by Michael West
She giggled, pointing to the toothy yawn. “I can just see you out there, trying to reel that onto Ed Keel’s little tug.”
Scott closed one eye and attempted a pirate voice, “Aye, we’d need a bigger boat.”
At that, they both burst into full-blown laughter.
Craig glanced up, stone-faced, then returned his attention to the drink he was mixing, the golden trident growing larger as he flexed his arm.
Scott continued to nurse his drink. “You know, the Hawaiians used to worship sharks.”
Her smile widened. “No, I didn’t. Is that where you’re from?”
“Hawaii?” He chuckled at that. “No, no. I was born and raised in Indiana. It’s true though; saw it on the Discovery Channel. Each island had their own shark god.”
“Did you know sharks never get cancer?”
He’d heard that before, but he didn’t want to appear too smart for her. He did his best Johnny Carson: “I did not know that.”
“Nobody’s sure how long they live. They could be fucking immortal for all we know.”
“Now there’s a scary thought.”
Her smile evaporated. “People think human beings are masters of the whole damn universe. I sit in my store, day in and day out, and I watch them file off ferryboats like stupid cattle. They bring their cell phones, their Gameboys or...what are they now?...PS2s, their iPods and boom boxes, beach blankets and sunblock...trying to turn the shore into some backyard barbecue. Drop them in the middle of the ocean without all their crap, they’ll find out how nature really works: predators and prey. Something will eat them up and shit them out and that’ll be that.”
Scott looked once more to the wall of teeth, trying for a moment to imagine a world where such monsters were possible. He shook his head, smiling. “Better not let you write Colonial Bay’s next slogan. Instead of spending a day on your beach, you’ll have people in bed pissing themselves.”
Sue laughed, her grin once more in bloom. She put her elbow on the bar and held her cheek in her hand, looking at him with deep blue eyes. “Wanna buy me another drink, Scott?”
Another drink became two more drinks.
Finally, Sue looked up at him, licked the residue of alcohol from her exquisite lips, and said the magic words: “Let’s get outta here.”
Scott was quick to produce several twenties from his wallet. He slapped them on the counter and gave Craig a salute. The bartender looked as if he were about to say something, but he remained silent, his eyes following them as they exited the bar and walked into the night.
“So...are we going to your place?” Scott hoped he didn’t sound too anxious.
“I got a better idea.” She led him to an alleyway, pulling at his hand, urging him to enter.
“What?” he asked. “In there?”
“Why not?”
Reasons “why not” leapt to the forefront of his brain. It was dark, sure to be dirty, smelly. And then, for the first time in years, his college roommate barged into his mind with one of those wild sex tales, telling Scott how he’d met a girl in some night club, then immediately had sex with her in a Men’s room stall. Scott thought his friend had been full of shit, that the adventures he described were Penthouse Forum fantasies, nothing more. Things like that didn’t happen in reality, or more accurately, they didn’t happen to him. Until now. Scott glanced around, then looked back at Sue, at her full lips and large breasts, and he followed her willingly into the shadows.
She leaned against the wall, tugging at his shirt. “Come here, lover.”
He looked up at the Sand Bar logo painted across the brick, and stopped her. “Did you date Craig?”
Her eyes lowered, then rose to meet his. “Does it matter?”
Scott took a step back. Her ex-boyfriend. It all made sense now...the man’s dirty looks, her eagerness. This was about hurting Craig. Perhaps he’d cheated on her when they were together, and now she wanted to screw someone right under his nose. He shot a nervous glance toward the bar’s service entrance, then looked back at Sue. “Look, I don’t want the guy to come out here and cut my balls off.”
Her smile widened, her teeth reflecting dim light from a bulb above the door. “You don’t have to worry about that.” She grabbed the neck of Scott’s T-shirt, pulled him to her. When he was close enough, she kissed his ear, whispering, “He’s a coward.”
Scott’s nose rested against the nape of her neck, and the sweet smell of her perfume was now overpowering, stirring him to arousal. He touched her breast, feeling its softness beneath his palm. She sighed, and then their lips met in a passionate embrace, their tongues frolicking like old friends. When he reached down to unbutton the fly of her jeans, she made no protest. Scott’s fingers traced the waistband of her panties, then slid beneath their silky fabric.
Her skin was smooth.
She shaves, he thought, intrigued, and then he felt something else, something long and snake-like. Scott’s eyes jerked open, his stomach wanting to heave.
Holy shit...she’s a he.
He broke free of her kiss, his revulsion instantly replaced by an even greater dread. The thing in her pants, whatever it was, coiled around his wrist, holding it in a death grip. He had the horrid sensation of something else, moist and slimy, slithering its way up his arm, and when he looked at his hand, Sue’s jeans and underwear slid down her thighs, revealing the writhing nest of tentacles at her crotch. They constricted their muscles, preventing him from pulling away.
Scott’s disbelieving stare returned to Sue’s face, finding it no longer human. Color had abandoned her eyes to darkness. Her bright red hair was gone, her naked scalp expanding, ballooning into a huge, pulsating sack. Her nose and mouth had also disappeared, covered over by a living beard of whips and tentacles.
A squid, his mind muttered. She’s got a squid for a head. He closed his eyes, wanting this to be no more than a drunken hallucination.
“Everyone on this island’s a coward,” the squid-woman said, her voice a wet gurgle. “Everyone but me.”
Her whips lashed out, embracing Scott’s skull, their thorny suction cups ripping at his flesh. When he saw the sharpened beak of her mouth, Scott Jarvis screamed.
Their shadows formed one horrid shape on the brick wall, and his screaming came to an abrupt end.
***
The Service door opened and Craig stepped into the alley, a bulging Hefty bag in each hand. He tossed them into the dumpster, then turned to find Sue O’Connor bridging the boundary between light and shadow, her face buried in the neck of her fresh kill.
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” the bartender said, a cocktail of fear and anger mixing in his voice.
Sue swallowed a chunk of the dead man’s flesh before speaking. “It’s what the gods created me to do. I think you’ve all forgotten that.”
Craig said nothing, but his hand went to his arm, his fingers stroking the trident symbol, the sign of the old ones, the mark of the creators.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him, her facial tentacles dancing in the air. “I was careful. He wasn’t married. He lived alone. Nobody will miss him.”
“He woulda told you anything to get in your pants.” Craig took a step forward, his eyes fixed on the body’s torn throat...on the blood. He stopped suddenly and lowered his head, still rubbing his tattoo as if it were causing him pain. “What if someone comes looking for him?”
“People go missing at sea all the time,” Sue reminded. The bartender opened his mouth as if to argue, then
closed it again. What could he say? Nothing. She was right and he knew it. Sue had used no knife, no bullet. Her body had been her only weapon. If her leftovers washed ashore, there was nowhere to point a suspicious finger except back to the ocean, and the sea kept its secrets well.
Sue held the body out to him. “You know...there’s enough here to share.”
Craig’s head snapped up, his eyes surveying the darkness of the alley. They were alone; alone with the warm meat, the glorious
stench of freshly spilled blood. His nostrils flared, drinking it in, and then his face leapt forward, forming the pointed snout of a shark. He opened his mouth, displaying jagged, serrated teeth, and bent down, taking the dead man’s leg in his jaws, tearing calf muscle from bone in one greedy bite.
Sue O’Connor smiled as she watched Craig feed, thinking of the ferryboats that would bring fresh tourists from the mainland in the morning, hoping this was not the last time the bartender would join her for a meal.
Einstein’s Slingshot
Deputy Jackson was scared. He had a rifle to protect him, but Bill could tell he was scared just the same. The man was sweating so much that his beige Shannon County Sheriff’s uniform looked as though he’d bathed in it, and his eyes darted back and forth, as if watching a tennis match play out. Worst of all, he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to leap out of hiding at any moment.
Bill focused on the key ring that hung from Jackson’s belt, hoping the deputy wouldn’t get himself killed.
The dark-haired mother sat against the wall behind them, her light-haired daughter cradled in her lap. Light-haired daughter looked six, maybe seven years old, and she sobbed wildly. Dark-haired mother held the girl tightly to her breast, trying to muffle cries of anguish she longed to accompany.
“Can’t you shut her up?” the bleeding guy in the corner asked. He was dressed in the tattered remains of a gray business suit, a Taggart Labs identification badge clipped to his breast pocket. The I.D. said the man’s name was Ken Hobbs, but the clean, smiling face in the picture looked like a distant relative of the man who wore it.
Dark-haired mother replied with an angry glance that shot through her tears.
“They’ll hear her,” Hobbs warned. “They’ll get us.”
“Be quiet.”
Bill looked over his shoulder at the young couple. It was the boyfriend who’d spoken. He was a buff kid, just shy of legal drinking age. His girlfriend was a cute redhead with not much meat on her bones. After what they’d just seen, Bill thought that was probably to her advantage.
Hobbs opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. He wiped at the gash in his forehead before hugging his knees. He pulled himself up into a ball, tried to become as small as possible.
Bill’s eyes went back to Jackson, happy to see the deputy was still being cool, then peered between two half-eaten cakes in the display case they were using for cover.
At the entrance to the bookstore, a red Liberty SUV sat parked on the wreckage of the foyer, its grill and bumper badly dented, its hood covered in a frost of plaster and broken glass. Several bookcases had been turned over, their contents fanning out across the floor. One of the books lay open, as if its reader left their studies in a hurry. The printing was illegible, partly because it was too far away, and partly because the pages were stamped with a bloody, three-toed footprint.
What was left of the Liberty’s driver lay strewn between the café counter and the downed bookcases. He’d been husband to the dark-haired mother, father to her sobbing little light-haired girl. When the attack came, the man had pushed his daughter into his wife’s arms and purchased their escape with his life. More than an hour had passed since then, but Bill could still hear that man’s dying screams.
Bill reached a hand up onto the counter, his other hand tagging along for the ride. The handcuff’s chain rubbed the metal edge of the display case, making a slight rasp that drew Jackson’s attention.
The deputy lowered his rifle, its barrel staring right at Bill’s nose. “What the hell are you doin’?”
Slowly, Bill brought his hand back, his fingers wrapped around a scone. He tossed it to the dark-haired mother and said, “Maybe some food will quiet her down.”
She nodded, offering the sweet to her daughter. “Here, Hannah,” she whispered.
The light-haired girl, Hannah, began nibbling as if programmed to do so. As Bill watched her eat, he found himself wondering if she’d been given any food since the quake.
An odd whistling sound echoed through the cafe, like a teakettle ready to spew steam, and Jackson returned his aim to the darkened sales floor.
The animal came into view again. It was as tall as the bookcases that surrounded it. Walking by, you might think it was some kind of display, something a marketing exec would send to plug an upcoming fantasy novel, but it was all too real. Brightly colored feathers adorned its body, yet it was like no bird Bill had ever seen. Decorative quills trimmed its long arms, and the three slender, scaly fingers on each of its hands danced in the air as if typing. Serrated teeth stabbed from the gums of a crocodile snout, and its eyes were cat’s eyes, red circles split down the middle by black wounds; they burned in the darkness like the glowing embers of a bonfire.
Bill’s own eyes drifted to the thing’s feet. The second toe of each foot sprouted a six-inch-long talon, a scythe to cut down its prey. Little Hannah’s father screamed again in his mind, and Bill forced himself to look away.
Hobbs stared at the sobbing girl, his face a taut expression of horror, his eyes wide and manic. “It’ll hear her,” he warned again. “It’ll—”
Jackson rose up and fired his rifle.
The sound of the blast ricocheted off the bistro tile. Hannah clapped her hands over her ears and her mother screamed. Hobbs jerked back, pressing himself flat against the wall. Bill could hear the boyfriend shouting obscenities behind him, but he didn’t turn to see what the young couple was doing. His eyes were firmly planted on Jackson, on the keys that swung wildly from the deputy’s belt.
Jackson’s shell missed its target entirely. It struck the corner of a bookcase, creating a blizzard of splinters and confetti, drawing the creature’s attention toward the café. Long feathers on the back of its neck stood erect, forming a threatening peacock mane. The teakettle whistle became a deep roar, and the animal charged, arms outstretched, teeth bared. The floor shook as its feet smacked against the tile.
Jackson leapt the counter, his legs sweeping coffee cups and powdered creamer onto the floor, and fired off another shot. The bullet cut through the air just behind the rushing predator, shattering a hanging globe light.
Bill wondered how many shells the rifle could hold, and then he saw the animal hop up on one foot, slashing Jackson’s abdomen open with a single swipe of its sickle claw.
The deputy’s innards unraveled. They struck the floor with a wet slap and he followed them down, landing on his knees in front of the steaming heap. With his final breath, Jackson thrust the rifle barrel against the creature’s scaly chin and tugged on the trigger. This time, his shell hit home and the top of the animal’s head erupted onto the ceiling. Jackson and the creature fell in opposite directions, both victorious killers, both defeated prey.
Bill turned away, but the young guy behind him stared at the carnage with a look of amazement, his redheaded girlfriend crying on his shoulder. The dark-haired mother’s eyes were closed. She continued to sway back and forth, rocking Hannah in her arms as she sobbed.
Even Hobbs had tears in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, then fell silent.
***
Time passed slowly. How much time, Bill really couldn’t say. They’d taken his watch when he went into lock-up, and the clock on the wall was stuck on 11:15, same time as the quake. All he knew for certain was that the room was growing darker as the sunlight slowly died.
He turned toward Deputy Jackson. The key ring hung across the man’s lifeless rump, daring him to come out and get it.
“Hey,” the boyfriend said, tapping Bill roughly on the shoulder of his orange jumpsuit.
“What?”
“What’d you do?”
“Does that really matter right now?”
“It might,” the boyfriend said, trying to sound tough in front of the redhead. “I see you looking at those keys over there. Before you find a way to get free of those cuffs, I think I’d like to know why you’re wearing them.”
Bill ran his hand over hi
s goatee. “Son, don’t you think you got better things to be scared of than me?”
The boy looked at the dead creature through the glass display case, at the rows of teeth in its yawning snout. “I suppose so.”
“We’re gonna have to work together if we wanna get through this alive.” Bill held up his shackled hands. “And I’d be a helluva lot more useful to you if you’d help me get these things off.”
The redhead tugged on the boy’s arm. Drops of blood spoiled the white fabric of her Hard Rock Café T-shirt, but she didn’t appear to be wounded. “Don’t you dare, Ryan! He could be a rapist or a child molester or something.”
She looked back at little Hannah and her dark-haired mother for emphasis.
“Ma’am, right now I’m just a guy who doesn’t want his ass chewed off.”
She glared at him. “Well that’s exactly what’ll happen if you walk out there. You want to go after those keys, go right ahead. Don’t expect us to commit suicide with you.”
The others stared at him in silence, their eyes all expressing the same sentiment the redhead had given voice. They knew they couldn’t stay cowering in this little bookstore café forever, but none wanted to be the first to venture out. Bill was going to be their hat on a stick; they would wait to see what happened to him before making a move.
“Fine.” His leg muscles groaned in protest as he stood and stepped out onto the tile. There was a light breeze blowing in around the Liberty, but the air was still quite humid. He blinked, then wiped a stinging drop of sweat from his eyes, the chain of his shackles jingling far too loudly to suit him.
As a thief, Bill was used to moving stealthily. He would stake out a house, watch it, go through trash the owners chucked to the curb each Tuesday, all to prepare himself for what he might find when he forced open a window or picked the lock on a door. When he decided to cross that line, he wanted no surprises. Were there dogs?—cameras?—a loaded gun in a bedside drawer? You needed to know things like that before you put your hand in the cookie jar, not after. After could get you killed, or at least a “go directly to jail” card.
