by Steven Welch
The breath from Jack’s lungs was white like smoke.
“All of you were here? How did you survive?”
“No, I was the only one here. The rest, and Becca there, they came later. They found me. Or I found them. Either way. And I hid, sir. I hid like a rat until the killing was done.”
“Not a rat,” said Jack, “just smart. That’s all. So, do you know the story of The Turn?”
“The hand of God, sir. Like the flood of the good book but reversed. A judgement was made and devils came to man and there was a great culling. Then God brought back our old world and told us to make it whole and pure, to reject the evil and wicked things that had caused the judgement. Praise God.”
The four other men of the village murmured agreement. The woman, Becca, was quiet, her pale mouth a blue bruise along her jaw that didn’t smile or frown. Her eyes were dark, and she did not look up.
Jack walked to Becca and stood over her, his hand reached out to touch her face and she flinched.
“And you? Do you not agree with your friends?”
“She doesn’t speak, sir,” said one of the men.
Jack looked hard at Becca, at her thin skin and shaded eyes. She was wrapped in old clothes but he could see dried blood on her neck and there were bruises there.
“She doesn’t speak,” Jack said, “I wonder what she would say if she could.” She looked up into Jack’s eyes and it was his turn to flinch. Her eyes carried an anger and hatred that surprised him.
“Is she your wife or sister?”
The men were silent. One of them stepped forward and said “she does not speak or labor, sir. Came out of the forest one day. She’s a woman though and we’re men and nights are cold so she serves a purpose and that’s enough for us to keep her fed. We need children to continue on but she appears to be fallow.”
Jack grunted and stepped away from the woman.
“Let me tell you what really happened,” he said.
They gathered around the warmth of the fire and listened as Jack told them the story of The Turn, of the arrogance of man and how it had opened doors into other realms and how those doors unleashed an apocalypse. He told them that there was no God, there were no demons, but there were infinite worlds just waiting to devour the helpless and how those worlds are out there, just an invitation away.
“When we let our ego convince us we’re gods and we can create those things that we see in our visions we’re just tools of the very things that will destroy us,” he said, “and I am here to tell you of The Truth. My men and I will shut every door, close every portal, stitch every rip in the fabric of eternity, and keep our world pure.”
Jack continued well on into the morning and the five men listened and they believed because they had been waiting for something to believe in.
When he was done and he could see that the men were with him he pulled his handgun and shot the woman between the eyes. She fell back and the white ground beneath her head blossomed dark red.
“What you men did to that woman was wrong. You rendered her of no more use through your own greed and lust and stupidity. There’ll be no more of that. Next time I’ll put you down,” Jack said.
They moved on that afternoon and they were five stronger than they had been when they arrived.
THE OYSTER ATE MY BABY
The sun burned in the Parisian sky but the air was cool along the Seine.
There was a faint smell of burning wood in the slight breeze. That had been a constant in the months after The Turn, as the city burned, but now it was more rare and likely as not a sign that someone, somewhere, was having a cook-out. Or being cooked.
Zuzu and the el-Noori family stood on the Left Bank’s ancient cobblestone sidewalk in the shadow of the buildings at the mouth of Boulevard St. Germain. The old buildings were in good shape for this neighborhood, mostly intact, just crusted here and there with the massive Land Oysters that were becoming more common in Paris. The things began to appear frequently in the past year, dark gray shells that looked for all the world like a normal oyster except they were a meter wide and clung to the sides of buildings.
The Land Oysters were unsightly and sometimes dangerous additions to the City of Love, dangerous because unlike their aquatic counterparts they were active predators and had been known to reach down with their long tongues and snatch up unwary dogs.
Erjan el-Noori was a thin whippet of a man with large, sad eyes. The two older el-Noori children inherited the hang-dog look and general aura of defeat. The youngest, a toddler, seemed lively enough and made squealing sounds as he toddled here and there along the cobblestones. The wife and mother of the el-Noori family, Suzannah, was built like a tank and had eyes that seemed capable of producing fiery death beams at a moment’s notice. Zuzu understood who ran the house in the el-Noori family. She stepped up to Suzannah, towered over her, and jabbed a thick finger into the woman’s ample chest.
“The Louvre is off limits until those Lionfish move on. There’s nothing we can do.”
“You’ve been paid.”
“I drank only half of the beer and I’d return the rest but I don’t want to do that. Consider it payment for my team and me almost getting eaten. Here’s the ammo.”
Zuzu handed over the dark green ammo case. It was heavy and Zuzu secretly hoped that Mother el-Noori would struggle with the weight. She did not. Zuzu wondered for a moment who might win in a leg wrestling match. The toddler el-Noori shouted something incomprehensible and giggled as he rolled on the ground a few meters away.
“You owe us for the beer.”
“Call me again the next time something scary chases you. I’ll take care of it. That’s a good deal.”
“Not good enough. And my children must see the artwork. This is non-negotiable.”
Zuzu silently considered letting the family enjoy the artwork in the gallery of Les Scaphandriers but the woman was pissing her off.
Erjan el-Noori opened his mouth to speak. His wife turned and held up her hand. The mouth closed shut with an audible snap. The two older children took a step back. The toddler paid no attention to anything but its own toes.
Suzannah turned back to Zuzu and this time her voice went low. It almost gave Zuzu chills when she spoke.
“We live in what used to be The Pantheon, in Voltaire’s crypt. We live in cold and fear and we are surrounded with rubble where there used to be a city and we are hunted by nightmare creatures and packs of wild dogs. We live like animals, I give birth like an animal, and we used to live in an apartment in the 16th that was worth more than you could imagine. We were special people living a special life in a special place. Now, my children just saw their uncle eaten by monsters while they were trying to enjoy some nice artwork. I want them to see beautiful things and those things are in the Louvre. You were probably a laborer or something else menial, by the look of you, so you must do as you are told and finish the job.”
Yes, thought Zuzu, to hell with this woman.
“Finish the job? Lady, the only thing I must do is eat, shit, and breath. You have plenty of ammo. Go kill the Lionfish yourself.”
Zuzu was taller than the woman but not by much. She stepped closer so they were almost nose to nose. The other el-Nooris were so focused on what promised to be an epic brawl they did not notice the slick pink tongue as long and as a thick as a python that stretched from the oyster just above their heads down to the street where the littlest el-Noori toddled.
The child saw the tongue though. He looked up, and he saw the long, undulating pink mass reaching, searching. He giggled and stood on unsteady legs. The tongue seemed to sense the vibration. It hovered just above the toddler’s head.
The child laughed and grabbed it by the tip.
Quick as a whip the tongue lashed out and encircled the toddler. The child didn’t even have time to scream before he was lifted into the air. The dark gray oyster shell that clung to the brick wall a few meters above was open and a slick, pulsing white meat could be seen.
&nb
sp; Zuzu and Mother el-Noori were circling each other shouting obscenities. Father el-Noori stared at the tops of his shoes and seemed to have grown even smaller as the two women argued. The two older children focused on Zuzu and their mother. None of them noticed the dilemma of the smallest el-Noori.
The tongue of the Land Oyster retracted with sudden force and the toddler was pulled kicking into the open shell, into the mass of mollusk meat.
The shell snapped shut with a wet thud.
“What was that sound?” Zuzu stopped shouting but Mother el-Noori didn’t. Zuzu stepped away, ignoring the red-faced woman, and looked around. There had been an odd, wet noise. It was unmistakable.
“Be quiet, you idiot,” Zuzu said. Then she looked up and saw a pair of tiny feet in tiny blue tennis shoes sticking out of the Land Oyster just overhead.
The little feet kicked.
Zuzu pulled her pistol. No good, that won’t help. This was a problem.
The oysters had no teeth but in one minute, maybe two, the child would suffocate. Left for a few weeks he would be absorbed.
Erjan el-Noori noticed then, the little feet dangling from the shell of the oyster. His scream shocked the other el-Nooris into attention and then there were screams, each in a different pitch, a veritable barbershop quartet of shrieks.
“That’s not helping,” said Zuzu.
Mother el-Noori leaped as high as she could to reach her son but the feet dangled at least a meter above her grasping fingers.
Zuzu pulled a hook and line from her vest. Les Scaphandriers standard issue.
The el-Noori family were all now leaping and screaming. Zuzu ignored them and tossed the collapsible steel hook up toward the window ledge just above the Land Oyster. The first attempt missed, and the hook fell to the street with a clang. The second toss was true. She pulled hard on the line and the hook held.
Zuzu hadn’t kept up with her training. There was a time when she could scale a wall or a cliff like a big, blonde monkey. That was years and a few pounds ago.
Her feet hit the bricks, her fingers tightened, her biceps struggled, and she thought her head would explode with effort.
Father el-Noori noticed what Zuzu was attempting to do. His small hands went to her back, and he shoved. Panic gave him more strength than Zuzu expected and he gave her a solid boost.
Okay, she thought, I can do this. The line bit her hands but Zuzu clambered up the old bricks arm over arm, foot over foot, until the toddler’s feet were just within reach.
The ancient brick of the window sill gave way, the hook exploded out in a cloud of dust, and Zuzu plummeted to the street. She hit with a smack and rolled to avoid injury but the pain of the impact was a shock. Nothing snapped but the meat of her haunches was in agony. The wind was knocked out of her and Zuzu sucked air like a dying fish.
Running out of time.
Zuzu forced herself to her feet and ran.
“Where are you going?” screamed Mother el-Noori, and the scream was an accusation.
Shut up, thought Zuzu. She turned the corner and made for the front door of the building. Tried the handle. Locked. Zuzu hit the door with a shoulder as the wind came back to her lungs and the brittle old wood gave way. She dashed into the darkness of the ground floor lobby and took the staircase at a sprint.
Running out of time.
She had her hunting knife in her hand when she reached the window. She lifted the shutters.
The window pane was sealed shut.
Damn.
Zuzu kicked the glass out and cleared the jagged edges away with her boot. Broken glass showered down onto the screaming el-Nooris.
The Land Oyster clung to the wall just below the window.
Zuzu straddled the window. The tough material of her jumpsuit protected her from the glass.
She could hear a strange, wet, gurgling sound.
Oh gross, she thought.
Well, that’s the sound an oyster makes when it eats a baby.
“Not on my watch,” she said as she jammed her knife into the lip of the oyster shell. The carbon steel cut through the exposed meat.
Zuzu had grown up on her father’s fishing ship. They had eaten many oysters, and she’d shucked a thousand in her time. This was no different, just bigger. She worked the knife into the meat of the mollusk and cut the adductor muscle that kept the bivalve in place.
Gouts of cold oyster liquor squirted out and smeared her face.
The shell popped open.
The slime covered el-Noori toddler looked up at her for an instant with wide eyes then dropped into Father el-Noori’s waiting arms and wailed.
“Done deal,” said Zuzu, “we’re square. Now, when I get back down there you’re going to give me the ammo box.”
Mother el-Noori glared.
THE TANK GARDEN
There was a long stone seawall with faded blue trim that ran the length of the harbor facing the Gulf of Aqaba.
The seawall was built long before the high-rise hotels and apartments transformed the area into a trendy tourist wonderland, back when the King had spent his days water-skiing and fishing the bright clear waters. When the King passed his son saw the promise of the Gulf and a great deal of money flowed into the shore. The older buildings were razed and shining new ones built. Then the world turned and none of that mattered anymore but the old seawall with faded blue trim remained.
ShuShu was like the old seawall. He had been there for the King, and then for the King’s son, and then he survived the turn of the world by hiding in his concrete block hut by the shore and scavenging for things he might need.
Like the seawall ShuShu was crusty and deteriorating bit by bit. Elise thought he might have a few barnacles clinging to his skin under the ragged polo shirt.
Elise made the short walk from her hotel down to the seawall and she carried her backpack. A tentacle reached out of the sack and tested the air, then returned to the dark comfort of the sack. She wore shorts and sandals. Her legs were long and lean, tan with a scar lines like stray spider webs. The little wounds from the terra-squid’s suction cups were a line of purple dots along her calf. Jules was dark on her left wrist. Sunglasses concealed her eyes.
She made a hard left at the seawall and within a few moments was standing outside of a one-story concrete building that might have once been painted blue but was now a distressed white. A sign leaned against the open door of the place. The words were in Arabic, French, German, and English and they advertised “ShuShu’s Red Sea Tours.”
“Knock knock,” said Elise. There was a shuffling sound from inside the darkness of the place and then ShuShu popped out of the door. He smiled and displayed his two yellow teeth.
“Welcome. Special deal today,” he said in a voice that rattled with the echo of too many cigarettes.
“What’s the deal, ShuShu?”
“Very special deal today for you, lady. Big tour. Much diving, see many fish, beer included. Great deal.”
“Sounds the great deal, that’s for sure. How’s the family?”
The old man patted the air next to him and smiled wide. ShuShu’s eyes were cloudy with the film and his thin face crusted with salt from the sea. He laughed.
“Good. Family is good.” He continued to pat the emptiness at his side. Elise smiled and took his hand.
“I’ll take the deal. Half-day tour, beer on ice, you show me the best spots. Deal.”
ShuShu laughed and shook her hand.
“Deal, Elise. That’s a good deal. Yes, a good deal for ShuShu.”
The old man shuffled back into the darkness of his shop. The first time Elise had come to the dock and booked a tour with ShuShu she waited a long time for him to return and guide her as discussed. He had not come and Elise now knew ShuShu could only guide a tourist for a dive or a fishing trip in his memory. ShuShu almost never left his old dive shack.
Elise walked a few yards down to what had once been one of the several large dive shops along the seawall. ShuShu’s was one of the originals a
nd one of the best. She dropped her backpack onto a bench and geared up.
Her dive skin was the thinnest neoprene but a layer of carbon fiber just below the surface made it tough and kept her warm. She didn’t need to use any of the cheap wetsuits that were piled up on benches and hanging from hooks. The cold stone walls of the shop kept the suits safe from the elements over the years but rubber doesn’t age well so most of the suits would fall apart if she tried to put them on. No need for a mask or fins either, she carried those in her kit, but it would have been helpful if any of the scuba tanks were still functional. They weren’t.
The Octo-Thing peeked out at her from the bag.
“You going?”
He closed his eyes and nestled down into the dark canvas.
“Suit yourself.” She tucked her backpack under a bench and her strange friend made a soft snoring sound.
Elise walked along the aluminum ramp down to a small wooden skiff that bobbed on the surface of the clear blue water. Taariq sat in the boat. He was shirtless and wore jeans with no shoes. His skin was tan. Several old scars ran along his lean torso and there was a tattoo of something on his neck. Elise squinted in the sunlight to see. It was a small tattoo of a bird fighting a snake. The artwork wasn’t good.
“Where’d you get the stamp?”
Taariq spit into the water. “Woman who found me did it. Now I’m stuck with it.”
“It’s not good. Looks like a parrot having sex with a question mark.”
Taariq said nothing. Elise tossed her gear into the boat. Taariq slid back to the aft bench.
“I paid for one person,” Elise said, “you’re in my boat. ShuShu will be pissed.”
“Sorry,” he answered, “didn’t know it was yours. Is ShuShu the old guy that tried to chase me away when I came down to the dock?”
“Yes. Were you mean to him? If you were, I’ll make you regret it.”
“No. Not mean. He fussed at me for a few minutes then went back to his hut.”
“He’s a good guy. He’s been here for a long time. No reason to get him triggered.”
