Poseidon’s Children

by Michael West

  That sounded reasonable, but the window was at the back of the building. This noise came from the front.

  Neil crept down a narrow service hallway, looked in on the exhibition floor.

  Monsters. They were gathered around a shattered display case, raking glass from an item of interest. One of the creatures had a hand made of gold; it pulled a white cloth from the smashed display and unfurled it. Centered on the cloth was a huge, red symbol: a three-pointed pitchfork. Hays was right! These are demons, monsters sent from Hell!

  Neil’s arms went limp and the toolbag slipped off his shoulder; it fell to the floor with the clatter of metal striking metal. He jumped at the sound.

  So did the monsters.

  The gold-handed animal pointed at Neil. “Kill him!”

  Terrified, the arsonist ran back down the hallway; he reached the back room, leapt through the same broken window he’d used to enter, and struck the ground hard with his shoulder. Neil heard a pop and felt the bone give from the force of the impact. He cried out against the pain, then stumbled to his feet and ran again.

  He still held the detonator, held it so tightly that his fist was numb.

  Behind him, the demons broke free. Neil glanced back across his screaming shoulder and saw them charging with incredible velocity. In a moment, they would be on top of him.

  Shiva looked at the transmitter in his grasp and pressed the red plunger.

  FIFTY ONE

  Carol Miyagi pressed the button on the shark pod’s joystick, switched on the electronic field.

  The beast’s head jerked back as if someone had tugged on its reigns; it thrashed its pointed snout about in the water, then kicked with its powerful hind legs and swam off into the black nothingness, gone as quickly as it had appeared.

  Miyagi lifted her thumb off the button; she swam faster now, concerned that she was churning too much water, creating vibrations that the animals would sense and descend upon, but she didn’t know what else to do. Barbara could move much faster than she.

  Another shadow sped toward her, from the opposite direction as its predecessor, its skull the unmistakable flattened “T” of a hammerhead. These chimeras had more in common with large crocodiles or marine iguanas than sharks; they swam with their arms at their sides, their legs trailing, muscular tails stirring the water to propel them forward.

  Once again, Carol hit the button, and, once again, the creature veered off.

  She floated there a moment, scanned the limited visibility around her, looking for signs that they were exhibiting a typical feeding pattern. Sharks circle. Always tightening, always watching. Then, one will suddenly turn toward its prey, shoot through the water like a bullet, eyes covered in a protective shield of flesh, teeth exposed, mouth open in a deadly yawn.

  Carol froze.

  They gathered in the distance, didn’t circle, didn’t move at all, just hovered there, watching her, planning.

  Her body tensed.

  What are you up to?

  It came at her from below, a gaping mouth filled with steak knives, its body distended so that she could see right through its gills. Before she could even hit the button on the shark pod’s joystick, the Charodon had her arm in its claws. She screamed into her regulator, brought her spear pistol up to its soulless eye; a metal shaft shot through the orb, drove deep into her attacker’s skull, and a dark cloud of blood exploded into the water. The creature released Carol and tried to pull the arrow from its own eyesocket.

  She didn’t wait to see if it was successful.

  They’d been toying with her, trying to find a vulnerability they could exploit. Now, Carol could hear them snarl into the water, could feel them plow through the depths toward her fleeing form, but she didn’t dare look back. Her mouth was clamped so tightly around the mouthpiece, sucking in deep gasps from the regulator, that she thought she might actually bite through the rubber. With a single kick of her flipper blades, the archeologist propelled herself into the shadow of the pier.

  She’d lost sight of Barbara.

  She was alone in a forest of overgrown stilts.

  Carol swam behind one of the encrusted poles, pressed her back against it, and flattened the button on her joystick. She cowered there a moment in the gloom, afraid to move, then she peered around the side of the column. They were gone. The electronic field had scattered them, sent them plunging back into the shadows.

  Wait...behind that pole on the right.

  Her eyes strained to find detail in this bruise-colored world. Then she saw it again: a blotch at the edge of a shadowy pillar, there and gone. Something peeked, snuck a look at her as she snuck a look at it. At the edge of her mask, another pole, another blotch appeared and disappeared. There, in the distance, a third dark mirror of her own curiosity, but free of her tell-tail regulator bubbles.

  They were hiding, trying to make her think that they’d left, that she was free to continue her dive.

  Carol felt the blood rush up her neck, felt the heart that pumped it jump wildly in her chest, begging her to bolt. She closed her eyes and pressed herself against the pole, wanting to become part of it. She was breathing too fast, but she couldn’t help herself.

  Earl had been right. These weren’t sharks. By her own theory, they weren’t even natural beings, but rather the end result of splicing and tinkering, experiments guided by extraterrestrial minds she could never hope to understand.

  When Miyagi opened her eyes, she saw movement on the pillar above. One of the Kraken had been roosting there, camouflaged, its coloring, and the bumps it raised on its skin, designed to blend in with the barnacles and algae. The creature let go of the pole, fell toward her like a skydiver leaping from a plane, its arms and legs outstretched, its distorted roar echoing through the water.

  Carol raised the spear pistol too late.

  It fell upon her. Its facial tentacles wrapped around her head, and she heard a grating sound, like finishing nails being raked across her chainmail hood. These tentacles were lined in jagged fangs, like the rasping teeth of a hundred lampreys; they would grate and shred a victim’s flesh, moving like cilia to push morsels toward the beak that formed its mouth. Now the only thing that prevented Carol’s scalp from becoming a scratching post was the metal casing of her suit, which suddenly seemed far too thin.

  Her thumb buried the red button in the shark pod’s joystick, but it had no effect. The animal was too close, or the electrical field did nothing to this clan whatsoever.

  She shook back and forth, trying to throw her captor, her facemask filled with the Kraken’s gnashing beak. Then, she felt a change in the water; something else moved in.

  Another creature.

  The Kraken’s tentacles were pulled from her head and its beak retreated from her facemask, lost in a thick cloud. Claws went limp, released her, and a strong kick pushed Carol clear of the blood fog.

  Barbara; she’d clawed out the Kraken’s throat.

  Teeth erupted from the billowing gore. Carol raised her spear pistol, fired one of her five remaining arrows. It pierced the soft tissue at the roof of the Charodon’s mouth and drove deep into its brain. The creature belched a torrent of bubbles and blood, then drifted limply into the shadows.

  Carol pressed the button on her joystick again. The rest of the animals reached the field’s perimeter and howled, like dogs attempting to breach their invisible fence. They backed away, floated in eddies of silt that drifted between the columns, angered that they could not reach their prey.

  Carol glanced over to Barbara, hoping the field had not harmed her.

  The woman held the Kraken’s body as if mourning a son. Miyagi holstered her spear pistol and tapped her on the shoulder, motioning in the direction they’d been swimming before the attack. Barbara nodded and released her kill; she took the archeologist’s hand so they wouldn’t become separated again, and, together, they swam toward a wall of rock.

  Carol stole a quick glance over her shoulder, but the Charodon were nowhere to be seen; either they
’d abandoned their chase, or they were just beyond her visual range.

  The women entered a cavern, followed its twists and turns until Carol saw candlelight. At least, she hoped it was candlelight. For all she knew, the flickering illumination could be burning debris.

  When Miyagi’s face broke through the water, her eyes grew wide with shock. The chamber was intact, but filled with countless Atlantean descendants. None of them seemed to have noticed their arrival.

  “You all right,” Barbara rasped softly.

  Carol nodded and yanked the regulator from her mouth. Her jaw ached from biting down on the rubber. “Thank you.”

  DeParle didn’t respond to her gratitude, instead she looked into the temple; her eyes seemed to be focused on the huge carving of Varuna, her face glowing with joyous recognition.

  Carol followed the old woman’s gaze, saw another luminous being standing at the base of the idol. “You know her?”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  “Your daughter?”

  Barbara stiffened, sure of her purpose. “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” Carol drew her spear pistol and surveyed the crowd. “It looks like we’re interrupting a town meeting.”

  “You wanna end this, don’t you?”

  “Of course, but —”

  “Then I gotta talk to ‘em.”

  Miyagi scratched her forehead with her chainmail glove. “What makes you think they’ll listen to you?”

  “They did once.” DeParle climbed from the pool. “I have to believe they haven’t forgot everything I taught ‘em.”

  Barbara grabbed Carol by the hand and pulled her into the gathering of monstrosities. The surprised creatures backed away, cleared a path for them. Some in the crowd were the squid-like Kraken, others were shark-based creatures, the Charodon, still others were amalgams of various forms of sea life, and Carol could not tell which clan they belonged to. The beings closed in around the women as they made their way to the altar, their icy stares silently threatening.

  “It’s the teacher!” someone shouted from the horde.

  At that, the menagerie fell to its knees. Barbara’s daughter remained standing, however; she stood at the foot of the statue, stared hard at them as they approached.

  “You’re not welcome here, Mother,” she proclaimed.

  “This is Varuna’s holy temple, Chrissy. All are welcome.”

  Christine pointed to Miyagi’s spear pistol. “And does that include armed Landers?”

  “Put that thing away,” Barbara urged.

  Carol shook her head. “How do I know they won’t kill me as soon as I do?”

  “I won’t let them. Besides, you only got four arrows left. How far you think that’ll getcha?”

  Miyagi looked back. The creatures closed off their path of retreat, perhaps a hundred standing between them and the lagoon. With a resigned sigh, Carol holstered her spear gun.

  FIFTY TWO

  “Where’s Neil?” Horror Show asked. He looked out his windshield, watched the lights of Colonial Bay from the ferry’s deck; one of his hands sat firmly on the steering wheel, the other massaged the sliver of tombstone.

  He didn’t believe in telepathy or a “sixth sense.” People who said they were psychic just knew how to use their five existing senses to their fullest. From the look of a situation, the smell of it, perhaps even the feel of the air, you could divine truths hidden to those less aware. And, at that moment, Horror Show’s senses were feeding him some very sinister signals.

  Something dark was about to happen.

  “He’ll be here,” Hays answered, unconcerned.

  The ferry blew its air horn, signaling its intent to raise anchor and leave dock.

  Horror Show turned away from the shore, wondering how many tourists had come and gone from this island over the years, never knowing it was run by monsters. “Well, if he doesn’t get his ass on this boat in about ten seconds, he’ll be a resident.”

  Hays sighed. “I’m sure Shiva —”

  A barber-pole striped creature leapt onto the Cadillac’s hood, a ruffled dragon, still dripping from its bath in the harbor; it stared through the windshield at them, murder in its radiant, mirror-like eyes.

  Horror Show drew his 9mm and fired through the glass, but the beast ducked with lightning speed. Unharmed, it thrust a claw through the cracked windshield, wrapped its talons around his brawny wrist.

  Roger drew his .45 and emptied the chamber. The rounds blew the creature’s cranium apart; it fell onto the hood, aspirating its own fluids.

  Screams emanated from elsewhere on the ferry.

  Horror Show freed himself from the dead heap’s grip and looked at his wrist. He wasn’t bleeding. He shoved a fresh clip into his Beretta, then hurriedly climbed from the car.

  “Where are you going?” Roger asked.

  “To finish the job. Get your ass out here an’ help.” The hitman watched Roger step from the car and move to the ferry’s railing, looking out at Colonial Bay as if he expected to see something. “What the fuck are you lookin’ for?”

  The next moment brought his answer.

  “America’s Home By the Sea” erupted in a series of thunderous detonations, like a string of fireworks, turning the storefronts into balls of flame. Horror Show shielded his face with his hands, but not Roger. Hays just stood there, trenchcoat billowing in the concussion breeze like a Halloween cape, his face twisted into a stupid expression of rapture.

  It was as if the man had just climaxed.

  •••

  Earl hurried to his newly customized Harley-Davidson and threw his leg over the seat. He stabbed the key into the waiting ignition, turned it quickly and revved the motor. Smoke coughed from the steel exhaust pipes as the engine roared to life, the frame vibrating madly between his legs. He lifted his foot from the cobblestone street, gave the Harley some gas, and it roared off toward the last ferryboat.

  Shape-shifting monsters. He was still trying to wrap his mind around it. Until Earl saw the old woman transform with his own eyes, he could still hold onto the belief that Roger Hays was somehow behind these deaths at sea. He’d been trained to deal with situations involving men, but this...this was beyond the scope of his experience.

  Earl heard the blast of the ferryboat’s air horn over the thunder of his motorcycle.

  It’s pulling out.

  At that moment, the whole world seemed to explode around him; an entire strip of shops, reduced to fiery splinters.

  Jesus Christ!

  Earl ducked and his Harley swerved, but he managed to keep it upright. The ferry left dock. There was a moment of indecision, then a nearby explosion convinced Earl to give the motorcycle more gas.

  The edge of the pier grew closer and closer. Earl glanced at his gages, saw the RPMs climb, and hoped it would be enough. His front wheel hit the loading ramp; he leaned back and his Harley launched at the departing shuttle. His grip slipped from the handlebars, and the motorcycle sailed through the air without him.

  Earl landed on the roof of a parked Oldsmobile.

  He opened his eyes and coughed. His hands moved immediately to the back of his head, rubbing it briskly as he tried to sit up. He craned his neck, expecting pain, feeling none, and searched for Colonial Bay’s shore. Instead, his eyes focused on a blue Cadillac with New York plates.

  Hays?

  He moved without thinking, his equilibrium still shaky, he drew his gun and made his way to the Cadillac as fast as his unsteady gait would permit. Nerves flared, ignited spots in his eyes like warning lights, chastising him for the quickness of his actions.

  Earl saw Roger perched on the barge’s railing, watching Colonial Bay burn; he leapt at him, pulled him back against the Cadillac, and pressed his service pistol to the man’s cheek. “Don’t you fuckin’ move, Hays!”

  “Do you know who I am?” Roger growled.

  “I said your name, didn’t I?”

  “Let him go.”

  Earl looked up and saw a 9mm pointe
d at him across the roof of the car.

  “Let him go,” Horror Show repeated roughly.

  “I’m an officer of the United States Coast Guard.”

  “We just blew up a city. Let him go, boy, or I’ll blow your black ass clean off.”

  “Don’t call me ‘boy!’” Earl pressed his gun harder against Hays’ cheek. “And you can kiss my black ass when I throw yours in a fuckin’ cell.”

  The shrill echo of a dying scream made all of them jump.

  Horror Show withdrew his Berretta and shoved it into the waistband of his slacks. He reached into the Cadillac, popped the trunk, then moved to what was left of his war chest.

  Earl lowered his own weapon, slowly backed away from Roger and scanned the surroundings, not liking what he saw. Shadows between parked cars came to life. Earl could actually see the darkness shift upon itself as alien profiles moved through the labyrinth of steel and rust, climbed over automobiles with the formidable names of Jaguar, Ram, Firebird, and, ironically, Tiburon. He could hear claws scratch metal, and his mind’s eye showed him slime-lubricated tongues licking shadowy lips. The creak and moan of the boat in the surf was drowned by a cacophony of car alarms, each playing its own deafening composition. Earl’s feet led him back to the weapons trove. “You really got these mothers pissed.”

  In the distance, a man opened his car door and turned to run. A pink and purple blob slit his throat, using the fan of its tailfin as a swinging pendulum blade. The motion threw the stranger backward, fountaining blood as he hit the deck.

  Horror Show saw none of this; he worked feverishly in the confines of the truck, assembling something.

  Earl backed up another step, saw six barrels bundled together in a rounded metal cylinder, and his mouth fell open. He’d seen something like it mounted to the side of Viet Nam-era hueys.

  Where the hell did he get this shit?

  Horror Show hefted the G.E. Mini-gun from the trunk and a string of chain-ammo trailed from its side. The hitman slung the ammo over his shoulder, then nodded at Earl’s service pistol. “Grab a real fuckin’ gun.”