isn't too pleasant." Jon tossed the pill into his mouth and instantly his face seemed upset about something; Doherty wasn't all too eager to take his pill.
    Doherty studied the pill a little more. It was perfectly round, and half-red, half-blue. On the top there was a plain-white asterisk. He looked over at the Mountain Dew next to him; he took a sip and tossed his pill in his mouth. It tasted horrible. "Ugh," he said, cringing.
    While the others were talking, Sarah crawled over and adjusted the atmosphere and took her pill. When they finished chatting, the vents kicked in. They hissed like a snake before finally, they stopped. "Let's go," she said, kicking open the airlock hatch.


    All was calm for the first seven thousand feet or so. It was a calm ride, and they were moving and about twelve miles per hour. Slowly, surely, they were getting farther down. Sarah was slumped down on a small mattress, curled up in a sleeping bag. It was still getting colder as they went down, only ten degrees at this depth. It's too cold, she thought. Something must be going on that Jon isn't telling us.
    And the truth was, it seemed just like it. When they got there, to the Middle of Nowhere, Jon simply explained that they were going on a "fishing trip." This really meant that it was nothing special; they were going down to study some fish and maybe find some new species. Sarah didn't care, really. She was caught up in her paperwork and didn't really know what was going on. She could care less, she thought. But now, there was an oddity to it all. It was freezing down here, and she was inside. She was an experienced diver, and she had been down about 20,000 feet before. She'd gotten her feet wet. But now, not even halfway down, she felt that she needed to take a warm shower. While she was thinking, she started to hear something. It wasn't much, but it was something. A low rumble coming from outside. "What is that?" She asked. Jon slowly turned around.
    "Oh, it's nothing. The instruments are just adjusting to the depth. When you get this low, some of our equipment goes a little on the fritz. The heater's getting pounded on out there, so that's why it's so cold in here. Nothing to worry about, it's normal." Sarah felt relieved; there was something to back her up if she started to worry. But no matter how Jon explained it, she still felt unsafe. Doherty seemed to care less than Jon; He was at his computer playing a new game of FreeCell. He's a marine biologist, Sarah thought. Probably been down millions of times. She started to think of her home back in Florida, back in Fort Lauderdale. The warm beaches made her feel homesick... home. She began to doze off.

    The cracking made her wake up instantly. It was furious; much louder than before. Creaks and moans came from throughout the submarine. She covered her ears and bolted up. Doherty and Jon were both sitting tall and attentive and the wheel, both chattering random technological jargon she couldn't understand a word of. Wait a second, she thought. Doherty knew about machines? How'd he know so much about it? She ran up to the deck. Jon turned to her. "This guy isn't really happy. He's attacking us. We should make it." She didn't understand. Who was he? She looked wildly out of the window, looking for something...
    She gasped and stepped back.
    Arms wrapped around the sub, pulling it around wildly, was a giant squid.

    Another swing sent her flying backwards. She slammed into a wall. The squid stared at her through the porthole. It lifted up one of its arms, pulled back, and slammed its long arm into the porthole and cracked it. The shaking continued. It didn't stop. She suddenly questioned herself, shy she was even here. She was a biologist stationed in North Carolina in the woodlands. She rarely studied fish; this was new to her. A wild swing backward brought her to reality. She slammed into the aluminum bunk bed she was sleeping in. Doherty was sent across the sub and slammed into the back. Suddenly the glass porthole shattered violently. A thin stream of water sprayed in and smacked Doherty in the stomach and made him fly backwards. He slammed against the wall, putting a huge dent in the wall. His body spilled down onto the ground, his broken skull exposed. Sarah realized he was dead, but not before-
    An arm shot through the porthole and searched wildly around the sub; it had an oddly blue glow to it. It wrapped around Jon and pulled him around the sub. A second arm slammed against the wall and made her fall forward. She smacked into the floor as she watched Jon be swung around violently before it too smacked him into the same dent.
    It was trying to get inside. Another slam. Another. Finally, an arm crashed through the wall, and the water sprayed her like a fire hose. Cold. An arm slipped around her like a wet eel. It pulled her outside and she immediately felt the water rush up her nose. The arm crushed her ribcage. She felt her heart skip a beat, and then she slowly let her breath out...
    Blackness.
    Nothingness.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    [center:q4cnq74c]Accident Discussion Team Center
    September 25th, 10:20 AM
    [/center:q4cnq74c]


    Low clouds hung over a slight mist as the shining California sun glared into the Future Corps ADT building, onto the dark hair of William Richardson. Richardson was late into his forties, and he still had it in him. His hair was still black and greasy as ever. His face was stern and serious. He had a playful, excited tone to his voice. He looked in his twenties. His years of experience on the Accident Discussion Team served him well. The ADT worked on all of their vehicles, and today, he held in his hand a brake caliper from the Dodge Charger '64 that they had been the middle man for. It had been involved in a brutal crash and the family of the son driving it. They were pressing on Future Corps for the reason why this had happened. It was pretty easy - the caliper had locked up and the wheels slid. However, he couldn't put his word in, as it was a Chrysler-brand caliper. All of Future Corps' motor vehicles were only Dodge and Ford. He couldn't do anything about a Chrysler caliper. He set it down on the table. "Another solved case with no point," he said. "Gonna have to give it to the family to take to Chrysler."
    Hal Erring walked through Richardson's door. "Hey there, Hal," said Richardson. "This caliper's Chrysler. Can you contact the family and tell them we aren't responsible?"
    Erring picked up the caliper and the file folder.
    "Sure, I can do that. I'll make sure that we get it back to 'em. Also, boss wants to see you. Something about a YK-669." Richard Wingai was the president of Future Corps, and nobody really liked him. He was a business guy, and he didn't take crap from anyone. Though nobody in the company was quite fond of him, he was a business genius. He had originally been the person who sold out to Dodge for ten million big ones. He sold a whole 25% of the stock to Dodge while Future Corps while they were at their best in years, while stocks were still $12. Now a single stock was $19.75.
    Richardson walked down the dorm towards Wingai's office. He heard Wingai cursing and swearing at his receptionist, Jennifer Dain. Richardson could smell alcohol in the air.
    Richardson thought, this is going to be a long day.

    "I thought I told you to ship it to China, damn it! No, I don't care about how they feel about it, I want to know how much they'll pay! It doesn't matter!" He winced when he saw Richardson. Jennifer walked out of the room. "Sorry you had to see that, Will. Some people need to get disciplined, y'know... women." Richardson felt a little worried about Wingai; he'd always been a, alcoholic, but he never drank in office unless he was upset, or stressed about something. There was the faint smell of gin on Wingai's breath Richardson could sense, and an empty bottle of Yellow Tail sat on the bar next to the Pepsi machine.
    "So why'd you call me, Rick? Something about a YK-669?" Richardson was here strictly on business. He didn't want to get mixed with Wingai while he was like this.
    "Oh, yeah... Some guy in the middle of nowhere sent out an S.O.S. at 5:35 AM yesterday morning. He was at 7,900 feet. Sounded pretty bad, like the whole place was being torn apart." Torn apart, Richardson thought. That couldn't be good.
    "We just salvaged it a few hours ago and the truck just arrived. I want you to jump in and see what happened. Sounds pretty bad from what the engineers said to me." his voice was sloppy and drunk.
    "Gotcha. I'll head down ASAP."


    [center:q4cnq74c]Hangar 21
    September 25th, 10:50 AM
    [/center:q4cnq74c]

    Hangar 21 was already lively at 6:30 in the morning. Cars were being tested. Engineers were building wheels and assembling rims, and the rest of the business. Future Corps usually did business with cars, ever since Wingai sold to Dodge. Richardson walked across the busy floor of Hangar 21, towards the YK-669 sub that was balanced dangerously on a leaning edge of a semi truck. It didn't seem too bad on the outside, but he cringed at the sight of broken portholes and a small, human-sized indention on the opposite side. There was a splatter of blood on the porthole exterior. He walked over to the engineers.
    "This looks pretty bad. Are you sure nothing happened to it on the way here?" He asked, pointing to the broken porthole.
    The engineer shrugged. "Yeah, it looks pretty bad. And worse, it's still mint condition from when we found it. The porthole was already shattered, and so was the dent. Wait until you get inside."
    He took no notice of the last remark until he climbed up the step to the truck and stepped inside.
    He gasped and stepped back at the mere sight of it.

    "Jesus Christ," he turned away, and promptly vomited.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    He couldn’t even fully make out the interior cabin. It was virtually destroyed. There’s no way something usual could have done this, he thought. It would be impossible for us to salvage any of the parts. Future Corps would always take the surviving, unaffected parts of a crash and reassemble them after study was conducted. They would replace safety features such as seatbelts, airbags, and they would replace the suspension, even if nothing was wrong with any of it. Better safe then sorry, they said. But this, this monstrosity would never come close to being able to be reassembled. In other words, that was a whole $815 thousand down the drain. Future Corps was running low on cash, and they couldn't afford another screwup like this or else they'd go bankrupt. Wingai was a smart guy when he wasn't wasted, though, so he'd probably be able to take care of it. A financial genius who just happened to be a complete and total ass. Lord giveth, Lord taketh away, people said. Including Richardson.
    Richardson looked inside. "Jesus," he said again. The interior was severely damaged by the instuments and he could barely understand what they said, covered in mud and blood and the sort. Walking over to the blood-splatter bunks, he sat, staring forward into space, thinking what kind of monster could have done this. You would think this place was attacked by a giant squid, he thought. Despite the situation facing him, he chuckled a bit and his foolish idea. And the hole in the side came from a magical underwater unicorn, and Santa couldn't find a chimney so he broke in the window. Now this whole thing seemed stupid. How exactly did this happen? He decided, instead of being an insurance agent, to do his real job and get some answers.
    The first logical thing to do was to find the QAR. It was the same device that was installed on airplanes, and did the same thing. The QAR, or Quick Access Recorder, was practically geek-talk for the black box. With that, they could reconstruct an image of the YK-669 in it's last moments. Of course it probably wouldn't reveal much, but they could still do something with it, to get the general shape of what happened. Then they could deduce whether they hit something, were attacked by some large animal, or mechanical failure due to pressure was the cause. Either way, he still needed that box. From what he knew in his mind, the QAR was a small, green box that was usually located - there! A small black compartment was mounted against the wall. It seemed surprisingly small, looking like a primitive air conditioning controller. He walked across the slippery floor and looked up at the box in front of him. It could fit in his hand, in size. He reached up and clicked the box open.
    Unfortunately, there was nothing there to be discovered, just a small empty box. Richardson wasn't too discouraged. He searched around for another box, that was usually located beneath the original. In the back of his mind, he vaguely sketched a diagram. There were only three different QAR mounting areas in the YK-669 model, he thought. He couldn't remember too much. The next box he found mounted at his feet, cleverly diguised as an air-conditioning vent. He reached down, clicked the box open triumphantly...
    And found nothing again.
    Oh well, Richardson thought. Two down, one to go. That last box would have the QAR in it, it had to. But he couldn't remember where it was. It wasn't in the airlock, was it? No, it couldn't be. It would get damaged. It could be on the wall opposite him, disguised as some sort of everyday object. He decided to feel his way around. He blindly stumbled around in the sub, pushing on every small groove and box on the wall, until he heard a click. He froze his hands, pressed them down again, and heard it again. However, it wasn't the familiar sound he knew. This one was distinctively different. He couldn't quite place it, but it sounded like wrenching metal. He pressed again one one hand, heard a soft groan. Pushed with the other, heard a loud creak. He started to hear the engineers shout, and got up to see what was going on outside. But then he heard a lurching, crunching noise, and suddenly, sharply, the submarine fell through space.
    He came to his senses. He slowly pushed himself up, his head aching. He looked down at the sub. It had a small splatter of blood on it. Looked fresh, he thought. Could be mine. He rached back and grabbed his aching head, letting out a moan. He had quite the migrain. he pulled his hands back, saw that they, too, were covered in blood. Yep, it's mine, he thought. Richardson took a moment to study his surroundings and saw he was now standing on the wall, the porthole on the roof, the dent in the floor. He suddenly remembered how precariously perched the sub was. When he was searching on the wall for the compartment, he must've tipped it with his weight. Wondering what was taking the engineers so long, he peered out the window.
    Everyone was gone. Vanished. They must've left, he realized. Scared to face the boss and let him think it was all their fault. Especially as drunk and short-tempered he was now. So the shooed themselves away to let Wingai come in and find the culprit himself, lights out on the floor. He was almost disappointed at their lack of teamwork, letting him sit here to rot. He turned away and was about to start swearing at his coworkers when suddenly something metallic brushed up against his head, as if dangling from a cord. then it fell, making a soft thud as it hit steel. He turned and looked, and to his surprise, it was a small, green box laying before him, not four inches in diameter.
    The QAR. Success.

    [center:q4cnq74c]Richard Wingai's Office
    September 25th, 8:41 PM
    [/center:q4cnq74c]

    No matter what he had found, how he had explained it, Wingai was still pissed. "Do you think I really give a flying fuck about what you found in there? You could have found the Holy motherfucking Grail in there, but that's not going to fix that sub! We still could've salvaged something worthwhile in there! Something worth more than your job. Hell, your job plus your income and insurance. Don't screwup again or you're gone."
    "I won't sir. I'll take this to Visuals and get it up and running. Hopefully we can get the general idea about what happened."
    "You do that.. But first, get home, and get some rest. It's late, and you look pretty tired." Richardson looked down at his watch. Surprisingly, it was already 9:10 PM, and he had dinner to eat still. Wingai was right, he was tired. He swivled on his heel, and walked out of the room.

  2. #2
    Fanatic Enthusiast Trendy's Avatar

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    Re: The Atlantic Grave

    It looks like an awesome story
    but unfortunately, i dont
    have time to read it right now.
    ill come back later and actually
    read it and tell you what
    i think D
    Anonninja -> Zelda -> Kiwi bitch beach -> Hardcore Kid -> Trendy


 

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