Free The New Madrid Run by Michael Reisig

four-inch barrel. Travis stowed the guns in his bag, then swam over to the remains of the display case. The glass was scattered all about, but the solid lower compartment was still intact. He pried open the sliding door, and was rewarded with the sight of ammunition cartons. Thank God for sealed plastic boxes. He found six boxes for each weapon, which he added to the catch bag, then continued on.
    Making his way back to the boat, he picked up a spear gun and some lubricating oil. He also found a small gas-operated Hibachi, but no propane gas. When that load had been transferred to the boat, Travis checked his pressure gauge. The remaining two hundred and fifty pounds was enough for one more run. He worked quickly now, gathering such miscellaneous items as fishing line, suntan lotion, oil for lanterns, etc. He was about one hundred feet from the boat when he saw the barrel of a rifle protruding from beneath a huge display rack. The metal rack lay tilted on its side, supported by surrounding debris, creating a cave-like effect. The gun lay in the back, wedged beneath the base. Travis, excited by the prospect of having a more powerful weapon to add to his arsenal, quickly swam under the metal shelving, grabbed the barrel and pulled. The rifle broke free with a lurch, but in doing so disturbed the delicate balance of the structure above him.
    There was a grating sound and a shift in the rack as the surrounding supports gave way and it fell. Travis had just enough time to turn around and begin to move out, head first, when the entire unit came crashing down on his waist and legs, pinning him painfully to the bottom.
    For a moment he was stunned, but as the realization of his predicament set in, the pain in his legs was far overshadowed by the cold, knife-like fear gripping him. He struggled maniacally to free himself. Most of the weight was centered on the back of his legs. There was no way he could reach around, or gain any leverage to lift it off. He was trapped. He looked at his pressure gauge—fifty pounds, and fading fast. He struggled again, so violently that he could feel the flesh of his ankles tearing against the metal. Fear and the exertion were rapidly depleting the last of his air. The tank was already becoming harder to draw on. He shifted again and frantically glanced at a gauge that no longer offered any hope. He had only moments left.
    The air faded as he struggled madly, his tortured lungs screaming for oxygen. Then, inhale as he might, there was nothing more coming through the regulator. Terror gradually faded to surrender, and his struggles were reduced to feeble, helpless movements. He was dying. As everything dimmed to shades of gray and black, he thought he saw a large shadow pass above him. His last cognizant thought was: Probably a shark—not bad enough I have to die like this, I have to get eaten as well.
    Then suddenly, as the darkness began to overtake him, he felt something grab him and roughly drag him out from under the heavy metal frame. He was beyond caring. The next thing he remembered was being pulled across the surface of the water, throwing up saltwater and trying desperately to inhale the sweet, life-giving air into his lungs.
    As the sensei pushed Travis up to the boat, Carlos dragged him on board and unceremoniously dumped him on the deck. “Hey, Travees, Travees. Chu okay, man? Chu no look so bueno , man.”
    Travis couldn’t move. He lay on the deck gasping, incredibly thankful just to be alive. The sensei slipped up and over the rail of the boat in nothing but his birthday suit, knelt next to Travis and quickly examined him. He nodded a curt approval, then went to get his clothes.
    Ten minutes later they were all gathered in the cabin. Travis had recovered sufficiently to speak again, and the color of his skin was no longer gray and mottled.
    He turned to the sensei. “How’d you know? How’d you find me?”
    The Japanese looked at him, “You say to watch bubbles. When there was no