Denzel felt a tingling beneath his wetsuit, like a low hum of electricity across his skin. The water around him grew colder.
“Did you feel that?” he asked.
“Feel what?”
The light came again, a sudden blinding flash from dead ahead. Denzel heard Weinberg hiss, and found himself doing the same as the light pushed down on his eyes like thumbs, forcing him to screw them shut and turn his head.
Even with his eyes closed, the halo of white still lingered. There was something else too – a dark outline right at the centre of the light. A tall, chunky rectangle that looked remarkably like…
“A door,” said Weinberg, her voice coming through the speaker as a hushed whisper. “There’s a door.”
Denzel opened his eyes and blinked a few times, trying to clear the dazzling spots that clouded his vision.
Weinberg was right. There was a door. An enormous stone frame was picked out in the beam of Denzel’s torch. He leaned back, trying to figure out how tall it was. He could see maybe ten metres of it, straight up, but everything beyond that was hidden by the murk.
Symbols were carved into each of the roughly hewn bricks that made up the frame. Some of them were simple enough – an X, an angular P, something that looked like an arrow – but others were ornate swirls and curves he’d never seen before. Something about them gave him the heebie-jeebies though, and he steered himself closer to Weinberg, just to be on the safe side.
Her light shone on the door itself. It was made of a dark-grey wood and covered in the most elaborate carvings Denzel had ever seen. There were more symbols here, but other things too – snakes and dragons and sea serpents all writhing and entwining around each other; swords and axes, locked together as if in battle.
But it was the face that troubled Denzel the most. It was carved near the bottom of the door, roughly at what would be head-height for a tall adult, were they standing on the riverbed itself. It had chiselled cheeks, two etched lines to suggest closed eyes, and a roughly hewn wooden beard. While it was obviously just a carving, there was something eerily realistic about it at the same time, and Denzel swam upwards a little so his light was no longer shining directly on it.
In among all the carved shapes was a series of large metal studs. They ran at regular intervals up the length of the door, and dozens of much smaller symbols and icons had been etched on to each one
“What is it?” Denzel whispered.
“A door.”
Denzel tutted. “Well, I mean, yes. I can see that. But what’s it doing here?”
“I have no idea,” Weinberg admitted. She set off swimming along the front of the door, and Denzel hurried to follow.
They swam for what felt like quite a long time. Just as Denzel was sure the door must be about to come to an end, Weinberg’s light revealed a second door butted right up against it. They continued swimming on, eventually reaching the other edge of the stone frame after a good two more minutes.
They’d passed several more of the faces along the way, each one similar, but different. They all had beards, they all had their eyes closed, but the shapes of the heads were never quite the same. Denzel had hurried past them all, never letting his light linger.
“OK, so it’s not just one door, it’s a double set,” said Weinberg. “And it’s big. Like, really big.”
She steered herself around the side of the doorframe. For a moment, all Denzel could see were the bubbles from her Subsea Suit’s propellers, then she swam back into view.
“Nothing behind it. It’s just a door. Just a massive door at the bottom of the Hudson River, which occasionally emits blinding flashes of white light.”
Denzel nodded. That seemed to pretty much sum it up. He might have added “creepy” before the word “massive”, and possibly underlined it for emphasis, but it was a pretty accurate description all the same.
“Any ideas?” Weinberg asked.
Denzel puffed out his cheeks. “Swim away and nuke it from orbit?” he said. It really was very creepy.
“What are you talking about?” Weinberg said. She laughed, which, to Denzel, seemed highly inappropriate, given the circumstances. “This could be the find of … well, not the century. There was that demon portal in France a couple of years back. But, you know, it could be a pretty major find we’re looking at here. We need to examine this thing.”
Denzel was about to ask if they could examine it from very far away – ideally another country – when his skin began to tingle. The temperature of the water dropped rapidly. Even inside the glass helmet, Denzel saw his breath become white vapour.
“Look out!” he warned, but then the light hit them. Denzel closed his eyes and tried to turn away, but the brightness of the flash was overwhelming. He and Weinberg both cried out in pain and shock, spinning in the water as they tried to shield themselves from the glare.
Like before, the flash only lasted for a fraction of a second, but up close it was even more disorientating. Denzel turned, flailing out. His helmet hit the door with a thud. He stopped moving and held his breath, terrified he was going to hear the glass crack and feel water come flooding in.
Luckily, he didn’t. Denzel blinked away the light spots again and placed a hand on the door to push himself clear.
Even through the glove, he felt the vibration as he touched the wood. The carved symbol closest to his hand illuminated in a fiery orange glow. Another symbol just a little further above his hand lit up next. Then two on the left. Then one below.
He yanked his hand free and watched with a growing sense of dread as the carved symbols continued to illuminate all across the wood, spreading out from the spot where he had touched it. He glanced sideways at Weinberg, but she was still facing the other way, trying to recover from being dazzled.
“Um…” said Denzel, which was pretty much the best he could come up with at the moment. “Um…”
The tiny etchings on the metal studs were starting to light up now. Through the murk, Denzel could see other spots of orange appear, as every one of the door’s symbols flickered into life.
“Wow, that was bright,” said Weinberg. “You OK?”
“Not really,” Denzel said.
Weinberg turned and let out a little gasp when she saw the door. It was ablaze with colour now, the light dancing and flickering, as if flames were burning behind each symbol.
“This isn’t good, is it?” Denzel whispered.
“I don’t know,” Weinberg admitted. “I mean, you know, probably not for us…”
The face nearest to Denzel flicked open its eyes so suddenly that Denzel would swear he lost three years off his life expectancy through sheer terror alone. The eyes, which were also carved, although much more skilfully than the rest of the face, turned to look at Denzel.
“N-no, definitely not good,” Denzel whispered, and then the wooden face snapped open its mouth, spewing a jet of fast-moving bubbles towards Denzel and Weinberg. The bubbles shoved them both backwards away from the doorframe.
Several other churning streams of bubbles appeared further along the door. Denzel imagined all those other faces, eyes and mouths now open, screaming silently in the darkness.
From somewhere on the other side of the wood, there was a loud kalunk that seemed to echo through the water.
And then slowly, ever so slowly, the doors began to open.
What emerged through the opening was … nothing at all. The doors parted, revealing the patch of water directly behind it, a couple of startled-looking fish and not a whole lot else.
“Well, that’s an anti-climax,” Weinberg said. “Huh. Looks like it’s nothing to worry about.”
Denzel was about to point out that she probably shouldn’t tempt fate like that, when the space in the centre of the doorway began to glow an eerie shade of green.
The light quickly became a thrashing, churning, heaving mass of glowing bubbles that whipped the water around them into a frenzied spinning whirlpool.
“You had to say it, didn’t
you?” yelped Denzel. “You just had to say it.”
“Uh, we should probably go,” said Weinberg, steering herself around in her Subsea Suit and firing up the propellers.
“You think?” Denzel said, kicking frantically with his flippers as he squeezed on the throttle buttons.
“Going to open channel. Martinez!” Weinberg said, and suddenly Martinez’s voice was echoing around in Denzel’s fishbowl-like helmet.
“Martinez here. What’s going on?”
“Nothing good,” said Weinberg. “We’re returning to the surface. Get ready with—”
A gush of bubbles whooshed past Denzel from behind, catching him in their slipstream and dragging him through the water. He spun out of control, his light swinging wildly through the dark water as he flipped and rolled on the sudden current.
“Weinberg, help!” he called, but the only reply was the sound of bubbling water that was all around him now, hurtling him onwards.
WHUMP!
One of Denzel’s shoulders slammed into a piece of debris, sending a shockwave of pain crashing through him.
The impact spun him out of the path of the bubble torrent and he hit the riverbed hard, churning the sediment up into thick brown clouds around him. The head-mounted torch flickered twice, then went off. Denzel managed to stretch the arms of the suit above his head until he found the light. He hit it a few times, then sighed with relief when the light returned.
“Weinberg. I’m OK,” he said.
Silence.
“Hey, Weinberg,” said Denzel, his tightening throat turning his voice into a croak. “You there?”
No response.
“Martinez?”
Nothing.
“Oh good,” Denzel whispered. “Either my radio got knocked out or everyone’s dead.”
He realised the bubbles had stopped. The water was silent again. Too silent, almost. Other than the echo of his own breathing, Denzel could hear nothing at all.
Still, he was alive and in one piece, so things weren’t all bad. He gave the joysticks in his gloves a try and the Subsea Suit whirred into life. No damage there either then. In many ways, he’d actually had a pretty lucky escape.
Krick.
Denzel’s eyes crossed as he watched a tiny hairline crack appear in the glass of his helmet. He swallowed. “Oh, come on,” he whispered.
Krick.
Denzel kicked off from the floor of the Hudson, churning the silt and dirt around as he launched himself towards the surface, squeezing both throttle triggers for dear life. The Subsea Suit propelled him upwards through the water. As he rose towards the surface, the all-consuming blackness lightened, gradually becoming a deep, brooding shade of green.
Krick.
The crack grew. Condensation suddenly bloomed on the inside of the glass, making it impossible for Denzel to see anything beyond it. He had no idea how far away the surface was, or even if he was still heading in the right direction. He gritted his teeth and kicked, then watched in horror as a single drip of dirty river water found its way inside the helmet.
“Ooh, not good,” Denzel hissed. He squeezed the throttle triggers with such force his hands began to shake. His flippers swished behind him. The surface had to be up there somewhere. Didn’t it?!
The helmet splintered into a spider’s-web pattern, and Denzel felt moisture on his face. He drew in a breath, terrified that the dome was about to give way completely. The water around him was a forest green now, even through the cracked and misted visor. How much further? How much—
He broke the surface and let out a sharp yelp of relief as the water stopped trying to force its way inside the suit. The condensation lining the inside of the helmet began to fade, and Denzel looked around in confusion, trying to figure out where he’d come up.
The pier was twelve metres or so away, but barely visible through a weird green fog that hung over the water. Denzel steered himself towards the wooden platform. It wasn’t until he was much closer that he saw the figures standing on the pier. They were calling his name, but their voices were muffled, either by the glass or by the fog.
“Hey!” said Denzel, grabbing for the pier edge. Above him, Smithy screamed in panic, raised a leg, then brought a foot slamming down on to Denzel’s helmet. Another spider’s-web pattern appeared in the glass, and Denzel cried out, “Smithy, stop, it’s me!”
“Whoops!” said Smithy. “Sorry, thought you were a big jellyfish.”
“Oh, Denzel, thank God,” said Weinberg. She was still in her rubber diving gear, but had removed her Subsea Suit. “When I lost contact with you, I thought—” She stopped talking and just smiled instead. “I’m glad you’re OK.”
She and Smithy both bent down and helped haul Denzel up on to the pier. He flopped on to his back, then groaned with relief when Weinberg unclipped his helmet and pulled him free of the suit.
Out of the helmet, the fog seemed even thicker somehow. It wasn’t just above the water; it stretched out towards the shore too. The hut with the exploding toilet wasn’t far away, Denzel knew, but it was currently lost somewhere in the rolling green mist.
“What’s going on?” Denzel asked as he got to his feet. His voice sounded flat and lifeless in the fog, and seemed to bounce back to him from every direction at once. “What is this stuff?”
“Fog,” said Smithy.
“But it’s green.”
Smithy nodded. “All fog’s green.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Smithy frowned. “Isn’t it? Well, what am I thinking of then?”
“Spectral readings are off the charts,” said Weinberg. This didn’t really come as a surprise, even to Denzel. The fog definitely had a certain ghostly feel to it, and his skin was prickling in a way that told him danger of the supernatural variety was close, and probably getting closer.
“We should get back to base,” said Martinez, his eyes darting anxiously down at the water. “You can run some tests. I know a few divinations that might help us figure this out. We shouldn’t be out here.”
Denzel wasn’t going to argue with that. Being inside felt much safer than being outside at the moment. Also, he kind of needed the toilet again, and he had no idea how to get his wetsuit off.
“Agreed,” said Weinberg. She set off along the pier. “Let’s get back to the van and find out how far this fog goes.”
“What about the suits?” asked Denzel, gesturing to his own discarded diving equipment. “Shouldn’t we take them?”
“We can come back,” said Martinez, ushering Denzel and Smithy on. “Right now, we need to get out of here, in case…”
Denzel and Smithy hurried on, closing the gap on Weinberg. It was only when they’d run several metres that Denzel realised Martinez had stopped talking. He turned back and saw the Oberon boy through the fog, his fingers dancing lightly in the air.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” Denzel asked. “Why have you stopped?”
“There’s something out there,” said Martinez, the mist making his voice thin and reedy. “Something in the fog. Or in the water. Something—”
A shape – huge and grey – flashed in the fog behind Martinez, moving quickly towards him. Denzel caught a glimpse of a glistening black circle, a blood-red gum and the biggest teeth he’d ever seen.
And then the shape and Martinez were gone.
“Uh, Denzel,” said Smithy, appearing beside him.
“Y-yes?”
“This might be a silly question.”
“G-go for it.”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
Denzel nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the spot where Martinez had been standing.
“OK,” said Smithy. “Here goes. Did Martinez just get eaten by a big monster?”
Denzel swallowed. “Pretty much,” he said hoarsely.
They both looked down as the pier began to shake. Through the mist, they heard the sound of wood splintering. Denzel felt his stomach drop down somewhere around his toes as, ahead of them, the pi
er began to disintegrate.
There, slicing through the wood towards them, taller than Denzel and Smithy put together, was a shark’s fin.
Denzel and Smithy turned to look at each other. “We’re probably not going to get that game of baseball today, are we?” said Smithy.
Denzel shook his head.
“What you think?” said Smithy. “Run?”
“Yeah,” Denzel whispered. “I think probably run.”
They turned and hurtled, side by side, through the fog, the pier shuddering beneath them as the fin tore along it like an industrial saw. Neither of them stopped when they reached solid ground, and it wasn’t until they almost knocked Weinberg off her feet that they dared slow down.
“Watch it!” she said. She looked back in the direction they’d come. “Where’s Martinez?”
Denzel opened his mouth, but only a squeak emerged. He gulped down a breath and tried again. “Shark.”
“Big shark,” Smithy added. He too seemed to be having trouble breathing, despite the fact he didn’t actually need to. He stretched his arms out to convey just how big the shark was, but it didn’t really do it justice.
“What do you mean? Where’s Martinez?” Weinberg demanded, but Denzel quickly clamped a hand over her mouth.
A vast shape had appeared from the fog over in the direction of the pier. It slunk through the air, as if swimming through the mist itself.
They could only see part of the outline, but what they could see was the size of a double-decker bus. It twitched as it flicked its tail, propelling itself around in a lazy, swooping arc that would, sooner or later, lead it directly to them.
“Is that the big shark?” Smithy whispered.
“I think so,” said Denzel.
“Shouldn’t it be in the water?” asked Smithy.
“Again, I think so,” said Denzel.
“Should we maybe, I don’t know, tell it?”
“Probably not,” Denzel whispered.
He slowly moved his hand away from Weinberg’s mouth. She swallowed, her eyes fixed on the shape in the fog. “Get in the van,” she said. “Quietly.”
Smithy nodded and took hold of the handles that opened the van’s back doors. “No, wait!” Weinberg said, fumbling for her keys.
A New York Nightmare! Page 8