Harbourmaster Albert Goodwin waited patiently for the day’s final vessel to arrive at Sydney Harbour’s International Marina. His shift finished thirty minutes ago, but he was determined to complete the last task on his work-schedule before going home. The Stormbird was scheduled to dock two hours ago but hadn’t entered Sydney Harbour until a few minutes before sunset. The exclusive five-hundred birth marina had a strict policy of only allowing daytime arrivals and departures, as low-light levels increased the likelihood of accidents. Expensive accidents. Thanks to the harbourmaster’s diligence, the approaching vessel had beaten the daylight rule on a technicality. Despite his professional detachment, he was concerned by the leisure boat’s late arrival and the lack of radio communication from its captain, Michael Simons.
Albert met the skipper five years ago when he returned from his latest holiday in Papua New Guinea. Impressed by Albert’s professionalism and seamanship, Michael made arrangements with the marina’s management for Albert to be assigned to his vessel whenever he returned to shore. The harbourmaster thought the request a little unusual, but Michael always ensured he was generously compensated for his efforts. Michael trusted Albert to oversee all aspects of his stay; docking, refuelling, organising repairs, resupplying food and water, pumping out the holding tank, and taking care of his laundry.
Michael was the sole-inheritor of a vast business empire owned by his deceased grandfather, rumoured to be worth several billion dollars. Choosing to enjoy a life of leisure instead of entering the business world he sold the corporation, purchased a 67-foot motor yacht, then sailed over the horizon in search of adventure in obscure and exotic locations. Since their first meeting, Albert had always had a soft spot for Michael. Despite his wealth, he was a simple man who lived a surprisingly modest life. He mostly kept to himself and rarely mixed with the Marina’s other clientele. Most importantly, he always treated the marina’s employees with courtesy and respect. Traits that were painfully absent in the marina’s other clientele.
A concerned frown crept across Albert’s brow as he watched the sleek white vessel enter the marina. It was moving too fast and approached the dock at the wrong angle. Albert unclipped the two-way radio from his belt to warn the security team of a potential problem. Hoping this was nothing more than an ill-conceived prank the harbourmaster delayed making his report, giving the skipper a few moments to correct his course. Strangely, the yacht maintained its speed and heading. In all the years Albert had known Michael, the skipper had never done anything to make the harbourmaster question his integrity or common sense….. until now.
Deciding the joke had gone too far Albert raised his two-way radio to his lips. As he pressed the talk-button to call for help the yacht suddenly accelerated, swiftly crossing the remaining fifty metres of water. Momentarily stunned, Albert looked around for help but realised the other deckhands had already finished their shifts and gone home. The only people he could rely on were the security patrol, and they weren’t due in this sector for another fifteen minutes.
The Stormbird slammed into the pier, the main support pylon tore a huge hole in its hull. Albert staggered backward, accidentally dropping his clipboard and his two-way radio into the water as he flailed his arms to regain his balance. Seeing the size of the massive hole in the bow, Albert knew Michael wouldn’t crashed his yacht on purpose.
Fearing something was seriously wrong with Michael, Albert leaped onto the deck of the yacht anxious to find the skipper. Albert had been on The Stormbird many times over the years, enabling him to find the bridge within moments of stepping aboard. As he entered the wheelhouse Albert spotted Michael sitting in the captain’s chair, slumped forward over the control panel.
“Michael? Michael! Are you ok?”, Albert yelled as he hurried over to the unconscious man.
Michael remained face down on the control panel. A thick strand of bloody saliva oozed from his mouth, pooling on the dials and switches below. Hoping the unconscious man had only sustained a minor concussion, Albert eased him back into his chair. As Michael’s head lolled sideways Albert snaked his hand behind the skipper’s head, easing the strain on the unconscious man’s neck muscles and opening his airway. Michael‘s skin was pale, cold, and clammy. The skipper had already gone into shock.
“Michael, Michael” Albert said gently as he patted the skipper on the cheek with his free hand, hoping to rouse him from his unconscious state.
After a few moments a murmur escaped Michael’s lips, indicating he’d started to come-to. Relieved, Albert carefully removed his hand from the skipper’s neck, allowing him some personal space.
“Mmmmnnnnrrrr” Michael slurred as he pulled his head upright.
Albert stared at Michael, trying to make sense of what he’d said. The skipper’s eyes remained half-closed. Albert dismissed the unintelligible mumble as Michael’s brain fighting to regain consciousness.
“You’re okay mate….. you took a bump to the head. You’ve probably got a mild concussion. You’re not seriously injured but I’m going to radio the office to call for an ambulance….. just in case” Albert explained in a calm, reassuring tone.
As Albert reached for the two-way radio on his belt he remembered his walkie-talkie was currently on the bottom of the harbour, along with his clipboard. He silently cursed the company policy prohibiting employees from carrying their personal mobile phones with them while on duty.
The harbourmaster quickly assessed Michael’s condition. What he saw made him uncomfortable; Michael’s ailment wasn’t a simple concussion. Michael looked sick; like he had a severe dose of the flu. As Albert stared at Michael’s face, he noticed heavy dark bags under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept for several days. The harbourmaster knew the skipper needed to get to hospital. He immediately started searching for Michael’s satellite phone.
As Albert fumbled through the skipper’s pockets he spotted a large festering wound on the skipper’s left calf. Greenish brown pus oozed from a series of deep, jagged holes in his flesh. The infection was too advanced for him to tell what had had caused the injury. Concerned the wound might have turned gangrenous Albert took a tentative sniff, hoping he wouldn’t smell almonds. The harbourmaster immediately gagged as the stench of rotting offal and Limburger cheese filled his nostrils. The putrid odour caught Albert off-guard. As he turned his head lumpy orange vomit sprayed from his mouth, splattering onto the floor next to the control console.
“I’m sorry mate. I’ll clean that up in a minute” Albert apologised as he wiped sticky strands of vomit from his lips with the back of his hand.
Albert had never smelled anything so repulsive in his entire life. A string of incoherent grunts escaped Michael’s parched lips as a violent spasm shot through his entire body. Albert eased the skipper back into his chair so he wouldn’t fall forward and hit his head again.
“It’s okay mate. Help isn’t far away” Albert said quietly, wishing Michael would regain consciousness.
As Albert searched for the phone, a troubling thought nagged at his subconscious; “If Michael was unconscious when he entered the harbour, how did he manage to approach the dock?”
A slow blinking light on the control console caught the harbourmaster’s attention. The label underneath the light was all but worn away. Albert squinted and leaned closer to get a better look. He could just make-out the word ‘autopilot’. This technology was only designed to be used in open water. Albert knew from experience that automated processes couldn’t replace human observation and reflexes, especially if obstacles suddenly crossed the vessel’s course. The autopilot had safely guided The Stormbird back to harbour, but its settings must have been overridden when Michael collapsed onto the throttle. Unable to find the satellite phone and concerned that response time might be crucial, Albert decided to get Michael outside.
“I don’t think we should waste any more time looking for that phone. I’ll have to get you outside my own” Albert said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Michael, I need you to sit upright for me. I’m going to help you to your feet, then we’ll make our way onto the dock. From there we can flag down the security team”.
The skipper’s face remained slack jawed and expressionless, but he appeared to understand what Albert had said. After helping Michael to his feet, Albert wrapped his arm around the skipper’s shoulders then helped him walk to the point where he boarded the vessel a few minutes ago. There was a small gap between the hull and the dock, but Albert was certain they would make the crossing if Michael cooperated.
“Come on mate; I need you to wake up. I can’t do this on my own” Albert pleaded as he gently shook Michael’s shoulders.
Michael’s body convulsed as he started coughing. His hacking, mucus-filled barks echoed across the still waters of the empty marina.
“That does not sound good” Albert said, frowning as he turned to face the skipper.
Seeing Michael in stronger light Albert realised his pale, clammy friend had caught something far worse than a dose of the flu. Michael coughed again; his eyelids flicked open revealing milky white pupils. In equal parts fascination and revulsion, the harbourmaster stared at Michael’s cloudy eyes. The harbourmaster’s jaw dropped in shock at Michael’s ghastly appearance. The skipper coughed violently, spraying Albert’s face with thick, greenish black phlegm. Globs of putrid mucus splattered onto his eyes and flew into his mouth, causing him to gag. Albert stumbled backwards, losing his balance as he tried to wipe the viscous slime from his eyes, sending both men tumbling over the railing. Michael flopped unconscious into the water; the splash echoed off the hull of the motor yacht. As he sunk to the ocean floor a strong rip dragged his limp body out to the depths of Sydney Harbour.
Albert’s head smashed onto the concrete wharf with a sickening “crack”. The harbourmaster convulsed on the dock, tearing his clothes and skin as he thrashed around on the rough cement surface. The spasms abruptly stopped as the harbourmaster lost consciousness. Albert’s bloodstream quickly absorbed the cocktail of neurotoxins and pathogens in Michael’s phlegm and pumped them through his body. The microscopic invaders targeted his brain and respiratory system. His heart rate doubled as the toxins caused a massive spike in his temperature. Several minutes after hitting the ground his temperature reached forty-five degrees Celsius, the extreme heat causing severe and irreversible brain damage. His arms and legs stiffened in a grotesque parody of rigour-mortis. Thick, foamy saliva oozed from the corners of his mouth as his abdominal muscles savagely clenched. Unable to endure any more torture, Albert died on the dock next to his client’s yacht. An eerie hush fell over the marina as the day’s final moments of twilight gave way to night.
Noticing the human hadn’t moved since it hit the ground, a large wharf rat scurried over to the corpse, eager to take advantage of a free meal. The rodent cautiously approached the hole torn in the back of Albert’s trouser leg. It knew from experience that humans were too inflexible to quickly reach the backs of their legs. As the rat prepared to take a bite it detected a faint noxious odour coming from the exposed flesh. After a lifetime of scrounging through Sydney’s bins and gutters the rat was comfortable with the stench of decay; but this was not the smell of rotting meat. This was something different. Something new. The rat knew this was a warning that the flesh wasn’t safe to eat. The rodent abandoned its meal and scurried back to the shadows.
Several minutes later Albert’s eyelids flicked open. Unable to recall why he was on the ground he clambered to his feet, his stomach growling with hunger. The hot cottonwool wrapped around his brain made it impossible to remember the last time he ate. The fire in his throat compelled him to drink. He glanced at the harbour, but instinct told him this water was not for drinking. The throbbing, burning agony inside his head eclipsed the worst hangover he’d ever had. He couldn’t decide on a course of action or even recall his own name.
He stood still as his milky white eyes swept from side to side, looking for something that would tell him what to do. He knew he had to do….. something; but didn’t know what it was. Within moments, every thought and memory that belonged to Albert Goodwin was permanently erased from what remained of his primitive brain. His eyes focused on the entrance to the private cargo tunnel connecting the marina to Sydney’s railway system. The mindless abomination that was Albert Goodwin staggered away from the dock, melting into the darkness of Sydney’s underground tunnels.
Text copyright © 2024 by Beau Johnston
