Castle of Sorrows

by Jonathan Janz

  They floated like that for a good while, and just when Ben started to grow paranoid that, like some low-budget rip-off of Jaws, the beast’s one remaining horn would surface near them like a dorsal fin, he spotted something else floating in the water just a few feet away. Fighting down his revulsion, Ben reached out and inspected it.

  It was a large scrap of the beast’s hide, the entire thing charred from the blast. One side was crusted with the creature’s black blood, though it was apparently caramelized by the explosion’s heat. The other side revealed a blackened mat of scorched hair. From the looks of this scrap, the beast wouldn’t be coming back any time soon.

  Still…when he started to kick again, he did so with renewed vigor. He wanted the beast to be dead—he was nearly certain it was dead. But it wouldn’t hurt to put as much distance between them as was humanly possible.

  With Julia’s little body slung over the red-and-white ring buoy and the lifejacket helping keep Ben afloat, he kicked them slowly eastward and prayed someone would find them before the sharks did.

  Or the beast, if it still lived.

  After

  Hours passed. Ben would kick for five minutes or so and then rest. His wounds seemed to have coagulated, but he knew his blood loss had been extreme. Several times he had to stop kicking just to focus on keeping hold of his daughter. Ben had, his entire life, battled with intrusive and terrible thoughts, and the image of Julia slipping off the buoy and sinking slowly to the ocean floor was nightmarish enough to keep him vigilant.

  Night slowly fell, and for an hour or two the Pacific grew alarmingly restless. The waves that rolled toward them at dusk pushed them along in the right direction; however, they also threatened to splash over Julia’s face. Ben developed a system of grasping her back with his mangled right hand and placing his other hand on the bottom of the ring buoy. Positioned on his back as he was, his face very near Julia’s, he could see the waves coming before they reached her and was therefore able to lift her gently out of the water each time a particularly tall one lapped over them. Still, he did not think he’d be able to keep Julia safe much longer, especially if the waves intensified. There were no whitecaps yet, but Ben had spent enough time around the ocean to know how common they were, particularly during stormy weather.

  But at around what he judged was eleven o’clock, the clouds moved away and left in their wake an unbroken dome of stars. Had Ben not been so exhausted, he would have basked in the sheer beauty of the night.

  But he was exhausted. He hadn’t slept for—he stumbled through a slow mental calculation—nearly sixty-five hours. God, had it been that long?

  He stared up at the sky and chided himself for not pocketing at least one bottle of drinking water. Julia had imbibed a goodly amount before Elena had attacked, but that had been hours ago. Julia had been dehydrated then and was now likely in a state just as wretched as before—perhaps worse. And try though he might to keep them moving toward California, they were still, what? Seventy miles away? More? What were the chances they would actually make it all the way to shore without dying of exposure or dehydration? And what if he was still bleeding? Couldn’t sharks supposedly detect minute traces of blood from several miles away?

  What if the beast had recovered?

  This thought was the most haunting one of all. Ben had destroyed its eye in the clearing, yet it had healed somewhat by the time it climbed into the boat. How long would its entire body take to regenerate? Of course, that answer was dependent on how much damage had been inflicted on the beast in the fire and the subsequent explosion. Ben recalled the searing blast of heat, the incredible concussion of air. How bad would it have been at the explosion’s source? Bad enough to destroy Gabriel once and for all? God, he hoped so. If ever a creature deserved to be permanently expunged from existence, it was the beast that roamed the Sorrows. The one that had killed Teddy and Jessie…

  Ben was thinking of Jessie when he first became aware of a low buzzing sound from the east. He was thinking of how brave Jessie had been, how senseless it was that she had died. Even last summer, after the massive violence inflicted on the island, Ben was able to make sense of most of it in his mind. No, it wasn’t fair that so many people had died, but the people who were truly innocent—particularly Joshua and Claire—had escaped with their lives.

  But not this time. If anyone deserved to live—other than his daughter, who was still very much in danger—it was Jessie Gary. Ben caressed his daughter’s back and saw the chopper flying low over the water.

  To Ben the helicopter’s speed seemed leisurely, but what did he know? He’d only ridden in one a few times, and on each of those occasions he’d been too distracted to pay attention to its speed. But as it drew closer, he discerned its spotlight, which was carving steady swaths through the darkness. Was it possible that the FBI had sent the helicopter out to search for signs of Gus’s chopper? Ben supposed it was. Morton had no doubt placed a call before they’d departed yesterday informing his superiors where they were going and when they expected to return. The absence of three federal officers, Ben figured, represented more than enough cause to send out a search party.

  The question was whether or not they’d find Ben and Julia.

  The chopper drew nearer, and as it did, Ben reminded himself not to get his hopes up. It was a miracle the chopper had ventured close enough for him to see it; the chances that the spotlight would actually pick them out in the dark sea were small indeed.

  But thinking this didn’t make it any easier for Ben when the helicopter passed them by.

  What appeared to be a trajectory that would bring the chopper directly over their position was actually a hundred or more yards away. Ben gesticulated wildly and shouted as much as his flagging energy would allow, but it did no good. Like a final vicious joke, the chopper moved steadily past, heedless of Ben’s efforts.

  It wasn’t long after this that Julia’s movements grew alarmingly sluggish. His daughter was awake, he was certain of that. Yet she’d grown so weak that even the act of breathing seemed too much for her. The rise and fall of her little torso was more frequent, but the amount of air she seemed to draw with each breath appeared to Ben very meager. As a newborn Joshua had gotten a bad cold—what the doctors labeled RSV—and as a result, he’d been hospitalized for more than a week with a breathing cannula in his nostrils and a feeding tube down his throat. That had been scary. But this…this was even worse. Because there were no doctors around, no one at all to help his little girl. And it wasn’t fair, dammit, it wasn’t fair that this should happen to her after everything else. She deserved to live, deserved to have her family back. Julia had done nothing wrong; she’d proved remarkably resilient. She’d endured untold horrors and now she deserved safety and warmth and her mother’s milk and soothing touch. She deserved love and security and a body that wasn’t failing.

  Ben realized he was crying, but there was nothing he could do about it. He muttered to Julia how sorry he was, he kissed her damp temple over and over. She scarcely seemed to notice, only kept on descending into that tortured twilight state, her breathing now a pitiful series of gasps.

  “Please,” Ben murmured through his tears. “Please keep breathing.”

  He didn’t know if he could do something to help her along, didn’t know if administering some version of CPR would help her or exacerbate her condition. He stared helplessly at his daughter’s little face.

  “Please, Julia,” he said to her, his voice a painful croak. “Please hold on for Daddy. Please…”

  He was weeping silently, his head against hers, when his closed eyelids were suddenly assaulted with brilliant light. He swiveled his head and blinked up into the spotlight, and as though someone had just ripped a noise-blocking headset from his ears, the world filled with the buzzing roar of the helicopter’s whirling propeller.

  Ben would not let himself believe they were saved until the rope ladder had bee
n lowered and first Julia and then he had been carried up to the chopper. He had a hard time believing they were safe even as the helicopter picked up speed and moved briskly eastward. And even after they had set down in Petaluma and Ben had allowed the nurses and paramedics to wheel Julia into the hospital, he believed they remained in imminent danger. A doctor told Ben he needed to trust them to care for Julia, told him his own wounds were worse. But Ben refused to let her out of his sight. He finally prevailed on them to treat him in the same room with his daughter, and even after they administered a heavy sedative, it was several minutes before Ben closed his eyes.

  The last thing he saw before going under was his daughter’s bare chest. She wasn’t breathing normally, but the cannula they’d given her—nearly identical to the one used on Joshua years earlier—had restored her respiration to a rate far less frightening.

  Reluctantly, Ben slipped into a troubled sleep.

  And awakened a few hours later to find an attractive nurse standing over him with a look of concern. TRISHA, her name tag said. Ben sat up and peered through the semidarkness at his daughter. Dizziness and nausea crashed over him, but Ben forced his way through it. He kept his gaze fixed on Julia, who appeared to be breathing regularly now. She was facing the other direction.

  “Is she asleep?” Ben whispered.

  “She’s been in and out,” the nurse said.

  “Will she be okay?”

  “Yes,” the nurse said at once. “We’re more worried about you.”

  “You’ve fed her?”

  “She’s taken two bottles of formula. She wanted more, but we didn’t want to overdo it.”

  Ben made to climb out of bed, but something tugged on his arm.

  “Don’t, Mr. Shadeland,” the nurse said. Her hands were on his chest, forcing him back down. “You need blood.”

  Ben glanced down confusedly at the tube stuck in his forearm. It was attached to a red drip sack. Another wave of dizziness steamrolled through him.

  “Rest, Mr. Shadeland. Your daughter will be fine. She was just exhausted and dehydrated.”

  Ben glanced up at the nurse and searched her eyes. “You’re not just telling me that to calm me?”

  She smiled. “I promise. I’ll have the doctor stop in soon.”

  Ben nodded, but as the dizziness began to abate and his eyes adjusted to the dim room, he could see very well that what the nurse was telling him was probably true. Julia’s breathing had clearly improved. The nurse went out shortly after, and when the door opened again Ben was greeted not by some distinguished-looking doctor, but rather by a tall, gaunt man around Ben’s age. The federal agent introduced himself as Tim Horning. He had a receding hairline and a deeply furrowed forehead. Ben realized after a moment that Horning was nearly as sleep-deprived as Ben was.

  The Coast Guard helicopter, Horning told him, had been dispatched a few hours after Gus Williams and his party failed to return to California. “It wouldn’t have elicited such an immediate response,” Horning explained, “if we hadn’t already lost four other agents connected with this mess.”

  “Four?”

  “Seven, counting Agents Morton, Gary and Castillo. You’re certain they’re dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I saw them die.”

  “How did you—”

  “Who were the other four?”

  “Moss and Early were the team sent to the Sorrows last fall. They disappeared entirely.” Horning’s expression went sour. “Then there was the team assigned to watch Marvin Irvin.”

  Ben opened his mouth to ask what happened to them, but Horning cut him off.

  “They were butchered. I’d rather not talk about it now. What the hell happened on that island?”

  Ben sighed. He looked at Tim Horning for a long moment. Though the agent seemed like a decent enough guy, Ben couldn’t help but experience a sinking dread at the man’s question. Ben was right back where he’d been last week—the authorities breathing down his neck for a story Ben couldn’t possibly share.

  He inhaled as deeply as he could, which wasn’t deep at all due to his wretched state. He reached down, touched the bandages on his sides, but even that much motion shot white-hot arrows of pain through his body.

  “Mr. Shadeland?” Horning prompted. “It’s time for you to tell us the truth.”

  Ben looked up at Horning, considered telling him everything. What harm could there be? No sane person would believe such a tale, and perhaps if the FBI believed Ben had lost his mind, they just might leave him alone.

  Ben opened his mouth to tell Horning everything, but before he could speak a freezing mental chill seized hold of him, made his jaws clench and his muscles tighten painfully.

  “Mr. Shadeland?”

  But the freezing terror would not relent. Ben’s flesh had broken out in goosebumps, his hands trembling.

  Horning stood. “Mr. Shadeland? What’s the—nurse!” he called.

  But Ben’s terror only swelled. He was thinking of Teddy Brooks. Of Elena. Most of all, he was thinking of his wife and son.

  Horning watched him uncertainly. “We’ll have the doctor in here in a moment, Mr. Shadeland. I hope—”

  “I need to speak to my wife,” Ben said in a hoarse voice.

  Horning shook his head. “The staff tried to call her shortly after you and your daughter were admitted, but no one answered.”

  “That’s because they’re not at the house,” Ben said. “They’re in Colorado with my in-laws.”

  But Horning was already nodding. “We told them that—remember, you told Agent Morton where your wife and son would be. Agent Morton made sure we knew as well.”

  “Then try her cell phone, dammit.”

  “We did. She didn’t answer.”

  “What about her parents’ landline?”

  “No luck there either.”

  “Have them try again,” Ben nearly shouted.

  Horning seemed to hesitate. He made a pained face. “That might not work, Mr. Shadeland. There seemed to be…there seems to be a problem with the phone there. We keep getting a busy signal.”

  Ben swung his legs over the bed, the mental chill becoming a wild shuddering. The IV needle threatened to unmoor from his arm, but he scarcely felt it.

  “Mr. Shadeland, you’ve got to sit back. They’re—”

  “They’re in danger!” Ben yelled.

  In her tiny clear plastic bed, Julia stirred.

  “They’re fine, Mr. Shadeland.” Horning put a hand on his chest, attempted to ease him back down.

  Ben smacked his hand away. “Don’t tell me they’re fine, dammit. If they were safe, you’d have talked to them by now.”

  “There was probably a downed phone line. It’s been storming there since late afternoon.”

  Ben wanted to believe him, but he couldn’t. He stared at his daughter, who was facing him now, her mouth twisting in what looked like the beginning stages of a hard cry.

  “You need to lie down,” Horning repeated.

  “Get me a phone,” Ben said. “Now.”

  “Okay,” Horning said, holding up a placating hand. He reached into his pocket and brought out a black cell phone. “You’re more than welcome to use mine. Just take it easy, all right?”

  Ben grabbed the phone and dialed Claire.

  It rang five times before her voicemail came on. Grinding his teeth, Ben ended the call and tried again.

  And as the phone continued to ring, unheeded, Ben’s terror grew.

  After (2)

  Several hours earlier, only a few minutes after Ben and his daughter were discovered by the Coast Guard helicopter, a floating object a few miles off the coast of the Sorrows gave a barely perceptible twitch. A languid wave overturned the object and revealed it to the clear dark night to be a severe
d head, one with a blackened layer of scorched flesh and a single curving horn, which had also been charred black with soot. Numerous veins and arteries stringing out of the ragged stump of throat had already been gnawed on by curious marine life. But the animals that had tasted of the noxious black liquid oozing out of the dark tendrils died horribly, their convulsions and death spasms frightening away the other would-be diners.

  And now the cracked and stiffened eyelids snapped awake and stared at the glowing hook of moon overhead. The eyes, though physically sightless, seemed to absorb the pallid rays drifting down through the cool night air. And the mouth, dreadfully burned as it was by the conflagration in the boat’s cabin and the subsequent thunderblast that had blown the creature’s body into a thousand different pieces, began to twitch itself into a look that might have been concentration.

  Gabriel felt the moon’s healing glow soothing his burnt flesh. Gabriel, who had lived for thousands of years and had been known by many names—most frequently the Great God Pan—closed his unseeing eyes and sent his thoughts eastward, toward the place called California. Then beyond that. And…

  …in Boulder, Colorado, Dale Harden stood motionless in the sepulchral darkness of his bedroom. The look on his face was so unlike his normal one that even his wife wouldn’t have recognized the man she’d been married to for twenty-nine years.

  Had she seen his face at that moment, she would have fled screaming.

  After (3)