Black Tide, page 15
“Why?” she asks, wide-eyed, like we’re on the verge of a breakthrough. I love her for it. I’m beginning to love her for a lot of things.
It hits me like a swell, this sensation I never thought I’d feel again, lifting me off the seat, and I have to steady myself to keep from being knocked over by it. It’s exhilarating, and as much as I just want to ride it as far as it will take me, I also know that people caught in life-or-death situations can develop complex and lasting connections across short periods of time, and it would be dangerous to dive headlong into unfamiliar waters without first carefully reading all the signs. Not just for me but for her too. Beth is more than capable of keeping me afloat, but I’m not sure I can do the same for her, and that’s a mistake I don’t ever want to make again.
“I’m just talking out of my ass, Beth. I have no idea. This is all science fiction to me.” I see disappointment in her face, but that’s better than giving her any false hope. I have to wonder, though. What if we are the only two people who’ve had the opportunity to just sit around and puzzle it all out?
What if we’re the only two people now, period?
“It’s kind of funny, when you think about it,” I say. “Humans are one of the most destructive forces this planet has ever known. We’re capable of rendering the entire place uninhabitable a dozen times over, all in the name of who gets to be king of which mountain. Imagine what we might have accomplished if we’d had any idea something was coming to take it all away from us. What would we have done differently with the time we had left?” I can’t help but think of Sarah. Tears prick my eyes, and I bring the camera back up and stare at the dunes again, mostly so that Beth doesn’t see I’m crying.
It’s good timing. One of the shriekers is making its way down the dunes, about halfway between us and the abandoned Jeep. But something is different. It seems unsteady, drunk. Also, I can see it. Not clearly; it’s like somebody sprayed it with a deep, purple paint. It’s about twice Jake’s size, with six legs that I can make out. It collapses at the base of the dunes with its jaws stretched wide so that little worm-looking thing can peer out. At the top of the dune, another set of jaws open. These look big enough to bite that other shrieker in half.
The queen.
Did she just exile that other from the group? What’s happening to it? Could we be in luck? Could the air be poisoning them after all? And why does that purple color look so familiar?
Before I can pose any of these questions to Beth, something else catches my eye, down in the lower corner of the viewfinder frame. I zoom in as much as the lens will allow, my heart bouncing around in my chest. It’s hard to get a clear focus with my hands shaking like this, but what else could it be? Right there among all those footprints, glinting in the sunlight.
“I see the key.”
17
BETH
“What? Where?” There’s no way. We scoured the sand for that cursed thing, it can’t possibly be sitting in plain view for Mike to see. I snatch the camera from him and smash my eyeball to the viewfinder.
“Right there.” He points. “Between the waterline and that driftwood log. The sunlight’s catching it, now that it’s at this angle.”
He’s right. The bastard flicks cheerful little stars of light at me. Oh, hi—were you looking for me? I could scream. The fog has completely burned away now, and I can even see the beach access road. It’s like we’ve been stubbornly picking at a lock for the past several hours, and the mechanism has finally clicked into place and the door opened in front of us.
“I think we can reach it,” Mike says with a resolute nod.
“Can we make it back, though?” The cloudfish has drifted inland far enough that I don’t see it at all now, but I’m not about to count on that. It’s been hanging around in this area all day. It knows something is here. And then there’s the ever-present threat of the shriekers. “We’ve lost our fog. There’s no way they won’t see us.”
My words trigger something in him. He stares at me, one side of his mouth curling up into a half smile. “Beth, what if they can’t see us?”
“What? No. They surrounded me over there, and they all opened their mouths. They have these tongues, and I swear I saw eyes on them.” And even more teeth, but that’s not really pertinent.
“I know what you’re talking about,” Mike says, nodding excitedly, “but what if they can see us only when they have their mouths open? Like, the invisible part is some kind of protective shell? When it’s closed and they’re invisible, they’re also blind?”
There’s one hole in his theory: the shriekers knew the hellvine was lying in the sand by the SUV. They kept their distance well before they opened their mouths. Could they smell it? Hard to believe they couldn’t. But wouldn’t it stand to reason that if they could smell with their mouths shut, they could probably also see?
Luckily, Professor Mike’s class is back in session. “That noise they make,” he says. “That chirping. I wonder if it’s some kind of echolocation? Like the way bats ‘see’? I bet when they make that sound, part of their shell opens up, to both emit the sound and to catch the sonar bounce back. It probably happens lightning fast, which is why they still seem invisible to us.”
“Why do you even know this?”
“They must lose track of us when we get in the car,” he goes on, not hearing me. “The chirping is building them a picture of their surroundings, and when the moving human shapes go into the unmoving car shape, we may as well be gone completely. Even if the echo lets them see through the doors, there’s wiring, the seats, so much they aren’t familiar with.” He pauses. “You said there was no ocean when you crossed over.”
“Not that I could tell.” I can’t help but feel a spark of excitement.
“That could be screwing with their systems too. This giant, loud, constantly moving body of water. They might be as terrified of their new surroundings as they are confused by it. Hunkering down in the dunes, lashing out at any new thing that comes along, all while trying to avoid their own natural predators.”
“Yeah, the spider’s more scared of you than you are of it,” I say. “Heard that before. Sorry, spidey, when you come into my house, you get the shoe.” If only I had a shoe big enough to stomp out the shriekers.
Mike looks out at the water. “If we run for the keys,” he says, calculating, “and one of them is up there, surveying the beach, it will detect us. You’re absolutely right. Even if we go slowly. But if we go in the water? There’s a chance we might just … blend in. Like we do inside the car.”
“What do you mean, ‘a chance’?”
“Meaning, I could be completely wrong and we’re about to die horribly. But if I’m not…” He lets that hang, so that I can weigh the odds myself.
“What about that?” I ask, pointing at the strange-colored, not-very-invisible-anymore shrieker at the bottom of the dunes.
“I don’t know, it looks sick,” Mike says. “Maybe it’s dying.”
I look back at the glint of sunlight on the sand, just as a wave breaks and rushes in, reaching nearly to it. A few more minutes, and the ocean will snatch the keys away, and that will be the end of our story. Maybe the end of humanity’s story. Mike and I might already be the epilogue, dragging out that inevitable final line, word by torturous word. If we’re going to go out, we may as well go out swinging.
“Let’s do it,” I say, opening the cooler and grabbing the remaining sandwich I’d packed for us in a completely different lifetime. Just the thought of stale bread and salty cold cuts makes my throat itch for a drink, but I push the thought out of my head. Permanently, I hope.
I dump the sandwich out of its baggie. Jake’s head snaps in my direction, sniffing at the air, eyes cutting longingly at the soggy, wilted shape. Soon, buddy. We pull this off, I’ll let you clean out the fridge.
I tuck the pistol into the baggie. It just barely zips up, but I think it will work. The gun is probably water resistant, but I don’t know about salt water. If it gets wet, I can’t expect it to function perfectly when I absolutely need it to, but leaving it behind means it will definitely be useless if this goes south.
The baggie goes into the waistband of my shorts, and I secure it in place with duct tape, wrapping it around me a few times to make sure it won’t get pulled free and lost at sea.
Mike flinches at the loud scriiitch of the tape roll. “I guess that means I’m on horn duty again?” he asks, dejected.
“Let’s leave the whole splitting-up thing for the stupid, disposable characters in your movies. If we’re going to die, we die together.”
“I don’t think I’d want it any other way,” he says with an honest smile.
* * *
Mike peels off his sweaty, filthy shirt while I crack open the driver’s door and use my camera to spy beneath the car. In a way, we’re a bit like the shriekers, aren’t we? Tucked safely inside our little Subaru suit of armor, our perception limited by what we can see and hear through the windows. Every time we open the door for a better look, we expose ourselves to their teeth. How can we get them to keep their shells open? Expose themselves to our bullets?
There’s still nothing beneath the car, but the shrieker at the base of the dunes turns toward the sound of the door. I can just hear it chirruping, and I try to keep absolutely still.
“Beth?” Mike says. I don’t respond. I want that thing to look away before I get back in the car.
A growl rises in Jake’s throat, and Mike clamps a hand around his snout. The growl turns to a whine, and the shrieker shifts slightly.
The lens cap slips from my fingers and lands in the sand.
That’s all it takes. The shrieker is on its feet and moving. It’s not as swift as it was earlier, but it still crosses the beach with frightening haste. I try to sit back—and bump against the steering wheel, which in my panic feels like something solid and heavy pinning me in place.
“Mike!” I screech. He grabs my bra strap and pulls. I’m just able to hook the door handle and slam it shut. The shrieker bangs against it and cries irritably.
Then it stands up.
Its shell is covered in a layer of fuzz the color of a fresh bruise, and that piece of hellvine is still attached to its leg. New creepers have sprouted from it and wound their way around the shrieker’s body like bulging veins.
“It’s infected,” I say. “The hellvine is growing on it.”
The shrieker opens its mouth, and the tongue-worm rises lethargically to stare right at me, all those wet eyes sparkling. There’s nowhere to hide. Mike doesn’t move. A rumble builds in Jake’s throat, his dark eyes about to pop from his skull, his body shaking in anticipation, ready to lunge at the thing the moment Mike lets go of him.
The tongue-worm stretches forward and gently taps the window, leaving behind an oily smear on the glass. Its eyes twinkle, as if, at long last, it understands the nature of the barrier between us, and knows it won’t take much to break through. I feel the pistol against my waist. No, not yet. That glass has kept us safe so far—I won’t blow it out until we have no other choice.
I lift the camera and aim. The tongue-worm immediately retracts, and the outer jaws close most of the way.
“Yeah, you better watch it,” I growl, and through the opening of its slightly parted jaws, those eyes flicker. Then they disappear completely as the shell seals shut over them and the shrieker ducks from view.
“That’s the weak spot,” Mike says. “And now we know why the queen booted it from the club.”
“I’m sorry, ‘the queen’?” I turn to look at him.
He nods toward the dunes. “A shrieker, bigger than the others.” I know exactly which one he’s talking about. “She—it—seems to be in charge. When that purple stuff first started showing up on this one, she threw it out. Don’t want that spreading to the rest of them.”
“Well, great. Now it’s here, which kinda screws up our plan.”
“Yeah,” Mike says, scratching at his face.
It reminds me how bad my wrist itches beneath the bandage. Burns, more like. Mike went at the spot where the hellvine snagged me with antiseptic wipes until I thought he was going to rub the skin right off, but I’m glad now that he did. I’m especially glad I was able to pull off the piece of vine before it became permanently attached.
“We could wait until the water is high enough. That might run it off.”
“And then the key will also be underwater. No, we need to do this now.” There’s not much in the car that will be of use against the shrieker, except the gun, which will only attract the wrong sort of attention. But Mike was right about the things’ sensitivity to movement. Curiosity might not kill the shrieker, but it could at least get it looking the other way.
I peel the sandwich off the bottom of the cooler. Mike gapes at me, probably expecting me to take a bite. I’ve consumed far more questionable things straight from unfamiliar refrigerators in the haze of a hangover.
“As soon as the next wave comes in,” I tell him, “I’m going to throw this out. With a little luck, it’ll take the bait, and we can run.”
“Because luck has really been on our side today,” he mumbles. But maybe it has. We’re still alive. We’ve found the key. A sandwich being the very thing that saves us in a dire moment? Sure.
In a side mirror, I watch the shrieker shuffle into shade at the Subaru’s rear bumper. It looks like a huge, tailless scorpion, its head long and flat and all mouth, like a crocodile’s. I kind of wish it was still invisible, not gonna lie. It heaves and shudders as it lies there. How long until those hellvines immobilize it completely? Will the shrieker eventually just turn into a giant bowling ball, sprouting enough new tendrils to cover the entire car?
I scoot to the driver’s seat. Mike gets into position, gripping the rear passenger door handle. The waves roll in, and back out. And in, and out. When the water surges right up to kiss the Subaru’s front tires, I push open the door and fling the sandwich over the roof and toward the dunes. Glued together with warm mayo and meat slime, the sandwich lands with a soft plop, and the shrieker lunges toward it, making it about five feet before its legs give out and it face-plants into the sand. The shrieker drags itself forward on two feet, its jaws opening to give the worm inside a view of the object that came from the car. Maybe it will eat the sandwich. That would kill it for sure.
“Now, let’s go.” I step out, right into ankle-deep water. We both shut our doors as quietly as we can and quickly wade into the ocean. The water rises past my knees, then my hips. Searing pain radiates from the bandaged bite on my thigh. I want to scream and slap my hands against the water.
“You okay?” Mike asks, coming up behind me.
“Not really.”
“The cold water will numb it in a minute.” This is far less reassuring than he thinks.
The shrieker isn’t moving at all now. It’s slumped into a pile right on top of the sandwich. Jake’s tail wags inside the car as he stands at attention, watching it through the rear window. I can’t hear him, though, which is good. And the others haven’t emerged from the dunes to investigate, as far as I can tell. So far, this plan is working out far better than it has any right to.
“Do not let go of me,” Mike says, finding my hand and squeezing. There’s an unfamiliar sharpness in his voice, and his grip could crush concrete.
“I won’t. I promise.”
We trudge awkwardly through the churning surf. The current makes the sand shift beneath my feet, creating the dizzying sensation of the ground falling away, of being tugged out to sea. When I lose my balance, Mike’s hand clamps tight. My leg is on fire, and my wrist itches so bad I just want to tear it apart with my fingernails.
“Stop,” Mike says, not giving me much choice in the matter. I follow his stare to the dunes.
There she is. The queen. Poised on the ridge, jaws open, tongue-worm surveying the beach.
“Mama’s awake,” I say just as a swell washes over us, and I suck down a lungful of water, coughing and spewing as discreetly as possible. “Do you think she sees us?”
“I don’t know. Down.” He kneels, and I follow suit, until only our heads are exposed. The unsettled sand makes me feel like I’m standing on bugs. Something slippery slides past the back of my leg. I’m sure it’s just seaweed. There was no ocean over there, I have to keep reminding myself. Anything that got caught beneath the waves on our side would have drowned.
“I can’t tell what she’s looking at,” Mike says.
“Probably just our buddy,” I suggest, even though the worm’s eyes are very clearly aimed right at us. I knew this was going too well. And there are definitely things beneath the surface. Fleshy things that are not just seaweed.
A big wave knocks us both under, and I catch a glimpse of little silvery shapes in the water.
“Take it easy,” Mike is already saying when I come up, gasping for air. “We’re okay. Keep your feet on the ground—”
“Shut up,” I hiss. “Let’s go. There’s something in the water.”
“It’s just fish.”
“What?” Looking around, I see he’s right. There’s all sorts of them tumbling through the waves, and even more scattered along the beach, dead and drying in the sun. Did they cross over, too, finding themselves in the desert with nowhere to go? Or is something happening out there in the water?
“She’s gone,” Mike says.
Sure enough, the ridgeline is empty. But did the queen lose interest and withdraw to the other side of the dunes? Or did she come down onto the beach? I’ve never felt so trapped, which is ridiculous, with a wide-open beach in front of me, and the Pacific Ocean to my back.
Mike’s hand gets me going again. We continue the cold, dizzying slog until we’re in line with the driftwood log. I can’t see the key, though. Not even a glimmer from this angle. Mike squints. He doesn’t see it either. Fantastic.
