by John Shirley
The resistance on the screw handle disappeared, which meant the powder keg was in place, and Oliver returned his attention to the job at hand. All that was left to do was detach the Turtle, prime the fuse and beat a hasty retreat. By the glow from the foxfire his pocket watch indicated that he had around ten minutes of air left, more than enough time. Oliver twisted on the bench and reached down for the cloth-wrapped handle of the hand pump, ready to eject enough water from the bilge tank to release the anchoring hooks, but before he could securely grasp it he was thrown to the side of the submersible as a tremendous shudder shook the little craft, hitting his head on the rim of a porthole which split the skin above his right eye. A second tremor, this time longer, almost turned the submersible onto its side and Oliver had to push himself away from the curved wall to prevent further injury. As the Turtle righted itself, he scrambled to the observation hatch and looked through the sextet of windows, trying to ascertain what was happening. Astonishingly, the submersible was still securely hooked onto the stern of the frigate, which meant whatever was tilting his tiny craft was doing likewise to the Cerberus. He craned his head and looked to the surface of the water at the far edge of the hull, straining to make out shapes in the darkness beyond. Oliver thought he heard muffled screams, and then multiple objects broke the surface with dense splashes, streaming down through tunnels of tiny bubbles before suspending briefly in a frozen dance of death; the torn and crushed bodies of sailors. A tongue of flame spewed from the port side of the frigate, briefly illuminating the bodies which were already rising to the surface and trailing dark ribbons behind them. A sudden volley of cannon fire erupted from the starboard side, shaking the hull once more, imbuing the waters with orange and yellow hues. In the moments of sudden light, Oliver could make out a colossal mass moving from the bow toward the stern, each cannon flash picking out a new detail; a tree-like limb here, a serpentine tail there, monstrous appendages that seemed to reflect the flames with the intensity of cut glass.
On instinct, Oliver yanked sharply on the pump handle, forcing water from the bilge as fast as he could. The fungal cork block had shaken free and fallen to the base of the submersible, its green bioluminescence picking out tiny puddles; signs that the sub had suffered a slight rupture. The Turtle bounced up slightly and the external hooks tore free from the hull of the frigate allowing the tiny sub to rise swiftly to the surface. Oliver suddenly lunged and grabbed the brass ball attached to the end of the fuse rope, wincing as his closed fist jammed between the ball and the interior of the sub. With his free hand he wiped blood and sweat from his eyes before he fumbled for his pocketknife, drawing it up and sawing frantically at the slippery fuse rope. Now that the submersible had breached the surface, the sounds of destruction and battle were all too clear. He heard screams, rifle shots and cannon fire. He also heard a low drone, that of a multitude of low voices chanting over and over, their tones thick and garbled, the words nonsensical.
The brass ball tore away from the last few fibers of the rope and he tossed it to the floor as the frayed hemp strands slithered out through a brass gasket and the tiny sub began to drift away from the Cerberus, riding on choppy waves as the waters churned around the ship. Oliver could feel a dull ache slowly seeping up from the base of his neck, a combination of being tossed around and the thinning of the air. He pulled on the six latches that held the entry hatch secure and used both hands to heave it open. The hatch flipped over with a resounding clang and Oliver inhaled sharply, unprepared for the unseasonal chill of the night air. He stood on the wooden bench and raised himself up, then gripped the edge of the circular hatch with terror as he absorbed a scene cut from the fabric of his mind’s darkest recesses.
The Cerberus was ablaze, her rigging and sails now webs of flame. As the Turtle drifted left of the warship, Oliver could plainly see the fore-mast, snapped in two like a twig and hanging forlornly over the side while the main and mizzenmast smoldered. The top deck was alive with scurrying sailors; some trying to reload the cannons, others throwing pails of water onto the flames, still others throwing themselves into the bay. On the far side of the frigate, an immense shape came crashing down, sending splintered deck and bone spinning into the sky. The flames revealed a colossal, flabby forearm, adorned with weeds. The hand at the end of the arm was as large as a schoolhouse and the individual fingers, as fat as the mast they were reaching for, ended in bulbous, pruned tips. The hand grasped the mainmast, and the warship rolled as the rest of the creature heaved itself further out of the water. Men were dashed against the starboard railings and several heavy cannons smashed through the already-weakened wood, one firing uselessly into the water, as the port side rose into the sky. The sound of the shattering mast cracked like thunder as the Cerberus flopped back into the water, sending frothy spouts high into the air and spraying flotsam in all directions. The Turtle rocked violently as debris-laced waves crashed over it, and Oliver almost lost his grip, but his knees were hooked under the neck of the submersible, and he steadied himself as he watched the sea beast approach the rear of the ship.
The abomination was vast, its toad-like head blending into its bloated torso with the merest hint of a neck tucked away behind a sagging throat pouch that swelled and deflated as the creature swallowed great gulps of hot air. Above the gaping maw, which was lined with thick, yellow tusks, two pale moons sat unblinking in their sockets. The beast’s thick arms were covered with layers of rippling skin that jiggled as it moved and yet the muscularity beneath the gray-hued exterior was well defined, swelling as the broken mast was lifted high into the air and brought crashing down into the middle of the deck. The way it moved suggested it was walking on the seabed, which put its height at around one hundred and twenty feet and Oliver could see a short, gelatinous tail unfurling and slapping the surface behind it as it reached the stern. The giant began to tear away at the hull of the broken ship as a child might rip into a birthday present, determined to get to the prize hidden within. It still had not seen him, and Oliver glanced toward shore, exploring his best passage for escape. It would not be by land.
The entirety of the Niantic shore was lined with figures, some holding lanterns, other waving crude torches, all of them chanting as one. In the glow from the lights their features and attire were perfectly visible and Oliver saw that the throng was entirely comprised of fishfolk, the term fittingly applied to both male and female, such was the ambiguity of their gender. The former humans were in varying states of metamorphosis; some were fully-formed, miniature versions of the monstrosity destroying the Cerberus, others were in mid-change, their hair still in place, shreds of clothing hiding their lingering modesty. The crowd whooped and croaked with glee at each shattering blow upon the ship, and some had scrambled into the surf to scoop up exhausted sailors, ripping the unfortunate men to shreds. Oliver was thankful that the foxfire had fallen to the bottom of the Turtle, for the green glow did not reach the hatch nor the portholes, and so he remained somewhat invisible. He toyed with the idea of descending, but recalled the puddles on the floor and the hole where the fuse line had snugly sat. The fuse line!
Oliver looked back upon the creature reducing the warship to pulp and saw that the powder keg was still intact, Bushnell’s screw was working admirably and the bomb was untouched, tucked into its resting spot between the stern and the rudder. His initial revulsion had passed, now Oliver knew only anger. This was no way for men to die, British or not. He located the point where the fuse rope was attached to the keg and followed it into the water, tracing its winding path through islands of spume and human wreckage until he could see the end that he had cut free. It wriggled in the water a short swim away from his position, but that meant leaving the submersible, exposing himself to the elements, both natural and otherwise. He could just silently paddle back the way he came, back toward Fort Saybrook where hopefully Hooper and his soldiers would be waiting for him. The Cerberus was destroyed anyway, he would receive credit for his actions, his family would still be relocated, and
yet …
The water was shockingly cold but Oliver did not attribute the chattering of his teeth to the temperature in the bay, but rather the close proximity of the toad monster as it peeled back the roof of the berth deck, plucking screaming men from their hiding places like berries from a bush. He reached the tattered end of the rope and pulled hard on it, but the rope merely lost a few of its loops. He grimaced as he bit down on the hemp, the bitterness of the greasy bitumen on his tongue making him retch, and turned back to the submersible. He wished now he had paddled over to the rope, but he could swim twice as fast, and the creature behind him was almost at the rudder. His shoulders burned with pain as he pulled himself back into the Turtle, almost sinking the craft as he did so. Then he turned and began to gather in the rope, watching the curves straighten in the water until it finally raised clear of the surface, water droplets sparkling in the apocalyptic glow of the warship’s demise. Oliver pulled sharply on the line and saw the end fall out of the powder keg. Had it worked? An eternity passed.
The monster was now at the rudder, ripping it upward, and Oliver feared that the explosives would be flung away with it. As the creature stepped to one side he saw with relief that the barrel was still attached to the hull, next to a gaping gash where the rudder had once been and pressed against the monster’s belly. Then a tiny wisp of white smoke, proof that the fuse was alive and burning, snaked from the hole in the side of the keg, and Oliver dropped down into his shell, pulling the top hatch down and securing it with two of the latches. Through a porthole blurred with foam and soot he watched as the behemoth lifted both arms ready to deliver the final blow, and then the keg exploded. With its belly pressed against the charge, the toad monster took the entire force of the explosion directly into its torso and for a fraction of a second the effect was almost comical as the beast swelled like a balloon before its entire midsection blew out in a glorious blossom of fire and black meat. Its top-section fell forward onto the deck of the Cerberus, lifting the bow of the ship high into the night, almost brushing the low clouds, before sinking into the bay, monster, ship and all.
The chanting on the shoreline had stopped. Guttural murmurings and angry cries now filled the air, but Oliver Lee had no intention of waiting around to listen. As the aftershock of the explosion rocked his vessel, he settled back onto the bench and took hold of the paddle handles, turning the craft away from the bubbling carnage behind him and facing due south. The Turtle creaked a little and listed to port, but she would still get him home. Oliver smiled, relishing the prospect of the report he would give Franklin in the morning. With no evidence of American involvement in the destruction of their frigate perhaps now the British would re-evaluate their stance, allying with their human brothers to drive back the menace of this sea-devil worshipping cult once and for all.
The sky finally opened, dimpling the dark waters with fat, clean raindrops, and Oliver made himself as comfortable as he could. This was going to be a long night.
THE BULLET AND THE FLESH
BY DAVID CONYERS AND DAVID KERNOT
Camouflaged in military issue fatigues overlaid with body armor, Harrison Peel sprinted with stealth along the savanna rise. Ahead, a Zimbabwean farmstead burned like a pagan bonfire in the reds and oranges of a pre-morning light. Dark columns of smoke twisted and contorted skyward. Flames licked like mad tongues from square holes where there had once been windows.
Up close, Peel crouched, gazed along the scope of the cocked M4A1 assault rifle on full automatic fire. He could smell blood, the aftermath of a killing, almost unbearable in its obviousness. The scent of scorched petroleum was stronger.
Advancing, Peel discovered the first body. The well-dressed man in civilian clothes had been cut down by a volley of bullets, but the empty gun holster highlighted that the victim was experienced in violence. The wounds in his chest were close together, suggesting the work of professional soldiers.
Peel marched on, suspecting an ambush at any moment. Instead, he counted further bodies: two, three, four … all put down by precision gunplay. He identified a shiny shard of glass clutched in the hand of the fourth dead man, recognized it as a diamond of significant size. Not sure what to do with it, Peel pocketed it. Diamonds were the currency of a war-torn Africa, and this one had to be worth a hundred thousand US dollars or more.
Frantic movement, thrashing from under a pile of corrugated iron sheets startled him, unnatural sounds as if something wet and long-shaped had flipped upon the earth under it. He imagined a survivor rolling in their own blood, but the noise was all wrong.
Cautiously, terrified, Peel stepped toward the discarded metal.
In a bizarre circle around the shaking iron were more corpses. Unlike the other bodies there were no bullet wounds; rather, death had been by dismemberment, flesh ripped from their bodies and scattered near and far. An arm here, a leg there, Peel identified a Zimbabwean National Army corporal chewed from the waist down, the lower part of him missing. It was as if he had been eaten.
None of the body parts moved as they should. The only sound came from under the corrugated iron sheet. Whatever it was, it had rattled its cover and tried to remain hidden. It was too small to be a man. Perhaps a young child?
Peel raised his rifle when he heard another man run toward him from behind. He turned quickly, weapon leveled, and relaxed when he spied his field partner, Emerson Ash, who had approached the carnage from the opposite direction to Peel.
“All clear,” Ash stated for the record. “I count three down, two ZNA soldiers and Abdul Farzi.”
“Shit!” Peel nodded. The man they had come to extract was now a corpse. “Farzi, you say?”
Ash nodded. “’Fraid so.”
This was bad news, but in this moment Peel focused on securing their position. He trained his weapon back in the general direction of the iron that continued to rattle.
“Something still alive?” Ash pointed his M4A1 assault rifle on the iron and took a cautious step forward. He too was decked in dappled green camouflage fatigues and body armor. Both men were former Australian Army soldiers—they knew how to run military ops by the books and could plan the basics of any tactical military operation in their sleep—but their roles in the current geopolitical environment were as covert operatives, field agents employed by global intelligence organizations. Different sides of the same coin, thought Peel.
The flopping wet shape wouldn’t let up thrashing. It sounded increasingly to Peel like the death throes of a snake with its head cut off, and tapped randomly against the curved iron shell covering it. It was too big to be a snake, too small to be a man. He didn’t want to go near it, but he had to.
“Cover me,” Peel said to Ash and edged forward cautiously, weapon raised and his eyes fixed on the view through the weapon’s advanced-combat optical gunsight. The sweat on his shaved head was almost unbearable as it rolled along his face and hung precariously off his nose and chin in an irritating way.
“Roger that,” said Ash.
At the sheet, Peel kicked it over.
The shape was like a headless snake, but it was no snake. The thrashing thing became violent and aggressive, now that it had been exposed. It resembled a branch or a vine, a moss-covered tentacle tapered at one end, shredded by bullets at the other, and lined with a dozen snapping, salivating mouths in place of branches. It thrashed like a whip at Peel, narrowly missing him, unable to gain purchase because whatever it had been attached to was long gone, but still very much alive and threatening.
Peel and Ash didn’t hesitate; they released volley after volley of 5.56mm rounds into the mass until it was cut to pieces. Now it thrashed as smaller, less effective parts.
Yet the mouths still snapped and salivated.
Ash took a thermite grenade from his webbing and looked to Peel. “Fire in the hole?”
Peel nodded and they both moved backward from the threat. Ash lobbed the grenade and the two men sprinted. The galvanized iron and the creature detonated in a flash of heat, flames
and debris, incinerating whatever it was they had discovered until it was no more.
“Did you smell petroleum?” Ash asked after the flames had died down.
Peel nodded and reloaded his weapon.
“I reckon the ZNA took out that farmstead with man-portable flamethrowers,” said Ash. “I reckon that’s what the petroleum smell is from.”
“Maybe they used flamethrowers to put down the rest of this creature.”
“Maybe.”
They strode from the destroyed remnants of the farmstead, and Peel admired the striking contrast as the sun rose above the distant rolling hills, dappling the African savanna, the granite kopjes, and the wooded landscape in vibrant earthy colors. The landscape was pristine and unspoiled in comparison to what they had just witnessed.
Peel stopped at the top of the hill. “We were too late,” he said, voice a low, barely audible growl. “I wanted Abdul Farzi in custody … before he gave up whatever weapon he was selling to the ZNA.”
“We will have to find another way, Major,” said Ash.
“I’m no longer a Major,” said Peel.
“And I’m no longer Sergeant Ash, and yet here we are, sir.”
Peel nodded, recognizing Ash’s desire to revert to military protocol. This was a military field op, and how things were done. “The weapon; did you see it?”
The former sergeant shrugged. “Nothing I recognized.”
Peel paced, his frustration grew with each second they did nothing. “Intel said Farzi was selling a weapon of the ESB kind, an Extraterrestrial Sentient Being. In other words, an alien horror like we just saw.”