What a nightmare, though.
Dan shuddered.
"Elaine?"
There was no answer for a moment, and Dan smiled again. Elaine hadn't ever been a fan of getting up early, and had affected a mock-pout when Dan told her that they'd have to be up at five in order to make their way down to Portsmouth for the start of their honeymoon.
"Elaine?" he started to say again, but the word died in his throat.
"I'm afraid not, Mr Bellamy."
A man's voice.
It all came back at once, crushing Dan beneath the weight of its enormity.
Vampires.
Darkness.
I'm still on the ship.
"Who's there?" he asked weakly.
"My name is Herbert Rennick, Mr Bellamy. I think we've got a lot to talk about."
Dan didn't want to talk. Didn't want anything other than for oblivion to reclaim him.
"Assuming that we survive, of course."
Dan squeezed his eyes shut in despair.
"What do you mean?"
His answer was a roar that sounded like a god screaming. An enormous explosion that seemed to rattle the cells in his body. Another explosion followed it.
Another.
"That'll be the fuel tanks," Herbert Rennick said. "Things are about to get—"
Dan didn't hear anymore.
Suddenly the entire world was roaring, and everything was tumbling, endless darkness.
Epilogue
"A tragic accident. An explosion. I lost four of my sons."
"You think that will work?"
"If you mean do I think they’ll take pity on me, Jeremy, then no. I don’t think that will fucking work. We’ll have to offer to make amends. A bigger sacrifice; soon. Much bigger."
"And that should appease them?"
Charles Rennick threw the mug of half-drunk brandy down onto the deck. Metal mugs were only sensible if you were planning a trip to the mid-Atlantic, but the fact they didn’t smash when thrown in anger just added to his rising fury.
"Who fucking knows?" he snarled. "These things don’t think like us. There’s every chance they’ll rip our fucking heads off just for having the audacity to make the offer. Our only hope is that they believe their brothers died in an accident. Maybe even caused the explosion themselves. If they think for a second that one of their kind was killed by one of us, it won’t matter how many souls we offer them. They’ll take them all. That was the bargain. It has always been the bargain."
Jeremy dropped his gaze to the deck, watching the metal mug rolling across the floor as the waves pummelled the ship.
He didn’t know what to say. Charles Rennick was unpredictable at the best of times. There was every chance that the wrong word would mean Jeremy leaving the cabin with more holes than he went in with.
He eyed the pistol on Charles’ waist, and took a long gulp of the brandy, letting the pleasant fire burn his throat.
And let out a quiet sigh of relief when there was a knock at the door.
"Yes?" Charles barked.
A young man walked in, eyes wide, gasping for air.
"We’ve located the container, Sir. We’re winching it up right now."
Charles nodded, and fixed the man with his piercing grey eyes. It had been four hours since the fuel tanks on the Oceanus blew. He had started to suspect that they would never locate the container.
At least part of him had hoped that would prove to be the case.
"How long?"
"We’ll have it on board in five minutes, Sir."
*
The dark green shipping container had taken a battering: Charles guessed that the explosion that finally tore the Oceanus apart had done most of the damage, but the seabed had almost certainly done its share, too.
The thing was covered in dents, but the structure had remained intact. Bent out of shape, but still in one piece.
That might have been good news. Until the doors opened, it was impossible to tell.
"The lock’s set for two hundred hours, Sir."
Charles nodded.
"Then pry it off."
Prying it off turned out to be too much for even the strongest among the men on board. Eventually when it became clear that the twisted lock didn't want to give up without a fight, Charles called for someone to fetch a torch, and the cutting began.
The container was right back where it had started its journey, chained to the narrow deck of the Sea Shanty. The trawler was modest in size, and between the container and the chopper, space on board was at a premium. Still, most of the twelve members of the extended Rennick family on the trawler would have had plenty of space to gather in front when the doors finally opened.
Only one man chose to stand directly in front, though. The rest crowded to the sides of the container, and did their best to look elsewhere.
Just being in the presence of the vampires was terrifying: they exuded fear like a pheromone, and left a sickly feeling in the mind that lingered like an aftertaste. But looking at them...well, nobody in their right mind wanted to do that. Not when there was a chance that they might look right back.
When the lock finally fell to the deck with a heavy clunk, Charles nodded at the young man holding the cutting torch, whose face lit up with relief as he scampered away without looking back.
Charles stood alone and stared at the doors, waiting for them to open. Wondering how many of the creatures he would find inside.
If it were any less than three, he expected to die in short order. It had to be three vampires, or the container had to be empty. Anything in between would mean the end of everything.
Something inside the container thumped, and the heavy door shivered.
Charles Rennick drew in a deep breath, and wondered if it was to be his last.
When the door began to open, Charles lowered his eyes and knelt, bowing his head as if in prayer. He stared at the deck, and only when he saw a pair of scuffed boots in front of him did he dare to look up.
His mouth dropped open in astonishment.
"Hi, Dad."
Charles’ gaze flitted to the pistol that his last remaining son aimed at his head.
"Herbert? What happened?"
"Dead vampires, Dad. Who’d have guessed huh? Oh, and dead brothers as well, let’s not forget that."
He lifted his voice to a roar.
"Let’s not forget that I’m supposed to be dead too, right?"
Herb took a step closer, until the barrel of the gun was pressed into the wrinkled flesh of his father’s forehead.
"Y-You killed vampires?" Charles stuttered. "That's imposs—"
Herb took a step back, but didn’t lower the gun.
"Not me, Dad. Him."
Charles shot a glance at the container and saw a young man stepping out. Late twenties. Unshaven, with a mop of dark hair plastered to his forehead. A scrawny body wrapped in old clothes. Unremarkable in every way.
"I don't understand. Son, what do you—"
"Son," Herb snapped caustically. "Bit late for that, father."
Charles Rennick's eyes clouded with anger.
"You’ve started a war."
"We’ve terminated a surrender. Not happy with the terms," Herb said.
Charles barked a laugh.
"And now what? You’re going to kill me? Then who’ll be the head of the Rennick family? You?"
Herb lowered the gun and shook his head.
"I’m not going to kill you, Dad. I couldn’t. You’re family. Blood. To some of us that actually means something. I wish I could kill you, but I can’t."
He turned, and tossed the gun away.
*
Dan Bellamy caught the gun, and stared down at it. It felt surprisingly heavy in his hands.
"That guy can, though," Herb said.
Dan looked at Herb, and lifted the gun in trembling hands.
At the end of the barrel, he saw Elaine’s smiling face; saw her standing there in her wedding dress, the most beautiful woman he had ever
seen.
Saw her on the floor, pinned beneath a monster as it tore out her throat. Dying alone in the darkness.
He felt the familiar pounding of his heart, and he aimed the gun at Charles Rennick’s face.
And rode the black river.
Prologue
Northern Kentucky, USA, 1999
Frank Mather straightened, massaging his aching back with one hand and mopping at his brow with the other. He’d been on plenty of digs in Kentucky over the past few years and, one way or another, had always found some reason to curse the weather, which veered crazily between boiling and freezing on his every visit. This time, northern Kentucky had been baking for two weeks at over a hundred degrees. It was the kind of heat that made you feel like you’d pass out if you got off your chair, but the searing temperature hadn’t slowed Frank and his team all day.
Not since they first uncovered it.
Since that moment, when the site of what was supposed to be just another Native American burial mound had spat up something extraordinary, they had worked feverishly; tirelessly, until Frank’s muscles protested loudly and his head began to pound from dehydration.
He climbed from the hole and made his way to the shade of the trees, where the team had stowed its gear, took a plastic bottle from his pack and drained a pint of warm, clear water without pausing. It was the last of his stock, and he was supposed to be rationing it out. Nobody had expected to remain at the site this long, and they hadn’t brought adequate supplies for a dig that had already stretched into the early evening.
He shrugged to himself. They’d be back in the nearby town of Ashland in a couple of hours, once they lost the last of the light. He’d just have to go thirsty until then.
“You slacking there, Professor?”
He looked up and smiled when he saw Nicole walking toward him, wiping her own brow and leaving a trail of dirt across her forehead which somehow managed to make her even more beautiful. Not for the first time, Frank thought that she was far too attractive to pursue a career in archaeology, of all things.
He tried not to stare, and Nicole tried not to smile flirtatiously when she noticed.
Neither quite succeeded.
Nicole crouched and rifled through her pack, retrieving her own bottle of water. Instinctively, Frank lifted his bottle to his lips once more, momentarily forgetting that it was empty.
He already felt parched.
Damn Kentucky.
“Any thoughts yet?” Nicole asked, taking a deliberately dainty sip and looking at his dry bottle with teasing eyes. He dropped it on the ground next to his pack.
It was the same question they had all been asking all day, one way or another.
What is it?
He shook his head. “I’ve got no idea. I called Princeton, and they’ve got no idea. In fact, I’m pretty sure they think I’m trying to stage something here.”
“They’re idiots.” She rolled her eyes.
Frank scratched at his chin. “They’re worried. I can understand why. The work we’re doing has the potential to prove that we have been teaching our own history wrong. It might not sound like much, but it would ruffle some feathers.”
Nicole snorted.
“Feathers get ruffled in the faculty if someone orders a new brand of coffee.”
Frank ignored her depressingly accurate jibe.
“And then,” he continued, “on top of that, I call them with this? Hell, there’s even a part of me that thinks this has to be a hoax. Or I’m dreaming, or something.”
Nicole cast a quick glance around to make sure the others could not see them, stepped forward, and kissed him lightly. It was the first time she had done any more than flirt with him, and the unexpected contact left him dizzy.
“Does it feel like you’re dreaming?”
“Right now? Yeah, kinda,” he grinned.
She laughed and pulled away from him.
“So, what did you actually tell them? Princeton?”
Frank’s grin faded.
“The truth. A Native American burial mound erected in the middle of a copse of white oaks which were deliberately planted to mirror a European-style Neolithic henge. They pretty much started laughing right there. Then, I told them the mound contains two bodies: one human and one…uh…not. I described the anatomy of our unidentified friend, and it felt kinda like I was handing in my resignation.”
Nicole snickered.
“Did they ask for an estimate?”
“Yeah. I told them circa one-thousand B.C., based on the racial features of the human skeleton. Most likely one of the Adena people.”
“And the…other skeleton?”
“I haven’t got the faintest idea what to tell them. I’d say it looks older. A lot older, but that would be impossible. As far as I know, there’s nothing like it on record.”
“What do you think it is? You must have a theory? Something. Don’t hold out on me.”
Frank frowned, willing his mind to come up with a response. Nicole, incredibly, was a young, beautiful woman who actually seemed to be interested in his theories about pre-Columbus America being settled by Europeans who had subsequently disappeared. He was not supposed to engage in inappropriate behaviour with students, of course, but their little flirtations were harmless—at least until that kiss—and by God he did get a thrill out of impressing her.
He wished he could conjure up some exotic theory that might blow Nicole’s mind, but his own thoughts were muddled and scattershot. As things stood, Bigfoot was as plausible an explanation for the thing buried in the mound as any other he could dream up.
He shook his head and walked back to the edge of the dig site. He still had two students down there, working diligently at the remains with soft brushes; easing away the earth by inches.
The more of the bones they revealed, the more mystified Frank felt.
He could see all but the thing’s left arm and leg now: it had been a huge creature, bipedal, but with multi-jointed arms and legs of a type that he had never seen before. Upright, Frank figured it would have been well north of seven feet in height. A densely packed ribcage: each rib almost fusing to the next to form a protective carapace, like a beetle. Its hands were long and thin, three many-knuckled fingers topped with talons that made Frank think of birds of prey. Yet it had opposable thumbs, a trait found only in humans and certain primates.
And its skull…
Those teeth…
“Well, it’s not human. It can’t be. Not even some genetic anomaly. These bones aren’t the product of some sickness or mutation. Whatever it was, I think it was supposed to look like this. But as far as I know, nothing even remotely like it has ever been recorded before.”
“You’re thinking alien, right?”
Nicole’s eyes sparkled, and Frank chuckled. It wasn’t the first time that day that she had brought up ET as a potential explanation for the bizarre remains, and he doubted it would be the last.
“I’m sure it’s not an alien, Nicole. As much as I know you want it to be, it’s not.”
Nicolemock-pouted as another voice joined the conversation, floating up from the base of the dig.
“He’s right, Nic. But I can tell you one thing about it.”
Frank looked down at the woman who’d spoken. Bella was the polar opposite of Nicole: all work and no play, but she was damn good at her job. While Frank, Nicole and Dirk—the final member of the team—had focused on the bizarre skeleton, unable to tear themselves away from it, Bella had worked alone; concentrating only on unearthing the human remains.
“What?”
“Whatever it is,” Bella said, “it was murdered,” she pointed at the smaller, human skeleton, “by this guy.”
Frank frowned.
“I think our human friend here was buried holding a hatchet of some sort,” Bella continued. “Handle’s gone—rotted, most likely—but this was the blade.” She waved a hand at a flat, smooth piece of stone a foot or so away from the human skeleton’s right hand. “Can�
��t be sure without tests, of course, but I’m willing to bet that this hatchet matches the wound on the side of El Diablo over there’s skull.”
Frank peered at the stone and nodded.
El Diablo. In a way, that seemed to fit.
They had already surmised that the unidentified creature had died as a result of head trauma, and now they had both murderer and murder weapon, but still the facts did not present a clear picture in Frank’s mind. Some ancient people had buried a man right next to something that he had killed; the two skeletons arranged ceremoniously next to each other, almost like a couple sleeping peacefully. But why?
His gaze was drawn back to the huge skeleton once more, as if the bones and teeth and talons exerted some magnetic pull. So many questions, all of them orbiting around a single, vast conundrum.
What the hell were you?
*
The team continued to carefully brush dirt away from bone for another hour, until the gathering dusk began to thwart their efforts. It wouldn’t do to stumble around blindly in the dark, perhaps missing or destroying something vital, and so Frank told the others to wrap it up and head back to their hotel in one of the team’s two cars. Frank would sleep in the other vehicle overnight. No way he was going to leave the site unattended; not yet.
With weary smiles and groans, Nicole, Bella and Dirk began to gather their things.
And all froze as one, rooted to the spot by the sudden noise that split the late evening air.
At first Frank thought it was the sound of distant thunder, the stifling weather breaking at last, perhaps, but as the noise drew closer, he realised what it was. Engines. More than one, approaching fast.
The team squinted up into the gloomy sky as one, and Frank gaped in astonishment when he saw three fat, dark helicopters roar overhead, flying so low that their metal bellies barely cleared the trees. For a moment, bright spotlights bleached the colour from the dig site, and he shaded his eyes until the light was pulled away abruptly.
The choppers disappeared from sight, but the noise of their engines remained ear-splittingly loud. They were circling nearby, Frank realised, searching for a place to land.
The Adrift Trilogy: The Black River Page 27