by Tim Waggoner
Me. It attached to me.
What had happened after that was still hazy, as if she’d experienced it in a waking dream state. Another of those weird sharks swam her out to sea, to a large island of some kind, its surface red and crusty, as if it was a gigantic scab. She’d climbed out of the water and onto the island, and she’d begun walking, the rough surface giving beneath her feet as she went, as if it wasn’t earth but rather living tissue. And then an orifice had opened before her, and she stepped into it. Once inside, it closed around her, sealing out the light, and after that there was nothing until she’d woken in the darkness, her body gone. Digested? Maybe. But the most important part of her remained – her mind. Was she now nothing but a brain housed somewhere within whatever the hell this thing was? Or had she been reduced to . . . what? A network of electrical impulses which combined to create the consciousness that thought of itself as Inez Perry?
She supposed it didn’t matter. Whatever she was, she was part of this thing – the island – the shark had brought her to. She could sense it. She wondered what else she could sense, and she concentrated on calming herself, on lowering her mental defenses and allowing information to come into her. It wasn’t a gradual process. It came upon her in an instant, a vast sea of data that rolled over her with tsunami force. It was so overwhelming that for a time she lost her sense of self. But eventually it returned, and when it did, she understood what had happened. The Mass – a creature that had traveled the world’s oceans since the dawn of time – had absorbed her. Not as food, but rather as a kind of operating system. The goddamned thing had given itself an upgrade. For the first time in millions of years the Mass was self-aware. It had consciousness. It had her.
It seemed she had become a monster.
Rather than being dismayed by this thought, she was excited. The Mass had for the most part been doing the same thing the same way since it sent out its first umbilicus to snag its first Hunter, a little tadpole-like creature swimming in a stagnant prehistoric pond. The Mass had grown since then, and now it was as big as the largest whale, and then some. But it was in a rut, and the poor thing hadn’t known it. Until now, that is.
She thought of the film she’d been making. Devourer from the Deep meant nothing to her anymore. She no longer had use for pretend monsters. Now she was a monster, and she intended to put on a show the like of which the world had never seen. But first, she needed to do a bit more upgrading. The Hunters had been more than sufficient for the Mass’ needs before she’d come along, but they lacked versatility and – just as important – style. The Mass had never considered using its capabilities, which were considerable, to make changes to its Hunters, but that’s exactly what Inez intended to do. She had something the Mass hadn’t possessed before – imagination. And it was a tool the Mass could make good use of. Oh yes, it was.
Whatever she now was – disembodied brain, chemically stored information, a small network of electrical impulses housed inside a much larger one – it was the Mass that was ultimately in charge. It had one all-encompassing, overriding need: to eat, and that’s what she would help it do. But eating didn’t have to be boring, did it? It could be fun, too, and Inez intended to teach the Mass exactly what fun was. She would make a movie – a horror movie. The most spectacular ever created, because it wouldn’t just be a movie. It would be real.
Goddamn, this was going to be fun!
She sent out a mental command and a complex mix of enzymes began flowing through the umbilical cords into the Hunters.
And they began to change.
CHAPTER SIX
“The Ides of March VII was my favorite. The makeup was fantastic!”
Bonnie Choi – the Devourer from the Deep’s one and only makeup artist – sat next to Jarrod. She was of Korean descent, and for reasons Jarrod didn’t know but absolutely loved anyway, she never wore makeup herself. As far as he was concerned, she didn’t need it. The natural look suited her. She wore shorts, flip flops, and a Devourer from the Deep T-shirt. Jarrod was getting sick of looking at those damn shirts.
Most of the cast and crew had gathered in Flotsam, a hole-in-the-wall beachside bar less than a mile from the Sea Breeze Hotel. The place was so close to the ocean, Jarrod had no idea how it had survived the fury of Hurricane Janae when so many of the buildings around it hadn’t. Flotsam looked like any other small-town bar Jarrod had ever seen. Wooden floor, tables, chairs, bar with stools and a brass foot rail, dim lighting, TV on the wall – currently tuned to a tennis match with the sound muted. The sole nod to individuality was the decorative items on the walls. They were, as the establishment’s name suggested, items that had been washed up onto the beach. An old-fashioned key, a number of shoes, a hockey puck, an honest-to-god bottle with a message in it (written in Japanese and so far untranslated), a plastic duck, a rusted machete, and more. Jarrod supposed the objects were intended to give the place a funky, eclectic vibe, but it merely looked cluttered and random to him, like someone’s attic had exploded.
There were few locals here tonight – a half dozen or so – and those who were present had been employed to work on the film as grips and such. Manual labor hired for cheap. They were lovely people, and Jarrod hoped they enjoyed working on the film since they damn sure weren’t getting rich from it.
Besides Bonnie, Jarrod’s tablemates for this evening consisted of Tasha (seated on his right), Saul, and Pete Dawson. Troy Jennings and Nina Katri sat at the table next to theirs. The remaining members of the film’s crew – Inez, Boyd, Enrique, Tamara, and Shari Dawson – were absent. No doubt Inez had chained Boyd to his computer for the evening so he could do rewrites for tomorrow, the poor sonofabitch. Writers were always shit on in Hollywood. He assumed the others would be along in time. With perhaps the exception of Tamara. Her sexual appetites were legendary – so much so that Jarrod was more than a little jealous of her – and she might be entertaining a visitor (or more) in her room right now. He briefly wondered if she was with Boyd and decided it wasn’t likely. He hadn’t noticed her flirting with the writer at any time during the few days they’d been filming. Inez then? Highly doubtful. Inez swung that way now and again, but she tried to avoid screwing anyone who worked on one of her pictures. Not until after filming had wrapped, anyway. Enrique? Perhaps. The man was quite attractive. If Jarrod had been a couple decades younger . . .
Bonnie spoke once again, pulling Jarrod away from his thoughts.
“Nigel Stanford did the makeup on that movie, didn’t he? How in the hell did you get an Academy Award-winning makeup artist to work on a film like that?” She stopped then, her cheeks coloring from embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply Ides of March VII wasn’t . . . uh . . .”
Jarrod laughed.
“No need to apologize, my dear. The Ides of March series might’ve been popular in its time, but it was hardly high art. The reason Nigel took the job was simple: we were lovers at the time, and he did it as a favor to me. We broke up soon after, actually. Nigel’s reputation took a hit after he worked on the film, and it became a sore point between us. We argued about it, and one thing led to another . . .” Jarrod shrugged. “We were young and foolish.” As if that’s an excuse, he thought.
He was drinking a whiskey sour, and he downed the remainder of it and held up the empty to signal to the bartender that he wanted another.
“Maybe you should have something to eat first,” Tasha said.
Jarrod put on a smile.
“Thanks for your concern, love, but I ate in my room before coming over.”
Tasha opened her mouth as if she were about to call him on his lie, but she said nothing. She didn’t look happy, though.
Jarrod wasn’t irritated by Tasha looking out for him. He found it rather sweet, actually. But he could hardly tell her that the thought of taking even a single bite of food was repellent to him. For some reason – one for which he was profoundly grateful – his lack of appetite didn’t extend to alcohol. If it had, he wouldn’t have been getting
any calories at all.
There was something off about Tasha tonight, although he couldn’t have said what it was. She seemed preoccupied, even withdrawn, as if her mind was elsewhere. He hoped it wasn’t anything he’d done or said. She turned to him then and smiled reassuringly, as if she read his mind. Before meeting her, he would’ve found the notion ridiculous. But now . . . She was drinking diet soda. She’d told him she didn’t like the effect alcohol had on her. Jarrod had wondered exactly what effect she’d been referring to, but he hadn’t wanted to pry.
Saul was drinking scotch and water (and very little of the latter), although he mostly held his glass in his hand and stared down at it. He seemed discouraged, almost depressed. Jarrod suspected he knew why. Early in his own career, he’d find himself feeling down in the middle of a shoot when he realized the film he was working on was a piece of shit, and despite his best efforts, there was nothing he could do to make it better. Jarrod had learned to deal with this by focusing on doing the best work he was capable of given the circumstances, knowing that there was an appreciative audience out there for these kind of films, regardless of how “good” they might be according to critics’ standards.
Jarrod didn’t think sharing this insight with Saul would do any good, though. Saul was a man who, despite his years in the industry, still had ambitions. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his career making cheap horror movies, but Jarrod suspected that Saul was beginning to realize that at this point in his life, it was a very real possibility that he would end up doing precisely that. Jarrod wished he could teach the man the sacred art of No Longer Giving a Fuck, but considering he’d had to contract a fatal disease to learn it himself, he doubted it was something that could be taught.
Too bad. I’d make a killing as a self-help guru otherwise.
Pete had barely said more than a handful of words since sitting down. He had a mug of beer which he periodically took sips of, but he spent the majority of his time sneaking glances at the door. Was he anxious for Shari’s arrival? Or perhaps someone else’s?
The bartender came over with Jarrod’s new drink, and he exchanged his empty glass for the full one.
“Last night you were drinking mojitos. Why the change up?”
Susan Holland was both owner and head bartender of Flotsam, and if Jarrod had been straight, he’d have fallen in love with her. He was a bit in love with her anyway. She was a tall, athletic, short-haired brunette in her late thirties. She was heavily tattooed with intricate tribal designs, and she had a nose ring and multiple piercings in each ear, including expanders. She was a runner and ran marathons all over the country. She’d told Jarrod that Flotsam’s sole purpose as far as she was concerned was to finance her running career. But if she resented having to work to support her running habit, it didn’t show. She was always pleasant and had a sarcastic attitude that Jarrod adored. Tonight, she wore cowboy boots – hardly conducive to running, Jarrod thought – jeans, and a black concert T-shirt for a band he’d never heard of: Infant Annihilator.
“I dislike mixing drinks, and I despise being predictable,” Jarrod said. “Sticking with a different drink each night is a good compromise between the two.”
Susan grinned.
“As long as you keep buying drinks, it’s all good as far as I’m concerned.” She addressed the rest of the table then. “Anyone else need anything?” No one did, so she moved off to check on her other customers.
Sudden warmth came over Jarrod, along with lightheadedness. A fever, he thought. A symptom of his leukemia. Unpleasant, but nothing to be alarmed about. It hit him like this sometimes, full on when he least expected it. All he had to do was ride it out and he’d be fine. It might last a short time or continue for the rest of the night, but eventually it would end. Although in the meantime he was hardly going to be the life of the party.
He felt Tasha’s feather-light touch as she placed her hand atop one of his. She tightened her grip slightly, and before he could ask what she was doing, he felt his fever recede. No, that wasn’t right. The fever was still there, he knew that, but he didn’t feel it as strongly anymore. It was as if the circuitry in his brain that connected his consciousness to his fever had been switched off.
He turned his hand over beneath Tasha’s and gave her a gentle squeeze.
Thank you, he thought, and he was not at all surprised when Tasha squeezed his hand back as if to say, You’re welcome.
* * * * *
Inez had waited while the Mass made the changes to its Hunters, the time passing for her in an almost dreamlike fashion. When the process was complete, she returned to full awareness. It wasn’t like waking from sleep. One moment she was detached, mind empty, and the next she was awake and alert, as if she were a computer that had gone into rest mode until its user needed it again. She supposed in a very real sense, that’s what she was now. This thought didn’t distress her. This was her new reality, and she accepted it. Besides, she was far more interested in field testing the new improved Hunters.
Let’s do it, she thought.
* * * * *
Lee Fleming had lived in Bridgewater all her life, and she’d never desired to go anywhere else, even after Janae had torn the place all to hell. Her daddy had started Big-Time Tow, and while the business might never have lived up to its name, it had put food on the table. Dominic Fleming had towed broken-down vehicles for twenty-two years before his heart decided it had had enough of this world and quit on him. Lee had been nineteen at the time and working as a cashier at Burnt Pig Barbecue when she decided to continue her daddy’s legacy. She was twenty-eight now, and while the towing business wasn’t exactly glamorous, it suited her well enough.
She liked her gig with the movie people. They needed her to move their monster around for them, and while that was fun, what she liked most was seeing that cute special effects guy. The monster didn’t go anywhere without him, and he always rode in the cab with her whenever the monster needed to travel. She had always been comfortable talking to people, and she’d struck up a conversation with Enrique the first time she’d met him, and they’d spoken more each time she’d hauled the monster to one place or another. Besides being cute, he was easy to talk to and genuinely seemed like a nice guy, and she’d decided she’d ask him out for a drink tonight. She figured there was a good chance he’d say yes. And after that, who knew? Maybe they’d both get lucky.
She was short and on the curvy side, and while she might not look like a cover girl, she had no trouble finding guys to date. As far as she was concerned, being sexy was mostly about self-confidence, and she had plenty of that. She wore a white tank top, jeans, and sneakers. The jeans were tight and the top displayed a good amount of cleavage – maybe too much – but she liked Enrique, so what the hell?
The sun had only begun to dip below the horizon when she pulled up to the beach. She was early – Enrique had said to come back at dusk – but she’d been too eager to see him to wait any longer. She knew she’d risk interrupting filming by coming early, but so what? Didn’t movie directors do a lot of takes?
She drove slowly onto the sand. Her vehicle had four-wheel drive, but she wanted to avoid getting stuck if she could. How embarrassing would that be? Her, a local girl, not knowing how to drive on the beach?
She didn’t see anyone, but that wasn’t too surprising. The sheriff had closed this section of the beach so the movie folks could film. There were signs posted on the street next to the beach, and there were barriers – a pair of broom handles stuck into the sand with yellow caution tape stretched between them – at each end of the reserved sections. People gathered to watch the filming and take pictures on the sly, but so far as she knew, no one had snuck into the restricted area. But there was no sign of the cast and crew, either, which struck her as odd. From what Enrique had told her, their producer was a slave driver who kept them working every moment she could. Maybe they’d finished today’s beach scenes and were filming elsewhere. If so, she hoped Enrique had remained with the mechani
cal pliosaur. She didn’t see him next to the monster, though. Maybe he was on the other side of it? She sounded her horn a couple times, but he didn’t appear.
Shit. Well, she knew he’d return to the beach when the sun went down. No way he’d let her tow Bob without him. She’d just have to wait.
She pulled her truck up to where Bob rested off shore, maneuvered the vehicle until the rear faced the dinosaur, then turned off the engine. She briefly considered sitting and listening to the radio, but as she’d approached she’d seen a new prop lying on the beach – a wounded shark – which she assumed Enrique had made, and she wanted to get a look at it. That way, she’d have something new to talk to him about when she saw him.
She climbed out of the truck – leaving the keys in the ignition – shut the door and started walking toward the shark. On the way, she noticed Bob’s head was tilted at a weird angle. Had the dinosaur gotten damaged during filming? If so, Enrique would probably be too busy fixing it to go out with her tonight. Maybe she could keep him company while he worked? And if they took a few breaks to “get to know each other better,” what was the harm in that?
She knew something was wrong before she reached the shark. For one thing, it looked too real. Its head was nothing but ragged, blood-soaked meat and cartilage, and while she knew special effects artists could work wonders, Enrique had told her that he only had a small budget to work with, and most of that money had been spent on Bob. But as good as the dinosaur was, it still looked like an overgrown toy. But this shark looked – and more disgustingly, smelled – like the real deal. She smelled blood combined with a fishy odor and the scent of incipient rot. She wasn’t sure what kind of shark it was. Just because she’d grown up next to the ocean didn’t mean she was an expert in marine biology. But she’d never seen one with red veins running through its skin like this. It was that detail which made her reconsider her original thought. Maybe this was a special effect. But then she realized there was no reason for Enrique to make it smell like an actual dead shark. No, the thing was real, but what the hell was it doing here and what had happened to it? Had it got its head caught in a boat propeller, died, and then washed up on the beach, probably after filming was done for the day? That seemed the likeliest explanation. And maybe those red veins were some kind of injury too, although she felt less confident about this theory.
