Poseidon's Children
Page 30
Karl was right, a war was inevitable.
Christine snuggled closer to Jason, her eyes scanning the heavens, imagining a time when Man would be as numerous as the stars above.
It will happen, she warned herself, just not today.
•••
Days crawled into weeks, and weeks dragged into months. The FBI put Earl up in a ritzy Concord hotel — every morning, a fully stocked mini-fridge, every night, chocolates on his pillow. They let him workout in the gym, swim in the pool, and eat the finest carryout, but he couldn’t make a single phone call, nor could he leave without armed escort. Those fieldtrips were few and far between, reserved solely for his testimony.
He’d told the story so many times now that he could recite it in a dead slumber; who knows, as often as he had the nightmares, maybe he did. But it was always just that: a story. Even when his hand was pressed against the Bible, his words never told the whole and complete truth. But his answers were consistent, and that was all anyone seemed to care about.
The door opened and Earl sat bolt upright on his bed, his hand reaching for a holster that wasn’t there.
A white man in a black business suit entered, but different from the other business-suited men before him; he was older, silver-haired, an American flag pinned to his lapel. Under his arm, he carried a thick manila envelope.
“My name is Patrick Tate,” the man said. “I’m with Homeland Security, and I served with your father in the Gulf.”
Earl said nothing; he didn’t know if it was true or not, but he’d grown tired of these suits trying to be his buddy.
Tate slid a chair over and sat down. “To get right to the point, Officer Preston, we’re concerned about a possible threat to our national security.”
Earl snickered. “Aren’t you always?”
Tate frowned. “Let me be blunt. These creatures you fought...they were quite extraordinary, but there’s more, isn’t there? Something you’re unwilling to put on record? Afraid the truth might make you sound crazy, am I right?”
They locked eyes for a moment; Earl said nothing.
“Let’s just say that we might have the same concerns.” Tate opened the folder in his hands; he pulled out an 8x10 glossy and passed it to Earl. “This is one of the drawings you found.”
Earl gave the photo a cursory glance, it was the bloody wall of the FantaSea.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of crop circles?”
Earl frowned, remembering Miyagi’s alien theories. “What about ’em?”
Tate pulled out a second photo. “This shape appeared near a British military instillation one week before the Colonial Bay incident.”
Earl took this new picture, compared it to the first; the symbols — one scrawled in blood, the other grain — were identical.
Tate took another 8x10 from his folder. “Now this shape appeared in an Indiana cornfield, not far from where the Hays boy attended college.”
Earl studied it. Stalks had been twisted, flattened, creating the negative shape of a lightning bolt in the green field; like the tridents, it was imprisoned by a thin hoop.
“The local media thought that one was the work of high school kids, there’s a football team called ‘The Flashes.’” Tate brought out yet another photo. “But, one week later, the same design appeared in a Kansas wheatfield, ten miles from one of our nuclear silos, identical in size and shape.”
Earl returned the photos to Tate. “You think these are signals? To who? For what?”
Tate slid the materials back into his folder. “We don’t know. But, given their proximity to military targets, not knowing is...troublesome.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“You followed the trident symbol to Colonial Bay and Roger Hays.” Tate stood and tucked the folder back under his arm. “Now, I’d like you to put those detective skills to work for me.”
Earl sighed; he glanced around his hotel room, the same four walls he’d stared at for months, then returned his eyes to Tate. “If it means getting out of this cell, you got yourself a deal.”
•••
Some said the “D” in D Block stood for Damnation. The guards led Dante “The Horror Show” Vianello toward his new home; a hole that New Hampshire had dug for its worst offenders. One of the officers unlocked his manacles, and the other gave him a forceful push into the cell.
“Here’s your new roomy, Preacher,” said the guard with the keys.
The bars slid closed with a loud metallic clang.
Horror Show rubbed his wrists, then turned and blew his jailers a kiss. The guard who pushed him flipped the bird as they walked away, leaving the hitman to his dimly lit accommodations. He took a step toward the bunks, his eyes never leaving the cinder-block walls and the artwork that covered them.
There were drawings of mountains, of pyramids, of people marching toward the bright light of dawn. Writing framed each sketch, volumes of it, as if an author were composing a novel upon the brick, then illustrating it. Horror Show moved closer to the mural, tried to read what had been etched there; he didn’t recognize the language.
“Gibberish,” he told the wall.
“Sanskrit,” a voice corrected.
Horror Show turned. A silhouette stood in the gloom; the man had been so silent, so still, that he hadn’t even registered. “Preacher?”
“That’s what they call me,” the man murmured. “And you must be the one they call The Horror Show.”
“You draw this crap?”
“That ‘crap’ is The Return, The Second Coming.”
Great! I’m trapped in here with a born again wacko.
“You blew up a town,” Preacher said. “You killed thousands of people.”
“Save your sermon, padre. I’ve killed plenty, but there were no people in that town.”
“No.” The man was still in shadow, but there was a smile in his voice. “They were sea monsters, am I right?”
“Is that how I got this cell assignment? Bunk the crazies together?”
“It’s fate that brought you here to me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Reverend. It was a nigger, the damn Patriot Act, and a federal judge that got me here. There was nothing miraculous about it.”
“Lights out,” guards trumpeted from somewhere down the cellblock.
The hitman walked over to the metal gate and gave it a shake. “Anybody ever bust outta here?”
“Have faith.” Preacher reached out to clutch his shoulder, offering consolation. “When the time comes, we’ll leave together.”
Horror Show moved his eyes to the man’s hand and found the hairy claw of an animal; he spun around, flattened himself against the bars, his eyes wide with shock and revulsion.
“The gods brought you to me.” Preacher came into the light, a snarling beast that was neither wolf nor man. “And when the time comes, you will help me do their work.”
The lights went out on D Block.
For the first time in his life, Horror Show screamed.
NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I believe that even Fantasy and Horror need a foundation in reality. To bring as much realism as possible to this project, I drew on the education and talents of many marine scientists and biologists — particularly the writings of Jeffrey S. Levinton, Menico Torchio, and Charles Darwin; as well as conversations with Bruce Robinson, of the Monterey Bay Aquarium Research Institute in California; A. Peter Klimley, of the University of California at Davis; Dr. John Music and Ken Goldman, of the Virginia Institute of Marine Science; and the staff of the Waters Pavilion at the Indianapolis Zoo. It was through my discussions with them that I was able to breathe life into Poseidon’s children.
•••
And thanks to: my family, especially my wife, Stephanie, and my sons, fellow Horror movie fans Kyle and Ryan, for their never-ending love and support; Susan Christophersen, for editing my first draft; Amanda DeBord, for whipping the final version into shape; Stephen Zimmer and the entire staff at Seventh St
ar Press, for making this series a reality; Matthew Perry for his always amazing cover art and illustrations; the United States Coast Guard, the New Hampshire Fish and Game Department, and the Indianapolis Fire and Police Departments (particularly Video Technician Doug Baker), for their vital knowledge, advice, and input; my pre-readers: Dione Ashwill, Maurice Broaddus, Rodney Carlstrom, Nikki Howard, Sara Larson, David Lichty, Marlys Pearson, Natalie Phillips, Glenn Sheldon, Melinda Thielbar, and Chris Vygmont, for putting up with all my emails and for giving me their honest opinions; all the Indiana Horror Writers; and, of course, my faithful readers everywhere.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael West is the critically-acclaimed author of Cinema of Shadows, Skull Full of Kisses, and The Wide Game. He lives and works in the Indianapolis area with his wife, their two children, their bird, Rodan, and turtle, Gamera.
He loves to walk on the beach, but he still doesn’t think it’s safe to go back in the water.
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Welcome to the Woodfield Movie Palace.
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Why do bad things happen to good people? Simple. In the ancient war between the Angels of Light and Darkness, the Dark won. Now it is the job of an undercover force simply known as The Army to rectify that.
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