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The sea mist had been thick that morning, greyish clouds obscuring the horizon to the point where Steinbeck could barely see. Not a good day to be out on the water, but he had to. He had an appointment to keep.
The GPS had given up a good hour or so ago, glitching out and complaining that his location wasn’t actually a location. After that, he’d relied on paper maps and half-glimpsed landmarks; weird and angular shapes jutting partially formed from the mist. The ruins of an old civilisation, perhaps? But they didn’t look man-made…
Steinbeck hoped he had it right. Not just the location, but also the time. The stars had been in the right alignment (or wrong, depending on who you asked), so surely…
He just had to hope.
The mist showed no signs of clearing and the chill was starting to settle deep into Steinbeck’s bones when finally his faith was rewarded. A hand appeared at the prow of the ship, followed by a bulky, seaweed-drenched mass pulling itself over and landing heavily on the deck. Whatever it was seemed half-formed, too many limbs and only a vague semblance to humanity that shifted if you looked at it too hard. The seaweed curled and writhed as it tangled itself in a crown of long, dark hair. Most men would have tried to harpoon the thing, to get it off their ship and back down into the depths.
Steinbeck simply smiled.
“You took your time, didn’t you? Welcome back.”