Lights Out

"A submarine disappeared approximately nine years ago only to be found 10,000 feet bellow in a watery grave. Ninety-nine brave young men, sailors, perished in the foreshadowed incident, but to this day no one can say what definitively happened. Just that it sank. Some speculate that it was due to a malfunction with the torpedoes. Others speculate that there was treasure buried or taken from the island by pirates. Others aren't sure but know that there is more to it or there wouldn't be attempts to keep it concealed. All that is known about the USS Scorpion is that it supposedly lay at the sandy bottom of the ocean somewhere southwest of the Azores Islands," an over ecstatic young man bolstered. He then pushed the brim of his oversized glasses up the bridge of his nose and flashed a grin full of metal from the braces on his teeth. His elaborate speech seemed to fall upon deaf ears. No one was even the slightest bit interested. The sailors continued to throw back their beer mugs and chatter about life at sea. These men sailed ships, not submarines. So it wasn't a surprise that no one took interest. Disheartened, the young put his head down and continued to sulk out through the tavern doors. He began to makes his way day down a sketchy ally way. It was cold and began to grow very dark as the lanterns from the tavern faded off into the distance. The young man began to get an uneasy feeling. Paranoia set in as he could hear a loud clicking noise in the near distance. He started to look behind him. After a few glances he could see a dark figure on the side of the ally way. "Who...who's there?," the young man sputtered. The clicking got louder and heavier as it drew near. He could hear heavy panting as the figure came closer. "Now...no need to blow your wig...dear boy," a gruff voice stammered. "I can assure you that I'm no grifter. Nor am I a goop. So, put your meathooks down, will ya?" The elderly man continued to stammer before doubling over with hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. He continued to stand up to kick a dead soldier that lay empty on the ground. The glass bottle then rolled across the dirt before making a pinging noise against a rock. The older gentlemen tripped landing on his behind. "Horsefeathers! I'm too old to be doing this," the elderly man shouted. The young man was quite amused. He extended his man to the kindly old man as to help him back up onto his feet. "I'm sorry sir. You just so happened to have startled me is all. I'm Christopher," the young man spoke softly. Reaching for his hand the elderly man replied with a mumble, " You can call me, Albert. I suppose I've had too much giggle juice. None-the-less...your tale...I know what really happened, "the elderly man bolstered gleefully. Thinking that this was merely a zozzled old man bumping his gums the young man politely engaged. "Enlighten me Albert," Christopher replied kindly. "I'll tell you...all about...Oh, horsefeathers," Albert exclaimed as he lit the wrong end of his cigarette. "Butt me," he said nudging his new young friend. To which he obliged handing him a new cigarette. "Fancy...let's see...where shall...we start," Albert stammered quite out of breath as he began choking and coughing. "These here are like a woman. Always on the make until the banks closed." He began to fiddle in his petti coat searching for his matches. Tossing out a bunch of spent matches and crumpled parcels along the way. He struck the stick against the wrapping igniting a small flame. The elderly man inhaled the soot into his frail lungs. The young man pulled up an empty crate from the side of a store building and took a seat. It was only in that moment that the young man realized that the clanking he'd heard previously before came from the elderly man's wooden leg as he brushed up against it. It was quite dark, except the small glow emitting off the end of the lit cigarette, but you could see the amusement on the old guy's face. "That there is ol' faithful. She's all show and no go. Kind of like me lost leg. I believe it warshed ashore out yonder. Somewhere. I think. If the sea creatures didn't make a meal of it." The young man again began to adjust his ill-fitting glasses. He was in a state of sheer pause. Speechless. The elderly man chuckled, and half-heartedly slapped him on the back almost knocking him off the crate. "Where...where shall I begin. Let's see. It's November of 1978...it was May of 1969... almost a decade ago...I was 46. My son was a junior officer on the submarine. He told my wife...now ex wife...and I that he'd be setting off on a top secret mission. We were concerned...of course...but proud. There had been chatter that something had gone awry. My wife was hopeful. Me, not so much. I knew in my gut...that our boy...he...he was gone. They gave all of us the run around for weeks. Filling grieving families head's full of false hopes and promises. When we finally learned of the submarines sinking...my wife was distraught. Hell...everyone was. But we were also furious. There were a lot of who, what, when, where, and why questions being tossed around. Yet, no answers. I spent four years walking out to the shores edge just looking out. Hoping. Maybe he'd come back. Maybe they'd finally have some answers. Nothing. On the fifth year anniversary is when it finally came to me. A collection of bottles. Most of em broken. Except for one. It was in tact and contained a small note. Naturally, I was curious. I broke the bottle cutting myself on the sharp glass. As I unrolled it was clear. This was my boy's handwriting. But how? I really didn't care. I rushed back home to my wife. We began reading it aloud. By the end of the letter we were both shaking and crying. We had learn't of an attack by the soviets. That he was in charge of controls. That when something were to go awry that we should know that he died trying. In it it quotes, "When the time is right I will purposely shut down the power. I will make it go dark. No lights. No sounds. Just darkness. If we make it, then great, if not then I guess it's just lights out. Love your dearest son, Paul." It was a failed mission. One that they are trying to bury...like they buried our sons. In the bottom of the ocean...alone...in a watery grave," The old man managed to sputter out the last words all the while choking back a lot of tears. He dug into one of the many pockets on the inside of his coat pulling out an old parcel stained with blood. He handed it to the young man as a means of confirmation. With his mouth agape the man began to read the letter word for word. There were secrets written on the paper that only a crew member would have known. It only solidified it's authenticity. After he finished reading it he handed it back to the man to which he pushed it away. "I won't be needing it anymore. It has found it's rightful owner. I believe that you will know what to do. To expose the truth as I so have failed to do. Now...if you'd excuse me I need to go see a man about a dog," Albert requited as he patted his new young friend on the shoulder. Christopher was stunned and barely could get a word out. Before he even managed to say one word the man had stumbled away. Back down the cold dark ally way. He immediately ran through the many twist and turns of the ally ways as he made his way back to his motel. He retrieved his typewriter and began writing. It was the story of a lifetime. The one he'd been waiting for. After days spent hulled up in the dreary room he'd finally finished his piece. He got dressed rather quickly and started making his way down stairs. He was too eager to put his story into the press to eat breakfast. Once he made his way to the publishing office he hand delivered his story to his boss. To his delight the boss was quite pleased with the story. Complimenting him on his great resources. It then donned on the young man...he had to find Albert and thank him. He rushed out of the office and down to the local tavern. "Has anyone seen Albert," he shouted through the crowds of people. The bar keep motioned for him to come closer. "He said you'd be asking about for him. I cannot offer you clues as to his whereabouts, but I do have a personal note from him to you," the bar keep replied somberly. The young man took the letter back to his hotel room. Poured himself a drink and began reading. "I've had the blues for quite some time now. Reminiscing with you was a gas. I can not even begin to thank you enough. I hope your piece brings comfort to the grieving families...and makes you the butter and egg man. I shall take me ol' submarine out for a spin as a dying man. Cancer will not be the kiss off for me. I will go out on my own accord. I will purposely shut down the power. I will make it go dark. No lights. No sounds. Just darkness. My last call before it's lights out. Do not fret or frown...just know I went down...as a father of a hero and man with a great new friend. Until next time. Yours Truly, Albert." With tears in his eyes he ran down the shore line. Staring out into the vast ocean. There he'd wait for the next five years searching for his long lost message in a bottle.