St Thomas

Charles Waite released the balloon on the inactive drone and waited until it broke the surface. “Balloon released,” he said into his headset. “I'm going to check out the building. I think I see a way in.”

“Negative, Waite,” Simmons said. “Don't go near it until we get another bot down there.”

“I have to, Boss. We're running out of time, and this is why you hired me.” Waite's grip tightened on his underwater scooter as he approached the ancient temple. He double-checked his video camera and adjusted the focus as he slowly circled the building.

“Yes, it is. Just be careful.”

“Always. I see a door. There is a large design carved into the lintel.”

“Can you describe the carving? We lost your video stream.”

“The entrance is about two meters wide. A raised image of a huge tentacled creature spans the entire lintel and extends to the base of the frame.” Charles Waite paused. “It looks as if the door is open a bit.”


Mike Simmons listened to his headset. “Boss, Defornio here. I'm at the drone but I don't see Waite or his Dolphin. I also don't see the mysterious door he mentioned. We only have about ten minutes of air left so he might have surfaced before we got here.”

“Not him,” Simmons said. The young man had unusual stamina for even for a diver. “I'm concerned about him being hurt or trapped.”


The artifacts were strange to the eye yet familiar to his touch. Charles could almost decipher the designs. He shook his head. "No time for distractions," he said. "Have to open the door."

Charles Waite searched for a trigger or lever even as he watched his timer near zero. He drew a deep breath, removed the heavy tanks, and started his stopwatch.

His head began to pound and he glanced at his watch: twelve minutes, personal record.

A human shape approach him through the murky water. “Son,” she said. “I've been waiting for you. We all have.” Charles closed his eyes and the name “Dagon” popped into his head. He grabbed his knife and pricked his own cheek until he saw blood float past his eyes. He had no time for his childhood nightmares.

“Why do you deny your destiny?” the woman said. Charles brought his hand to the welts on the sides of his neck and torso. The Waite birthmarks. They had opened! Gills? “That's right,” the woman said, “You have only to drown to stay alive. A gift from your Innsmouth heritage.”

Waite no longer had the strength to keep up the pretense. “I'm to die hallucinating in a secret chamber, in a town buried in Lake Mead,” he thought, “full of the Anasazi fortune I came to find. Death's name is Irony.” He closed his eyes and emptied his lungs as the woman took his hand to lead him from the chamber.


Waite's teammates had gone down for a second, and then a third time, frantic in their search. It was getting dark and they were no closer to discovering his fate. Their boss was taking it hard. Mike didn't hire employees, he paid friends.

“Time to quit for the night,” Mike said as seven men and women rose slowly through the water, all looking in vain for a sign from the eighth.


Charles Waite watched from a distance. Would he miss that life or would he just forget about it? He and his mother sliced through the lake toward the north shore and the tunnels beyond.