Horror Sci-Fi Box Set: Three Novels

by Bryan Dunn

  The creature had worked its way down most of the chain and was just about to drop onto the ice…

  When Harry skidded up to the anchor and poured the hot coals across the partially buried fluke, letting the embers spread across the ice. Amy rushed up right behind him, and Harry motioned for her to throw the wood onto the fire. Then he busted up the crate he’d transported the coals in and threw that on the fire as well. The fire flared up, burning bright and hot.

  The creature dropped onto the ice and was now moving along the anchor chain directly toward them, closing the distance fast.

  Harry grabbed their last piece of wood and shoved it into the fire. Then he stared defiantly at the creature. “Come on, you son of a bitch!”

  The creature heard him, and dropping into a defensive crouch, kept moving up the chain with deadly precision.

  Amy screamed…

  It was almost right there, right on top of them… twenty yards… ten… and then… the fire suddenly exploded!

  There was a loud pop. Sparks and ice sprayed up as –the anchor broke free from the ice, rising into the air with a cascade of burning coals spilling off its rusted flukes.

  As the Seraph slipped off the iceberg, the anchor looped up into the air, twisted, slammed back into the ice, jumped back up, and was now flying directly toward the advancing creature.

  Just before it reached the creature, one of the giant flukes rotated downward, and slammed perfectly into the creature’s chest, impaling the beast like a giant fisherman’s gaff.

  The creature cried out with a hideous scream as it was torn back off its feet…

  As the Seraph slipped off the iceberg and plunged down to a watery grave, the creature was dragged helplessly across the ice. At the last moment it was yanked into the air, pulled down into the water, and sucked into the black depths of the North Atlantic – both ship and beast lost forever.

  Harry and Amy stood holding each other, not quite believing what had just happened.

  Then off to their left, the fifty-plus gulls that had been feeding on human carrion lofted into the air. Twisting and flapping and screeching, they circled into the sky above the iceberg.

  Harry’s eyes flicked toward the fleeing gulls. Then in an ominous voice he said, “Oh, shit…”

  “What?” Amy snapped urgently, looking at Harry’s terrified expression. “What is it?”

  “It’s going to roll! The iceberg’s going to roll!”

  “What? What are you talking about?” Amy said, not comprehending.

  “The birds!” Harry yelled and pointed to the wheeling gulls. “Quick, the lifeboat! It’s our only chance.” He grabbed Amy’s hand and they sprinted across the ice, scrambling into the lifeboat and pulling the canvas tight – just as their world began to move and tilt…

  And then the iceberg rolled.

  Harry and Amy braced themselves, locking their arms and legs against the hull –

  and then they suddenly tobogganed down the iceberg toward the water in their little bullet-shaped lifeboat.

  The massive block of ice rolled forward towards the sea…

  At the last moment, just before the iceberg completed its roll, the lifeboat lifted off the ice and pitched into the sea, landing on its port rail and skidding along the ocean’s surface.

  As it righted itself, the lifeboat was picked up by a giant wave that swept from beneath the rolling iceberg.

  Amy screamed, “Harry!”

  Harry popped up from beneath the canvas – and working the tiller, steered the boat as they rocked over the lip of the wave and squirted down its steep face. As the boat coasted to a stop on the sea’s glassy surface, Harry and Amy turned back and looked at the now unfamiliar-shaped iceberg.

  “I can’t believe that just happened! I can’t believe any of this happened,” Amy said, then leaned back and gave Harry a hug. “I can’t believe we’re still alive… And I can’t believe that creature is finally gone.”

  “It’s impossible,” Harry said. “No one is going to believe it – to believe us.”

  And then, high above – the air filled with the thrum of a plane’s engines as a U.S. Coast Guard C-130 circled overhead. They jumped up, yelling and waving their arms. Harry began to laugh and Amy burst into tears of joy. Maybe they were going to live after all.

  “God, I love those Coast Guard boys!” Harry reached forward, grabbed Amy, and gave her a big bear hug – then watched as the flock of arctic gulls swooped down and returned to the iceberg. “Okay, that’s it. No more of this bush pilot crap. From now on I want my life to be completely boring and predictable.”

  Amy lifted her head off Harry’s shoulder and gave him a direct look. “Too late, Harry…” And then she rose up on her toes, leaned forward, and kissed him hard on the lips.

  Harry looked at her smiled, and whispered something, but his words were drowned out by the roar of C-130’s engines as it made another pass above the iceberg.

  Chapter 59

  One Week Later

  Avalon Peninsula, Newfoundland

  A gibbous moon rose off the Atlantic in the spring night sky, sending a sword of light cutting across the bay where it struck the shore and rent upwards across a steep gravel beach.

  The tide was ebbing, but every so often a large wave would break with enough force to send a sheet of water racing to the top of the beach.

  After one of the big breakers hit and the ocean receded, an object deposited at the top of the beach flopped around in the moonlight. It was about three feet long and eight inches thick and looked as though it had been ripped in half – maybe a piece of insulation, or part of a life preserver or life raft.

  Another wave roared up the beach, flipping the object over and exposing a line of block letters that read: C E M A C H I N.

  It was wreckage from the Ice Machine that had somehow defied the prevailing winds and currents and had been tossed up on the Avalon Peninsula.

  Sitting on a rocky point overlooking the gravel beach was a weathered fishing shack, cobbled together with stones and bits of driftwood. Smoke curled up from a crumbling chimney and soft yellow lantern light spilled out the crooked doorway.

  Inside the shack, a man warmed himself in front of a log fire as he worked his way through a bottle of aquavit, pouring double shots into a small water glass.

  His name was Jens Jensen, a crane operator from St. John’s. When the weather permitted and he had a few days off, he’d come here to his little shack on the steep gravel beach to surf fish and get drunk on the strong, vodka-like alcohol his father had taught him to drink.

  Jens lifted his glass, draining it in one swallow. As he reached for the bottle to refill it, he heard a strange sound outside the door…

  A scraping sound.

  He turned, letting his bloodshot eyes settle on the door’s weathered planking, straining to hear the sound again.

  Nothing.

  He was just about to turn back to the fire, thinking it was nothing, when he heard it again – a loud scraping sound, this time right at the door. He rocked forward, and as he stood, a primal animal musk filled his nostrils – rank and horrible.

  Jens reached out and grabbed an old side-by-side 12 gage he kept handy next to the fireplace in case he had to scare off a hungry polar bear. He moved to the front door, yanked it open, and –

  Before he ever had a chance to level the shotgun, a hairy arm flashed through the air and fingers like steel circled his throat. Jens Jensen was already dead when he was dragged through his doorway and out into the still arctic night.

  Creepers

  Bryan Dunn

  Doc Fletcher, an eccentric biologist in the remote Mojave Desert, has finally created the ultimate drought-tolerant plant: a genetically engineered creeper vine. It’s destined to change the world, but not according to Doc’s plans. Instead, this vine has a mind of its own. Mayhem ensues as the residents of Furnace Valley (pop. 16), along with campers at the nearby hot springs, run for their lives— led by wannabe date rancher Sam Rain
sford and the nerdy yet gorgeous botanist Laura Beecham, who has come to the desert for a reunion with the father she has never known…

  www.BryanDunnBooks.com

  Chapter 1

  A man pushed aside a large bromeliad, the sweat beading on his face as he reached up and gripped the tip of a fleshy leaf—ficus elastica—pulling it down so as to examine its lustrous surface. He bent the leaf to eye level. A silver bead of water rolled across the waxy surface—and just before it lipped off the end, he ducked forward, deftly catching the drop in his mouth.

  “Ah,” he said, smacking his lips with delight. He looked and acted like he’d just had a sip of Dom Perignon. His name was Henry Fletcher, Dr. Henry Fletcher to be precise. In school, everyone had called him Fletch. And now, forty years later, friends just called him Doc.

  Fletcher was dressed in his “uniform”: khaki shorts, white T-shirt, and dirty sneakers. His bald head was deeply tanned, and a dusting of white stubble covered his face. Humming softly to himself, he took a couple of steps, parted a wall of trumpet vines, stepped through the opening, released the vines—and let the lush foliage press in around him. Standing there, he could almost feel the jungle as it hissed and throbbed, striving up towards the filtered light.

  Up ahead, looming out of the shadows, flowering epiphytes beguiled with fleshy, naked-looking petals. And higher up, a hubcap-sized leaf tilted toward the morning light, exposing a stand of bamboo bristling with new growth as its shiny epidermis drank in the life-giving energy.

  There was a sudden movement. One of the bamboo leaves twitched, and then swiveled completely around. What had moments ago looked exactly like a leaf morphed into a chartreuse-colored grasshopper. It waggled its antennae—further shedding its disguise—then clambered over to a tender shoot of bamboo and quickly devoured it.

  There was a rush of air as a shadow fell across the grasshopper. It twisted its head just in time to see the open maw of a quick little bird—and then it was snapped up. The bird gripped the grasshopper by its thorax and darted to a vine, lighting on a sinewy-looking stalk covered with medusa-like tendrils.

  The vine looked strange, almost primordial. Everything about it was menacing and unnatural-looking. The leaves were alien-blood green and covered with tiny scales that looked like the back of a boa constrictor. Raised liver-colored splotches mottled its stalks and roots.

  The bird finished its meal and then cleaned its beak by wiping it across the stalk at its feet—the sharp little beak making a swick swick sound, like the blade of a knife being worked along a steel. Then the bird fluffed its feathers and began to preen.

  A moment later it froze, sensing something was wrong. It tucked in its wings and lifted its head, waiting for any danger to pass.

  The air was completely still now as an eerie silence surrounded the bird. A beat, and the silence was shattered by a sharp rustling sound—like a rake being swept through a pile of dead leaves. There was another rattle—and the bird was suddenly caught in the vine! It kicked and flapped its wings, but it was no use. Something was horribly wrong. Panicked, it began to flail madly about, desperate to escape.

  The bird let out an anguished screech, unable to free itself, then fell on its side and stopped moving. It was trapped! Something was holding on to it!

  In a last attempt to gain its freedom, the bird twisted up and spread its wings, but they wouldn’t work. With every movement, the vine’s wispy tendrils locked tighter and tighter around its body. Then, as quickly it had begun, it ended and the bird stopped moving. There was another sharp rattling of leaves, and the bird disappeared, swallowed up by the strange-looking vine.

  Silence.

  At the foot of the vine, littered across the ground, dead birds stared vacantly up at nothing. They looked shriveled and dehydrated.

  Like something had sucked them dry.

  Chapter 2

  A minute later, the air around the vine filled with a loud crunching sound as Fletcher brushed aside a cycad leaf and stepped up to the strange-looking vine.

  He stared at it for a moment, taking in its height and girth, then reached out and lifted one of the scaly-looking leaves, lightly pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. Almost reptilian, he thought to himself.

  He released the leaf, reached into a pocket, retrieved a small plastic ruler, and measured one of the vine’s stalks, noting the distance between two leaf nodes. “Remarkable,” he mouthed to himself.

  He moved to another section of the vine, lifted a stalk, and repeated the measurement. “Amazing,” he said, this time right out loud. He pocketed the ruler, exchanging it for a Sony handheld recorder.

  Fletcher held the recorder up to his mouth, and continuing to study the vine, began to speak into the microphone. “June one. Day five. No water. Growth unabated.”

  He clicked off the recorder, then reached out to collect one of the remarkable-looking leaves. As he went to pull it free, he yanked his hand back, yelling “Ouch!” Then he thought to himself, Did that stalk just move?

  He held a finger up to his eyes. A perfect little red bead formed on the tip. He popped the finger in his mouth, washing away the blood, then spoke into the recorder. “Note to self, select out thorns on the Fletcher Creeper.”

  He reached out to collect another sample—then froze when he heard a mysterious sound. What the heck was that? He retracted his hand, keeping his eyes glued to the vine.

  Silence, nothing moved.

  He continued to wait, but nothing happened. Just as he was about to discount it, the vine came to life and began to shake and rattle, trembling from within. Then, without warning, a stalk shot up into the air, striking him in the center of the chest. Fletcher yelled, pitching back from the vine, and—

  The air in front of his eyes turned bright red. Then yellow. Then green. And his ears filled with a skull-splitting sound, “Squawk-Squawk-Squawk.”

  A second later, a scarlet macaw exploded upwards, freeing itself from the vine’s thorny clutches. It tumbled through the air, somersaulted above his head, and landed haphazardly on a ficus branch. Then it swung its body forward until it was hanging upside down directly in front of Fletcher’s startled face.

  “Darwin! Jesus Christ! You scared me half to death.” He bent down, picked up the recorder, dusted it off, and took a step toward the macaw.

  “You’re one bad move away from a hatband, Darwin.”

  Using his head and outsized beak, Darwin righted himself on the branch and challenged the doctor with another series of ear of earsplitting and unmelodious squawks. Then, as if daring him, Darwin shook his head and fanned his tail, displaying a blaze of gaudy feathers.

  Fletcher’s lips flattened into a thin line. Then without warning, he lurched toward Darwin, trying to get his hands around the bird’s feet.

  “You’re a feather duster, Darwin!”

  Right before his fingers closed around the macaw’s feet, Darwin leapt up. Screeching and flapping his wings, he looked like a tie-dyed T-shirt that had suddenly anthropomorphized and been tossed into the air.

  Fletcher lost his footing, pitched forward, and spilled headfirst out of his rainforest and into the hundred-degree heat of a desolate section of California desert—a place called Furnace Valley.

  Shangri-la, if you happen to be a rattlesnake.

  Fletcher lay in the sand, sprawled on his back, staring up at the cloudless sky. He’d already forgotten about Darwin and was thinking about the vine again. No water and the thing was growing like a weed! And just as new thought formed in his head, his concentration was shattered by a loud screeching sound.

  Seconds later, Darwin shot out of the greenhouse like a scarlet-colored fighter jet, buzzed Fletcher, and swept into the sky. High overhead, the macaw leveled its wings and made a graceful banking turn as it circled above.

  Darwin’s view from four hundred feet up made the Fletcher compound look like a tiny green thumbprint in a sea of brown. The green thumbprint consisted of two buildings with a small pond off to one side. T
here was the aforementioned greenhouse, and next to that, the main building—or rather, the house that did double duty as Fletcher’s laboratory. The house had a peaked roof, rough-cut redwood siding, and a deep-shade porch that surrounded it on three sides, making it look like something out of an old western.

  Fletcher Exotics. That’s what botanist and geneticist Dr. Fletcher called his operation. He specialized in creating and breeding exotic plants for medicinal and agricultural use.

  Five years ago, he had unceremoniously parted company with his academic colleagues after the university where he worked cut funding for his research project—a project that would later produce groundbreaking results in the area of high-yield row crops.

  He had pleaded with the administration for more time. Another six months, a year tops, telling them that he was on the brink of having the science hammered out and that the university would soon have something to show for its investment.

  The Dean was unmoved and impatient. He demanded results. The university demanded results. But Fletcher had stood firm, not willing to rush his work and publish his findings prematurely. They gave him one week to change his mind and get his head right. And when he refused, the administration pulled funding for the entire department.

  One week after that, Fletcher severed his relationship with the university—but not before firing off a round of scathing e-mails proclaiming the Dean and his sycophantic minions to be a bunch of four-footed, risk-averse bean counters—bereft of imagination.

  In the end, as it turned out, Henry Fletcher had the last laugh. Six months after resigning, he sold a genetically engineered strain of corn to a consortium of ethanol producers for a cool ten million bucks. With one handshake, Dr. Fletcher had become wealthy—but more important than that—now he had all the funding he needed to continue his work, untrammeled by the whims of picayune-minded bureaucrats.