Kronos Rising_Kraken vol.1

by Max Hawthorne

  A boat horn drew Garm’s eye and he uttered a throaty cheer. Miraculously, salvation was on its way. A thirty-fix foot canyon runner was chugging toward them, accompanied by a pair of industrial-size Jet Skis running red flags.

  It was the region’s resident LifeGivers, rushing to save one of their own.

  “Hang on, Sam!” Garm wheezed, ignoring his screaming leg as he adjusted his feet against the slippery deck. “Help is on the way!”

  Sam was incapable of responding. Half-blind and deaf from pain and blood loss, he could do nothing but wail incoherently as the three fish tore at his lacerated limbs, intent on swallowing them.

  Suddenly, the Xiphactinus, perhaps sensing the larger boat bearing down on them, redoubled their efforts. All three began twisting their thickly muscled bodies into S-curves and yanked savagely backward, their dagger-like fangs buried to the hilt in the warm, pulsating tissues of their victim.

  Garm cursed as the colored motes of light floating before his eyes turned to big, crimson blobs. A moment later, he was wracked by a brick wall of nausea that collapsed squarely on top of him. He felt himself start to pitch forward and wrenched back with whatever he had left. His tendons cracked and his muscles tore as he resisted the combined strength of all three fish. But it was too much for him. He gagged from the effort and began vomiting all over himself and Sam.

  Through a veil of suffering, Garm squinted at the approaching rescuers. They were only fifty yards away and closing fast. A glimmer of hope clung to him and, despite all the misery, he hung on.

  Just a few seconds more . . .

  Out of nowhere, the horror he was experiencing escalated to nightmarish proportions. Sam uttered a shrill shriek of agony, drowning out Garm’s horrified gasp. The efforts of the two smaller Bulldog fish had borne fruit. There was a horrific squelching sound as Sam’s muscles succumbed. Their jaws tightly closed, the fish pulled smoothly backward and vanished into the sea, taking with them almost all of the flesh that covered his arm bones, and leaving behind a ravaged mess of exposed nerves and torn tendons. Blood spewed everywhere, spraying into Garm’s mouth and eyes, and he dry-heaved in response.

  His mind reeled, trying to process the horror he’d witnessed. Before he could, however, there was a moist, cracking sound, like a waterlogged tree branch snapping in two. A second later, the fish still clinging to Sam’s legs bit clean through his savaged quadriceps and the femurs underneath, amputating them both in mid-thigh.

  Garm fell back from the sudden cessation of pressure and crashed painfully to the deck, with what remained of Sam lying on top of him. Mercifully, the mortally wounded teen had finally lost consciousness.

  Garm’s mind began to shut down in an effort to preserve his sanity. He could no longer smell or feel as he sat up in a daze and tried to administer first aid. His fingers were barely functional as he undid his shoelaces. His world was now the raw meat of Sam’s arms, and the bloodied stumps that had been his legs. As he pulled the shoestrings free he heard muffled voices, like from a distant radio. He was vaguely aware of the big Jet Skis motoring noisily alongside and their riders’ shocked cries of alarm. He stared blankly at them, blinking repeatedly as they screamed into their radios for a medevac.

  Garm’s body finally failed him and he collapsed to the deck. The impact of his head striking a nearby cleat was but a dull vibration, and he was only distantly cognizant of the thuds of footsteps as rescuers climbed aboard the floating charnel house known as Idle Worship. He felt his own life’s blood continuing to spit out in dark-colored gouts as he lay on his back, each spurt of merlot matching the beat of his dying heart. His head turned to one side and his glazed eyes remained open, his dilated pupils fixed on what was left of Sam. His cracked lips opened and he tried to speak.

  “T-t-tourniquet . . .” he mumbled, his trembling, blood-caked hands still gripping a sticky shoelace. “Must . . . apply . . .”

  Then the swirling red that had become his world was banished and blackness took the field.

  CHAPTER

  16

  When Garm Braddock pried open his eyes, the first thing he noticed were the spasms of pain radiating through both hands. He looked down and realized he’d latched onto the edges of his bathroom sink so tightly his knuckles were white. He released his grip, as well as the breath he’d been holding, and stared blankly into the empty basin. As his pulse and breathing returned to normal, he studied himself in the mirror, shaking his head at how pale he was. He wiped at the trickles of sweat running down his forehead with the back of one hand, then grabbed a washcloth and pressed it firmly to his face, breathing into the soft terry cloth as it conformed to his features.

  As Garm pulled the towel away and studied his visage in the crinkled-up cotton, he got a momentary vision of the Shroud of Turin. He burst out laughing. It was ironic; Grayson did have an annoying habit of calling him a “godsend.” He scoffed as he scrubbed at the sheets of perspiration that coated his chest and stomach before tossing the dampened washcloth into a nearby basket.

  Not hardly.

  Resting one hand on the sink, Garm blew out a breath. He remembered the PTSD incidents that plagued his dad, back when he and Dirk were kids. It took years, but Jake’s issues eventually disappeared – a recovery he credited to the love he got from his family. In Garm’s case, and despite all the trauma he’d experienced, he’d never had a flashback in his life. That is, not until seeing Sam again after so many years, when a mountain of submerged memories surfaced and ran him over like a freight train.

  He snorted irritably. That was one ride he could’ve done without.

  He moved to the toilet, flipping the seat up with one foot, then cricked his neck to one side and reached for himself as he prepared to urinate.

  “May I . . . . help you with that?”

  “Holy fuck!” Garm bellowed. He whirled around and caught sight of Natalya Dragunova’s reflection in the vanity mirror. Her muscular frame was propped against the doorjamb, her arms folded across her chest as she looked him up and down. He wheeled on her. “What the hell is your problem, woman? Ever hear of knocking?”

  “Relax, Wolfie,” she said with a grin. “I said hello but you deed not respond. You were staring een the mirror with these crazy eyes and sweating like a peeg. Are you okay?”

  Garm cleared his throat, embarrassed that she’d seen him like that. Then he remembered he was naked and holding his dick in his hand. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He indicated the raised toilet lid. “Uh . . . do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” Natalya said, her soles clicking on the ceramic tiles as she walked toward him. Before he knew what was happening, she’d come up behind him. Even through her spandex top, he could feel the heat from her cantaloupe-sized breasts pressing against his back. Next thing he knew, she was reaching around and feeling for his crotch. “I’ve always wondered what ees like for a man to pee,” she said. “May I?”

  Garm’s jaw dropped, but for some inexplicable reason, he did nothing to stop her. “What, you wanna hold it for me?”

  “Da,” Natalya said. He stood there gaping as she explored his privates. It took her a moment to figure things out. Eventually, she settled on gripping his testicles with her left hand and his manhood with her right. Garm felt fresh drops of sweat form on the back of his neck and tried to imagine the ugliest, most repulsive woman he could think of in an effort to avoid getting hard.

  It wasn’t working.

  “Hmm, ees heavy,” she breathed in his ear. “I think we better hurry up. Ees starting to get larger and I don’t want too much elevation to spoil my aim.”

  Garm swallowed nervously. “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he muttered.

  “Oh, just shut up and pee for me.”

  He fought down his anxiety, sucked in air as if getting ready for a big lift, and then managed to get things flowing. Out of the corner of one eye, he watched Natalya with amusement as she skillfully directed his unnaturally loud stream of urine. She had her tongue tip pressed against h
er upper lip and a devilish look in her granite eyes.

  “What do I do now?” she asked as his stream sputtered and stopped.

  Garm chuckled. “You shake it a few times to make sure there’s nothing still in the . . . Ouch!” he exclaimed, giving her an angry sideways glance. “Damn it, woman; that’s attached!

  “Sorry,” Natalya snickered. She released her hold and pulled away, swaying out of the bathroom. She was wearing one of those sleeveless, black catsuits she liked working out in, and the material clung to her considerable backside as she moved.

  Garm shook his head as he reached for a nearby bathrobe. “You know, these surprise visits of yours need to stop. I’m starting to regret adding you to my biometric lock.”

  He walked into his living room to find her lounging on the arm of his sofa with a coquettish look on her face.

  “Oh, hush, dahling.” She pouted when she noticed the robe. “We are to practice discretion, da?”

  “That’s a given. But besides the fact that you nearly gave me a stroke, what if I’d mistaken you for an intruder? I could have injured you.”

  She repressed a chuckle as she stood up. “Really, Wolfie? I am so scared!” She wore an amorous expression as she started toward him. “Ees that what you want to do? You want to hurt me?”

  “Whoa, easy there,” he said, extending his hands in a half-hearted effort at keeping her at arm’s length. He knew where this was going, but after his little foray down memory lane, he wasn’t exactly in the mood. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, backing toward the fridge.

  Natalya frowned. “Just some ice water, please.”

  He grabbed a pair of drinking glasses from the cupboard, held one under the icemaker until it was full, split the contents, and put both under the dispenser.

  “I got a private message from Grayson,” he said, handing her one.

  “Spasiba,” she said, clinking hers to his before taking a sip. “A ‘private’ message? How mysterious. About what?”

  Garm took a long draught, relishing the sensation of cold water sliding down his esophagus. “A big schooner was attacked, earlier today. At least, that’s what the report indicates.”

  “By a pliosaur?”

  “Apparently. Grayson thinks it was Typhon.”

  Natalya’s eyes narrowed. “And that bastard ees going to send you back out after heem, alone?”

  Garm sighed. “I don’t know. Dirk won’t admit it, but Grayson’s completely obsessed with capturing the damn thing. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  She sat her glass down hard on the kitchen counter. “That’s suicide. You saw what that theeng can do.”

  He shrugged. “If I have to go, I go. It’s my job.”

  Natalya scrutinized him through hooded lashes. “Oh my God . . . You want to go after heem on your own! For what, the challenge?”

  Garm frowned and waved her off.

  “You know, I watched you when you were zoned out.” She moved closer, her stormy eyes locking onto his pale blues. In bare feet, she was six-two. In shoes, she was easily his height. “I know the look of a man fighting for hees life. Who were you fighting, Wolfie?”

  Garm turned away. He started slugging his water like it was bourbon and he an alcoholic who’d just fallen off a very tall wagon. He turned back. “It wasn’t my life I was fighting for.”

  “Then whose?”

  His jaw muscles bunched as Natalya stood next to him. With his peripherals, he watched her reach out to touch him on the shoulder, but then pull back.

  “You can trust me, Garm,” she said. “We may only be ‘fuck buddies,’ as they say, but I have my dignity. I do not – how you say een this country – blab?”

  He nodded. “Okay. You’ve seen my scars.”

  “Da. Buckshot?”

  “Bulldog fish. I was nineteen.”

  She gave a low whistle. “You are lucky to be alive.”

  Garm exhaled hard. “I’m alive because my best friend sacrificed himself saving me.”

  “He died?”

  “Partly.”

  “Partly?”

  “A school of them tore his arms and legs off while I watched. I . . . I couldn’t do anything.”

  Natalya’s face turned solemn. “I am sure you tried.”

  Garm nodded lamely. “Well, now he’s here.”

  “Here in Tartarus? Why?”

  “He’s signed on for Talos.”

  “Ah . . .” Natalya nodded slowly. “And he’s joining you on Gryphon.”

  “Yes.”

  She turned contemplative. A moment later, she took Garm by the arm and directed him to the couch. “Come.”

  “What for?” he asked.

  “Just seat,” she instructed. Once he complied, she hopped on the sofa next to him and started rubbing the thick trapezius muscles that adorned his upper back. “My God, you are tense. You need deep, relaxing massage. I geev you.”

  Garm sighed as he felt her hands skillfully working his weary muscles. “It’s okay,” he said, halfheartedly attempting to rise. “I’m fine.”

  “I deed not say you had choice,” Natalya warned. Her grip tightened as she forced him back down.

  “Nat, I don’t need a massage,” Garm complained. His hands shook as they balled into fists. “I need to do something. I need to hit something.”

  She wore an expression of mock fear. “You want to beat something? Perhaps you mean me?”

  “What? No, don’t be stupid. I’d never – ow!”

  “What deed you call me?” she said, her iron fingers pinching a nerve on the side of his neck.

  “I didn’t mean that. It’s just--”

  “Good. I was about to beat your ass, Wolfie.”

  Garm’s body shook with laughter as he pictured Sam’s patented: ‘You were about to eat my what?’ reply to a statement like that.

  “That actually sounds like fun,” he said.

  Natalya smirked as she increased the intensity of her massage, her long fingers kneading the muscles of his upper back like pizza dough. Soon, it was all he could do to keep his eyes from rolling up inside his head. He was in Elysium.

  “You like dees, da?”

  When he swallowed and nodded, she breathed in his ear. “Good. Eef you seat like good boy until I am done, perhaps I let you heat me.”

  “Hit you? I don’t--”

  “Weeth your rampaging battering ram of love, silly,” she purred. “You can batter down my castle gates to save me, da? I need saving so badly.”

  Between the heat of her breath and her scent filling his nostrils, Garm became instantly aroused. He cleared his surprisingly dry throat and immediately relaxed. “Well, if you feel that strongly about it . . .”

  “Absolutely.” She pulled open his bathrobe and slid it down, exposing his wide shoulders, then ran her fingertips deftly across his chiseled upper back, her touch so light it made his skin tingle. “I love all your muscles . . . such a beeg, strong man.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  Natalya chuckled. “I know, Wolfie.”

  “You know, one day you’re going to slip up and call me that in front of my crew and we’ll be outed.”

  She scoffed. “So what? Dare are no regulations against two captains fucking. What can they do?”

  Garm shrugged. “Grayson won’t be happy. He could make trouble.”

  She stopped her massage. “Trouble for you? What can he do? You are – how you say – officer of company, da?”

  Garm’s lips formed a tight line. “True, but he could transfer you. Or come up with a reason to void your contract and just fire you.”

  “Bah, let heem try.” She snorted derisively. “I wade through his black-booted convicts and break my foot off in hees wrinkled, old ass!”

  Garm laughed aloud. “Damn, I like your style, woman.” He reached back, his big hands cupping her hips.

  “Seat still,” Natalya warned, prizing his mitts off the top of her buttocks. “I tell you when finished.”
>
  “Man, you’re tough.” Garm grunted amusedly. “You’re quite the fighter, aren’t you?”

  She ignored him and started running her hands down the muscles straddling his spine, digging in deep and causing waves of pleasure to radiate up his back, all the way to the base of his skull. He leaned into the pressure, relishing the welcome release of tension and wondering why the hell they didn’t do this all the time.

  “Speaking of fighting, you never tell me why you become boxer,” Natalya pointed out. “You’re smart, come from good family. Why you choose to fight?”

  Garm exhaled slowly. “Because it’s the only thing I was ever good at.”

  “Was your dad boxer?”

  “No. He was a competitive swordsman, a fencing champion, believe it or not, and an accomplished MMA fighter. When I was little, he taught me tons of stuff. Actually, I got to use some of it against that Vermitus, earlier. In fact, come to think of it, that’s the biggest thing I’ve ever killed with my own two hands.”

  “Good.” Natalya nodded her approval. “A swordsman, huh?” She arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like a man from another time.”

  Garm nodded, leaning his head to one side as she began working on his thick neck. “Yeah, if you’d seen my parents together, back in the day, you’d have thought they were straight out of some fairytale. Him, the knight in shining armor, her, the damsel, always in distress and needing saving.”

  “Don’t forget dee dragons,” she reminded. “We have plenty of them swimming around, just waiting to snatch up little . . .” Her hands froze as she felt his muscles turn to stone. “I’m sorry, Wolfie. I--”

  “It’s okay,” Garm replied, forcing himself to settle down once more. “Maybe if my dad was still alive, six months ago, she’d be, too.”

  Natalya cleared her throat. “Can I ask you personal question?”

  He grinned. “If I said no, would it stop you?”

  “Nyet. I was curious, so I went online and researched your boxing career.”

  “Ah . . .”

  “How ees eet a man goes from being top-ranked heavyweight contender to fighting illegal underground fight clubs?”