Black Tide, page 24
“No,” Beth says. Her answer seems to surprise Mike. “No, we had a plan, we should stick to it. If there are others, we need to find them. We stop here for too long, we might not get the chance to go again. The power might not run out, but the food will. And the water. Then we’ll just be trapped on the beach again.”
“Okay.” Mike smiles at her, and she smiles back.
More and more fireballs erupt in the distance, their glows reflecting off the mountains and lighting up the night. I prop my pillow against the wall and sit there, staring out the window with them, from the comfort and warmth of my bed.
Together, the three of us watch the darkness burn.
32
MIKE
We’ve scavenged everything we can possibly take from the house. Natalia’s father was prepared for a storm, all right. We have a cooler filled with perishable fruits, vegetables, and cheese, along with several boxes of canned soups and beans, bags of nuts, and cartons of crackers. Beth found a stockpile of camping supplies in the garage, including propane tanks, a tiny heater, a camp stove, plenty of batteries, and flashlights. I hope not to put much of it to use along the way, but it’s better to be ready for anything. And there’s no telling how permanent our stay in Vernonia will be, or what might come next.
Beth packs changes of clothes, all the first aid supplies she can find, and the guns, of course. The rifle and shotgun she tucks into the back seat, and the hand cannon into a strap that fits snugly around her shoulder. Someday I might ask where her experience with firearms comes from. I might not. But I like feeling as if I have that choice. I like feeling that someday is a possibility again.
I strap a red plastic gas can to the Jeep’s rear bumper, and Beth patches up the cracks in the windows with duct tape. It’s tempting to just secure plywood over the cracked roof panel, but neither of us particularly want to lose sight of the sky. Natalia acts as lookout while we do all this, bouncing between her bedroom and her father’s with those binoculars, but reports nothing suspicious outside. There are fallen trees and massive craters carved out of the landscape where the giant walked past us in the night, but it’s far enough away now that we can no longer see it. I’m glad for that, but there’s no telling what new horrors we’ll meet as we head inland.
“I think we’re ready,” Beth announces after we’ve buckled Natalia in and triple-checked our list.
I put my ear to the garage door. I don’t hear anything out there. “Go ahead and start it up,” I tell Beth, making my way to the garage door button.
The only thing Natalia’s father doesn’t seem to have, for whatever reason, is an opener in his Jeep. Natalia insisted he always got out and punched the code in by hand. A minor inconvenience, but those extra seconds could be deadly if something is lying in wait out there.
“Be quick, Mike,” Beth warns. “If something is outside, I’m running it over, and your butt better be in that seat next to me when I do.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a salute. She isn’t amused.
The moment the engine comes to life, I slap the button, and dawn light spills into the garage.
* * *
The highway is surprisingly clear. The few cars we do pass are just far enough apart that Beth is able to steer around them. A truck is split in half on a power pole, the pole itself splintered at the base and lying in the trees. The lines caused a fire that has long since burned itself out. I hope that’s not all we were seeing last night. The fireballs and explosions sure seemed like counterattacks of some sort. Guerrilla warfare. But I could have been wrong. They could just have been the dying breaths of our civilization.
There’s the pessimist again. Stop that.
Beth doesn’t dare drive above forty miles per hour. She’s determined not to lose control of the Jeep under any circumstances. I have no complaints. As we drive by a passenger bus, lying on its side, the windows blessedly pointing toward the morning sky, I’m tempted to tell her thirty might even be fine.
Natalia stares at the bus with bulging eyes.
“It’s all right,” I try to reassure her. “This all happened yesterday. The monsters aren’t here now.” Which, as far as I can tell, is true enough.
“Where did they go?” she asks, and I honestly can’t answer.
I don’t know where they’ve gone any more than I know where they came from to begin with. Maybe they dissolved back into that other place over the course of the night. That’s how they came to be here, it stands to reason they’ll leave the same way. Could we really be that lucky?
“Turn here,” I tell Beth as we approach a private road marked by Strawberry Dunes’ weathered welcome sign. The gate is open, and there’s a deer carcass lying in the road, little left but bones and fur.
“Why?” she asks. “You leave the stove on?”
“Actually, that isn’t a bad idea.”
She gives me an impatient look, but I don’t elaborate. If I tell her what I plan to do, she’ll keep right on driving. I know she doesn’t want to make any pit stops if we can help it, but I need this one. And I promise her it will be quick.
* * *
Beth pulls into my driveway, next to her beat-up old Toyota. I barely recognize my house. Not only because it feels like a lifetime has passed since I was here last but also because it’s completely covered in hellvines. That answers the question of whether or not the alien life was taken back to where it belonged during the night. Unfortunately.
Fleshy ivy creeps up the cedar siding and across the shingled roof. The flower buds have blossomed into what appear to be Venus flytrap mouths full of spindly teeth. One of them is closed around a seagull, the bird’s black, lifeless eyes staring out at us in surprise.
The HOA would have a fit if they saw this.
The hellvines, which undoubtedly sprouted from the bowling ball I hauled off the beach in the red bucket, have reached across the fence where Beth and I had our first conversation, creeping up the side of the house she was supposed to be looking after. I imagine she’ll be forgiven for shirking her duties.
The grass and shrubbery, so meticulously maintained, is dead and withering, whether from the pollutants the vines pump into the air or by sheer proximity, I don’t know. If their spread keeps up, entire forests could turn brown and collapse, hungry alien foliage rising from the ruins to claw at a sky that, by then, might barely be recognizable as our own. If we let it get that far.
“Oh wow,” Beth gasps. “In a couple days, this whole street will be gone. Are you sure you have to go inside?”
“Yes.”
“I really think I should go with you.”
“Beth, it’s okay,” I tell her, taking the shotgun with me. “I’ve got this.”
* * *
The front door is the only way in. Fortunately, I left it unlocked. My key is still in the Subaru, and who even knows where that is by now. Maybe the cloudfish went back and ate it. Good riddance.
The view out the sliding door onto the back porch is completely obscured by purplish-brown vines. Thousands of tiny hairs squirm on their undersides, ready to stick into anything the vine grabs hold of. The glass is cracking. They’ll be spilling into the house soon enough. There aren’t any shriekers, though; that’s a plus.
I make my way to the freezer. The smell in the kitchen is overwhelming. Like being in a closed garage with the car running. I’m already dizzy, my thoughts watery. I need to move faster, before I collapse.
Inside the freezer is Sarah’s remaining fifth of vodka.
The cap comes off with a snap, and I wave the bottle around, showering the room. I splash the window, the icy liquid seeping through the cracks in the glass. The hellvines curl away angrily. If they don’t like that, they’re really going to hate what comes next.
At Beth’s unintentional suggestion, I turn on all four gas stove burners. They hiss appreciatively. I don’t turn on the flame, though. The flame will come soon. But there’s one more thing I need. Well, a few things.
First I go to the bedroom and fill an overnight bag for Beth. Some clothes that might actually fit, underwear, a box of tampons. I’m sure there’s more I’m not thinking of, but she’ll probably at least be amused by my attempts.
Next, I go into the office.
Through the window, I see the trail into the dunes. The path I walked the night before last, Jake barking at me from next door. The path Sarah walked a year and one day ago, for the last time. She’s looking back at me from the window. From inside that picture frame. I took that picture the first time we ever came to this beach. When we were young, and the future stretched as far as our imaginations.
I hear her coming up behind me again. Just as she did last night. Dragging her wet, bloated feet across the floor. I had a feeling she’d come. She’s been here all along.
“You aren’t her,” I say. She stops in the doorway, water dripping onto the floor. “You’re just the part they found in the tide that day. The part I chose to remember, to keep me company here, because I didn’t think I deserved anything more.”
I stay focused on the picture. On the way she was before I let her sink. Before I resurrected her to haunt me for what I’d let happen. I think it’s the way she’d want me to remember her too. Not as some monster bent on torturing me into the same fate but as the person I fell in love with. Radiant and complicated and full of dreams.
“Please forgive me,” I whisper. “I’m sorry it took me so long to ask.”
She shuffles forward. When she speaks, it’s in a voice that slices my heart in two. “I forgive you.”
I wait for more. Because I know what’s coming. This time I’m listening. This time I have an answer.
“So what’s next?”
“I have no idea,” I say. “And that scares the hell out of me. But I trust her. She’ll get us wherever we need to be. I’m sorry for all the promises I never kept. I’m sorry for all the times I wasn’t there. I won’t make those mistakes again. I won’t let either of them go. I hope that counts for something.”
The room behind me is empty. For the first time in as long as I can remember, the house doesn’t feel thick with her presence. I know now that I can leave, and I won’t be abandoning her all over again. The picture folded into my pocket is a kindness more than anything. That last trace of her deserves better than what I’m going to give the hellvines. Her face will always be in my mind, though. Maybe not at the front, but that’s okay. We have to keep moving forward. I think she knows that better than anybody.
I light a single match on the way out, and flick it into the kitchen. The vodka ignites with a whoomf, and I walk out of the house and into whatever’s next.
* * *
“You should hear this,” Beth says, not seeming to notice the house going up in flames behind me. She turns up the volume of the radio.
A man’s voice rises through the static. I recognize it instantly, and my heart sinks. “This is Jared Jessup, coming to you from Vernonia, Oregon, home of the famous Friendship Jamboree and Logging Show. That could be the reason these bastards are keeping their distance. They took one look at what our lumberjacks can do to a Doug fir and decided to just keep moving—”
I turn it down. “So it is just playing on a loop,” I say, hoping the disappointment isn’t obvious in my voice.
“Maybe he just needed a bathroom break,” Beth says. I can’t even pretend to laugh. “Or, yeah, maybe they’re all gone, and it’s just playing on a loop. Both options are equally possible.”
“I don’t know if I’d say ‘equally.’”
The flames devour the inside of my house. The roof begins to steam. It’s downright cold outside this morning, yesterday’s heat wave a thing of the past. There’s a familiar dampness in the air. It’s going to rain today. Fall is finally upon us.
“Hey,” Beth says, taking my hand and squeezing hard, like she’s never planning on letting go. “I don’t want to hear any downer shit from you.”
“I’m not,” I say, squeezing back, looking into her eyes. Once again, I feel that swell lift me up off the seat, and this time I let myself drift with it, my hand still locked safely with hers, secure in the knowledge that wherever it takes me, we’ll be there together. “Honestly, looped message or not, Vernonia still feels like the place to go. If you and me survived, then I think the human race has a pretty decent chance.”
“Good.” Beth turns the Jeep around and drives away from my house, her car, and Strawberry Dunes—forever.
“If there’s nobody there, where do we go next?” Natalia asks. “Portland?”
“Sure,” Beth answers, turning onto Highway 101 and punching the gas and speeding into the dawn. “We’re alive. And we have hope. I say, no matter what, we’re heading in the right direction.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have to thank Amanda Jain and Kristin Temple, my wonderful agent and editor respectively, for taking a chance on me and this story. From a one-sentence Twitter pitch to the pages I’m looking at now, your keen eyes, expert guidance, and endless patience, during a global pandemic no less, made publishing Black Tide not only possible, but a true joy for me. You saw exactly which edges to file down and which others to sharpen to give this book just the bite it needed. Thank you.
Likewise, thank you to the rest of the Tor Nightfire team: Andrew King, Alexis Saarela, Dakota Griffin, Esther Kim, Jordan Hanley, Sarah Pannenberg, Emily Hughes, and Michael Dudding. It has been an absolute honor to have so many talented and passionate people working to make this a real thing.
I also want to thank Erik Howell and Matt Misetich for helping me shape the screenplay (and so many others) that would eventually become this book and for keeping me propped up and hammering at the keyboard through my darkest and most insufferable times. Twelve years and too many drafts to count is a lot to give, and I owe you for every word. Seriously, I love you guys.
And speaking of support, I owe a lifetime of gratitude to my family. Mom, Heidi, Bill, Don, Sue, and of course, my amazing wife, Kendra. Thank you all for your brutally honest feedback, the time and energy you’ve sacrificed so that I could pursue this dream, and your stubborn refusal to let me give up.
Also, Dad, thank you for your unwavering faith that someday this would happen in some medium or another, even though you never got to see it.
And lastly, I want to thank my readers, the real reason any of us do this. I hope this story lingers with you for as long as it’s haunted me.
KCJ
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After graduating from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas with a degree in film production, KC Jones returned to the Pacific Northwest to focus on a career in screenwriting before making the leap to novels. When not writing, he can usually be found cooking, playing video and board games, or exploring the local wilderness with his wife. Black Tide is his debut novel.
Visit him online at kcjonespnw.com, or sign up for email updates here.
Twitter: @PNWScribe
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Before
1. Beth
2. Mike
3. Beth
4. Beth
5. Mike
6. Beth
7. Mike
8. Beth
9. Mike
10. Mike
11. Beth
12. Beth
13. Mike
14. Beth
15. Beth
16. Mike
17. Beth
18. Beth
19. Mike
20. Beth
21. Mike
22. Mike
23. Natalia
24. Beth
25. Natalia
26. Mike
27. Natalia
28. Beth
29. Mike
30. Beth
31. Natalia
32. Mike
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
BLACK TIDE
Copyright © 2022 by Kevin C. Jones
All rights reserved.
Cover art © Stocksy
Cover design by Esther Kim
A Nightfire Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
120 Broadway
New York, NY 10271
tornightfire.com
Nightfire™ is a trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-79269-3 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-250-79270-9 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250792709
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: 2022
KC Jones, Black Tide
