Pascal's head whips with every sway of the boat. The hull is battered by waves as the engine has become dead-weight. There's no land in sight, the horizon is the ocean, volatile and beautiful. Overhead birds come and go, migrating to a land that cannot be seen, every squawk a tease of their misery.

“Jerold!” Pascal says. “Try the motor.”

“I've already tried it a hundred times this morning. I've been trying to fix it for fifteen hours straight. You give it a fucking try!” Jerold, the operator, stares at his torn hands, and grimaces.

Holden, a laborer, lies flat on the bow, looking at the gray, brewing sky. “The engine is gone. There's no point in wasting energy on it, might as-well just sit here and wait, or light something on fire and hope someone sees the smoke.”

“We're probably a hundred miles deep by now.” Pascal says, as Jerold holds in his anger.

“What makes you say that?” Holden replies.

“Shere Island is thirty miles or so off the coast. It's been a little more than two days, and from what I can tell, we've only been drifting in one direction. And that's after the storm dragged us out God knows how far, and where.”

“If no one came after we shot off a case of flares, no-one is going to rescue us after lighting our boat on fire, you blubbering fucking idiot!” Jerold throws an empty plastic bottle at Holden, it bounces off his head and hits the water, tranquilly floating.

“Hey, Captain.” Holden says, holding in a smirk. “Why don't you work some of those instruments and figure the math out? A hundred miles out doesn't seem right, no offense, boss.”

“They don't fucking work, god-damn it! I'm surrounded by a bunch of morons!”

“Is it a coincidence that all of the genius's responsibilities vanish inexplicably just when we need them the most? For someone who is so bright, you sure do rely on gadgets a whole lot. You know, Captain, I'm not sure whose intelligent here, you or those spinning things on the console.”

Jerold has a wrench in his hand, and takes a step towards Holden. Pascal quickly stands, and grabs his shoulder. “Don't do anything stupid. We'll get out of this mess, no need to further complicate things.”

He looks at Pascal, now getting the full attention of the crew.

“You've already suffered enough. We've already suffered enough.”

Jerold sighs. “Fuck it. I'm done with all this.”

Pascal takes the wrench out of his hand, and stows it away.

“Don't ask me for nothing else. I'll be praying for a rogue wave.” Jerold walks to the furthest end of the boat, and sits.

Hours pass, and Pascal finds himself in the cabin, sitting in at the small rectangular dining table with the three laborers he hired to come aboard. From his left sits Holden, Jermaine, and Jan.

“We have enough food and water to last three more days, five if we ration.”

“How is it that no-one came for us?” Jermaine says. “Signaled Mayday. Shot off all those flares. Asshole was even talking to some on that big ass radio when it was all going down.”

Jan nods fervently, even though he hardly understands a lick of English.

“I don't know. Even if we got caught in something, it couldn't have taken us that far, considering where we started. We should've seen a few ships pass on by, helicopters, planes. I mean I've been out further, fishing.”

“So what are you implying?” Holden replies.

“I'm saying I don't know anything about boats or sailing, but I know something is off.”

“Like what?” Jermaine says. “Voodoo?”

“I know you're a supernatural kind of guy, boss, but I just think we're a bunch of monkeys playing dress-up on a boat lost in the kiddy-pool, lead by a pathetic excuse of a Captain who probably lied on his resume.” Holden decompresses, pressing his elbows into the table, palms pressed against his forehead. He continues. “I just need to get home. Claire is probably going crazy right now.”

“I mean, someone has to be looking for us.” Pascal says, shrugging.

Jermaine crosses his arms. “If someone was looking for us, we would be found.”

“That's exactly right.” Holden groans. “Between everyone on this boat, we must have fifteen people back at home who've contacted someone about us already, and that's not even counting everyone who's job it is to make sure this shit doesn't happen.”

“Hey, Pascal, you're a big-shot, right?” Jermaine says. “A-lot people think you're dollar signs. They probably got teams looking for you, men like you don't go missing like this.”

“It's not me, it's just what I have.”

The four sit in silence, before hearing a heavy thud against the hull that rocks the boat.

Pascal rushes out the cabin, bracing for further hits of what he immediately assumes is debris. “What happened?” He yells, to no response. He looks from the bow to the stern, searching for Jerold, while Jermaine and Holden search for anything floating on the perimeter, bending over the edges, eyes scanning the water, which seems now, calmer than ever.

“I can't find Jerold!” Pascal yells. “He must've gone overboard!”

“Hey, Boss! There's something over here!” Jermaine begins to take steps backwards.

“It's not Jerold.” Holden's breath turns into whispers.

Pascal walks between them, and sees a massive black mass not only in-front of them, but surrounding them. It's bubbling, bubbling, bubbling.

“What the fuck is that?” Pascal mutters, as all three of them see a bright effervescence glowing from underneath the boat, they can hardly see its true intensity.

Suddenly, a tentacle erupts into the sky behind them.

Jan is staring directly at it on the other side of the boat. He closes his eyes and does the sign of the cross, reciting a prayer.

Holden pivots around and jolts backwards, hitting the railing.

Pascal and Jermaine are now shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes glued to a rising tentacle, with suction cups bigger than their heads.