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The Deep Cold Blue

By CLH_Harrison All Rights Reserved ©

Thriller / Mystery

The letter.

It’s getting colder in here.

Always a pleasant thought to wake up too, isn’t it? I’ve always wondered what’d be like to lose the heating. Apparently, this is the case. Mind you, being under the polar ice caps may or may not have something to do with it. I’m sure some physician can explain it to me. The cold metal tube around me also tends to be like that. It’s a miracle we can still have lights, considering the fact our engineer died when his compartment flooded.

Name’s Charlie, by the way. I trust you’ll forgive the crude way I’ve started this letter to the top. It’s not often I write, what with the advancement in technology. Writing is a lost art form in its own right. The kids of today have no respect for the works of Edgar Allen Poe, Bram Stoker or even Stephen King. Mind you, I’ve never been a fan of the latter. Having accidentally watched The Shining when I was a little boy, you could say I was rather frozen on the idea of reading it.

I digress, and forgive the pun. As you’ve most likely determined, Charlie von Kreigsburg (Wonderfully nicknamed “Kreigsmarine” by the World Navy) is the person who is writing this. And whose body, if ever this is found, you’ll most likely of found this on. Consider this my last will and testament. I don’t think I’ll ever see a true lawyer again. I doubt I’ll ever see a human again. The lack of noise that comes from this, catastrophe is one that I could never wish upon some poor unfortunate soul. Considering that last part, I’d happily give up my voice to be back on dry land. I’d give up the navy; I’d give up my right arm, even though it hurts like hell. Excuse the poor writing, I’m finally learning to become ambidextrous. Next I’ll learn to escape my underwater grave and become the next Houdini.

Digression is bound to happen I’m afraid, dear reader. It’s been a week since I had contact with anyone else. The last person I had any contact with was the captain. Ah, sweet, sweet captain. I’ll not deny I had a crush on her. So young, and yet so, so… agh, I lack the words. The truth is I’d been seeing her off site a few months. Women make up only a quarter of the fleet. How was I supposed to know my odds of getting a beautiful woman were weak? Even still, I found her. I guess she’s happy now. She’s always loved the sea. And now the sea has engulfed us in its cold, icy, blue hug.

Whose brilliant idea was it to keep a navy in a world united, anyway? Jesus Mary and Joseph, they deserve to rot in hell… in all fairness I’d swap my place here for them. Maybe hell is like this? Maybe instead of some fiery pit of red and pitchforks, it is a cold, barren wasteland? One can only imagine. It’s always a wonder to think about theocratic and philosophical nonsense as you freeze to death beneath the very gift of whoever controls what you say or do.

Rambling on is the only way I can keep the ink warm, sorry about that. I guess I should explain my side of what caused us to end up learning the Davy Jones locker combination. I don’t really know. With the regulations of the navy requiring three drivers of their submarines, I was lucky enough to get the “night” shift. The midnight ‘til eight roster. Honestly, I’ve become so used to the red lights that shine I still think my shift is on. A warm cup of… whatever they think is coffee up above with a white substance akin to the taste of sugar, sitting in a pilot’s seat whilst keeping an eye on the front screen. A simple, boring job in a simple, boring world.

I was actually off duty, sleeping in my bunk (Of course, you, the reader, have found me there most likely). I couldn’t get to sleep though. I was contemplating my future, which did not involve my current predicament, when we felt the shudder.

. I was thrown clean off my bunk, as the whole submarine tilted over until it was nearly a right angle. I bumped my head badly, but the bloods dried up now. I have a private bunk area during my time off thanks to the fact my bunkmate is (or was) one of the SONAR team. Bless him, he was always up for a laugh. I’d woken up to a quiet never before felt, except on a camping trip. The most horrific sound you can hear when you wake up is silence. And that’s what I had. No noise, just silence. The occasional groan has echoed, as the water tries desperately to get in. Most likely it will.

Judging by the impact, I’d say we were hit by an iceberg. You know, the thing that sank the Titanic? Those suckers are far deeper then we realise. The last voyage we had we got a report concerning how the icebergs were reaching levels as far as 2km deep. 2km? No submarine manned has gone that deep. I mean, maybe…

I’m sure you’ll find it somewhat useful. If this submarine wreck is ever found. Until then, I guess it’ll be the best to pray. I’m lucky; my bunkmate often missed dinner so he snuck in some food. Maybe I can last long enough?

Take care airside.

1st Lt. Charles “Kreigsmarine” von Kreigsburg.

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