And screaming.
Something had enveloped the sub. Something had…
There had been much more, but it was all nothing more than a bloody blur of terror.
His memories were shattered as three men came into the bathroom with assault rifles raised. George tried to get to his feet but slipped and went splashing into the water. The tentacle seemed aggravated at this and began to churn within the water, splashing in a frenzy. George tried to stand again but was pushed down by one of the soldiers.
“Stay down,” the soldier said. He raised the barrel of his rifle to George’s head to punctuate this.
A few more men entered the room, all armed and dressed in some sort of dark-colored military fatigues. They parted right away to let two other men inside. These men wore medical garb and carried a large case with them. They knelt on the floor and opened the case. There were scalpels, saws, syringes and vials of fluid packed neatly inside.
George’s eyes grew wide and, almost as if following his panic, the tentacle rose from the water and darted out of the tub with incredible speed. It struck one of the doctors squarely in the face and the man’s head exploded in a shower of red.
“Hostile actions,” one of the soldiers screamed. “Sir, just give the order.”
In the half a second between the soldier’s request and his superior’s answer, the tentacle had found the other doctor. It wrapped around his neck and seemed to pass directly through it. The doctor’s head tilted for a moment and then fell to the floor where it rolled to rest at the sink.
“Fire,” came the command.
The bathroom was filled with the deafening report of gunfire. George saw the flashes come but they didn’t distress him as much as what he felt within his body. He felt the tentacle writhing madly in his stomach, surging forward in all directions within his frame.
It leaped from his mouth with such force that he felt several of his teeth splinter. He felt it trying to find exits within his nose, within his chest, under his navel.
The pain was immense. When George saw a bullet tear into the porcelain of the tub, he prayed that one would take him in the head. He felt the tentacle pushing his intestines aside as it continued to erupt from his mouth.
Seconds later, George’s prayer was answered. A bullet hit him squarely in the neck. Almost instantaneously, his mouth was torn open as the tentacle pushed the last of itself out.
Despite the pain, George was fully aware that the tentacle had left his body. Blood poured from a ragged tear in his left cheek but it was the sweetest relief he had ever felt. The thing was finally out.
His body relaxed and sank down, sliding along the bottom of the tub. His chin caught the edge of the tub and his hazy eyes caught glimpses of what was happening as the darkness closed in on him.
The tentacle was its own creature. There was no body to which it was designated, yet the end that George assumed to be its tail looked incomplete, as if there was something much larger to which this monstrosity should be attached.
It looked like a leech when it stood on its own, only much faster and far more deadly. It was about five feet long and moved with a speed that betrayed its appearance. It was covered in glistening mucus that seemed to help it move with impossible speed along the bathroom floor.
George’s weakening eyes saw it plow through the soldiers, tearing and squeezing in a blur of blood and gunfire. The tentacle took numerous shots to its body but the holes that tore through it seemed to heal immediately. George saw men torn in half, heard their screams of terror and watched the tentacle in something like awe.
George felt the weight of the rest of his body pulling his head back down into the water that his blood had turned red.
He stared at the ceiling, waiting for the rapidly approaching darkness to take him. The light of the world was fading away, dancing like the sun on water, like the play of light along the hull of the sub.
Wilkins is dead.
This had happened to Wilkins. And if KC had known that the things needed water, then chances were good that he was also dead.
Moments later, George noticed with a dulled realization that the gunshots and screaming had stopped. But somewhere else in his house, something crashed to the floor, followed by the sound of glass breaking—and that was the last thing he heard.
George looked to the bloodied water in the tub and then the darkness swallowed the light.
TWO
Wayne Crosby was on his fifth beer of the evening when the two black vans went speeding down the dirt road in front of his house. He’d been sitting out in the sun, ready to watch the tourists like he did every summer. But he hadn’t expected this. He’d never seen vehicles move so quickly down Kerr Lane, the dirt road that connected the majority of the vacation rentals.
The vans kicked up dust, taking the dirt road with treacherous speed. Wayne raised an eyebrow, as well as his beer to his mouth, but didn’t bother getting up out of his chair.
This was the first summer of his retirement and he planned to spend a great deal of it on his front porch—probably drunk most of the time—to watch the vacationers come and go. They came every year like clockwork, on the first weekend of summer. Some of the more ambitious ones came before then (usually retirees like himself from upstate) to get ready for a summer at Clarkton Lake.
Twenty years ago, the vacation traffic had been minor. But a few years back, someone had posted a news article on a travel website about the great fishing and quaint small-town charm of Clarkton Lake. And that had been that. The hive-mind of the internet had started and someone’s unique experience at the lake had become another generic vacation for families that didn’t want to bother with hauling their whining kids to overpopulated beaches.
Wayne watched the black vans pass by, the thick clouds of dust puffing up into the lower-hanging branches of the trees that cradled the road. He sat up in his chair and watched them go barreling further down Kerr Lane. Wayne considered getting in his truck to follow behind them to see what was going on. But he’d had just enough beer to allow his laziness to win out over his curiosity.
As the dust clouds settled, Wayne heard his phone ringing from inside the house. He was tempted to just let it ring but he thought it might be someone else from on the Lane with information about why those black vans were here and in such a hurry.
He got up, giving the dust clouds one last look, and walked inside the small lake house that he had been calling home ever since his wife had walked out five years ago. He left the door standing open, allowing the beautiful June sunshine to spill into the otherwise musty house.
He grabbed the phone on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
“Wayne!” It was the excited voice of Al Crabtree, the only real friend he had left around Clarkton Lake. “What are you doing right now?”
“Calculus,” Wayne snapped. “It’s the first day of summer. What do you think I’m doing?”
“Same as me,” Al said. “On your way to tomorrow’s hangover.”
“I’m sure your wife is so proud.”
“When I drink, it means I leave her alone. Everyone is happy.”
“Well, then…cheers. What’s up?”
“Did you catch a glimpse of those black vans?” Al asked. “They were hauling ass down your road. I just caught a glimpse of them when I was outside brushing up the horseshoe pit.”
“Yeah, I saw ‘em. They kicked up a huge cloud of dust.”
“Where do you think they were headed?” It was clear by the speed of his voice that Al hadn’t been kidding; he was indeed doing the exact same thing Wayne was doing—drinking away the first day of summer.
“Who knows?” Wayne said. “With all of these vacationing people on their way down here, it’s probably some emergency cleaning crew or something. Most of the houses on that end of the road are in bad shape.”
“I hear that,” Al said with a laugh. “So, you want to head out to The Wharf with me tonight?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” Wayne said. “But
when you start hitting on young girls again, I’m cutting you off and dragging you home.”
“Great. That means I’ll be in bed by nine o’ clock.”
“Something else for your wife to be proud of.”
“She loves me for my many complexities.”
Wayne rolled his eyes. “Bye, Al.”
He hung up the phone and walked back out onto his front porch. He reclaimed his seat, killed off his beer, and popped the top on the small cooler at the foot of his chair. He fished another beer out and twisted off the cap. He tossed it into the little silver pail beside the cooler where the caps of his other empties sat waiting for more company.
As he put the bottle to his lips, he thought he heard something in the distance. He thought it was a woodpecker at first, tapping away at a tree, but that didn’t seem quite right. He paused, the beer held to his mouth, and concentrated.
There it was again—a hollow popping noise. Fireworks from some kids that were eager to get the summer started, maybe?
The noise came again and then again. He heard it six more times before it stopped. By the time he heard it for the second time, he was pretty sure he knew what it was.
Gunshots.
He took a gulp of his beer and began to feel uneasy. That sound had certainly been more of a gunshot sound than a friendly firecracker noise. On the heels of having seen those black vans racing down Kerr Lane, it suddenly seemed like a particularly nasty noise.
Wayne drove it out of his mind, though. He took his new beer back inside, taking the small cooler with him. He sat on his couch and fell asleep while listening to a John Prine CD.
It wouldn’t be until two days later when he’d realize that although he’d easily noticed the black vans racing down Kerr Lane, he never saw them leave.
PART TWO
SUMMERTIME
BLUES
THREE
When he caught his first glimpse of the lake, Joe was unimpressed.
He watched it roll by from his seat in the back of his dad’s car as they crossed a bridge. The bridge carried them high over the water and while the bridge itself was sort of cool, Joe was not at all moved by the sparkling sunlit landscape. There were a few fishing boats scattered here and there, casting tiny silver glints of sunlight across the water. A single speedboat blazed by with a skier connected to the back. On the tiny speck of shoreline he could see, three boys splashed about in the water.
Everywhere else, though, there were trees, trees, and more trees. They surrounded the lake like some weird barrier and, as far as Joe was concerned, made the lake seem boring.
A muddy lake, and trees. That was it.
Ahead and behind, there was only the rural town of Clarkton. There were boat shops, tractor supply stores, bait and tackle shops, fast-food restaurants, and convenience stores. They were spread out as if each building gave off its own vibe, the brick of each business too scared of the next to get too close. Joe had heard his dad talk about this little town repeatedly over the last month or so as he had tried to get his family excited about their trip…but when it came to Joe, it had fallen on deaf ears.
Beside him, his sister looked out at it all with a wide-eyed fascination. But she was only eight years old. She still thought One Direction was good music and thought there was a fat dude in a red suit that came to see her every Christmas. It didn’t take much to fascinate her.
Joe rolled his eyes, still looking out to the rural scene. The sun sat fat and hot in the sky, doing little to enhance the scene. Clarkton Lake looked like any other lake he had ever seen. And that was being generous.
His parents sat in the front, his mother craning her neck to get a better look at a boat that was speeding across the water about one hundred feet below. A slight smile touched her lips.
“It’s cute,” she said without much enthusiasm.
“Yeah, it’s not too bad,” his dad said.
This irritated Joe to no end. His dad was usually a pretty straight-laced guy as far as dads went. To see him so desperately trying to make himself like this place was sort of sad. Drew Evans was not the type of person to fake something just to make someone else happy. As his fourteen-year-old son, Joe knew this all too well.
As for his mom…well, Joe knew that she was going to agree with just about anything her husband said while in front of the kids. In his fourteen years under their roof, Joe had pieced that together. But he knew they argued; they just waited until they thought the kids were asleep.
And now here they were, Drew and Amy Evans, a united front trying to sell their children on their family vacation for the summer. Meanwhile, Joe was sitting in the back with his dud of a sister, trying to figure out why his life sucked so much.
He’d had enough. He knew it would probably cause some drama if he opened his mouth, but he was fine with that. It would finally add some flair to what had, so far, been a boring twelve-hour drive from New York.
“Whatever,” Joe said. “It looks like a big mud hole.”
Joe had never been one to soften his words. His dad had told him that he’d grow out of his smart mouth and that it was something most males suffered from until the age of twenty-five or so.
Beside Joe, his sister made a dramatic show of disgust, shaking her head. “No way,” Mackenzie Evans—“Mac” to her friends and family—said. “I think it’s cool. Daddy, are you gonna teach me to ski?”
“We’ll see, honey,” Drew said.
Even Joe knew that their dad had no intentions at all of teaching Mac to ski. She was only eight years old and the thought of getting her out onto the water terrified both of his parents; he could tell by simply looking at their faces every time the topic had been mentioned over the last two weeks or so. Besides, their dad had only driven a boat once before and that had not gone well. Joe knew that this was one of those conversations his folks would have behind closed doors when they thought he and Mac were asleep.
“You can barely ride your new bike,” Joe said. “How do you expect to ski?”
“I ride my bike just fine!”
“Yeah, for a crash test dummy.”
“Hey,” Drew said, peering in the back at them. “Cut it out. Let’s not start our vacation like this, okay?”
“This isn’t a vacation,” Joe said. “This is like a two-month family rehab.”
“You’re right,” Amy said sarcastically. “Maybe A&E will contact us about doing a show.”
Joe knew that when his mom started using sarcasm as a defense, it was best to shut up. He puffed out his chest, folded his arms, and looked out of the window again.
Joe saw his dad give him a chagrined look in the rear view before turning his attention back to the lake. Only now, the lake was being hidden by more trees as Drew brought the car to the end of the bridge and came to a stop sign. Joe peered ahead and saw that the trees only grew thicker and thicker.
It was unsettling to know that this was where he’d spend the next two months of his life. Yet hidden behind his angst-laden teenage exterior, he knew that this vacation was sort of necessary for his family. He knew that his dad had ultimately rented a lake cabin in Clarkton for a low-profile vacation that would hopefully help bring their family closer together. With the turmoil and in-fighting they’d been working through in the last few months, it was certainly needed.
But if his first impression of Clarkton Lake was any indication, Joe didn’t know it was going to work. More than that, he had a feeling that it was going to be the sort of environment that was going to set his parents off. Isolated and out in the middle of nowhere, Joe didn’t see how they were going to make it out alive. He knew that they had been bickering lot lately but, of course, he hadn’t let them know that he was on to them.
Still looking out of the window, Joe watched his dad pull out the sheet of paper that his agent had given him just before they had left town. Joe had read it a few times himself during the long drive down here. He’d read it over and over again, trying to envision where directions like the ones his dad
was following might lead them.
Joe recited them in his head as his dad read them from the driver’s seat. At stop sign, turn left. Look for dirt road on right two miles ahead. Turn.
Drew came to the stop sign in question and took a left. For a moment, the lake was completely blocked from their view by a copse of trees. As drove down the thin, unmarked road for two miles, Joe noticed the forest growing thicker all around them.
Joe suddenly found it very easy to imagine a series of rough dirt roads winding through the trees and leading to only God knew where. His mind conjured up serial killer scenarios or maybe a horror movie type thing where rednecks and inbred country folks would assault them with machetes and pitchforks.
As the trees grew thicker and the road became darkened by their shadows, the entire Evans family went silent. Joe didn’t know if it was because they were instantly uncomfortable with their surroundings or if it was the calm before the storm, a warning of an impending argument.
Never one to handle silence well, Joe responded to it in the only way he knew.
“This stinks. My iPhone doesn’t even have any service out here,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Look…I have two bars. Now one. Nope, now two again…and back to one.”
“My God,” Drew said. “How will Facebook ever operate without the insights of a fourteen year old to keep it lively?”
“I would like to call some of my friends this summer, you know,” Joe said.
“I know,” Drew said. “Look, we’ll get it figured out. Let’s just give it a chance before you get upset.”
Joe frowned but he was secretly hopeful. There was something in his dad’s voice that indicated that he wasn’t a huge fan of this vacation so far, either.
It had all sprung out of Joe discovering that his parents had been discussing a divorce. He’d overheard a heated conversation one night while sitting halfway down the stairs (something he did to sneakily watch Game of Thrones since his parents wouldn’t let him watch it) and had not taken it well. He’d started acting out in school, doing incredibly stupid things like spray-painting a penis in the girl’s locker room and being intentionally rude to his teachers.
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