Fangtooth

by Shaun Jeffrey

  As the boat struck the harbour, it felt like an earthquake – a horrendous noise of tortured metal and pulverized concrete rang out. The ground underfoot shook violently. The light from the lampposts flickered, throwing wild shadows around the harbour. Someone screamed. Shards of concrete and metal started to rain down. Bruce shielded his face. A lump of concrete struck the back of his hand, sending a jolt of pain along his arm. He heard the boat creak and squeal as though in torment. He peeked between his fingers, saw the boat’s bow sticking up in the air. A fallen mast lay feet away. Water poured from the side of the boat. The intermittent flash of sparks illuminated the boat’s wheelhouse. Shadows danced among the sparks.

  Concrete dust filled the air; hung like a fog obscuring his vision. Bruce coughed and stood up. His legs shook, made him feel unsteady. He took a tentative step towards the boat. The sound of squealing metal rang out and the boat slipped back a couple of feet, making him jump.

  “Hello, can you hear me?” Bruce shouted.

  Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned to see Erin approaching. “Jesus,” she said as she surveyed the scene.

  “Help me!”

  Bruce heard the voice, but with the boat standing proud, he couldn’t see anyone.

  “Hello, where are you?” he shouted back.

  “Help me!” the speaker croaked.

  Bruce studied the boat; saw a tangle of ropes and chains hanging down.

  “I’m going to have to climb aboard,” he said.

  Erin touched his hand gently. “Be careful.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Jack said.

  Bruce shook his head. “No, you’d better stay here.”

  He stepped towards the edge of the harbour and looked down. For a moment, he felt dizzy and his heart thudded. The water looked cold, dark and foreboding. Sudden movement disturbed the surface, revealing the Fangtooth circling the wreckage. Some of them scratched at the boat, trying to find a handhold. Bruce gulped. He tried to swallow but found he couldn’t.

  The front of the boat was crumpled and dented, with jagged shards of metal jutting out at odd angles.

  He grabbed hold of a hanging chain. It felt cold and wet within his grasp. Then with the help of the sharp metal protrusions created by the blow with the harbour, he started to climb.

  Heights always made him a little apprehensive, but climbing up the side of a damaged boat, above Fangtooth infested waters, well, that was just plain crazy, and his sweaty palms, shaking legs, thrumming heart and spinning head told him so. But someone needed help, and he couldn’t stand by and do nothing, so he climbed, hand over hand, foot over foot, one torturous, slow step at a time.

  “Now do you see why we have to make the sacrifice?”

  Bruce twisted his head at the sound of Lillian’s voice. She stood at the edge of the harbour, a vitriolic glare plastered across her face. Blood dribbled from a cut on her forehead. In the light from the lampposts, it looked like an exclamation mark. Duncan stood behind her. He rubbed his wrist as though to relieve it from pain, his gaze fixed firmly on Jack. Since leaving the bar, he had armed himself with a wicked looking spiked hook.

  “Do you want some more?” Jack asked, bobbing his head.

  “Jack,” Bruce shouted, hoping the inflection in his voice was enough to cool his son’s bravado. They had enough trouble without creating more.

  “Yeah,” Rocky said, squaring up to Duncan, “you ain’t gonna sucker punch me and get away with it.”

  Bruce bit his lip. This was turning into a testosterone showdown, and here he was, stuck up the side of a boat.

  “Everyone calm down,” Erin said. She waved her arms in the air and stepped between the warring factions. “We’ve got injured people to help here. We don’t need this right now.”

  Bruce readjusted his grip. He felt relieved that Erin was taking control and trying to calm the situation. His feelings for her went up another notch. Growing tired hanging onto the boat, he continued climbing and clambered over the side and onto the sloping deck.

  Holding onto the front of the boat to stop himself falling towards the wheelhouse, he looked back down at the harbour, his eyes opening wide when he saw Lillian raise the club. His heart stopped.

  “Look out,” he screamed, but he was too late. Lillian swung the club, hitting Erin on the head. Even from a distance, Bruce heard the sharp crack of wood on bone. Caught unawares, Erin’s head snapped to the side and she staggered back. Bruce cringed.

  Without hesitating, Lillian grabbed Erin by the shoulder and pulled her back.

  “Accept this, our offering,” Lillian screeched.

  Bruce saw what was going to happen, but he was powerless to intervene. He screamed and then watched in vain as Lillian pushed the still stunned Erin off the harbour. She fell heavily, and landed with a splash, surfacing seconds later, spluttering and treading water.

  “You’re crazy,” Jen screamed.

  Before Lillian could react, Jen pushed her grandmother off the harbour. Lillian flailed in the air, and then disappeared over the edge. She landed with a loud splash and Bruce looked down in time to see her sink below the water, only to bob back up moments later with seaweed stuck comically on her head. She stared up at the people on the quay, and instead of the anger Bruce expected to see, she was grinning.

  Attracted to the commotion, Bruce saw a swirl of displaced water as the first of the Fangtooth swam to investigate.

  With Lillian being the closer of the two, the creatures made a beeline for her. Bruce watched wide-eyed with shock as the first Fangtooth sank its teeth into her shoulder, severing flesh with one bite. Although she must have been in agony, Lillian didn’t scream. A corona of blood spread out around her body, and the water became a whirl of motion as other Fangtooth joined in the feeding frenzy. Moments later, the creatures dragged Lillian under the water, her last breath a few bloody bubbles that popped on the surface of the sea.

  With no time to lose, Bruce looked around, grabbed a length of rope that had unravelled along the tilted deck and wound it up into a loose bundle.

  “Catch,” he shouted, throwing the rope as far as he could. It hit the water with a splash and Erin grabbed the end. Bruce started to pull, dragging her towards the boat, when he heard something bang behind him.

  He turned his head and in the meagre light, less than eight feet away, he saw twin rows of vicious fangs and a pair of luminous eyes.

  Chapter 35

  Upon hearing the commotion, Powell ran towards the harbour. Along the way, residents started emerging from their houses.

  “Stay inside,” Powell shouted. He ran out of a backstreet, his eyes growing wide when he saw the boat that had rammed into the harbour. Smoke billowed into the sky and firelight flickered in the wheelhouse. “Jesus,” he whispered. The people he had been talking to in the bar stood by the harbour wall, waving frantically.

  “Help me!”

  Powell looked up at the wreckage to see Bruce hauling Erin up the side, and just behind him, scampering up the deck, something monstrous ...

  With no time to lose, Powell pulled the taser gun out of his belt. He aimed, but his hand was shaking.

  Powell held his breath, steadied his aim and squeezed the trigger. The two barbed darts struck the creature in the chest, delivering an initial 50,000 volts, and it flopped back. For the first time in his life he wished that British police were armed with guns.

  He quickly radioed base and relayed what he knew of the situation, which wasn’t much, then he started to clamber up the boat using a chain that hung down the side.

  Powell glanced down at the water to his left, saw things swimming just below the surface. His police training had never prepared him for anything quite like this.

  His wife, Juliet, would go ballistic if she could see him now. She had never liked him being on the police force, thought it was too dangerous, and her pregnancy didn’t help. For the last couple of months she had been overly emotional, bursting into tears at the slightest thing. Seeing her husband
now would likely be the last straw.

  The bow of the boat projected into the air—it must have hit at some speed to end up like this, he thought. The chain he used to clamber up the side rattled and clanked against the hull. He thought he heard a groan, but the sound of the chain drowned it out.

  He wondered what had happened to cause the boat to crash. Wondered what morbid sights awaited him.

  At the top of the boat, he scrambled over and sat on the bow to catch his breath. Across from him, Bruce hauled Erin on board and then gave him a wave of thanks.

  Powell nodded, then glanced down at the mayhem on deck. Nets, ropes, buoys and baskets lay scattered all around. Intermittent sparks illuminated the interior of the smashed wheelhouse. A column of black smoke rose from somewhere further back on the boat, and the caustic smell of burning rubber and plastic filled the air.

  “Hello, is anyone on board?” he shouted. He surveyed the wreckage below for any sign of movement, but apart from a swaying boom and the clank of chains, there was nothing.

  Keeping hold of the side of the boat, he slowly started to descend. The acute angle of the deck made it hard to keep his footing, and if it hadn’t been for part of a broken boom, which doubled as a ladder, he would have been left dangling.

  The lower he went, the more pungent the smell of burning became. It seemed to cling to the back of his throat, making him choke. When he reached the wheelhouse, he swung himself across and entered through the already open door. The inside of the room was a mess of broken equipment. Sparks shot out from the front panel and skittered towards the back of the room. Bracing himself in the doorway, Powell removed his torch from his belt and shone it around the room. The severity of the damage amazed him. It looked as though someone had literally torn the place apart.

  Something clattered against the wall, made him flinch. He shone the torch towards the back of the room, but couldn’t see anything.

  Although not one to be overly sentimental, Powell looked forward to the birth of his son; had decorated the spare room in blue, stuck Disney transfers to the walls, hung a Winnie the Pooh mobile, even purchased a remote control Porsche. He remembered Juliet laughing when he purchased it, saying he didn’t need to use the baby as an excuse to buy a toy. Of course he played with it–just to check that it worked–it’s not as if his son would be using it for a while.

  The noise came again, bringing him out of his reverie. He shone the torch around, then started to descend through the wheelhouse towards the bank of fallen equipment that lay jumbled against the rear wall. “Is anyone there?” he asked. No one replied.

  The angle of the boat made the descent difficult. Anchored to the floor, the skipper’s chair presented a good starting point. From there, he reached across and grabbed the edge of a desk, then scuttled down.

  The equipment lying against the rear wall consisted of monitor screens, a broken tabletop, radio equipment and other electronic tackle whose purpose Powell couldn’t even guess at.

  When close enough, he slid the last few feet and arrested his fall by placing his hands against the wall.

  About to squat down and investigate the clutter, a bloody hand shot out of the jumbled equipment and grabbed his ankle, taking him by surprise

  “Help me,” a voice said.

  Powell took a couple of breaths to steady his beating heart, then squatted down. He lifted a monitor screen aside, then shone his torch into the debris. A face stared back at him, the haunted features scratched and bloodied. Powell recognised the stubbly chin and short brown hair as that of Zander, the man who had run out of the bar when he tried to question him earlier.

  “Are you okay?” Powell asked.

  Zander grimaced. “My leg’s trapped.”

  Powell peered over the rubble, saw a piece of heavy equipment lying across Zander’s legs.

  “Are they broken? Can you move your toes? Are they cut?”

  Zander shook his head. “For Christ’s sake, just get it off me before the creatures come back.”

  Powell crouched down, took a hold of the equipment and used all his strength to lift.

  Something squealed; he realised it was Zander. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  “Just get it off.”

  Powell nodded, rubbed his palms against his trousers to remove any sweat, then grabbed the equipment and lifted. His arms strained, and he felt the muscles in his back pull taut. After a moment, the apparatus shifted, then came clear, and Powell gently laid it aside. He took a breath, needed to get down to the gym.

  Zander sat up and rubbed at his legs. He rolled the bottoms of his pants up to caress the spot where the apparatus had lain, then he gingerly got to his feet.

  “I’ve got to help my men,” Zander said.

  “How many were on board?”

  Zander started clambering towards the door.

  “Zander. How many?”

  Zander turned. His face looked pale. “Six. McKenzie’s dead. So is Robinson, perhaps Brad too. I don’t know.”

  “So there might be two or three more people on board. Is that right?”

  Zander nodded, then he pulled a knife out of a sheath in his waistband and clambered towards the door.

  Powell hesitated a minute, and then followed.

  Chapter 36

  Zander surveyed the damage to the boat and his heart sank. The insurance would cover the cost of the vessel, but what about those who died? Nothing could repay their loved ones for the loss.

  He stared towards the stern where Robinson’s half-eaten body lay. A pain burned in his stomach, remorse. He felt sick; fought to restrain the feeling.

  Powell joined him at the wheelhouse door.

  Zander gripped the handle of his knife tight enough to make his knuckles go as white as his face. Years at sea had hardened him, but nothing prepared him for this. He had lost his gun during the crash, and the knife felt like a poor substitute.

  He slid down the deck, using the fallen masts and derrick to stop himself from falling too far. Smoke poured out of a hatch leading to the engine room and he coughed as he breathed in the acrid vapour.

  Waves slapped over the submerged stern. Zander narrowed his eyes, spied creatures lurking in the surf. A couple scuttled onto the deck. They looked up at him, opened their mouths and hissed, their long, curved fangs dripping saliva.

  Zander clenched his teeth. “Come on, we’ve got to be quick.”

  He clambered down and swung around the side of the wheelhouse. The door to the lower decks hung open, and he gripped the door frame and hauled himself through. Smoke crept across the ceiling, shrouding the flickering light to create a stroboscopic miasma.

  Powell scrambled in behind him. “I don’t believe it. Those things, whatever they are, they’re coming.”

  Zander nodded. “And they’re hungry.”

  In the flickering light, the passageway looked foreboding. Zander swallowed to wet his throat, but he couldn’t produce saliva. His tongue felt like a bloated slug in his throat. Utilizing the walls, he dragged himself up the passage. At the end, a ladder led down to the engine room. A door to the side led to the crew’s quarters, fitted with coffin bunks. Another door led to the galley and the head. Smoke poured up from where the ladder descended.

  Moving cautiously, Zander made his way towards the ladder. He heard Powell bringing up the rear. Once at the ladder, Zander descended into what he could only describe as a cloudy hellhole.

  Smoke poured from the engine and sparks flickered from the tangle of electrics on the back wall. Almost indiscernible from the smoke, steam gushed from a broken pipe and scalded Zander’s hand, making him wince.

  “Brad, are you down here?” Zander shouted.

  A sudden bang made him jump, and he peered over the top of the engine as Brad emerged from a space beside the equipment.

  “Skipper, am I glad to see you. I thought everyone was dead.”

  “Is Jim here with you?”

  Brad shook his head and stood up. He looked at the engine and sighed. “She
were a lovely old girl.”

  “We haven’t got time to stand around and mourn the fucking engine. Those things are still aboard. Let’s go.”

  Brad rolled his shoulders, clucked his tongue, nodded, and then picked up the axe and followed Zander up the ladder.

  At the top, Zander nodded at Powell. “We’ve got a live one. Come on, those engines could catch fire at any time and I don’t want to be caught standing on top of them when they do.”

  Zander brushed past Powell and took the lead. He reached forward to grab the edge of the doorway to his right; the boat shifted, Zander slipped, missed the doorway, his hand entered the room–and touched something scaly. His heart missed a beat.

  Recoiling, he snatched his hand back and withdrew the knife. A loud hissing noise emanated from the doorway, and one of the creatures stepped through. Its body glistened, quicksilver eyes reflecting Zander’s terrified features. It opened its mouth, revealing the long fangs.

  Powell gasped. Brad swore.

  Zander knew he had to act quickly. Without hesitating, he released his hold on the opposite wall, grabbed the knife handle with both hands, and flew at the creature.

  Although he tried to aim for its eyes, he missed. The blade skidded across the creature’s head, throwing him off balance. The creature snapped its jaw as it tried to take a chunk out of Zander’s arm. Still moving forwards, Zander rolled around the creature until he ended up at its rear. Wicked spines rose from its back, and Zander narrowly missed impaling himself.

  He heard a roar, watched Brad charge at the creature, axe raised. The grease and muck on his face looked like camouflage paint, made him appear fearsome.

  The axe head split the creature’s head, and a viscous fluid spurted out and coated Brad’s arm.

  “Not quite the trip you had in mind, hey, Skipper.”

  Zander shook his head.

  He noticed the hatches to the gutting room were open, and he scrambled towards the entrance. He peered down the chute used to drop the fish below, but couldn’t see anything.