by Tim Waggoner
BLOOD ISLAND
Tim Waggoner
www.severedpress.com
Copyright 2018 by Tim Waggoner
PROLOGUE
600 Million Years Ago
The sun’s rays are punishingly hot, the air thick and heavy. Small fern-like plants are scattered across the inlet’s rocky shore, hardy, stubborn things that have forced their way upward to claim a place in the light. The water that gently laps against the shore is a stagnant soup of salt and decaying vegetable matter. Not the most hospitable of conditions, perhaps, but nevertheless, there is life here beside the little ferns. Tiny amphibious creatures that resemble what will one day be called tadpoles wriggle through the water, nibbling at bits of algae and dead fern, and if they were capable of anything approaching thought, they would consider this to be the best of all possible worlds and think themselves blessed to live in such a paradise.
These ur-tadpoles are not the only form of animal life in the water, though. Floating just below the surface is an irregularly shaped clump of cells colored a dark crimson. This small mass looks like nothing more than a bit of debris drifting in the water, perhaps a fleshy remnant of some creature that was devoured by something larger, stronger, and even hungrier than itself. But this mass is a lifeform unto itself, and despite its small size and unassuming appearance, it is the most sophisticated creature currently existing on the planet. The Mass is capable of independent movement when necessary, but for now it’s content to bob in the water patiently and wait.
After a time, one of the ur-tadpoles swims toward the Mass, intending to determine if this strange object is edible. But the instant the ur-tadpole comes in contact with the Mass’ substance, a thin pseudopod extrudes from the surface and whips toward the ur-tadpole lightning-fast. The barbed tip of the pseudopod stretches toward the base of the ur-tadpole’s tail and pierces the animal’s rubbery hide. Once inside the body of its prey, the pseudopod releases a powerful cocktail of chemicals into the ur-tadpole’s bloodstream. The animal writhes in agony as those chemicals race through its body, attaching themselves to the creature’s primitive nervous system and the microscopic organ that is nowhere near sophisticated enough to be called a brain. Crimson striations cover its body, as if a new network of veins has appeared beneath its skin.
The ur-tadpole grows still then, and the Mass sends a message to it through their connection. This message is a simple but powerful command, and instinctive rather than cognitive, but if it were to be translated into language, the best interpretation would be FIND FOOD.
Still connected to the Mass, the ur-tadpole wriggles off, the pseudopod thinning and lengthening as the distance between it and the Mass increases. The ur-tadpole – which is now not exactly a part of the Mass so much as a mindless slave to it – heads straight for others of its kind clustered around a glob of algae and eating, blissfully unaware that death is coming for them.
The Mass will eat well this day. It will add the ur-tadpoles’ substance to its own and grow larger and stronger. It will save several of the ur-tadpoles to serve as Hunters until such time as it can find better – and bigger – servants. Life here at the dawn of time is extremely good for the Mass.
And it’s only going to get better.
CHAPTER ONE
The Gulf of Mexico, Present Day
“Slow down!”
Nancy Brock gripped the sides of the skiff to steady herself, an action she knew was useless. What good would holding onto the boat do if the goddamned thing flipped over?
“Quit being so nervous. I know what I’m doing.”
Phil Briggs sat at the skiff’s stern, manning the motor and – despite his attempt to reassure her – Nancy was confident he’d never piloted a boat before in his fucking life. If Inez Perry hadn’t been the cheapest of low-budget producers, maybe they could’ve hired one of the locals to take them around. She supposed they were lucky Inez had given them the go-ahead to rent a boat at all. Otherwise, they would’ve had to swim out here to get the pictures they needed.
It was mid-October, but here in the Gulf, it was in the low eighties. The wind was blowing a bit cold out here, though, and despite the warm sunshine coming down, Nancy wished she’d brought a light jacket, or at least worn a top with long sleeves. Instead she wore a black T-shirt with the words Devourer of the Deep printed on the front in red letters. The E’s were designed to look like little sideways jaws with three sharp, curved teeth – dripping blood, of course. When she and Scott had been given the shirts at the Imagitopia Entertainment’s offices, she’d been surprised. Inez was a legendary penny-pincher, even in the world of low-budget films where every dollar had to be stretched as far as it could. When they’d been told not to lose or damage the shirts because the one was all they were going to get, she’d thought, Now that’s more like it.
Phil wore his production T-shirt as well, along with white shorts and sneakers. You weren’t supposed to wear white after Labor Day, but that rule didn’t count in places like this, where it stayed warm most of the time. Even so, her shorts were blue, as were her flip-flops. Phil was a lean man in his thirties, tan skin taut and shiny from too much sun, his short hair blond with a light dusting of gray at the sides. Most men she knew would’ve concealed the gray hair by coloring it or maybe shaving their head entirely. But not Phil. She’d once asked him why he didn’t color his hair, and he’d shrugged and said, “It is what it is, you know?” He’d risen in her estimation after that. Not much, but a little.
Phil was of medium height, and at six two, Nancy practically towered over him, even when they were seated like now. Her head was a mess of frizzy black hair that moved continuously in the wind as if possessed of its own life, as if she were a gorgon who’d lost the ability to turn anyone to stone. Her skin was much paler than Phil’s. She’d lived in LA just like him, but she spent most of her time inside working in front of a laptop. A lot of location scouting – at least the initial work – could be done via the Internet. Unfortunately, all of it couldn’t be done with a computer, hence their boat ride.
Nancy kept gripping the sides of the skiff as Phil continued to take them further out to sea. She kept her head turned and her gaze focused on the town behind them, and when she thought they were far enough away from the shore, she told Phil to stop. He obediently cut the engine and then used an oar to row the skiff so it was parallel to land. Nancy let out a long sigh of relief that they were no longer moving. Phil scowled at her, but he didn’t say anything.
As he brought the boat around, Nancy found herself looking out to sea. She thought she saw something in the water a few dozen yards away, but she wasn’t sure what it could be – if it was even there at all. She had an impression of a rough, dark, uneven surface that made her think of a scab, only this scab was huge, at least the size of a football field. She shielded her eyes to get a better look at it, but then the skiff came around and brought the shore back into view. She turned her head, trying to get another look at whatever it was, but she could no longer see it.
“Something wrong?” Phil asked.
“No, I guess not.” She looked at him and smiled. “Eyes playing tricks on me.”
She turned back to gaze upon the town. She had a job to do, and she didn’t have time to worry about optical illusions.
Both of them looked at the town for several moments, taking in the view – such as it was. She guessed they were half a mile away from shore, but even at this distance, Bridgewater looked like shit.
She broke the silence first. “Not much to look at, huh?”
“Maybe they can get some footage of a different town for long shots?”
“Maybe.”
They’d have to do something. It wasn’t as if the production could afford to mask the town’s deficiencies with CGI, the wa
y a major production might. Real life, with all its warts, was much more cost-effective.
Bridgewater was a small town on the Central Coast of Texas, and Nancy supposed that in the not-too-distant past, it might’ve been quaint, the kind of place you’d go to if you wanted a low-key, laidback vacation away from anything that even hinted at city life. But that was before Hurricane Janae hit three years ago. Bridgewater only caught the edge of the storm, but that had been enough to destroy a third of the town. Nancy had seen pictures of Bridgewater from before the hurricane, and even then the town had looked as if its better days were behind it. Long behind. But after Janae, Nancy was surprised that anything remained standing.
The buildings were small, one or two stories at the most. The shore was divided into three basic areas: houses for the well-to-do; shops, restaurants, and bars; and houses for middle-class and below. There were gaps between buildings, indicating places where structures had fallen to Janae’s winds. A third of the remaining buildings were boarded up and mostly uninhabitable. There was a main dock which didn’t look too bad, but she knew that was because the old one had been destroyed by Janae and replaced by this one, which was less than three years old. The town gave off an atmosphere of decay and desolation which definitely did not fit Inez’s vision for the film.
“It would be perfect if they were making a ghost story,” Phil said.
“Yeah,” Nancy agreed.
“Maybe they could rewrite the script to incorporate the town the way it is,” Phil said.
Nancy gave him a look.
“Okay, I admit it was a stupid idea.”
Devourer of the Deep had been Inez’s idea from the start. She’d hired a writer to bring her concept to life and then told Nancy and Phil all about her “vision” before sending them off to Texas.
The whole world’s gone crazy over those dinosaurs they found on that island. There’s going to be a big-budget studio movie about them – it’s already in pre-production – but if we can move fast, we can film our version of the story and get it out before the official version is finished shooting. We won’t do exactly the same story, of course. That would be plagiarizing. Or stealing. Whatever. Our movie is going to be inspired by real events. Besides, there have been a billion rip-offs of Jaws over the years, and none of them ever got sued . . . as far as I know. Besides, you can’t copyright the concept of sharks eating people. Same goes for sea monsters. People are starving for more dino action, and we’re going to give it to them. We’ll be a hit!
A “hit” for a studio as small as Imagitopia Entertainment meant going straight to video and Netflix. In other words, being a modest success.
Nancy had to admit that Inez’s reasoning was sound enough. The pliosaur attack on the island resort of Elysium had been a worldwide sensation, but aside from some images of a few dead creatures and some amateur video uploaded to the Net, the world hadn’t really seen the pliosaurs. Not enough to satisfy their curiosity, at any rate. Nancy had heard that Animal Planet was doing a documentary on the pliosaurs, but she had no idea when it would be shown. So Inez really could beat everyone to the punch with her movie. And if it was crappy, so what? It would be first.
The problem with Inez – actually, one of many – was that she could be rigid when it came to her “visions.” Elysium had been one of the most luxurious resorts ever created, and so the town in the script was also a resort. Nothing as elaborate as Elysium, of course. Imagitopia didn’t have the budget for it. But Inez wanted a “resort-type town,” as the script indicated. Before Janae, Bridgewater might’ve fit the description if you squinted your eyes and let your vision go out of focus. But now? No fucking way.
“What if we film the town from different angles?” she suggested. “Try to avoid shooting the shitty parts.”
Phil gazed at the town for several moments, considering.
“That might work,” he said at last. “They won’t be able to shoot from as far out as we are, though. They’ll have to be a lot closer if they don’t want to get any of the abandoned buildings in the shot.”
He was right, of course. Most likely the director wouldn’t even bother trying. Nevertheless, Nancy removed her phone from her shorts pocket and began taking pictures of the town. Regardless of what she and Phil recommended, Inez would want to see for herself. Getting decent pictures while the skiff was bobbing on the waves was difficult, but she managed.
So far, she was pleased at how this trip was turning out. At first, she hadn’t been thrilled to learn she’d be working with Phil. He was professional and a nice enough guy, she supposed, but he was married and had a reputation for getting handsy with his female co-workers. He hadn’t done anything so severe that he’d gotten fired over it, but he’d done more than enough to make her leery about being alone with him, like out here on the ocean in a skiff, far enough from shore that no one would hear her if she screamed.
But Phil had been a perfect gentleman during this trip. From the flight from LA to the drive to Bridgewater, to getting set up in separate rooms in the cramped, mildew-ridden cracker box that served as their hotel, he hadn’t given her any reason for concern. No leering looks when he thought she couldn’t see, no suggestive comments, no “accidental” physical contact. He’d given her no reason to worry so far, and while she knew better than to let her guard down entirely – she did work in movie business, after all – she didn’t need to be on high alert the whole time either.
As she prepared to take a few last photos, she saw something strange on her phone screen. A reddish-gray triangular shape sliced through the water, and her mind instantly supplied a word for it. Shark.
She lowered her phone so she could look at the shark fin with her own eyes. She couldn’t tell exactly how close the shark was to the skiff or how big the fish was, but it was definitely a shark. She’d never heard of one colored red before. Weird.
She pointed toward the fin. “Check it out.”
Phil looked in the direction she indicated. He saw the fin and shrugged.
“So? There are probably lots of sharks around here. They’re nothing to worry about.” He gave her a smile. “This is real life, not the movies.”
She didn’t care for his patronizing tone, but she didn’t respond. He was right, after all. Sharks were just animals, and so long as she and Phil stayed in the skiff, they’d be fine. But the sight of that fin, with those strange red striations running through its gray hide, still made her nervous. Ever since the news of the pliosaur attack on Elysium came out, she’d been fascinated with the creatures, like so many other people on the planet. But her fascination turned to revulsion when she watched the online videos of pliosaurs killing people. She began imagining what it must have been like for the pliosaurs’ victims, to see a monster out of the prehistoric past coming toward them, mouth yawning wide to reveal twin rows of deadly razor-sharp teeth. She’d begun having nightmares where she was swimming in the ocean, no land in sight, when pliosaurs surrounded her and attacked one by one, each taking a bite of her flesh and then swimming off to swallow it while another pliosaur came at her. The nightmares became so intense and so frequent that she’d gone to the doctor for some heavy-duty sleeping pills. The nightmares lessened in frequency after that, although she still had them from time to time.
So when she learned that Inez was hot to make a pliosaur-eating-helpless-victims movie, she wanted nothing to do with it. But then she realized that if she let her fear control her, she’d never be free of it. So when Inez told Nancy that she wanted her to go with Phil and scout Bridgewater as a possible location for Devourer From the Deep, she’d said yes.
But now, out here on the water, seeing the shark’s fin – even though it wasn’t that close – she was reminded once again of the pliosaurs, and how no one really knew what lay beneath the surface of the ocean, knew what sort of things swam in the dark depths, hungry and hunting for fresh meat . . .
Her gaze remained focused on the shark fin when something grabbed her from behind. She squealed in fea
r and surprise, and it took her a couple of seconds to realize that a shark hadn’t lunged out of the water and fastened its jaws around her middle. Instead of teeth, what gripped her were hands – Phil’s hands – and they had clasped her boobs and were now kneading them none too gently.
For a second, she was so shocked that she didn’t react, but then she grabbed his wrists and tore his hands away from her breasts. Still holding onto his wrists, she half turned to face him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she shouted. She was both angry and afraid, and she hoped the latter emotion didn’t show in her voice.
He smiled as he pulled his arms free from her grip. He did so without any apparent effort, and she realized he was stronger than he looked.
“I was just playing around,” Phil said. “No hard feelings, okay?”
Her anger grew hotter, eclipsing her fear.
“You grabbed my tits! How the fuck is that just ‘playing around’? More like physical assault!”
“C’mon, copping a feel may make me a creep, but it hardly qualifies as assault.”
“What about your wife?” she demanded.
Phil shrugged. “She’s a makeup artist, and she’s on set in Ontario. Besides, we have a don’t ask, don’t tell policy. She’s probably fucking her way through half of Canada. So long as she fucks me when I want, what do I care?”
It required an effort, but she kept her features composed and her tone relatively calm.
“We’ve seen what we needed to see. Let’s head back to shore.”
Phil had continued to smile this entire time, but now his smile fell away and his brow knitted. His eyes flashed with anger and his tone was strained as he spoke.
“You don’t have to be a bitch about this.”
She held his gaze. “Yeah, I do. Now let’s go.”
“What if I say no?”
“I’ll pilot the skiff myself.”
