Tunnels 02, Deeper

joked in between breaths when he caught the curious sight of a foot sticking up in the air from the corner of his eye.
    "Stroke... str-- concentrate, Will!" Chester ordered as he endeavored to get his friend to row in time with him. It quickly became evident that Chester didn't really know what he was doing, either, despite his earlier claims. All too often his oars skimmed ineffectually over the surface with a spray of water.
    "Where did you say you learned to do this?" Will asked.
    "Wilderness camp," Chester admitted.
    "You're kidding!" Will exclaimed.
    "Shaddup, will you?" Chester retorted with a broad smile.
    Their syncopation was chaotic, to say the least, but Will decided that traveling by boat had to be the best way to get around. The physical exertion from the rowing was blowing the cobwebs from his mind; he felt more clearheaded than he had in days. And the light breeze gusting over the water was just enough to whisk the perspiration from his brow as he heaved on the oars. He felt invigorated.
    They seemed to be making good time, although Will couldn't see that shore -- or anything else, for that matter -- to judge how fast they were going. The endless darkness and the invisible stretch of water all around them were a little daunting; the only light was from Chester's lantern, dimmed to its lowest setting, in the bottom of the boat.
    Perched at the helm, Elliott, true to form, watched alertly behind them, although the island had long since been shrouded from view. Facing her as they rowed, Will and Chester were just about able to make out her dim silhouette. They were waiting for her to issue instructions, but it seemed like an interminably long time before she spoke.
    She suddenly told them to stop, and Will and Chester rested the oars, although the boat seemed to coast along surprisingly quickly by itself, as if caught in a powerful current. Will hung his head over the side -- he could see faint, indistinct shapes deep within the water. They appeared to intensify and then fade away just as fast. Some were small and darted rapidly, while others, more substantial forms, moved ponderously and gave off a much stronger light.
    As he watched with rapt fascination, the broad, flattened face of a fish, maybe as much as a foot and a half across from gill to gill, bobbed up just below the surface. Between its large eyes there was a long stalk, which had at its tip an greenish, pulsating light. Its mouth gaped open to release a gush of bubbles, closed again, and then the fish submerged. With a frisson of excitement, Will immediately spotted the resemblance to anglerfish, which inhabit the deep recesses of Topsoil oceans. There must be a whole ecosystem hidden under these waves , he thought. Living creatures that generate their own light!
    Much as the fish had just done, he opened his mouth to say something to the others about his discovery when he was silenced by a tiny splash, like a stone hitting the water, perhaps some fifty feet off the port side.
    "It starts," Elliott whispered cryptically.
    A distant bang followed, maybe as much as a second later. More of these splashes and subsequent bangs ensued, but they were too far away for Will to see what was causing them.
    "Now would be a good time to turn off that light," Elliott suggested.
    "Why?" Chester asked innocently, still peering into the darkness.
    "Because the Limiters are on the beach."
    "They're shooting at us, dimwit," Cal spoke up. On the starboard side, no more than fifteen feet away, Will noticed a small tick of water flick up from the sea's surface.
    "Shooting at us?" Chester repeated, slow to take in what he was being told. "Shooting?!" he exclaimed as he figured it out at last, immediately fumbling to extinguish the lantern. The light off, he sat up and swiveled around in the direction of Elliott. He was flabbergasted at how calm she was. The volley continued, with further splashes all around them -- they seemed to be coming closer. Chester flinched each time.
    "If those really are shots..." Will began.
    "Certainly are," Elliott confirmed.
    "...then shouldn't we be rowing like mad hooligans?" Will asked, tightening his grip on the oars in readiness.
    "No need, we're well out of range... they're taking potshots." Elliott allowed herself a small laugh. "We must've really ticked them off. But it would be one in a million if they hit us."
    Will heard Chester grumble something to the effect of "With my luck," as he tucked his head protectively into his