The Serophim Breach (The Serophim Breach Series)

by Tracy Serpa

  Four

  From the kitchen, Sarah heard the couch creaking when Lani shifted her position. Chuckling to herself, she thought of all the snide remarks her brothers would make. As she scraped the last of her chow mein into the garbage, she glanced at the kitchen clock again and wondered briefly when Kai and Brandon would be coming home. It had been nearly five hours since they had left the house to drop her father off at the airport.

  “Hey, Sarah?” Lani whispered from the front room.

  She stepped out into the doorway to look at her friend. Lani was kneeling on the couch, peeping out the front window down at the driveway.

  “Why are you whispering?” Sarah asked in a full voice.

  “Shhh. I’m serious,” Lani whispered again. She lifted her face a little higher for a better view and pointed. “There’s a weirdo outside.”

  Sarah’s stomach tightened involuntarily, and she picked her cell phone up off the TV before walking quietly to the couch. Leaning forward cautiously, she peeked over the windowsill just enough to see where Lani was pointing. Out on the driveway she recognized the jogger that Paul and his friends had nearly run over earlier in the day. The heavyset man stood facing their barn, his face in profile to the window. What little hair he had was plastered against his scalp with sweat, and his chubby face shone from sunburn. It looked as though his legs were shaking, and Sarah wondered if he might be having some kind of stroke. He began jabbering loudly to himself and swiping at the air as if he were standing in the middle of a gnat cloud.

  “What’s he doing?” Sarah whispered.

  They watched for a few more moments; the display had become almost comical when suddenly all his muscles contracted at once, and a thin line of spittle welled over his lip and dribbled down his chest.

  “I don’t know,” Lani replied, chewing on her lip. “Call your brother.”

  Sarah opened her cell phone and dialed Paul. As the phone rang in her ear, they watched the jogger take a few paces forward, then wrap his arms around himself and hunch over, as if his stomach hurt.

  “Do you recognize him?” Sarah asked quietly.

  “No, I don’t think so. He looks gross,” Lani answered in a shaky voice.

  A realization dawned on Sarah, and she frowned. “Is he drunk?” she said, her voice getting louder.

  Lani looked up at her and said, “I don’t know. He’s been barfing.”

  “He’s drunk,” Sarah decided. She had seen Jones black out drunk more than once. Standing up, she cracked the window open and shouted, “Hey! Get off my property!”

  She knew she had made a mistake as soon as he turned his head. The motion was quick and unnatural, and his eyes narrowed as he searched the wall of the house for her voice. It was clearly difficult for him to focus his eyes as they rolled and shuddered in their sockets, and he staggered slightly to the left as he turned to face the house. He ground his teeth together, letting out a strange keen; something in the noise sounded lost, like a child trying to find his bearings. Gripped by the sound, Sarah ducked an instant too late, and the jogger caught sight of her; he shouted, both gleeful and enraged, and charged straight for the house.

  Lani screamed and fell back onto the couch. There was a loud thump as the jogger threw himself against the house directly beneath the window. Frightened, Sarah watched as he dug his fingernails into the wood siding; it looked as though he wanted to climb up to the window. He scrambled at the wall, fingernails shredding and beginning to bleed as he tried to yank himself up to no avail. Furious, he pounded the side of the house with both fists and screamed up at the window. Then he stumbled back, his head swinging wildly from side to side, his unfocused eyes searching the house for a way in.

  Sarah gasped, horrified, as she realized she had never done as Paul asked.

  “The door isn’t locked!” she cried.

  Lani cowered on the couch and shouted, “Lock it!”

  Just then the jogger slammed his full weight against the front door, pounding manically against the wood with his fists. Terrified, Sarah scrambled for the door, leaving Lani screaming on the couch. She braced one foot against the wall and shoved her shoulder against the door, feeling it shudder under the force of the jogger’s body on the other side. She slammed the deadbolt into place and wrapped her hands around the knob. He was hurling himself into the door again and again, and Sarah heard the frame crack near the lock. He snarled ferociously, as if he knew the door would give way.

  Looking over her shoulder, Sarah yelled, “Lani! We need to brace it!”

  The larger girl was a huddled mass in the corner of the couch, screaming every time she heard the crash of the jogger slamming into the door.

  “Lani!”

  A sob escaped Lani’s throat as she finally hoisted herself up from the couch and ran toward Sarah, collapsing against the door; it shook once more under the jogger’s weight. Lani shrieked, and Sarah sucked in a quick breath, holding it as she waited for the next devastating impact. It would only take a few more like the last one to break the lock through the jamb. Outside, the jogger growled quietly, his sneakers squeaking softly as he paced along the front porch. Finally, miraculously, Sarah heard him pad down the steps and out onto the gravel, heading away down the driveway, his snarls and ranting trailing behind him. They waited for a moment before taking a few steps back, and tears began to well in Sarah’s eyes.

  “Holy crap,” she breathed, and began looking for her phone.

  “Who was that?” Lani whimpered.

  She scooped her phone up off the ground and dialed 911; her limbs were beginning to feel prickly from the adrenaline, and she was finding it difficult to keep herself from collapsing onto the floor. A busy tone sounded in her ear, and she whispered, “Dang it.”

  Lani was watching her with wide eyes. “What’s wrong?” she murmured.

  Holding up the phone, she answered, “Nine-one-one is busy,” and dialed again.

  “I heard that happens a lot with cell phones. Someone told me that it’s easier to get through on a landline for some reason,” Lani offered, her voice shaking.

  After glancing out the window one last time, they headed for the kitchen phone, which hung on the wall next to the refrigerator. Sarah lifted it from the base just as Lani jumped and grabbed her arm.

  “Did you hear that?” she hissed.

  They stood quietly for a moment, listening; a wave of terror swept through Sarah at the sound of scuffling in the cellar, followed by muffled growls. She remembered in a sudden haze of panic: a few weeks ago, the rusted hinges on the door leading from the yard to the cellar had finally given out as Kai and her dad were storing supplies. They had decided just to set the door over the opening and fix it that weekend, and then forgotten about it. The door leading into the house was kept locked, but it was only an interior door and not as strong as the heavy wooden front door.

  “Lani, I think he’s in the cellar,” she whispered. “We have to block the door.”

  Her friend nodded, her eyes huge and her face pale. Looking around, Sarah decided the best option was the fridge, since it stood only a few feet from the door. They heard a muffled jabbering come from the cellar, and Sarah motioned to her friend to head for the fridge.

  They had only managed to shove the fridge a foot when the cellar door exploded open and the snarling jogger tumbled into the room. Lani leaped back into the kitchen, knocking Sarah into the table. Yelling savagely, the man bared his teeth like a rabid dog, his unfocused eyes scanning the room. Sarah scrambled desperately for the hallway stairs, with Lani close behind her. Just as they rounded the corner, she caught a brief glimpse of the jogger lunging from behind them. Lani screamed in panic as he knocked her to the ground and clambered on top of her.

  “Sarah!”

  Moving without thinking, Sarah scrambled up the stairs on all fours, mouth gaping, sobbing for air, tears spilling down her face. Behind her, Lani screamed again, pinned down. Sarah heard her friend’s legs flailing against the floor and wall as the crazed man
attacked her, but she could do nothing to make herself turn back. The image of the man’s face wiped everything from her mind but the command to run. Turning the corner into her room, she scrambled into her closet and pulled the door closed behind her quietly, huddling against the back wall. She stuffed her fingers into her ears and tried not to hear.

  Five

  Paul pulled hard against the water once and duck dived into the smooth side of the wave. The surge tugged along his body, and he grinned as he broke the surface. Jones sat on his board ten feet away, his ruined Mohawk dripping saltwater on his face. Sitting up on his board, Paul faced the beach to watch a wave roll over the swimmers closer to shore, then spread out languidly against the slope of the sand.

  “You get up yet?” he asked, turning to his friend.

  Frowning, Jones leaned forward and popped the front of his board out of the water, caressing it.

  “It’s early. We’ve barely gotten to know each other,” he said, and shook a fist at the waves. “I miss my longboard.”

  Paul chuckled, remembering the scene as Jones dragged the two halves of his board out of the surf three days earlier. He looked like a kid who had licked his ice cream right off the cone. Greg and Boomer had goaded him into trying a shorter board like the rest of them, but Jones was clearly less than comfortable with his new purchase.

  “Hey, guys!” Paul heard Derrick’s voice, muffled by the wind and water, and twisted to find him. He was floating several yards away, facing the beach, his eyes squinted and his chin jutting forward. Bringing a hand up to shield the sun off his face, he pointed toward the shore. Paul waited for the swell to roll beneath him, and as he rose with the wave, he caught a short glimpse of the beach.

  Greg stood in the shallow water, waving his arms in sweeping arcs through the air. He was shouting, but the steady wind and sound of waves covered his words. Behind him, Boomer was dragging himself down the beach. It looked like he was yelling too. Greg glanced over his shoulder, then began frantically waving for them to come in as Paul sank down the back side of the wave.

  Derrick cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Did you see that?”

  Nodding, Paul stretched his neck up to see over the line of the swell rolling toward the shoreline. Higher up the beach, a few small groups of people all stood looking in Greg’s direction, but his friends were still obscured.

  “Jonesy! We gotta head in!” he shouted over his shoulder. Behind him, Jones was paddling toward an approaching set. He pulled up short and sat back up on his board.

  “What?”

  “I think Boomer’s real sick,” Paul called back. Turning back to the beach, he saw Greg was helping Boomer stand and still shouting for his friends. He hoisted Boomer up and slung his arms over his shoulders.

  Jones cursed under his breath. “Let him sleep it off in the car,” he said.

  Frowning, Paul said, “I don’t think he’s hungover, man. Greg looks pretty freaked.”

  “God dammit, man. I’m gonna punch that guy square in the chode,” Jones grumbled. With a heavy sigh, he flopped down on his board again and started paddling toward the beach. Derrick caught a wave, popping up easily on his board. He hooted as he passed Paul and Jones, cutting right, then left.

  Paul pulled up out of habit, letting Derrick take the wave; Jones showed no such courtesy, paddling into the wave as well and shooting toward the beach still lying on his board. As the wave rolled on, Greg and Boomer came into view again. Boomer still had his arms around Greg’s neck, but now they were locked in some sort of strange embrace. Suddenly, Paul realized they were struggling violently with one another. Greg stumbled forward onto his knees just as Boomer lashed out a vicious kick at his face, then tackled him to the sand. People on the beach stood up to observe cautiously; a couple of guys jogged toward them, bodies tensed. Finally, Paul saw Jones striding through waist-deep water and shouting at his friends, gesturing wildly. Greg rolled on the sand, his hands over his face, and Boomer pounced on him.

  The final wave of the set approached, and Paul rode it in on his belly, watching the shore. Jones had reached Greg, but was now backing up the beach, hands stretched out in front of him as Boomer stalked up the gentle slope toward him. Still lying on the ground, Greg was writhing in pain; brief snatches of his cries flitted by on the wind. Another of the beachgoers had reached him and looked to be trying to help, pressing a towel down on a bleeding gash. Farther down the beach, the other tourists were all standing to see what was going on.

  Closer to the beach now, Paul caught snatches of wild, incoherent shouts that he thought might have been coming from Boomer. A man in purple board shorts jogged over to stand near Jones, holding a palm up to Boomer as well. His wide chest and thick arms were corded with muscle, and a heavy brow shadowed his eyes. Under normal circumstances, Boomer would have turned aside. Today, he continued forward at the same measured pace, shoulders hunched, weaving slightly from side to side like some kind of primate.

  “Guys!” Paul shouted. His arms chafed against the board as he dug into the water hard. Twenty feet in front of him, Derrick splashed out of the surf and ran toward Boomer, just as Greg stumbled to his feet. He looked a little shaky and still had his palms covering most of his face, but Paul was relieved to see him standing. Without thinking, he slid off his board and was surprised when the water came up to his shoulders. Keeping his palms on his board, he pushed through the surf toward the beach. The details were getting clearer as he approached; now he saw that Greg was bleeding from wounds on his face, neck, and arms, but he was also moving quickly to help subdue Boomer.

  Then, an eerie wail rose up, blending with the insistent cries of the gulls; a few of the tourists put a little more distance between themselves and the melee. Greg was still sprinting up the beach. He collided with Derrick only a few feet behind Boomer.

  Derrick shouted, “Knock it off!” as he shoved Greg away. His wounded friend snarled and leaped for him again, throwing him to the ground. Jones was still yelling at Boomer, frantically now, and backing away up the beach. The soft sand beneath his feet gave way, and he slipped, tumbling to the ground. In an instant Boomer was on him, but the man in the purple board shorts ran forward and hefted him up, striking him in the face. Boomer was knocked to the ground with such force that Paul winced, but he was back on his feet almost immediately, grappling with the man in the board shorts.

  “Guys! What the hell are you doing?” Paul screamed over the surf. He looked frantically for Jones and found him curled in a ball only five feet from where Boomer began savagely attacking the man in the purple board shorts. People on the beach looked confused, unsure whether to approach or run away. Many were gathering up their things or shouting for friends to get out of the water. Several stood near the parking lot on their cell phones, looking horrified; movements of confusion and fear rippled down the beach.

  Paul was in knee-deep water when Greg appeared at the water’s edge in front of him.

  “Greg! You okay?” he called out. The look on his friend’s face stopped his feet.

  Greg paced in the shallows, muttering to himself. Blood pulsed out of a gash on his right arm, turning the froth at his feet pink. Eyes locked on Paul, he snapped his teeth and took a step deeper into the water. When a scream came from the beach, Greg’s mouth wrenched open, and he screeched in some kind of terrifying, primal answer. A shudder ran through his body, and an ugly grin spread across his face.

  Paul kept his eyes on Greg, who was prowling deeper into the water with every turn, his eyes still locked on Paul. He was close enough for Paul to see that his pupils were blown out and the gash on his arm was only one of many bite marks.

  Paul shouted, “Greg! We need to call nine-one-one!”

  His friend slowed his pacing, his body shaking with cold or shock. It wasn’t until he thought he heard Greg laugh that Paul took a few slow steps back into deeper water. His board bumped against his calves as the surf rolled in, and Greg inched closer. Paul continued to back away slowly, and
let his eyes focus on the beach behind his friend.

  He could no longer see Boomer, Jones, or Derrick. Neither could he understand what was happening: bodies moved in every direction. Several people struggled to pull a larger man off someone cowering on the asphalt. The air was filled with screams, shouts for help, growls, and vicious snarling. A woman shouted for someone named Scott to call 911. Still working his way back into the water, Paul was disoriented by the thought that he could see the violence as it pulsed down the shoreline, toward Waikiki.

  He was still distracted when Greg lunged, leaping forward, clawing the air, swiping at Paul’s face with a hideous snarl. Ducking backward, he stumbled over his board and fell to his knees in the water. Greg thrashed behind him, pulling himself into deeper water with handfuls of water and sand. He jabbered insanely at Paul, screaming and gnashing his teeth.

  Frantically, Paul thrashed through the water, dragging his board behind him. Greg launched himself from his knees again and latched on to the edge of the board. The force yanked Paul’s feet out from under him, and he slammed face-first into the water. As he struggled for the surface, the cord yanked against his ankle again and again. Another wave washed over him, pushing him back toward the beach—and Greg—as he tried desperately to regain his footing.

  He popped up gasping for air, face-to-face with Greg. Paul’s shout was garbled by a mouthful of seawater, and he pushed himself backward just as Greg swung an elbow at his face. He flipped over onto his stomach and swam as hard as he could, hoping he could wrest the board away and escape into deeper water. He dug deep, keeping his face buried in the surf until he felt that his lungs would pop. Greg’s weight still tugged on his ankle strap, yanking violently against the rhythm of his strokes. Taking a quick breath, he threw the last of his energy into a frantic burst of movement. Finally, the weight on his ankle broke free, and he shot forward through the water. Surfacing, he turned to look for his friend.