Tiny droplets of water collected on Keith’s face as the sea skipper hopped across the rolling waves of the Bermuda Triangle. It had been four years since the day he first arrived in the realm he was now stranded in. His neatly undercut blond hair had now overgrown into an untamable mullet, and his beard had become unmanageable as the years passed. Luckily, it had been reported across the network that a downed cargo plane had been spotted in the far west grid of the triangle. There’d probably be some good loot, and maybe even some spare razors. Revving at full throttle, his sea skipper’s aqua jets spat the salty ocean behind him as he beelined for the reported location of the jackpot.

            “Keith?” A voice broke through the fabric of his pocket, “Keith? What’s your ETA to the crash site?”

            Retrieving a 1984 G.I. Joe Walkie Talkie from his pocket, he extended its antenna to get a better signal. “About ten minutes Eugene,” he reported back to base.

            Eugene, that purple, greedy alien is the whole reason Keith was working these fetch quests. He found himself indebted to the creature after being taken into his downed Pan Am DC-8 during his first month stranded. Sure, he was given food, water, and shelter, but with the debt Keith now found himself in, he would have rather died afloat his life raft. Appearing from across the horizon, a silhouette of an airplane could be seen at the base of the smoke trail Keith had been following. He slipped the walkie back into his pocket and pressed his chin down behind the windshield of the motorized water cycle.

            Once you’ve seen one crash, you’ve seen them all. Keith thought to himself. After scouring the Triangle’s great expanses for the past four years, he had come across a number of crashes. As a way to repay his debt, Eugene would send Keith out to any and all new crash sites to scavenge for useful materials and critical supplies. Eugene would also take a premium off Keith’s debt for every survivor he’d bring back. After his fourth wreck, he found himself accustomed to the fiery hellscape of a crash. The broken and twisted metal, the cargo bay’s contents thrown across the vessel, and on lucky days, a survivor. This was no different.

            The right stabilizer of the sea skipper rubbed against the plane’s cabin; its paint ground away from the hundreds of times it had been parked on a crash. Hollow clinks and clangs were heard from within the cargo hold as freight drifted about the rising water. Turned a quarter way onto its side, the plane’s emergency exit door sat almost flush with the ocean and had been blown clear off its hinges. This allowed Keith to see clearly inside the wreck from where he parked. Boxes and debris had been scattered about the edges of the doorframe, as their red fastening nets laid torn beneath them. Water squeezed out of their fibers as the scavenger’s woven sandals squished them beneath his feet. For such a hot climate, the inside of the plane remained cool and musty as the sound of water trickled into Keith’s left ear. Unhooking a black cylinder from his belt, he clicked the rubber button on the side that faced him. The corridor illuminated immediately, giving more detail to its contents. Once he had found his bearings, he opted towards the right where a staircase led down to what he assumed was the cargo hold. Water sopped in and out of his sandals with each step, getting gradually more uncomfortable as he got closer to the stairs. Maybe he could find a new pair of shoes down here.

            Finally reaching the top of the cargo hold, Keith looked out across the great abyss that laid before him. Boxes tumbled over, crushing their neighbors beneath them. Isles and walkways had become impassable, blocked by crates Keith wouldn’t dream of moving. To his right, a flight of rigidly textured stairs descended onto the bay floor. Metal protrusions, probably purposed as grips for work boots, only existed as a painful obstacle for the explorer. Keith’s sigh of disappointment echoed through the chamber. Taking a seat at the top of the stairs, he removed his sandals from his feet. He then folded the back half of the shoe under the front and planted his feet back onto the stairs before they could reverse his procedure. Ready with his newly christened toe pads, he continued down the stairs.

            Each step waned and cried beneath the weight of a human. Though only one hundred seventy pounds, Keith’s confidence was only lowered by the stairs’ complaints. In contrast, he was proud of his invention of the toe pad, which had served him well during countless scavenging missions. After enduring the peanut gallery’s moans, he found himself dwarfed significantly by the crates he observed from higher ground.

            Only the essentials, he thought to himself as he walked between skyscrapers of trash that surrounded him. Perishables were useless, electronics are too high risk, and art is virtually toilet paper out here. Keith’s eyes filtered through the uncountable jumble of items that coated the walls until something below him caught his eye. A pallet of cans sat just below the surface of the water. That smug, chef hat-wearing man would be recognizable even after four years away from civilization. Jumping down off the elevated catwalk, Keith braced himself and dove headfirst into the chest-deep water. With his flashlight leading the way, he pulled against the water until he was able to grab onto the cargo's plastic ties. Examining the label further, Keith’s heart jumped with excitement. Beef Ravioli. Possibly one of the most sought-after goods in the market. A non-perishable food with a high carb, high protein value? Keith resurfaced to catch his breath.

            “Eugene might reduce my debt two-fold,” Keith spoke aloud.

            “Hello?” A voice echoed from further down the cargo bay. “Hello? Is someone there? I’m alive! There’s a survivor here! Please come help!”

            Keith swam back down and pulled a thirty-two pack of cans out from the pallet, holding it beneath his chest. With a hard kick, he pushed himself off the ground and back to the surface. Kicking even more, he reached waist-deep water and walked the cans back to the base of the stairs.

            “Is anyone there?” The desperation in the voice had grown greater.

            “Yea, yea, I’m coming.”

            Metal panels rang out with every step as Keith jogged his way towards the source of the voice. Descending deeper into the hold, he began feeling uncertain whether he’d gone too far, soon resorting to venturing off the catwalk. The water now rose to his chest again, as he began playing a game of Marco-Polo. Calls echoed off the smooth walls of the plane’s body, making it difficult to pin down the exact location of the survivor.

            Badum-Badum, Keith’s heart rate picked up as he too began to panic. “Marco!” He called, trying to keep his composure.

            “Polo!” The voice broke back.

            “Marco!” The calls are getting closer, but where?

            “Polo!”

            “Marco!” Did that one sound further away? Should I turn back?

            “Polo!”

            “Marco!” I can always leave. Just calm down. If all goes wrong, you can always leave.

            “Polo.” The call was heard clear day to his left, within a poorly painted tangerine container. Keith turned, relieved to have finally found the survivor.

            Dread. Dread was all Keith felt coursing through his veins as his heart sunk to his stomach. His flashlight had illuminated the survivor, but they were no longer living.  Halfway up the pilot’s body, rows of teeth tore through fabric and flesh, crawling its mouth further up its prey. Its purple gums were soaked red with the pilot's blood as it gripped into its meal. Blue ooze secreted from beneath similarly colored scales as a serpent-like body thrashed across the crate. From beneath its mouth, four thin tentacles grew. Puncturing into the forehead and spinal cord they deposited nerve endings into its victim’s nervous system. A pearl-like eye snapped in Keith’s direction, refracting his beam of light across the inside of its domain. Poorly masked by the orange paint, crimson stains painted the inside of the chamber. Attracted to the light, the serpent rose, towering over Keith.

            A god damn Alba Eel

            “PoloooOOOO!” The eel screeched as it lunged forward.