Blood Island

by Tim Waggoner

  He wore his uniform when stopping at Flotsam’s so he’d look as if he were taking a break in his shift instead of making a special trip. His wife made fun of him for trying to play it cool. You’re not fooling anyone, Grady. You know that, right? But he didn’t care. Besides, he thought he looked good in his uniform, even if he could stand to lose some weight. He’d caught Tamara Young checking him out a couple of times, and while he knew he was probably a fool to imagine she’d be interested in an old guy like him, he entertained fantasies of banging her before the film shoot wrapped. But who knows? Stranger things had happened, right?

  He drove his cruiser down Goodwin Street, heading toward Sailor’s Walk. As he drew closer to the bar, he thought it odd that he didn’t encounter any other traffic, either vehicular or pedestrian. Yeah, it was a weeknight, and even on weekends Sailor’s Walks wasn’t as busy as it had been before Janae, but usually there were more people around than this. It was weird, and while Grady was no one’s idea of a deductive genius, he’d been a cop long enough to know when something wasn’t right.

  When he reached the intersection of Goodwin and Hines Street, he turned right. He was officially in Sailor’s Walk now, and the cruiser juddered as its tires rolled over cobblestones. Grady hated these fucking things, but somebody on the town council must’ve figured cobblestone streets were quaint and would attract tourists. A dumbass idea if he’d ever heard one, and a literal pain in the ass, too.

  When he was within a block of Flotsam, his headlights illuminated something strange – three fleshy-looking hoses that emerged from an alley onto Hines Street and stretched off in the bar’s direction.

  What the fuck?

  Grady slowed and stopped ten feet from the nearest hose. He parked and got out, leaving the cruiser’s engine running and the lights on. He wore his gun – never without it when in uniform – and he automatically unsnapped the thin leather strap that kept the weapon secured in its side holster. When you were a law officer, you didn’t necessarily expect trouble whenever you stopped to check something out, but you were an idiot if you didn’t allow for the possibility.

  He swept his gaze around the area but saw no one in the immediate vicinity. When he reached the first hose, he knelt to get a closer look at it. Whatever these things were, they smelled like shit, their odor a combination of seawater and rotting meat. Their rubbery substance was slick with some kind of mucus and were shot through with thread dark veins. He knew then that they weren’t hoses, weren’t something that had been manufactured. They had been grown. They were alive – or rather part of something alive.

  He drew his 9 millimeter and touched the muzzle to the hose . . . no, the cord closest to him. He pressed a little, and the cord gave beneath the barrel, but it returned to its previous shape the instant he pulled the gun away. A ropey line of mucus stretched from the cord to the gun barrel, and Grady gave the weapon a disgusted shake to flick the snot-like crap off his gun.

  The cords began quivering then, and Grady quickly straightened and took a couple of steps back. The cords’ motion became more pronounced, and Grady found himself thinking that he should get back in the cruiser, close the door, and get the hell out of there. He had no rational reason for feeling this way. Just more cop intuition. But he didn’t listen to it, told himself that whatever these damn things were, they weren’t dangerous. Besides, it was his job to figure out what the hell they were and what – if anything – needed to be done about them.

  A moment later he heard a sort of whispery-rustling sound that reminded him of broom bristles sliding across a hard surface. The sound grew louder, and as he turned to look in its direction, he saw a trio of shapes – larger and low to the ground – approaching.

  Sharks, he thought. Motherfucking sharks.

  But as bizarre as it was to see three sharks trundling along on land like miniature streamlined tanks, equally as strange – and far more disturbing – was what the sharks carried in their mouths: bloody pieces of a human body. One carried an arm, one a leg, and the other a torso. They all had organs and viscera clamped between their jaws as well.

  At first he was unable to comprehend what he was seeing. It was too unreal, too nightmarish. But then he realized what was happening and let out a laugh. The film crew were doing a night shoot! He’d thought the pliosaur was the only monster in the movie, but evidently these shark things were in it, too. Those weird hoses connected to the creatures’ backs were probably power cords or hydraulics or something. He imagined they’d use CGI to erase the cords from the final footage. The sharks were pretty damn slick effects, a hell of a lot more realistic-looking than that dinosaur. These things were scary enough to carry a movie all by themselves. He’d mention it to Inez when he saw her at the bar. Who knows? If she took his suggestion, she might give him a screen credit as a consultant. How awesome would that be?

  Grady glanced around, looking for the film crew, but he saw no one. He told himself they were just well hidden, staying out of the way as the scene was filmed, but he knew that was bullshit. He’d hung around enough during the filming of Devourer from the Deep to know the crew was always around, even on modest production like this one. Besides, even with the street lights on, it was too dark to film here. Maybe they’re not shooting, he thought. Maybe this is some kind of special effects rehearsal. But if so, there would still be some crew around. At the very least, Enrique would be here to monitor the sharks’ performance. But there was no one on the street besides him.

  The sharks continued gliding toward him, and as they did, he got a better look at the body parts they carried. One in particular, a woman’s head, caught his attention. It looked like Bonnie, the production’s makeup person. Maybe it had been some kind of gag to make the fake head resemble hers. Or maybe she was going to have a bit part as a victim of these monsters. But the head looked real, and when the sharks drew even with him, the head – which Grady could see was attached to the body only by a thin strip of meat – came free and bounced on the cobblestones toward him. It came to a stop at his feet, and he knew then that he was looking at the real thing. Since coming to Bridgewater, Grady had never fired his weapon in the line of duty. But he didn’t hesitate. He raised his gun, trained the barrel on the shark carrying Bonnie’s now headless torso, and fired three quick rounds into the thing. The impact of the bullets knocked the shark off course, and it tried to correct, weaving as it struggled to continue on before finally stopping and rolling onto its side. Bonnie’s torso slipped from its jaws and fell to the cobblestones with a wet smack.

  The other shark didn’t turn back, didn’t so much as slow. It continued on into the night, carrying Bonnie’s legs and trunk to whatever its final destination was. Grady forgot about the thing and focused his entire attention on the shark he’d brought down. He kept his weapon trained on the damn thing as he carefully stepped past Bonnie’s head. An image flashed through his mind then, of him accidentally kicking Bonnie’s head in an attempt to go by, the head bouncing away across the cobblestones like a grisly soccer ball. But he made it past Bonnie’s head without incident and stepped close to the dead shark. At least he hoped it was dead. Those weird pink gill fronds were still, and the creature didn’t appear to be breathing. But he’d never killed a shark before, let alone one like this, and he wasn’t certain how to tell if the shark still clung to life or not. All he could think of was to give the thing a hard kick and see if it reacted. He did so, but other than quivering once from the force of the blow, the shark remained motionless. The thing gave off a foul odor, part saltwater, part rotting fish, part something Grady couldn’t identify. Its hide was strange, shot through with crimson threads that looked like capillaries, its eyes were red, and of course there were the gill fronds, the weird little growths on its belly like tiny insect legs, and the long cord embedded behind its dorsal fin. The cord was so long that Grady couldn’t see the other end of it. It stretched off into the distance, woven around corners of buildings and between streetlights.

  He didn’t
know what the fuck this goddamned thing was, but he did know one thing. Whatever was going on here was above his pay grade. This was a job for the state police. Hell, maybe for the FBI or Homeland Security. He lowered his gun and with his free hand reached for his phone. He had the device halfway to his ear when the dead shark’s cord began to tremble. It tore free from the shark’s body in a spray of blood, then raised up like a cobra, head swaying back and forth. But instead of a head, it had a wickedly barbed hook on the tip. Grady didn’t think much of his chances to shoot the barb. It was a relatively small target, and it was in constant motion, but he had to try. He managed to raise his gun once more, but the cord moved faster. It undulated in a sharp motion, like a whip, and the barb shot toward Grady, moving too swiftly for him to react. The barb arced behind him, found the base of his spine, and penetrated flesh and bone with surgical precision. The pain was unbelievable, and accompanying it was a white light which obliterated his vision. His body stiffened and remained that way until the light receded and his vision cleared. At that moment, the consciousness that called itself Grady Silva ceased to exist, and his body became an empty vessel, awaiting the Mass’ command.

  A loud noise came from the northwest, a sound that Grady would’ve recognized as a shotgun blast. The consciousness that now controlled him knew exactly what had made that sound, and she wanted Grady to investigate. Still holding onto his weapon, the sheriff’s body began shuffling away, heading toward Flotsam.

  * * * * *

  Jarrod felt an almost irresistible urge to turn and run. It seemed even a dying body wanted to protect whatever life remained to it. But he forced himself to stay where he was, and he kept his gaze fixed on the oncoming creature. If a real-life monster was going to kill the King of Schlock Horror, Jarrod intended to meet his death without flinching.

  As the shark moved past Pete, the stuntman stepped forward and swung the machete at the creature’s umbilicus, close to where it emerged from the shark’s body. Metal bit into meat with a thunk and clear liquid sprayed from the wound. The creature surprised Jarrod by releasing what sounded like an entirely too-human scream. A woman’s scream. The shark whirled around to go after its attacker, but Pete wasn’t going to give it a chance. Before the creature could turn on him, he yanked the machete free – causing even more clear liquid to gush from the wound – and struck the umbilicus a second time. The machete severed the cord this time, and fluid spurted from both ends. The pressure of the flow rapidly diminished, and the shark slowed. It continued toward Pete, jaws snapping halfheartedly now, as if it was only trying to bite him out of reflex. Then, when the creature was less than a foot from Pete, it collapsed and lay motionless. The strange pink fronds growing from its gills immediately began to blacken and shrivel, and the clear fluid leaking from the remnants of the umbilicus attached to its body became mixed with blood.

  Jarrod and the others walked over to Pete, Boyd included. Susan kept her shotgun trained on the shark’s head in case it had some life in it yet, but it didn’t so much as twitch. Tamara and Shari – who were now the ones holding hands, Jarrod noted – remained several feet back, but Jarrod, Tasha, Boyd, and Susan joined Pete next to the landshark’s corpse. Now that Jarrod was close to Pete, he could see that the man was soaked with the fluid that had gushed from the dying shark’s wounds.

  “What the hell is that shit on you?” Shari said. She seemed to realize she was holding Tamara’s hand then, and she quickly let go. Jarrod was certain Pete saw, but the man chose not to remark on it.

  “Believe it or not, I think it’s seawater,” Pete said.

  Jarrod leaned closer to the man and inhaled. Sure enough, he smelled saltwater.

  “It makes sense,” Boyd said. “It’s the reverse of a human diving underwater. We take oxygen with us to breathe. These creatures bring seawater with them. It probably helps them stay hydrated, too.”

  Boyd began walking slowly around the dead shark, examining it closely. He’s taking mental notes, Jarrod thought, for when he writes about tonight. Jarrod wasn’t bothered overmuch by the man’s actions, but rather by the total lack of emotion on his face. People had died tonight, a lot of people, among them some of their colleagues. Tony and Nina. Saul, presumably. And poor Bonnie. Inez hadn’t shown up at Flotsam tonight. Who knew if she was still alive? But Boyd appeared entirely unfazed by what had taken place this night, nor did he seem repulsed by the bizarre creatures which had attacked them.

  Tasha had said the Mass – whatever that was exactly – had chosen Boyd to make a record of tonight’s events. Had this Mass done something to Boyd which had affected his mind? Was he in shock? Or had Boyd been like this the entire time, an unfeeling void of a human, and they were only now seeing the true person behind the façade?

  “A bit of all three,” Tasha said.

  Jarrod nodded, accepting this.

  “Look!” Shari shouted.

  Everyone – except Boyd, who continued his examination of the dead shark – looked to Shari. She was pointing at the detached umbilicus. Up to this point it had lain limply on the roof, but now it quivered and slowly retracted, picking up speed as it moved backward, until it slipped over the edge and was gone.

  Jarrod turned to Tasha.

  “Is it going back to the Mass?” he asked.

  “Yes. All the sharks are attached to it by those cords.”

  Pete scowled at her.

  “You really expect us to believe you’re some kind of psychic?” he said.

  “I don’t have to expect anything. I know you all believe. Besides, is my being psychic any more fucked up than a bunch of homicidal landsharks?”

  “No,” Susan said. “It’s actually pretty normal compared to that.”

  Tamara and Shari nodded. Pete looked unhappy, but he didn’t disagree.

  “Do you know what’s happening?” Tamara asked Tasha. “If you help get us out of this alive, I promise to give you the best orgasm you’ve ever had.”

  Both Shari and Pete gave Tamara dirty looks, but she didn’t appear to notice. Boyd finished his inspection of the dead shark and walked over to join the others.

  Tasha looked extremely uncomfortable, and Jarrod thought he understood why. Not only wasn’t she used to people knowing her secret, she wasn’t used to people looking at her differently because they knew. When he’d first started acting nearly forty years ago, gay people were reluctant, and often too frightened, to be open about their sexuality. Even in the entertainment industry, which was far more accepting of different lifestyles than the culture as a whole, actors kept their real selves hidden so it wouldn’t end up costing them work. Jarrod had been one of those people, afraid to let the world know who he really was, worried audiences wouldn’t accept him as a redoubtable hero if they knew he was gay, and equally worried they’d equate being gay with being evil when he played villains. Eventually, he’d gotten to a point where he was comfortable being who and what he truly was in public, but it hadn’t been easy. His situation and Tasha’s might not be analogous, but he thought he had an inkling of how she felt.

  Tasha gave him a grateful smile. “You do.” Then she turned to Tamara. “I sensed the Mass earlier today, although I only knew it was a presence somewhere out in the ocean. Once the sharks attacked Flotsam, I was able to pick up a little more because they were so close. I got the main creature’s name, or at least a concept that comes close to how it views itself.”

  “The Mass,” Susan said, and Tasha nodded.

  “And I know the sharks are connected to it. They’re part of it, kind of like . . . like our hands. We can reach out with them, grab food, and bring it to our mouths to feed ourselves. We can also use our hands to protect our bodies. That what the sharks – the Hunters – do for the Mass.”

  “Why is it attacking Bridgewater?” Shari asked. “There’s plenty of food in the sea, isn’t there? Why even bother coming on land?”

  “I don’t know,” Tasha said. “It’s hard to touch the Mass’ mind. It doesn’t have a brain like ou
rs, doesn’t think like us. It’s old, like prehistoric old. Its type of intelligence predates ours by millions of years. But something about it’s changed recently. I can’t figure out what. Sometimes it almost feels like its mind is familiar to me, but other times it’s utterly alien. I don’t understand.”

  Jarrod could feel the frustration coming off Tasha. Not only could he see it in her expression and hear it in her voice, but he could feel it in his mind as well. The girl could transmit as well as receive.

  Up to this point, the umbilicus of the shark Susan had shot had remained motionless. But now it sprang to life and tore free of its host’s body, revealing a nasty-looking barb on its tip.

  “Be careful!” Tasha warned. “It wants a new host, and since we’re the only ones around –”

  “It’s not exactly spoiled for choice,” Jarrod finished.

  As if Jarrod’s voice attracted it, the barb flew toward him, snaked around his back, and penetrated his spine.

  The least you could’ve done is bought me dinner first, he thought. The pain was bad, but he’d been living with pain as his constant companion for months now, and he could take it.

  Tasha was the closest to Jarrod, and she grabbed hold of the cord with both hands and yanked, attempting to pull the barb out of Jarrod. This hurt worse and he couldn’t stop himself from letting out a cry of pain. The cord went slack for a moment then, and Jarrod wondered if Tasha had used some kind of psychic whammy on it. But then it withdrew from his body, the exit hurting a hell of a lot more than its entrance had. The cord writhed in Tasha’s grip and Jarrod feared that if it got free, it would attempt to pierce her spine. He stepped forward, raised his right foot, and brought it down on the cord at a point less than five feet from the barb.