"Trespasser."
* * *
Simon stepped through a deserted, battered doorframe. After a moment, he saw the door, discarded, shattered and broken on the tiles below, tossed into the corner in ragged pieces. Felicity walked to his side and caressed his back. "Someone didn’t like that door much."
"Someone strong."
"Huh?"
"Strength. You ever see the movies where a guy tries to shoulder a door down and struggles? That didn’t happen here."
Felicity said nothing. She swallowed gently, her eyes flicking left to right. "I don’t like this; the yellow line is going on for quite a bit."
"Yeah, but they said the HQ connects to another island. Last I checked islands don’t linger within swimming distance of the shore."
Felicity nodded. She stepped over the broken door, avoiding the larger shards of wood for fear of puncturing a shoe, and turned a corner. Before her was a rusty ladder. Ducking to the right, she emerged in a large alcove.
Her eyes widened. Her forearm instinctively raised to her face. "Erm…Simon…"
"Yeah," Simon said as he stepped into the room. A stagnant smell assaulted his nostrils and he recoiled, nearly banging his head on the ladder. "Jesus Christ, what the fu—"
He didn’t finish his sentence as his eyes fell on the sight before him. Felicity screamed and turned around, vomiting heavily on the floor below. She hid behind Simon, using him as a barrier to prevent her seeing the horror.
Simon walked forward, mesmerized by the mess before him.
The room was a bedroom of sorts. The similar looking grey walls glistened with mildew and condensation. In the corner sat a pair of iron bunk beds, the top bed holding a flattened, beaten mattress. The cotton was dark with age and dirt, the white lining now yellowed with stank. A pathetic blanket hung at its foot, two pillows on top of the bundle.
Simon coughed, the smell choking him.
To the left of the bunkbeds was a dead body, a female with no head, identifiable by her slender legs and mutilated breasts. The fleshy mounds had huge bite marks in them, the soft flesh ragged with torn chunks of muscle and skin. A nipple hung off, waving on the humid air, purely attached by bloody gristle. Her legs spread wide, as if she was doing the splits in the air, her back pushed against a blood-soaked leather chair. The flesh on the inside of the thighs shone black in the light, ravaged by gangrene and mold. Specks of yellow and orange pitted the dead flesh. The buzz of flies filled the room, enhancing the acrid stench.
Surrounding the body were multiple spatters of blood.
Simon closed his eyes, willing himself to remain calm.
That’s when they heard the scream.
* * *
Well, that escalated quickly.
He didn’t see me coming, yet, he stayed alive the longest…so far, I've only killed two of them, so it's early days. He's in the lead…at the moment.
I don’t like his odds though.
Predictable too. He ran. They all run. Or try to.
He didn’t see it coming.
My tripwire certainly gave him something to think about. Trip is probably the wrong word; I placed it at head height. Simple physics. A moving weight—I believe he was about one-hundred and twenty kilograms—against a razor-sharp wire equals a grisly, brutal decapitation.
The sound of his toppling head smashing my old coffee table was majestic.
The blood went everywhere. I forgot how beautiful it is when it sprays and arcs in the blue light of the ocean. It's been a while. No worry, I have ample time and ample victims to play with.
His tongue was very chewy, a little sour—I think he was a smoker—not to mention the metal in it clacked against my teeth. Soon spat that out. I left most of the stringy bit in his head when I tore it out, so overall, it wasn’t bad.
The head.
Yes, that's why the other one screamed.
Something about a big naked brute strolling along with a severed head in his hand. Didn’t help that the head belonged to his friend. Anyway, his scream rattled the facility. I reckon the other two heard that.
I'm chasing him now, intentionally staying back, and toying with him. I think he followed the lead of the first one and shit himself. I have that effect on people.
Ah, he's heading to my quarters, to my abode.
He's in for a surprise.
Wait, what's that smell? Wait a minute…
We're not alone.
* * *
"Simon!"
Felicity leapt from the floor as Yellow Teeth walked into the alcove. She slipped on the bloody floor; her legs spread-eagled until she regained her balance, and ambled to her husband. He turned his back to the corpse, his focus on the intruder, the person who'd threatened them not two hours before.
Yellow Teeth looked terrified. His face was dripping with hot sweat, his hair slicked to his shining forehead, and his hands flapped randomly, padding his empty pockets and knife sheath, before fingering his jeans for something.
Simon stared at their tormentor, confused. He said nothing.
A noise pricked his ears. It sounded like long, cumbersome footsteps, dull booms of patient feet on a metal surface. Simon looked at Yellow Teeth, his insane, petrified stare that focused on the entrance to this slaughterhouse, and it clicked.
He lowered his head, leaning into Felicity, her fragrant hair brushing his cheek. His eyes didn’t leave the thug before them, who was still jittery, his very being shaking like a cold kid on a December morning.
"Flick…honey, listen to me. I need you to hide."
Felicity twisted her head, her lips brushing his, his warm breath comforting her a little. "Why?"
"Just do it, okay? Trust me."
"I'm not leaving you, not after all…"
"Flick, we don’t have time. Do it. Over there, get under the bed. Please."
Felicity saw the uncertainty, the hidden fear in her husband's eyes. They stared at her intently, willing her to do his bidding. She hesitated again and gave in. Flick. He only called her that when he was serious. He'd used it at the funeral and when paying his taxes. He'd used it once during sex when she'd leant back too far and nearly cracked one of his vertebrae.
Flick.
How much trouble were they in?
She knew her husband had no way of knowing. He was protecting her, hiding her.
She nodded and kissed him hurriedly. She walked off and dropped into a roll. Within seconds, she was under the bed, laying on her front, breasts and hands pushed against the grimy floor, staring sideways. She didn’t look down, she didn’t dare.
Simon breathed in. His eyes settled on Yellow Teeth, who still hadn’t removed his eyes from the door. Simon closed his eyes, breathed out and focused. "Hey, you."
Yellow Teeth turned to him, his eyes darting wildly. He no longer looked imposing or terrifying. Simon looked him up and down. His legs were trembling. His jeans were stained dark brown in large splotches. Lumpy smears were visible on the top of his boots. That’s when the smell hit Simon, masked by the rot and slaughter that already invaded the room. Seconds later, a large shape bloomed in Simon's peripheral vision.
Yellow Teeth buckled and screamed, taking Simon by surprise. He backed up, beside the dead woman and stood still. He leaned against the wall, bracing himself.
His eyes couldn’t believe the sight before him.
A hulk of a man waddled into the room. Simon estimated he was about seven foot tall and at least three foot wide. He was naked bar a pair of flapping shorts, torn at the thigh. Every inch of his body rippled with shredded muscle. His definition was reminiscent of a body builder, minus the oil and replaced with a sheen of sweat. His feet were bare, his arms soaked in crimson. He carried a severed head in his left hand, one Simon recognized as Tongue Stud. He felt a little remorse, despite the situation.
Simon almost gasped when he saw the creature's face. He held a hand to his mouth.
His severely burnt visage was ripped and torn, his skin had burnt away to leave hol
es and gaping voids in his skin. From here, Simon could see his teeth through the red raw flesh, could see his tongue as it rolled along them. His hair was long gone, nothing but a stray, blonde tuft atop his mangled head. His face muscles were tight and luminescent in the light, creating the image of a waxwork model. He had no lips and no eyebrows, no eyelids or earlobes.
The thing stepped forward. Yellow Teeth stood stock still, his legs shaking. Simon heard the thug follow through; the trembling sound of a fart filled the room as he voided his bowels again. The thing stopped and looked at his foe.
He dropped the severed head onto a table beside him with a rattling clonk and raised his arms. He held them out, wide, as if pretending to be an airplane.
Then, he clapped.
Simon yelped as Yellow Teeth's head exploded between the beast's large, veiny palms. Blood, brain, and viscera sprayed outwards, a cacophony of squelching filled the room, splattering the walls and floor with gore and gristle. When the thing removed his hands, Yellow Teeth dropped to his knees, his skull squashed in, the top and back opened like a cracked coconut. Slivers of brain oozed from the fractures and dropped to the floor as the corpse crumpled in a bloody heap.
The beast turned towards Simon. Its eyes, void of life and emotion, sized him up, establishing a threat. The deep blue in them reminded Simon of the beautiful ocean that surrounded them. It took a step towards him. For the first time, Simon noticed a green hue engrained in his flesh.
"What's your name?"
Simon jumped at the sound of his own voice. The beast stopped, its head tilting slightly, surprised at the question. Simon closed his eyes for a second, resisting the urge to look at Felicity. Could she see him? Was she watching this?
Simon took a slow step forward, hands out, showing he was unarmed. He remembered the sheath on Yellow Teeth's belt and wondered if that was the reason for his death. He addressed the beast again.
"What's your name?"
"Poseidon." The voice was feminine, high-pitched, like a young child's.
"Okay. What's your real name, Poseidon?"
"That is my real name. I live in Atlantis, this is my domain."
"I know you were probably told that. What was your name before you came to Atlantis."
"I didn’t have one."
"Yes, you did. You had a home, a family, a life."
Poseidon said nothing. His eyes twinkled in the light, seemed to bulge without the eyelids and skin to protect them. Was it…he…he thinking?
Its eyes flicked to the right, Simon's left, and stared at the mutilated corpse. Simon swatted away a fly as he gave the rotting body a wide berth. He noticed the look, one of longing, one of despair, buried beneath unknown tragedy and heartbreak.
"How long have you been down here?" Simon asked, taking a gamble.
The creature didn’t respond straight away, its eyes glued to the corpse. After a moment, he averted his gaze and looked at Simon. "Ten years."
"That's a long time." Simon moved his body, kept level with the being, ensuring it didn’t glance down and see Felicity. He placed a hand on his back, in full sight of his wife. "You were stationed here?"
"Atlantis, yes. Poseidon, yes. I was part of a ten-man crew who came down here, to do research and study the seabed, to study nature's true calling."
Simon nodded. "And what is that?"
The creature narrowed its eyes. Simon marveled at how the orbs shrunk but the torn muscle stayed as it was, didn’t restrict. He wondered how long it had been since Poseidon last had a conversation.
He continued. "After a year, we found…something. An oil, unlike any other I'd ever seen, deep beneath the seabed. It was blue, like the sea, easily lost in the gallons of water that we take for granted every day. I wouldn’t even call it an oil, except for the smoothness of the liquid. Once it's on your skin, you can't get it off…which is why so many people died."
Simon gulped, starting to regret his line of questioning.
"They all died, one by one, slowly, in a random pattern. The first succumbed to the pressure; the bends turned him insane. I saw him bash his brains in on one of the strengthened panes of glass. He kept going, head butting the glass; long after his cerebral material had turned to absolute mush. At the end, all I heard was the sound of empty, cracked skull scraping on the glass. It took me a day to clean the pink spongy tissue from the rec room. That's when I realized something was wrong."
Simon nodded. He was about to speak when Poseidon took a giant step forward.
"Have you ever seen a man pluck his eyeballs from his own head? Or a woman, who was six months pregnant, abort her unborn child with a pool cue. I mean, really shove it up there. It ripped her internal organs. I found her body slumped in the bathroom, head cracked on the sink, blood spraying everywhere. Some killed themselves, driven insane by…something. They said it was the oil and I believed them."
Simon swiped his forehead, wiping away the sweat. He started tapping on his back with his right hand, hoping his wife could decipher the code. "Where…where is the oil now?"
Poseidon shook his head. "No, I can’t tell you that. I swore I would protect it, keep it hidden from harm. I won't allow the human race to have it, to bring humanity to its knees. These guys were trying to take it." The man pointed to Yellow Teeth, and the mutilated head of Tongue Stud. "I wouldn’t let them. And I won't let you."
Simon held up his left hand, his right still on the small of his back. "I'm not here for the oil, I'm…I'm here because those guys chased me down here." He swallowed. "You saved my life."
Poseidon shook his head, laughing. "You don't fool me. You see me and think I'm a freak. Others did, when I started…morphing, changing. People gave me a wide berth, but I heard the sniggers, the whispers, I caught the sideways glances. No one helped me when my skin started to flake, then drop off in large chunks. No one will ever feel the agony I experienced when my muscles expanded and stretched, tearing and forming before her very eyes." He pointed to the corpse behind Simon. "No one tried to stop me when I dunked my face in petrol and set it alight. No one!"
"So, you weren't here alone?"
"No, I had a bunkmate. Her."
"So where is everyone? Did they all die?" Simon asked, knowing the answer.
"Yes, some had what I had, but not to such an extent. One lucky bastard died immediately, his heart exploded. His body started to form and mutate long after his last breath. It was a weird and horrific moment, watching his twitching corpse slide and wiggle along the ground, bones cracking, muscles tearing."
"How did you cope?" Simon edged towards Felicity. He knew they had to escape, no matter what. Staying was not an option. He tapped it out on his back, telling her to get ready.
"We returned to our basic instincts. We fucked like animals, fighting the pain and sadness that was enveloping Atlantis. Before long, everyone was dead, except us. We cleaned the bodies up, disposed of them. After a while, she died too, my mutation became too strong. I broke her back and suffocated her without realizing. After several minutes, I realized she was no longer moving. I finished inside her before I climbed off, scared to withhold such urges under the power of the oil."
A wave of nausea made Simon lick his lips, gasp for air in the humid room.
"It's all about the oil," Poseidon finished.
"So, you're the only person here?" Simon tensed his legs, ready to run.
We can outrun it; we know the way back. He killed the thugs, which gets them out of our hair. We can make it.
"Now, it's just me. Me and the oil."
"I'm sorry about your wife," Simon said. Time to distract him enough so Felicity can run.
"I never said it was my wife."
Simon stopped, his eyes locking onto Poseidon, a tremor or horror trickling through his body. "What, she was your girlfriend?"
"My sister."
Simon felt his stomach rotate, his lunch started to bubble down below, the words he'd heard came back to him slowly. Fucked. Animals. Broke her back. Finished inside
her. "What…?"
"The oil tells you what to do, not the other way around. There are no rules, no boundaries on the seabed, no laws of life. No restrictions, no taboos. There is man, woman, and the oil. Primitive, like in the olden days. My sister knew this, I could tell by her screaming, the resistance, and her refusal to give in to her sexual urges. The oil affects everyone differently."
Simon heard Felicity climb up from beneath the bed and turned, his equilibrium stunned by the revelation. Felicity gripped her husband, her eyes watching Poseidon. Simon turned to her, the taste of vomit burning his throat. "Run…go."
But it didn’t happen.
Poseidon swiped out. Felicity flew back into the bed, toppled over it and crumpled to a heap on the floor. Simon turned to the monster, his eyes blurred, his legs trembling.
"That's the thing with the oil…get too close and it renders even the most intelligent useless."
Simon felt his eyes close and blackness enveloped him.
* * *
It's been an eventful week. People tried to take the oil, and failed. Protocol 8 dictated that, one day, this moment would come. It did. They failed. I expected a bigger fight from the human race, a bigger threat from the rulers of Earth.
Seems they didn’t prepare for the oil.
The oil is the all-consuming being.
Right now, I'm sharpening my blade. Kerry, bless her, is no longer of use. I can only consume so much gangrenous flesh. Now, I have fresh meat, enough to last me a few weeks.
I watch as…what does the man call her? Flick? Yes, I watch as Flick struggles, tied to the pool table. I'm quite getting used to its new coppery colour. Green never suited it.
The man struggles, but he is weak, near the end of his tether. I feed the female first, after all, I can get much more use out of her. The man is useless, surplus to requirements. He'll soon be joining Kerry on the treacherous seabed.
Yes, the woman has much more use.
Much more.
ONCE TOLLED THE LUTINE BELL
Jack Rollins
“Yer a damned cold, hard man, Jack Snow,” said the silver-haired Scotsman, Matthew Dent.
“Dent, now ye know as well as I do that business is business.”
Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans) Page 20