Blood Island

by Tim Waggoner

  Things had continued to happen while Tasha had been focused on the dying shark. Susan had run out of ammo, and she had run from behind the bar and was heading in the direction Saul had taken.

  “Follow me!” she shouted.

  “Never let it be said that I didn’t know how to take direction,” Jarrod said. Holding onto both Tasha and Bonnie’s hands, he followed after Susan, pulling the other two women along with him.

  Tasha cast her awareness around the bar one last time, searching for any survivors. Why, she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if she could do anything to help them. She sensed only dead or nearly dead minds, but then she found one that was still conscious. Even though her eyes were pointed toward the rear of the bar as Jarrod hustled her and Bonnie along, she could still see the woman’s face in her mind. It was Tina. The soundwoman had been eviscerated, yet her lungs and heart continued to function weakly. She lay on the wooden floor, blood pooled all around her. Some of it hers, most of it not. She gazed up at the ceiling, knowing that she was going to die, that it was only a matter of moments before her heart finally realized the body it was housed in was dead and stopped beating. But one of the sharks didn’t intend to let her die peacefully. As the rest of its companions raced after the fleeing humans, it crawled onto Tina. She was too weak to feel its insect legs and heavy weight on what remained of her body. Her vision had become blurry around the edges, but she could still see well enough. Tasha didn’t know if the shark was aware of this – didn’t see how the animal could be – but it lowered its head so Tina could see its mouth and then displayed double rows of triangular white teeth. This wasn’t the act of a predator preparing to feed. It was instead an act of deliberate cruelty, something only a human mind was capable of.

  After a long moment, the shark lunged toward Tina’s face. Moving with the speed of thought, Tasha reached into Tina’s memories and pulled out one of the woman’s favorites: the day when her father surprised her by bringing home a golden retriever puppy. It was this image – along with the emotions that accompanied it – that followed Tina down into death.

  It seemed Tasha had been able to do something for Tina after all. She only wished she could’ve done more.

  And then Jarrod was pushing her ahead of him up a narrow flight of stairs behind Susan, and she ran upward, not knowing where they were going and – for the moment – not caring. It was enough to still be alive.

  * * * * *

  Jarrod had no idea where Susan was leading them, and he didn’t give a rat’s hairy ass, just so long as it was away from those shark-things. There was a door at the top of the stairs, and Susan opened it and hurried through. She held the door for the rest of them, and they rushed past her and into what Jarrod assumed were her living quarters. Couch, coffee table, end tables, a couple of floor lamps, a Persian rug . . . The most interesting item was a framed photo of an exhausted but determined long-distance runner on one wall. There was a kitchenette at one end of the room, and past that a small hallway which Jarrod presumed led to a bathroom and bedroom.

  As soon as everyone was inside, Susan slammed the door shut and locked it. Then without a word, she ran to the kitchenette, opened a drawer, and pulled out a box of shells. She put them on the counter and began reloading her gun. Jarrod nodded in approval. This was a woman who would have a good chance of being the last person standing if this was a horror film.

  Jarrod had been too busy running to keep track of who else had escaped the sharks, but he took stock now. Aside from him and Susan, there was Tasha and Bonnie, Pete, Shari, and Tamara – the latter two still as naked as the day they were born. And . . . that was it. When they’d been running up the stairs, it had seemed like there were twice as many at least. But there were only six of them. So few compared to how many people had been in the bar.

  Saul wasn’t here, and Jarrod thought the director had been killed along with the others, but then he remembered seeing Saul jump up from his seat when the attack began and haul ass toward the restrooms. He hoped there was a rear exit back there and that Saul had made it out. He didn’t consider Saul a coward who’d deserted them. He just had quicker reflexes than the rest of them, that’s all. He hoped Saul was still alive, but if there were more of those things outside the back of the building . . .

  “Go in my bedroom and get some clothes,” Susan said. She didn’t look up from reloading as she spoke, and neither did she say who she was addressing, but since there were only two naked people present, it wasn’t any great mystery who her words were intended for.

  Tamara took hold of Shari’s hand and pulled her down the hallway. Shari glanced back at Pete, and it looked as if he was going to say something, but he must’ve thought better of it because he remained silent. He still held the rusty machete, and now he examined it closely.

  “You got a knife sharpener, Susan?” he asked.

  Susan reached into another drawer, pulled out a small knife sharpner, and tossed it on the counter. Pete joined her in the kitchenette and began sharpening the machete’s blade.

  “It’s like the opposite of a horror film,” Tamara said, almost smiling. “Everyone’s doing the right things.”

  “So far,” Jarrod said.

  “What the hell are those fucking things?” Bonnie asked. She spoke loud and fast, her voice on the edge of hysteria.

  “More importantly, what if they follow us up the stairs?” Pete said.

  Jarrod wanted to tell Pete not to be ridiculous. Whoever heard of sharks climbing stairs? But then who’d ever heard of sharks crashing through the window of a bar on dry land? He rather felt a bit hysterical himself, but he should know what to do, shouldn’t he? After all, his entire career had prepared him for a scenario like this. But now that it was here, he didn’t have the first idea what to do.

  “We need to find a way out of the building,” Tasha said. “A safe way.”

  “I’m not sure any way is safe right now,” Jarrod said. “But I take your point.” Once again, he had the strange sense that Tasha had known what he’d been thinking. But she was right. They needed to get out of here before –

  Jarrod’s thoughts were interrupted by a knocking at the door.

  Everyone fell silent and turned to look at the door, eyes wide with terror. Jarrod was as afraid as everyone else. Everyone except Tasha, that is. Not only didn’t she seemed concerned about the knocking, she actually smiled. She started walking toward the door, and without thinking, Jarrod grabbed hold of her arm to stop her.

  “Sharks don’t knock,” she said. “Not even mutated ones.”

  Jarrod knew she was right, but he was still reluctant to let her go. He trusted her entirely – not that he could’ve articulated why, but he did. He released his grip on her arm and she continued to the door. Some of the other shouted for her to stop, others simply moaned in despair, but no one else tried to stop her. Susan aimed her reloaded shotgun at the door, and Pete gripped his freshly sharpened machete.

  Tasha opened the door.

  Jarrod flinched, expecting a horde of landsharks to come pouring into Susan’s apartment, tearing Tasha to shreds as they came. But that didn’t happen. The door swung open to reveal Boyd Campbell. The writer stood there, a dazed expression on his face, as if he was in shock but didn’t realize it yet.

  “Hi, everybody. Hell of a night, huh?”

  * * * * *

  Saul found Flotsam’s back door, slammed it open, and burst out into the night. Once he was outside, he stopped. He’d gotten this far running on pure instinct for survival, but now that he’d successfully escaped the nightmares inside, his instincts seemed to shut down completely, leaving him at a loss.

  No, he realized. His instincts were still operating just fine. They continued to scream that he needed to get the fuck away from there – now! The problem was they weren’t any help right now. When he had been in the bar and those whatever-the-fuck-they were attacked, his instincts automatically knew he needed to get out, and right away, before those fucking monsters chewed throu
gh everyone else and got to him. But now he stood in an alley, and he could go left or right. There was nothing to indicate one direction was better – was safer – than another. And so his instincts had shrugged and turned the matter over to his conscious mind, as if to say, We got you this far, buddy. Now it’s up to you.

  “Thanks a fucking lot,” he muttered.

  Even with the back door closed behind him, he could still hear people screaming in the bar. People he’d abandoned, some of them friends and colleagues who right now were being torn apart by creatures that couldn’t possibly exist.

  They found those pliosaurs on that island, he reminded himself. Who’s to say what does or doesn’t exist anymore?

  He knew he should feel guilty for running off like he had, but he didn’t. He believed that humans had two opposite but effective strategies when it came to survival: working as a group for mutual benefit and looking out for number one. Which strategy you employed at which time depended entirely on the situation you found yourself in. He had no doubt which strategy was most effective in this case. He was alone and alive, and the others were inside, as a group, and dying. Quite horribly, too, from the sound of it. So yay for self-interest.

  If his instincts weren’t going to tell him what to do now, then he’d figure it out logically. He’d directed his first film at the tender age of twenty-six, and while he hadn’t risen to the ranks of A-list directors – and likely never would – he’d worked steadily ever since, and there weren’t many people in the industry who could say that. He was a survivor, and he intended to continue being one. He was also an artist, and as an artist, he knew the importance of making choices. Clear, strong choices. Even if a choice turned out to be a bad one, at least you’d made it, and that beat the hell out of indecisiveness. So that’s what he would do now. Make a choice.

  Right or left?

  He’d read somewhere that when given a choice between right and left, most people chose right. Never one to go with the majority – case in point being how he hauled ass out of the bar and left everyone else to be shark chow – he chose left.

  His nerves still jangled from the adrenaline in his system, but as he started jogging, his legs felt heavy as lead and his vision swam in and out of focus. His idea of a workout was walking on and off set, and he wasn’t in the best of shape. It seemed his dash for survival had taken more out of him then he’d realized. He slowed to a walk and forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly. His vision sharpened, and while his legs still felt heavy, the sensation wasn’t as bad as before. He almost laughed in relief. For a moment there he’d feared he’d overexerted himself and was experiencing the early symptoms of a heart attack. Wouldn’t that have been a pisser? Escaping the Bar of Doom only to keel over in the alley because of a bum ticker?

  As he reached the end of the alley, he stopped and cautiously poked his head out into the open. He wasn’t about to set foot on the street if it was swarming with those fucking shark monsters. But the sidewalk was empty in both directions, and there was no sign of sharks in the street.

  He grinned. Looks like I made the right choice, he thought as he stepped out of the alley. But as he did, he heard a soft whssk-whssk-whssk sound behind him. He turned and saw a shark coming toward him down the alley, the fish undulating like a caterpillar as it advanced, umbilical cord stretching behind it all the way to the other end of the alley. The creature was within twenty feet of him and closing fast. His old friend, adrenaline, decided to pay him another visit then, and his legs felt light once more and his body was filled with energy. No way was he going to end up in some mutant shark’s belly tonight.

  He started running, moving faster than he would’ve thought possible for a man of his age and fitness level. He made five steps before he felt a sledgehammer slam into his chest. At least, that’s what it felt like. A bolt of fiery pain shot through his left arm, and his hand stiffened, fingers contorting as if he’d been afflicted with a sudden onset of arthritis. He knew the problem wasn’t in his joints, though. It was his heart.

  His legs gave out beneath him and he fell to the cobblestone street. He landed hard on his left side, and the impact caused the pain in his arm and chest to intensify. He cried out through gritted teeth, features contorted into a mask of agony.

  Very funny, he thought to the universe. Fucking hysterical, in fact.

  Darkness nibbled at the edges of his vision, and for a moment he thought he would be lucky enough to lose consciousness before the shark reached him. But his luck had run out.

  He heard the shark scuttle out of the alley, felt it clamp its teeth into his right ankle. He thought the goddamned thing was going to eat him piece by piece, starting with his foot. But instead, its teeth pierced his flesh to the bone, and then it began pulling him backward. It dragged him back into the alley, all the way to Flotsam’s rear door. They remained there for a moment – a director of cheap monster movies and an honest-to-Christ monster – waiting. A moment later, Saul knew why.

  The back door exploded outward. A pair of sharks spilled into the alley, fell upon Saul, and began tearing hunks of meat off him. The shark that had brought him back joined in then, and Saul screamed and screamed until one of the sharks tore out his throat. Objectively, it didn’t take very long for him to die, but it sure as shit felt like it did.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Inside the Mass, the part of the creature that thought of itself as Inez was pleased. The Hunters’ upgraded design was working well, even better than she’d expected. And the attack on Flotsam was proceeding nicely. Several people had managed to survive the initial assault – which was, of course, exactly how she’d planned it. You can’t kill off the entire cast before the end of the first act, not unless you wanted to completely lose your audience.

  Shame about Saul, though. Still, it wasn’t as if she needed a director anymore. She was doing just fine directing this particular production all by her lonesome.

  Time for Act Two.

  * * * * *

  Pete said to Boyd what everyone was thinking.

  “How the hell did you get up here in one piece?”

  Tamara and Shari came back into the living room then. Tamara wore a Ramones T-shirt that was too-tight for her and a pair of black panties. Shari wore a white button shirt untucked over a pair of jeans shorts. Neither wore socks or shoes.

  Boyd barely glanced at the two women before turning his attention to Pete.

  “I’m the writer,” he said. “They leave me alone because they want me to tell their story.” His lips stretched into a mirthless smile that held more than a hint of madness. “Weird, huh?”

  “Given the way the night’s gone so far, I’d say that’s par for the course,” Tamara said.

  Pete shot both Shari and Tamara a dark look. Shari looked away, but Tamara met his gaze and puckered her lips in a kissing motion.

  If Boyd’s the writer and the sharks are the monsters, I suppose that makes me the hero, Jarrod thought. Might as well start acting like it. Right, Tasha?

  “Right,” she said.

  Jarrod grinned. “Gotcha!”

  Tasha clapped a hand over her mouth and her eyes widened in alarm.

  Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. He turned away from Tasha and aloud he said, “Susan, is there a way to the roof?”

  When Boyd had stepped into the room, she’d lowered the shotgun to her side, but she still held it tight.

  “There’s a fire escape outside. It doesn’t go all the way to the roof, but there’s an access ladder above it. It’s a rickety-looking thing, but I think it’ll hold.”

  “Why the hell do you want to go to the roof?” Pete asked.

  “Our only other options are to stay here or go back downstairs and attempt to outrun the landsharks,” Jarrod said. “If they could get into the bar, they can get in here. Hopefully, they won’t be able to get at us on the roof.”

  “Hopefully?” Tamara said.

  Jarrod shrugged. “Hopefully is the best we’ve got right now,
I’m afraid.”

  “I am not going up a goddamned fire escape!” Bonnie sound close to full-fledged panic.

  “Afraid of heights?” Tamara asked.

  “You better fucking believe it!” Bonnie said.

  Early in his career, Jarrod had made a western called Ride Fast, Hang High. The horses had supposedly been trained for filming. Not only were they patient with actors whose riding skills might be rudimentary at best, they didn’t startle at sudden sounds – such as faux gunfire. Unfortunately, a couple of the horses were new to the wonderful world of playacting, and during a chase scene in which the hero rode hell for leather, trying to escape a gang of outlaws – one of whom was played by a young Jarrod – a couple of the horses panicked when the actors began firing their guns. Jarrod’s horse was one of them. He’d had a bit more riding experience than his co-stars, and while it was a close thing, he’d managed to get his mount under control. What he remembered most about the incident was the absolutely insane terror in the animal’s eyes, a primal wildness that had more in common with a raging wildfire than a living thing. He saw something similar in Bonnie’s eyes now, and he knew that if she couldn’t get her fear under control – at least a little – they’d never get her out of this room.