The bright morning sun flooded the deck of the Orion, which had tilted at a steep angle after the night's storm. Ethan Carter stood at the railing, his gray suit still damp and wrinkled, but his gaze remained calm and focused. The wind carried to him the salty smell of the ocean, mixed with a faint aroma of diesel still seeping from the breaches in the liner's hull.
Michael Drake, grumbling, climbed onto the deck, gripping the binoculars he had borrowed from the captain's bridge. His face was covered in sweat, his shirt unbuttoned and crumpled, hanging out of his pants—he looked a sight.
"Nothing!" he muttered, lowering the binoculars and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "No smoke, no sails. Damn ocean! As if everything around is dead."
Ethan just smirked, not taking his eyes off the ocean's expanse.
"Keep looking, Drake." A slight mockery sounded in his voice. "Maybe you'll find your ten thousand dollars. They're out there, beyond the horizon, waiting for you."
"You, Carter, are always so…" Drake waved his hand and lifted the binoculars again. "Fine, laugh. We'll see who laughs last."
The days following the disaster dragged on slowly, merging into a monotonous sequence. The horizon remained empty, despite Drake's vigilance—he spent hours on deck with the binoculars, muttering about rescue and reward.
The Orion drifted in the Bermuda Triangle, surrounded by a watery desert where there were no seagulls, no debris—only endless blue blending into endless blue sky.
The liner was full of luxurious, spacious cabins and huge, eerily empty restaurants. Yet Ethan and Drake, oppressed by the crushing loneliness and endless corridors, chose the cramped officers' wardroom instead. There, among the plain walls where the crew had once rested, they felt relatively safe. The cramped quarters offered a phantom coziness and allowed them to stay shoulder to shoulder, escaping the oppressive emptiness of the vast ship.
The ship's stores were bursting with provisions: from hearty canned beef to peaches in thick syrup. In the hold, endless rows of five-gallon jugs of purified water were found, and a small diesel generator, normally used for deck work, now faithfully powered their temporary refuge with light.
In the evenings, when the sun set, painting the ocean in crimson tones, Ethan and Drake spent their time on deck. Drake, stationed on the bridge, constantly scanned the horizon, but sometimes came down to exchange a few words with Ethan.
"Tell me, Carter," Drake asked one day, lowering the binoculars and squinting against the sun, "why didn't the ship sink after all?"
Ethan turned, pointing at the liner's hull.
"Modern vessels like the Orion are equipped with bulkheads—internal walls that descend in an emergency, dividing the hull into isolated compartments. If the breach isn't too large, water fills only one compartment without spreading further." He patted the metal railing he was leaning on approvingly. "That's what's keeping us afloat. At least for now."
"Then why did everyone abandon ship?" Drake frowned, recalling the chaos of the previous night. "If there were chances…"
"At the moment of disaster and the ensuing chaos, no one knew exactly what had happened or whether the bulkheads would hold," Ethan replied. "Look for yourself: the picture is truly grim. The bow is almost completely underwater, the stern is raised, and the propellers are sticking out above the surface." He pointed at them. "The deck is tilted about thirty degrees. It's not comfortable to walk, but it's better than sinking. And we're very lucky: the ship is full of canned food, water, and even diesel for the generators. If we haven't strayed too far from the route, we'll be found soon."
Drake nodded silently, but his gaze still wandered across the horizon, empty and lifeless. The ship's radio room had been destroyed by the storm, and their portable radio, found in some cabin, only picked up static—hissing and crackling that sent chills down the spine. He felt the loneliness of the ocean pressing down on him like a heavy shadow. The Bermuda Triangle, whispered about in the port of San Juan, seemed not just a legend—it was a reality surrounding them on all sides.
"God knows what," Drake muttered, lowering the binoculars. "As if everything around is dead. No seagulls, no fish, not even debris. Just water and sky."
Ethan didn't answer. He looked at the horizon, and in his eyes was something Drake couldn't understand—expectation? Anxiety? Or perhaps the strange calm of a man who had already lost everything in his life.
Despite the disaster and forced isolation, the relationship between these two men remained tense. Drake, though he understood that without Ethan they wouldn't survive, still didn't trust him. At night, he locked the revolver in a drawer and slept a restless sleep, listening to every rustle. Ethan, however, seemed not to notice. He repaired the burnt wiring, brought light into their "salon," tinkered with the generator, checked the bulkheads, and Drake, watching him, increasingly caught himself thinking that this man knew more about ships than anyone else.
"Where did you learn all this?" Drake asked one day, when Ethan was once again tinkering with the diesel generator, which kept breaking down after being flooded with water.
"I studied," Ethan answered shortly, without turning around.
"Where? In prison?"
Ethan smirked.
"If I tell you, you won't believe me."
"Then tell me," Drake squinted. "And I'll verify."
Ethan straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag, and looked at Drake with a long, calm gaze.
"At the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Now—do you believe me?"
Drake wanted to make his usual snide remark, but this time, for some reason, he couldn't. Ethan's gaze was too confident, and too calm for a liar.
"Fine," he grunted, turning away. "But I'll check anyway."
"Go ahead," Ethan returned to the generator. "We have plenty of time."
But one evening, when the setting sun had painted the ocean in crimson, almost bloody tones, Drake decided: the moment had come. Having drunk quite a bit of whiskey found in the bar, he felt that dangerous confidence that demanded he immediately set everything straight and show this insufferable upstart who was in charge here.
Staggering, he climbed onto the deck where Ethan stood at the very railing, motionlessly staring at the darkening water, as if not noticing the approach of heavy footsteps behind him.
"Carter!" Drake roared, drawing his revolver. "Hands up!"
Ethan slowly turned around. His face was calm, only a cold smirk flickered in his eyes.
"Again, Drake? Do you never tire?"
"I'm doing my duty!" Drake stepped forward, his hand holding the revolver trembling. "You're a criminal, Carter! A murderer! I will deliver you to Miami, dead or alive!"
"Alive pays better," Ethan noted. "Ten thousand, after all."
"Don't you dare mock me!" Drake shouted, but his voice cracked, and the revolver jerked in his hand.
Ethan didn't move. He looked at Drake calmly, and there was something in that gaze that made the detective uncomfortable.
"Shoot, Drake," Ethan said quietly. "If you can."
"I… I…"
Drake's hand trembled more violently. He knew that just a few days ago, he would have shot without hesitation if Ethan had given him a reason—it was his job, his duty. But now, he couldn't. Not because he was afraid—but because deep down, he was no longer sure that Carter was really the man they thought he was.
Ethan stepped forward and with a quick, almost imperceptible movement, snatched the revolver from Drake's hands. Drake didn't even have time to understand how it happened.
"Is ten thousand dollars for my head not enough for you?" Ethan said quietly, unloading the revolver and tossing it onto the deck. "Understand this: we're alone in the middle of the ocean, Drake. And who knows what awaits us tomorrow. Either of us might need the other at any moment."
Drake, pale, stepped back, stumbling over a crate.
"I… I'm acting according to the law…" he muttered, but his voice lacked its former confidence.
"The law," Ethan smirked. "You don't even know what I'm accused of, Drake. You were hired to catch me—that's all. Now go to sleep. Tomorrow is a new day."
Drake, grumbling and muttering something about "ungrateful people" and "criminals," picked up the revolver from the deck with shaking hands and shuffled off to his cabin, where an unfinished bottle awaited him.
Ethan remained alone. He returned to the railing and stared long into the darkness where water merged with sky, and only the stars reflected on the black, oily surface.
Somewhere far away, beyond the horizon, the unknown waited. And Ethan felt: it was already close.