She stood, patting her pockets for more flares. Rain started to spit down from the dark clouds above. We were on the edge of the storm and a carnivorous jelly wanted to come aboard. Doom with a high chance of death.
Getting to my feet, I steadied myself as the invading creature shook the boat. The engine shrieked to stop as the tangling mass engulfed the prop. The boat started to turn in the water. It had a good hold of us now. This was it. It had to be.
Another scream as a clear arm of shimmering fluid dragged another crew member of the Southern Pride over board, the only evidence that remained to prove they ever existed was eight lines of fresh nail scratches, carved in desperation as the poor unfortunate was dragged kicking and very briefly screaming to their doom. I didn’t even know their name. The shriek was so high and garbled that I couldn’t tell whether it was male or female.
More deadly and inquisitive tendrils raised themselves over the side of the boat, searching for further sustenance, in a terrifying silence, worming their way towards us.
“It’s my last flare. What do I do?” Tanya asked, her voice tinged with high terror, diluted down to a point where it sounded like breaking glass to my ears. Tears flowed free and unashamed down her face from the horror of seeing her crew eaten alive. I thought her confident and strong willed when we first met, now I saw scared child in fear for her life.
“Do you have any fuel? Something we can burn it with?” I suggested, warily edging away from the sides of the boat as the creeping clear fingers made themselves known over the edge of the transom.
Without further word, Tanya vanished below deck, leaving me alone with the thing, whatever the hell it was. Was it alien? Government made? Some undiscovered ancient creature released from the depths by the seaquake I’d heard about the day before? Or was it new, a mutant jellyfish caused by all the pollution we humans have collectively dumped into the great oceans. Sooner or later something like this had to happen. Mother Nature had to rebel against us for all the wrongs we’ve brought against her planet. I’ve heard about Chernobyl, about the crazy mutant babies born inside out with three eyes of different colours, and six toes on each hand. Something like this had to happen sooner or later. It wasn’t just in the movies. It was nature; a creature more deadly than the human race had raised its mighty head. I think humanity either dreads or relishes the moment when reality catches up with science fiction. This was reality imploding.
The being, whatever it was, seeped over the edge of the deck from the back of the boat, spilling across the weather worn wood, with frightening speed. Within its viscous splurge I could see rips of seaweed, tufts of clothing, half a dissolved shoe, a belt buckle, and even what looked like small white pebbles.
Teeth. But whose?
The rain pelted a little harder, stinging like an attack of lost wasps. Part of me wanted to drink it in, just stand there and lap up the gift from the sky in a bizarre form of Zen acceptance, as I didn’t know when my next drink would be, or my last.
The blue paint from the hull of the Southern Pride hissed and bubbled as the corrosive nature of the beast glided over the top. It was a thing without teeth, but just as deadly and as carnivorous as a toothy apex predator. Water began to eddy across the top of it as its weight pulled the boat lower into the water. Some touched my bare toes, nudging me into action. I shouted for Tanya, but I couldn’t wait for her, there was no time; she’d chosen her own fate. Grasping hold of the mast with both hands, I began shimmying my way up, grasping hold of the thin spurs that served as a ladder, making rapid but careful progress.
I checked the horizon, the purpling sky darkening all around us. The boat was going down, so I considered what would be lucky. Would it be more fortunate if I fell headfirst into the beast and my brains dissolved in a few painful seconds, or would I be considered luckier if I jumped back into the drink and given a few more seconds of precious life?
Above me, above the chaos, thunder rumbled deep and slowly booming like the catacombs of a giant’s gut. The rain slicked my grip upon the mast spurs aiding gravity’s quest to pull me back into the fray. The universe was conspiring against me. I wondered why. Was it Celeste, because I cheated on Lindsey with her? Could the universe be that fickle?
A scream bellowed; Tanya this time. I looked down to catch her fearful gaze through the hatch that led below deck. Her eyes went wide, exposing the whites and looking up to me with hateful envy. The strange undersea jellified predator flowed freely below deck, pouring its thick presence around Tanya’s feet.
Lava with a stomach.
She had no escape; she and I both knew in that moment as soon as she laid a single finger on this corrosive being she’d be doomed. Before I could utter any protest, she raised the petrol can she held in her hand, and began pouring the fluid over her head. She clenched her eyes and gasped as the vapours assaulted her senses.
With her other hand, she positioned the flare gun square on her temple, closing her eyes as her lips soundlessly uttered something before the pain began. Prayers possibly, maybe even a goodbye to loved ones. She looked up at me, her last grimacing wild eyed smile becoming lost to sudden insanity as her finger squeezed the trigger, and the creature begin to climb up her legs. The decision for one person to shift from sanity to committing suicide had taken minutes, and startled me more than the gore I’d witnessed. Maybe Tanya had tendencies; maybe this was how she was always going to die. It didn’t matter. It was too late to consider her true mental state.
The horribly brilliant blinding pink light ignited the fuel that Tanya had showered over herself. A blinding flash, then she became a black figure lost in the flames, trapped beneath the blazing tower, her brief scream singing with the roar of the inferno as the flames ate hair and skin with a hunger to rival that of the creature. A black, red, and pink shape that used to be Tanya collapsed backwards into the cabin. Dead I hoped. I wondered what would burn more, fire or the beast? Within a matter of seconds the fire had been reduced to a steaming annoyance, as the interrupting influx of seawater cooled and extinguished the onset of flames. The creature advanced, unperturbed by the fire as it now covered the entirety of the main deck like a quivering, prolapsed stomach.
I had begun to consider that it wanted me alone, and anything else that got in the way was a mere amuse-bouche to tide it over. Was the creature as mindless as a mushroom, or did it fold towards me with hunger in its jelly fish heart? I shouldn’t care. I only wanted this to be over.
I carried on climbing, slipping my fingers onto the top rung as the boat began to lurch. I wrapped a leg around the mast to steady myself. Slowly, the Southern Pride began to list forty-five degrees to starboard as the creature’s pull overwhelmed the vessel, and the cabins below filled with the blood diluted Atlantic. It had reached the base of the mast; somehow it knew I was up here, as its shapeless, spewing tentacles followed my scent trail, clawing up the mast like a time-lapse of knotweed. It had tasted, and now it wanted to finish off the buffet. Its hunger was unrelenting, which should have made it a base, brainless animal, but somehow it had the capacity for caution as it had steered clear of me when I had the Shark Shield on. I don’t think anyone would ever discover how smart or simple it was. How could you cage and observe such a beast? It would eat the scientists that studied it.
I looked into the surrounding waters; a bloodied, half shredded body floated a few metres from the boat. I couldn’t tell who it had been. A single, jellified tentacle started wrapping around the fresh corpse, squeezing and cinching as a spider would bind a fly. The proboscis pulled the wayward carcass back into the main body, folding and absorbing the flesh, with a quiet, unrelenting boil. I watched as the monstrous skin formed a sack around the body, sealing off the outside environment, to cook the flesh in its own juices.
What a horrible way to go. I really hoped that the mind was long gone before they reached the boil in the bag stage.
Instinct told me to turn on my own Shark Shield, and I even reached around to my back to grab it. Alas, it was muscle memory send
ing me down that dead end. The device was still zipped into my suit somewhere aboard the Southern Pride, the batteries probably run dead by now. Like everybody.
I fantasised about what would happen if I threw a Shark Shield down onto the boat, what would happen to the squirming creature that wanted to slide over me and gobble me up. Would it explode in a flame to fuel reaction? Or would it shriek, recoil and glide back into the depths to bide its time? It didn’t matter. Not anymore. It was far too late to warn anyone else.
Clinging on to the 45-degree angle of the mast as it descended lower, I dipped closer to the water, until my still swim tired arms couldn’t cling on any longer. I was jettisoned back into the beautiful, cruel sea where I belonged, beyond the reach of whatever the fuck it was. Psycho Jellyfish was an apt description.
The salt water that engulfed me was odd and refreshing, like meeting an old friend for a drink. It wasn’t as shocking as I’d expected after the relative warmth of the boat and the lack of a Fast Skin. Despite the circumstances, it did nothing to wake me from this nightmare that I continued to find myself in.
If this is it, my entire life has been a waste up until this point. I’m food. We’re all food.
What about Lindsey Harris?
She didn’t matter. Not to me anyway. And I to her? Maybe something, a fond memory perhaps? She’d move on. I hope so.
I didn’t swim. I didn’t try to get away. There was no point. I knew it would get me eventually. I imagined making it back to shore and the jellied beast continuing its onslaught against me, curling up on the sand and rocks, following me inland, no matter how many miles I covered. Across desert or up mountain, it would find me. I’d lived a privileged life, and it was all pretty much handed to me on a plate. I had no regrets. Children would have been nice, but hey. Going out this way was an honour. Not many people get to die this way. Well not yet anyway.
It beat cancer I suppose. It would be relatively quick.
The Southern Pride was gone now. No trace. Nothing resided on the surface aside from a few scraps of paper and a meaningless white plastic cup that meant nothing to anyone living. The Atlantic churned as it always had, hiding the evidence of any seafaring misdemeanours they had suffered. I didn’t look too hard for it.
No, wait. A familiar green bottle floated maybe ten feet from my head, the only message it gave was desolation. The water trembled and vibrated, as the creature bubbled up from beneath and touched the bottle. The plastic hissed and melted as if under a high heat. The bottle popped, then sank beneath the waves, what little nutrition it held no doubt absorbed by the sea creature.
I treaded water, waiting for it to come and get me.
The Drowned God.
The Thing from beneath Hell itself.
The Unnameable, because no one had lived long enough to name the damned thing.
There was nothing else to do. Except die this strange death.
To be eaten was honourable. I was part of the food chain. Nature would be proud.
Then hope bloomed, life teasing me one last time, and filling me up with a horrible optimism that I couldn’t believe. Third time lucky?
I saw the flag of an approaching ship, drawing closer, maybe called to our rescue or perhaps simply passing, and now inquisitive of the strange and dire situation unfolding upon the skin of the ocean. My dumb brain was too tired to put a country to the colours of the flag, but it searched anyway, taking my thoughts away from the awaiting danger. Stupid. Countries didn’t matter anymore.
I saw colours. A red, a white, and another my brain was too tired to detect.
Colours, taste, love, sunshine and whatever lights our days. Nothing mattered in the grand scheme of things. There was life and there was death, it’s best to fill your life with the good things, that’s why we do it; the laughs, the joy.
The boat was heading straight towards me, over the where the Southern Pride (and the Lord Burringham most probably) had sunk. This place was fast becoming a graveyard.
I see people on the deck. One has binoculars, another holds a life buoy. They’re so close.
I wonder about if I’d ended my plight earlier. If I’d given up my cutting through the skin of the ocean, would the death have all ended with me? It wouldn’t have mattered, as I would never have known what came next. It was a stupid thought.
A tug.
It tickles.
The pain is orgasmic as it warms its way up my leg. Such warmth. A caress from the devil himself. Bobbing up and down with the oscillation of the Atlantic waves, my voice tried to raise a warning from my throat. Warn them, as there’s little I can do before they…
The End
Read on for a free sample of Karakatitsa: A Deep Sea Thriler.
Author’s Note.
A few years back, before I even had “Starers” published with Severed Press, I read an anthology from them called “Dead Bait”, a fantastic collection of maritime horror filled with various different creatures from beneath the waves. I loved it, and discovered that they were producing “Dead Bait 2”; I set to work on my own story to be submitted. The original 10,000 word version of “Midway” wasn’t ready in time and I failed to make the cut. I missed the boat, as it were. I subbed it at few places, but 10,000 words is a long short story and it was knocked back again and again. I let it fester away on the depths of my hard drive, where I mostly forgot about it.
Then last year, in conversation with my publisher whilst trying to procure some convention copies of “Starers”, I was asked if I had any sea monster stories in my head. Or dinosaur ones for that matter.
I did have a sea monster story, but it was a little bit short. But I could try fleshing it out, as after a few years of being dormant, I had ideas.
I tripled the word count by three, passed it around my beta readers, who all agreed that it was an enjoyable read. Job done.
When you write a story, it’s not finished when you’ve finished it. I think a story is only truly finished when I reader is done with it. I never imagined that “Midway” would be a full book, but I’ve proven to myself that patience has paid off. If you’ve made it this far, I’m guessing you enjoyed the ride (or swim).
I have a few thanks to go out to a couple of people who helped shaped “Midway” into its final form. My beta’s, Andy “EBook Wyrm” Angel, Paul Blanchfield, Kayleigh Marie Edwards (sorry for the nightmares), Gemma Bryan (you’re in my next book), and Paul Rhodes; you all confirmed my suspicions that I had a great story. I want to hug you all for loving it outright.
Thanks to Dane Hatchell for the edit and Romana Baotic for the tonne of ideas for fleshing it out. I spent a full day on YouTube watching videos and reading articles at her suggestion and I’m certainly glad I did.
Nathan Robinson 5th March 2015
Chapter 1
“Number one is missing.”
Mike blinked and looked at the phone, “Where?”
“Japan, it is three days late for China. Get to the port.”
“Alright, I’ll be right there.” The woman lying next to him opened her eyes and looked at him sleepily as he stood up. “You have to leave,” he said in his best, broken Russian, “I have to go.” She watched him without moving as he packed a suitcase. “I’m not joking. You need to get your things.”
“I can wait for you.”
“No, you can’t. I don’t know when I’ll be back and I do not want them to find you.” He stood up, grabbed a handful of bills, and shoved them into her purse. “Go back home, it will not be safe here. There is enough here to get you, what is the word, set up without having to go back to what you were doing.”
Kubilai looked at the bills in her purse. “You will come back for me?”
“Yes, if it is safe, I will come back.”
She grew more pensive as they packed. Her dark mood turned angry so that she was throwing things in the suitcase by the time she finished. When the taxi pulled up, she looked at him with disgust. “You will not come.”
“Keep your phone,” Mi
ke said as he lifted her bag into the trunk. “You have enough to get a good start. Keep yourself safe.” She said nothing as he shut the door to the cab.
Number One was the submarine that travelled the Asian coast down to Australia. Number Two cruised the Americas. A fishing vessel would meet one of the subs and load it with either heroin from Asia, or cocaine from South America. The process was simple. Using a small submersible, they would drop bundles from the submarines along the coastline. A cell phone would be put inside a balloon that would float to the surface and email the coordinates to the mainland. Then a common local recreational, fishing or commercial vessel would retrieve it. The Subs would unload the remainder of their payload to a ship in the north pacific where it would be exchanged, then heroin would go to the Americas and cocaine would make its way to Asia. Mike was the person who designed them.
After graduating with a degree in Marine Engineering, Michael Joossens designed underwater vehicles and tools for a company that contracted with numerous private and public organizations. These were small, usually unmanned, vessels that were outfitted with robotics and cameras for recovery and research. Shelikhov Nautical, a Russian shipping firm, offered him a large contract to design larger submarines for their salvage contracts. The brutish figures and constant stream of young women that paraded through the facility let him know this wasn’t an average shipping company, and it wasn’t long before he realized who he was working for.
At first, he was happy enough to play along, enjoying not only the huge salary, but also the many fringe benefits of women and nightlife. However, he soon realized he was only a little more than tolerated by the businessmen of the organization for his knowledge and skills. He was lucky. Some of the others that were involved with the development and construction were extorted and terrorized by some of the lower level players of the organization. He had to hold his own a couple of times and took his licks, but, in the end, he gained their respect and learned his lessons: keep to yourself, divulge nothing, mind your own business, join the party only when invited, and don’t overstay your welcome. He thought about the pseudo-tough guys he went to school with who thought they were “gangsta.” They needed to hang with his crowd. Joossens had hardened over the years he had been with them. He could hold his own and there wasn’t much that intimidated him anymore. He had very few friends here and trusted none of them. That’s why he sent Kubilai away. If they found her, they would capture and either use her to get what they wanted or torture her as punishment.
Midway Page 9