Parasite Deep

by Shane McKenzie

  Then you should stop treating your actual family like shit, you sorry motherfucker.

  “Yeah. F-for sure.”

  After an awkward silence, Gentry told them he was going to bed. Truth was, he was a bit worried for Emma, wanted to stick around just to make sure Clyde didn’t pull any shit on her, but didn’t really know how much help he’d be anyway.

  “See you in the mornin’. And tell Ben not to worry. We gonna make sure this trip is a good one. I promise.”

  Gentry nodded, waved to Emma, then speed-walked his way back to Ben’s room. Ben was now spread eagle in the center of the bed, snoring like his throat was a wood chipper.

  Gentry grabbed a pillow, laid himself on the floor. He thought he could hear voices, maybe some arguing, and he had to wonder if Emma was okay, but figured if anyone knew how to handle Clyde, it was her. He didn’t know if he’d ever fall asleep, but within minutes, he was out.

  —3—

  “You sure this’s it?” Bernie said, spinning in place with his right hand acting as a visor against the rising morning sun.

  “How’n the fuck should I know? Pete gave me these here coordinates, and that’s where we be now. So I’m guessin’ this be the place,” Buford said, checking his numbers again. “Yep, no question. Ol’ Pete said this be the best goddamn fishin’ spot he done ever saw. And you know that sumbitch seen him a spot or two.”

  “That asshole don’t know his dick from a dead squid. He got all his spots from his ol’ man. Best damn fisherman I ever seen. Pete inherited that boat, all his daddy’s secrets. Fuckin’ hoggin’ all the good holes, man. Always has.” Bernie shoved a new lump of tobacco under his lip, spat a black stream of saliva into the water. “Shit, and you say this place here Pete found himself? What we wastin’ our time for, Buford? The place don’t look like much to me.”

  “What’n the fuck you expect it to look like, Bernie? It’s the ocean. You know what’s in the ocean? Fuckin’ water’s what.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You ain’t got to be a prick about it.”

  “Well gear up already. If the fishin’s as good as Pete be sayin’ it is, then we in for a hell of a day. Course, that ol’ fucker might be blowin’ smoke up our asses just to fuck with us, you know it?”

  Bernie nodded. “I’d put money on that, Buford.” He spat another lipful of black liquid. “And another thing. This place is so great, why in the flyin’ fuck would Pete tell us about it? Givin’ away secrets to his competition? I don’t buy it. You ever think maybe that asshole sent us out here to ambush us? Take us out the picture for good like?”

  “What’s Pete gonna do, shoot a missile at us? Conjure up the fuckin’ Kracken? Will you pull yer head outta yer fat ass and help me already? I’m likely to turn to dust by the time yer done with all that bellyachin’ yer doin’, you know it?”

  “Yeah, ya prick.”

  Bernie had prepared the gear the night before, and once Buford lowered the anchor, he dropped the line on three rods at the port side, did three more at the starboard side. Because he didn’t feel fishing was fishing unless you were holding your own pole, he headed to the stern to drop his own line, kick back and see what Pete’s special secret spot was all about. He took a sip of his coffee—that had a splash of whiskey in it for creamer—sighed, and kicked his feet up.

  He couldn’t imagine Pete would go through all this trouble just to waste their time, and though Buford didn’t want to hear it, Bernie knew that son of a bitch was up to something. For now, he’d do his best to relax, enjoy his day.

  He had just dropped his bait, his thumb pressed lightly over the line on the spinning reel to keep it from tangling, when he saw it, maybe fifty yards or so from the boat. Swaying in the water like a seal with an injured fin.

  “Man overboard!” Bernie shouted, then leaned over the edge to get a better look.

  The man was swimming facedown, and though he was moving, his arms and legs stayed motionless. His skin was pale, bloated, covered in clusters of what could only be described as barnacles. Something on the skin moved, and Bernie thought it was the water playing tricks on him, but the longer he stared, the surer he became. The barnacles opened and closed like tiny mouths breathing, made a clicking sound like nails on a keyboard.

  Bernie thought for sure the guy was dead, had to have been floating out there for days, maybe weeks. Something that Bernie couldn’t see must have been eating on him under the surface, making the body wiggle like that.

  And then the arms extended, the legs kicked, and the man went under, diving into the deep and disappearing into the darkness of the water.

  Jesus… What in the…?

  The word merman splashed around in Bernie’s mind for a minute, but he quickly shook that away. That’s goddamn ridiculous, he thought. Isn’t it?

  In the next instant, the man came floating back up, turned his head and took a gasp of air, then sort of sideways dogpaddled, bumping his back and head into the boat. Bernie squinted as he glared down at the man, doing his best to make sense of what he was seeing.

  The winking barnacles had what looked like black tentacles wiggling from their openings where they touched the wood of the boat, prodding at it, scraping against it as if attacking it. The man they were attached to didn’t seem to be all there, didn’t call out or even seem to notice the boat he kept bumping into.

  Buford came jogging up from behind Bernie, life preserver in hand. He was just about to toss it when Bernie reached out and stopped him.

  “What the hell’s gotten into you?” Buford spat.

  “Take a look at this shit here. I don’t know… Jesus Christ, Buford, what in the fuck’re we lookin’ at here?” Bernie didn’t have to explain more than that, because one good look from Buford, and the life preserver fell from his hand.

  “Holy mother of God.”

  Those long, thread-like worms continued their onslaught on the boat, actually burrowing into the wood, splintering it in places. It was the motion of those strange appendages that was giving the body the impression of swimming.

  The body began to turn, rolling from its side to its back. Bernie braced himself for what the man’s face would look like. Probably puffed up and half eaten by God knows what, the skin split to reveal the waterlogged meat underneath.

  When Bernie locked eyes with the man, who unhinged his jaw and shrieked past the mouthful of flailing tentacles, Bernie stumbled back, gasped, instinctively pulled his filet knife from his belt.

  “Christ almighty…is that-is that Otis? Fucking hell, it is! H-he’s alive!” Without a moment of hesitation, Buford flung the life preserver into the water. “Pull up anchor. And do it fast. I figure we take him in, get his ass to a hospital, it’d be quicker than calling some goddamn body to come out here. My God, what’s happened to him? How long he been out here? Bernie? Will you hurry the fuck up?”

  Bernie understood why Buford wanted to help the guy—he liked Otis all right. It was the right thing to do, he knew that. But that didn’t take away from the fact that he would rather jump into the ocean than have that barnacle-infested son of a bitch on deck with him.

  “Buford, wait a minute.” Bernie was too far back from the edge of the boat to see Otis anymore, but as he approached Buford, the rope attached to the life preserver went taut, jerked from left to right as something grabbed hold of it from the other end. Bernie thought he would rather it be a Great White with a Marlin shoved backwards up its ass than Otis, and he had to fight back the urge to cut the goddamn rope right then and there before Buford had a chance to haul Otis’s ass in.

  Buford pulled the rope in, hand over hand, grimacing with each pass. “If you don’t fuckin’ help me, asshole, I’m gonna nail your nuts to the front of the boat and use ’em as a figurehead, you hear me?”

  Bernie chanced a look over the side, Buford too caught up in hauling the preserver in to see it.

  Otis, or what used to be Otis, was still on his back, the massive plate of barnacles attached to his chest now visible. The black appenda
ges growing from them is what had a hold of that preserver, wrapped around it like snakes constricting their prey, some of them driven into the foam, tearing pieces away. A sizeable chunk of flesh was missing from Otis’s left side, from about armpit to love handle, and the ragged flesh swayed in the water like pink kelp as the man was pulled forward. Looked to Bernie like a shark bite from one hell of a big bastard of a fish, Great White most likely. As Buford pulled him in closer and closer, Bernie could see the barnacles within the wound, the tentacles flailing out from inside like a hermit crab’s legs.

  “Stop, Buford,” Bernie said, but it came out as more of a whisper. He turned, grabbed hold of the rope, and yanked it out of Buford’s hands. “I said fuckin’ stop, goddamnit!”

  “Jesus!” Buford darted forward, reached for the rope, but Bernie shoved him back. “What in the hell’s gotten into you? It’s fuckin’ Otis, Bernie. Are you out of your—”

  “Somethin’ ain’t right here. This shit’s over our heads, Buford. I’m tellin’ you… Just fuckin’ look.”

  Buford had already started fussing again, tried to wrestle his way past Bernie so he could get to the rope, but Bernie grabbed the old man by the back of the neck, forced him to the edge of the stern.

  “Fuckin’ look—”

  The life preserver floated just below them. Empty. Damn near torn to shreds.

  Buford spun in place to face Bernie, cocked back a fist and hit him in the chin. The punch nearly threw Bernie off his feet, but he stumbled back and was able to catch himself. Buford shook his fist as if the punch hurt him more than it did Bernie, and he cussed under his breath, glared at Bernie.

  “You stupid son of a bitch. We could’ve saved him! We could’ve—”

  A squealing sound erupted from behind Bernie, and he and Buford both let out with a shout at the sudden ruckus. The tips of all six poles thrashed, bending and unbending like beckoning fingers. The reels spun, the line zipping out as whatever had a hold of the bait fought and ran off with it.

  As Bernie watched this happen, unable to move, unable to make himself do anything but stare, something on the opposite end of the boat crawled over the side and plopped onto the deck.

  “Shit,” Bernie said through the wall of his clenched teeth. “Buford, you see that?”

  Buford nodded, his mouth agape. He reached down and yanked one of his knives free, and both men stared at the mound of glistening flesh in front of them with their blades pointed toward it.

  Then the thing moved, uncurled, and revealed itself to be another man. Barnacles encrusted his entire body, and they blinked like diseased, irritated eyes with mucus stuck under the lids. A milky, green fluid oozed out of each barnacle like bile from a sick baby’s mouth.

  “That’s fuckin’ Johnny,” Bernie said.

  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Buford said, his voice shaky and weak. “What in the hell happened to these boys?”

  “Pete.” Bernie turned to face his old friend. “This here’s Pete’s doin’. I know it.” Bernie didn’t know how, but one thing he knew for goddamn certain was that Pete sent him and Buford out there for the same reason. “That fuckin’ son of a bitch’s takin’ out his competition. That’s what the hell he’s doin’.”

  Buford didn’t seem to be able to find any words, and he just stared blankly past Bernie with his mouth slightly hinged open.

  Johnny’s face looked like it had been chewed on, and where the meat and fat would have been exposed was covered with barnacles. Something had torn his arm off, and a mass of tentacles writhed from the stump, almost seemed to spin like he had a propeller for an arm.

  Johnny’s eyes, glazed over and as white as scales on a dead fish carcass, landed on Bernie and widened. When his mouth opened, tentacles sprouted past his lips and thrashed, and he took wet, sloppy steps forward. The black threads sprung out from the other barnacles then, whipped chaotically as Johnny approached Bernie and Buford, as if they could sense them there. Ropes of kelp hung from Johnny’s neck and shoulders like wet scarves.

  Bernie swiped his knife through the air, searching the deck for a weapon with better reach. The gaff was on the other end by Johnny, and just as Bernie realized this, Johnny turned his head to face the weapon. The motion wrung out the spongy flesh of his neck, spilling frothy seawater and inky fluid down the front of him.

  The tentacles of his missing arm wrapped around the metal handle of the gaff. Johnny made a wet choking sound like a sea lion with a chest full of mucus and phlegm.

  When Buford wrapped his fingers around Bernie’s shoulder from behind, Bernie damn near shit himself. A shout trumpeted from his throat, and he spun to face the old man, knife raised up to ear level and blade down.

  Bernie quickly lowered his knife, but it did nothing to slacken the look of fear contorting Buford’s weathered face.

  “What in the almighty fuck’re we supposed to do now?” Buford said, his mouth still moving slightly after speaking.

  “I-I don’t know. We gotta—”

  The arms grabbed Buford around his neck and face from behind. The tentacles dug into the old man’s flesh as easily as if it was raw dough, burrowing, making his skin bulge like his veins were inflating. Blood sprayed, dripped. Buford tried to rip the appendages away, but they caught his hands, dug into his palms and arms, lifted his fingernails and slid into the raw, pink flesh beneath.

  A hoarse shriek exploded from Buford’s mouth, along with a mist of blood.

  Then the appendages began to retract, inch by inch, back into the barnacles. The tips of each had spread out in a feather like, scoop shape, and each scoop was filled to overflowing with dripping balls of meat. The tentacles ripped free from Buford’s skin, tearing him open, and slid back into the hard shell from whence they came. Tiny insect-like legs flittered and twitched from within, pulling the meat closer. Once the tentacle and meat were back in, the barnacle would snap shut, and in mere seconds, would open again, extending its appendage for more.

  Bernie rushed forward, slashed with his knife, severing a few tentacles which hit the deck and squirmed like halved worms.

  From behind Buford’s shoulder, Otis’s head emerged, his eyes wide and milky, mouth frenzying with tentacles. His teeth were loose, pushing outward like a child about to get a visit from the Tooth Fairy.

  “Let him go, you fuckin’ bastard. You let him go!”

  Bernie lifted his knife, meant to drive it straight down into Otis’s head. The barnacles on Otis’s face opened up then, and a white fluid sprayed from each of them, splattering against Bernie’s face and neck. He tried to wipe it away but it was as thick as glue, and in the next instant, he felt the burn. Hot and sizzling like boiled grease, the scalding liquid seemed to seep down into his pores and burn him from the inside out.

  Bernie shrieked as he raked his fingers across his face, stumbled backward away from Otis and Buford.

  Just to their left, so close to the goddamn boat that Bernie could have reached out and touched it, the colossal back of a whale, gray and littered with barnacles, rose up out of the sea and sprayed a mist of seawater into the air.

  “Rrrrkkkhhh…gharkkkhhh!”

  Bernie had been so focused on the acidic goo coating his face that he had nearly forgotten about Johnny, who now swung the gaff downward. Bernie dropped to his back, rolled away to the right.

  The gaff’s hook slammed into Buford’s chest, just below the sternum. Buford’s head was too wrapped up in tentacles for his scream to register, but by the shuddering of his body, the way his legs kicked out, heels dragging over the wooden deck, Bernie knew that if the old man could, his scream would have started a tidal wave.

  The worm-like appendages that were gripping the gaff’s handle swirled their way down the pole like grape vines growing in time-lapse. When they entered the bleeding hole in Buford’s chest, the old man’s legs went stiff, knees popped, and his feet kicked out so hard that both shoes flew off. The thick, black threads pulled back out again, taking scoops of flesh with them, leaving perfect
ly round, bleeding holes in Buford’s chest. The spindly legs within the barnacles pulled the meat in, almost as if they were reeling in their catch, then the shell slammed shut. Click!

  “Buford! Goddamn son of a bitch!”

  Bernie jumped to his feet, ripped the gaff from Buford’s chest, and in the same motion, swung it with every damn thing he had at Johnny’s head. The barbed point of the hook slid into the side of Johnny’s head as easily as a nail through clay. Black fluid and polluted seawater bubbled out from the wound. Johnny’s eyelids fluttered, and his mouth moved up and down like he was chewing on the tentacles that flailed inside. The barnacles on his neck and chest opened up, each spraying a mist of white fluid like blowholes.

  Bernie screamed as the liquid washed over him, fought off the urge to dive into the water to extinguish the burn. The pain in his face intensified, throbbed to a new level of agony.

  Johnny reached out for him, gurgling and choking.

  Bernie clenched his teeth, ripped the hook free, swung the gaff like a bat. It caught Johnny in the skull, took him off his feet. He nearly flew off the side of the boat, but slammed into the rail instead, slid across his back and writhed—the tentacles exploded with violent movement.

  Bernie spun, swung his weapon, jammed the hook’s tip into Otis’s neck. Otis slurped and spat, clawing at the hook with one hand, the other still gripping Buford’s head—Buford had stopped moving all together.

  “You let him go, you fucking bastard!”

  With the hook still stuck, Bernie unsheathed another of Buford’s filet knives from the old man’s belt, stabbed Otis in the face again and again, driving the blade down to the hilt each time. Black blood and water sprayed from Otis’s mouth and nose.

  The tentacles jutting from Otis’s shark bite had a tight hold on Buford’s torso, had wrapped themselves around, the tips stabbing into his lower gut.

  When Otis’s head tilted backward, bleeding into the water behind him, Bernie hacked and sliced at as many of the tentacles as he could.