Black Valley

by Jim Brown

  The mouse moved toward him, stopped, stood on its hind legs, sniffed the air in a series of quick twitches, and stared. Its grayish brown fur was the color of cemetery dirt, and its eyes as black as the period at the end of a death sentence.

  The concrete floor was cold, and the sensation seemed to be working its way up Tucker’s feet and legs, chilling each hair. He shifted his weight, adjusting the DVC-Pro digital television camera on his shoulder.

  The mouse, perhaps being camera shy, scurried away, disappearing behind a stack of crates marked HEADLY FURNITURE AMERICA’S FAVORITE with a smaller stamp that said: MADE IN CHINA.

  With the mouse gone, nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Quiet and cold. Like the dead.

  The silence was worse than the cold. More cunning. More deliberate.

  A necklace of sweat began to form just beneath the collar of Tucker’s shirt. He forced himself to breathe. The air was gelatinous, thick, and dirty.

  Elliot Kay Simon was alive.

  Never mind that the FBI had found his body near his exploded van – and across the street, and on the roof of the house next door, and on a parked patrol car where it soiled the exterior and caused the officer to soil the interior.

  Never mind that Simon had been identified, absolutely and positively, by dental records.

  None of that mattered because Tucker Thorne had seen a mouse.

  And now he knew with creepy, crawly certainty that the card-carrying crazy man with a propensity for bombs and the grandiose idea that he was God’s best buddy that man was back from the dead.

  Given the insufficient information or time for review, reaching this conclusion was something akin to solving the entire New York Times crossword puzzle with nothing but the down clues during a two-minute commercial break. But Tucker was good with puzzles, very good, in fact, phenomenally good. And had been since childhood, when he spent two years confined to a bed with little to do but work crosswords, jigsaws, and brain teasers.

  Now his mind seemed to make these impossible leaps without provocation. His puzzle sense, Gwen called it. Grief suddenly overwhelmed him, a tidal wave that washed away fear, leaving a barren, mental landscape in its wake. In the year and a half since her death, he had tried to come to terms with his loss. But at times he missed her so acutely he feared his heart would break and, instead of blood, it would be his very soul that bled out.

  Clank.

  The sound of metal on metal reverberated through the building and shook Tucker from his thoughts.

  It was followed by the subtle, more frightening sound of a lock being engaged.

  Tucker’s puzzle sense made another extraordinary leap in logic. Not only was Elliot Kay Simon alive, he was here, in the warehouse, locked inside with Tucker.

  VASSA ISLAND – The Beach

  “Stand by,” the floor director shouted, and even the jungle seemed to quiet at his command.

  Dana Kirsten couldn’t feel her toes. She knew they were there because she had seen them just this morning. But now, with lights blazing, cameras rolling, and knowing she would soon be seen by millions of people the world over, she had the overwhelming urge to look down just to be sure.

  The twelve contestants stood in a semicircle in front of the Round House. The show’s host, the one the production staffer called Smiley, stood in front of them. A beige mike was unobtrusively clipped to his tan safari shirt.

  Oh, God, now I can’t feel my legs.

  Dana pictured herself toppling over, falling face forward in the sand, numb from the waist down. The absurd image made her – snicker.

  The host gave her a mean glare, then shook his perfectly combed blond hair once to give it a slightly tousled look.

  “We’re live in five, four, three, two . . . ” The floor-director cued the host, who ignited his signature smile.

  Dana Kirsten was suddenly mortified at the thought of being on television – live twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for seven weeks.

  Brant Nelson’s voice went up in volume and down in pitch as he delivered his carefully written preamble as if it had just occurred to him.

  “. . .With six hundred and thirty-eight cameras, many of them hidden throughout the complex and jungle, and with each contestant wearing his or her own personal camera, plus the world’s most powerful television transmitter, as well as a geo-synchronous satellite, this is the biggest television studio ever created . . . ”

  Nelson paused for dramatic effect. Dana heard the howl of fear in the back of her mind.

  “. . .but television is only part of it. We here at the Globe Television Network have gone the extra mile. Simply go online and sign-up for 24/7 Plus and you will have unlimited access to any of those six hundred and thirty-eight cameras any time day or night. Giving you, the viewer, unprecedented access to see everything. And I do mean everything.”

  A nervous chuckle came from the group.

  I wonder if they can see my toes? Dana thought.

  “These twelve contestants are competing for the amazing prize of two million dollars and their heart’s desire,” Nelson continued. “But to win your heart’s desire, you have to face your greatest fears – and in the next seven weeks these brave competitors will do just that and more . . . ”

  One of the mobile cameramen walked down the line of contestants shooting from his hip for dramatic close-ups.

  He’s going to be looking up my nose, Dana calculated.

  When the camera came to her, she stuck her tongue out. The cameraman snickered. Dana smiled sheepishly, feeling a little silly. In a contest that depended on viewer participation, maybe giving the audience a raspberry wasn’t such a good idea?

  The man standing next to her laughed. She gave him a sideways glance and tried to read his name tag. JUSTIN was all she could make out.

  He winked. Dana felt herself blush.

  “Each contestant has been the subject of an intense psychological study, allowing us to design personal challenges and other little surprises to their individual psyches. In other words, we know their nightmares, and on this island nightmares come true.”

  More nervous laughter but now with just a hint of anxiety.

  “And then there is the history of Vassa Island. See for yourself.”

  A prerecorded story on the mysterious island, emphasis on mysterious, began to play on the monitors.

  “We’re in video, people,” shouted the floor director. “Back live in a minute, fifteen.”

  Keep your eyes open and your mind, too. The pilot’s warning flashed through Dana’s mind like lightning on the horizon. Aware that the report was more fiction than fact, she tried to ignore it. But some words and phrases slipped in: “. . .haunted . . . one-hundred disappeared . . . lost . . . twenty-two dead . . . ”

  Dana looked at her feet, but took little solace from the clear impression of her toes in her Nike running shoes. Her choker-cam began to move. She touched it with her fingers. The lens was pointing down. Remembering her escort’s earlier admonishment to the camera tech, she whispered, “Quit looking at my boobs.”

  “Sorry,” said the man next to her.

  She laughed, which he must have found encouraging. “I’m Justin by the way,”

  “Hello, Justin by-the-way. My name is Dana.”

  “Stand by,” screamed the floor director. Dana looked out across the beach, half expecting the seagulls to fall silently from the sky in compliance. “We’re out of video and live in five, four, three, two . . . ”

  “Brrrr . . . ” Nelson shuddered dramatically for the camera. “Not a place I would want to spend the night, let alone seven weeks. But for one of these contestants the curse of Vassa Island will be broken as they walk away a multimillionaire.”

  A sea gull unimpressed with network television wheeled in the azure sky. The surf lapped the shoreline.

  “So who are these brave, but f
oolish, souls? Let’s find out.”

  First in line was a short, bulbous man, soft to the point of being spongy. He reminded Dana of a caterpillar standing upright. A horseshoe of brown hair accented a mushy face with large round eyes, framed in expensive round, gold-rimmed glasses.

  “Charles, you’re a CPA from Toledo, Ohio,” Smiley said.

  “That’s right, I’m a money man, accustomed to dealing in facts and figures, dollars and cents. And I can tell you right now, you’re wasting your time talking to these other losers because Charles Penton is going to be your winner.”

  Several contestants booed, which only made the CPA’s smile larger.

  “You seem very confident. Care to tell us why?”

  “No offense to my fellow contestants, but I’m smarter than they are – pure and simple. The public is going to recognize that. No way they’ll vote me off. And even if they try, it won’t matter. Like I said, I’m smart. I’m going to find all the safety stones.”

  Nelson nodded. “Now, we should explain that before every vote, contestants are allowed to use one or all of the safety stones they have collected. One stone eliminates ten percent of the vote against you.”

  “And ten safety stones make me invincible,” the CPA said.

  “But first you have to find them.” Nelson added. “And I assure you they’re not just lying around on the beach.”

  While Nelson continued working his way down the line, Dana shot a glance at Justin, the man standing next to her. Dark hair, good looking, incredible eyes and . . .

  “Stop looking at my crotch,” he whispered.

  Before she could stop herself, Dana laughed out loud.

  “. . .well, somebody is certainly in a good mood,” Nelson said, stopping in mid-interview.

  Oh, crap.

  Cameramen scrambled to follow as the host skipped over the next three contestants going directly to Dana.

  “Dana Kirsten.” He said her name like a judge pronouncing sentence. “You were the last one to arrive, weren’t you?”

  Dana leaned forward to speak into his lapel mike. He shook his head and pointed to her choker-cam. “It’s got a built-in mike. Of course, you would have known that if you were on time.”

  Laughter from the group.

  “I was a last-minute – ”

  “We’re just honored that you finally decided to join us.”

  More laughter. She had been late because she was a substitute contestant, but Brant Nelson was making it sound as if she were careless. In a game where public perception equals victory, interpretation was crucial.

  “Actually there was an illness,” she began, her voice cracking.

  “Glad you’re feeling better,” the host said, cutting her off and clearly enjoying himself. “Because you were late, you missed some of the briefings. Do you think that puts you at a disadvantage?”

  “Well, actually. . .” She stopped just short of addressing him as Smiley. “Actually I’m just glad to be here.”

  With a dismissive nod, Brant Nelson moved quickly back up the line to the contestants he had skipped.

  Justin nudged her with his shoulder and snickered like a schoolboy, making her smile again.

  The next few minutes were an anesthetizing blur as each contestant was introduced. The live intros were interspersed with specially prepared videos revealing their lives in the real world. Because she was a last-minute replacement, no such video existed for Dana.

  Preambles completed, Nelson returned to his spot in front of the group. Addressing them like a wise man before the masses, he began to explain how the online voting would work. Then, unaccountably, he stopped in mid-sentence. A mustache of sweat appeared on his upper lip and his complexion seemed wrong, shifting from tan to pink to red. The island hung in an artificial moment of silence. Shaking his head, Nelson cleared his throat and tried to continue. Dana noticed all the mobile cameras were down. Several of the operators sat on the ground, some fanning themselves, others were rubbing their faces and hands as if trying to remove an invisible stain.

  Is the show over? Has something happened to the transmitter?

  Nelson rubbed the back of his neck. He blinked and for a second he was back. “Sure is hot out here, folks. These people are certainly in for . . .” The words died in his mouth.

  A woman screamed. All of the support personnel were now stumbling from their posts. Some rushed to the sea; others rolled on the sand.

  Nelson began to wail in agony.

  Dana stared in terror.

  What the hell?

  His skin was now red, the color of raw meat, and it was moving. It rippled like skim atop a bowl of pudding and began to bubble.

  Nelson fell backward in the sand. His blistered face continued to undulate. One of the contestants, an elderly black man with thin gray hair and a timeworn face, rushed to his side.

  Dana Kirsten was grounded in place, watching in disbelief as the host, the cameramen, and all the support staff fell where had stood. Their faces were alive – inflamed, burbling, seething. Then . . .rupturing.

  2

  JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA

  Jenna Kirsten drew back from the television as if snapped at by a snake. She had been watching the show with keen interest, listening intently as the host talked to her mother. My mom on TV – how cool is that? Then everything changed.

  Now she didn’t know what she was watching. In all her years as a TV viewer, she had never seen anything like it.

  Is it real?

  It couldn’t be! It looked like something from a monster movie, the kind that came on late at night and Jenna was forbidden to watch but did anyway. People were running and crying and screaming. And that horrible close-up of the host as his face . . . exploded.

  Can’t be real. Can’t be real.

  The screen went blank.

  Then a slate appeared: TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES – PLEASE STAND BY. After three months of intense publicity, the network had just pulled the plug on the debut episode of the most expensive television show ever made.

  That was when Jenna Kirsten knew it was real.

  The world froze, becoming a perfect tableau of that moment, fossilized in her mind forever by a single, chilling thought.

  Momma.

  VASSA ISLAND

  For a moment, Justin Rourke flashed on Desert Storm, back to the sand, back to the hell of combat. Then reality asserted itself and he was jerked into the present. This wasn’t Iraq. This wasn’t war. It was something worse.

  The gruesome screams of men and women dying in pain reverberated through the tropical air like the baneful wail of the last dinosaur. Then nothing. Silence. A moment of absolute stillness.

  The older black man standing on Justin’s left had been the first to move, rushing to the body of the host. “Dead,” he announced to no one in particular before he dashed to another body, then another. Justin forced himself to act as well, counting on battle-hardened nerves to get him through.

  The bodies were all the same – dreadful, disfigured, and lifeless.

  A seagull cawed, a strangely tormented sound as if the bird were mourning the dead and forewarning the living.

  Justin searched his memory for the old man’s name Efrem – Dr. Efrem Dutetre.

  “Dr. Dutetre? What the hell is this?” he asked. Half-question, half-plea.

  The old man shook his head. The creases in his face seemed deeper than just a moment ago. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it. Never. It – it seemed to have hit everyone at once, killing within minutes. Yet. . . ”

  Other gulls now joined the chorus, the beach echoing with their haunted cries.

  Dr. Dutetre looked back at the other contestants and frowned. Thin, white hair clung to his head like fog.

  “What is it, Doc?”

  More gulls. Crisscrossing the beach in
brilliant flashes of white, swirling in the air like diminutive, somber angels gathering the souls of the dead. “Twelve. We’re all here, all the contestants. Why hasn’t it affected us yet?”

  The others remained where they were, pivoting from side to side, uncertain and nakedly terrified.

  Charles, the CPA, reacted to the doctor’s words. “Yet? What do you mean yet? Oh, God, the birds.” His hand went to his mouth.

  A gull had landed on a body and was picking at the face.

  Justin grabbed a piece of driftwood and hurled it at the bird. It took to the air in a flutter of white wings.

  “Yet, Doc?” Justin prompted.

  The doctor pursed his lips in thought. There was a meditation in his quiet eyes. “If this has a biological origin, then it may very well be contagious. And even if it’s not . . . ”

  “We’re still in danger,” Justin said.

  More gulls landed and began plucking at the corpses. Seagulls were not carrion eaters, but neither were they finicky, and the still warm bodies had assumed neither the attitude nor the smell of the dead. “No way this is an accident.”

  “Then whoever did this may still be here?” the CPA cried, his voice shriveling in fear. “We’re going to die. Sweet Mother of God, we’re all going to die.”

  Panic surged through the group like fire through straw.

  An alarm, the sound of Gabriel’s horn calling the faithful home, jarred the island. A sense of doom, of dread, an unholy certainty that things were about to get worse settled over Justin’s mind.

  “It’s coming from the Round House,” said Dana. They followed her into the building.

  Situated in the center of the compound, the Round House was just what its name implied, a perfectly round building that was approximately thirty feet across. There were two doorways, one opening toward the beach, the other toward the jungle. Inside, the walls were bare except for four cameras evenly spaced and two speakers. A three foot, four-sided reader board hung from the center with another camera hanging beneath.