Fangtooth (16 page)

Chapter 32

Zander saw McKenzie keep stealing
glances his way, and he knew given the chance the drug dealer wouldn’t balk at
killing him. But he hadn’t counted on a crew of trawler men who stared danger
and death in the face every time they set sail, men who wouldn’t flinch at
McKenzie’s threats.

The sea stretched before him,
relentless. A shroud for the denizens of the deep. Zander steered a course for
the rocks where he had picked up Jack and Jen. Despite his brave countenance,
he felt nervous, his stomach bubbling with apprehension.

He didn’t really know what he was going
to do when he found his quarry, but find it he would.

The searchlights illuminated choppy
waves, from the crests of which the wind whisked trails of foam. He had hoped
to see McKenzie looking pale and sick, but he seemed to take the movements of
the boat in his stride, his jaw never losing the clenched aspect that made his
cheeks prominent.

Muldoon sat to the side, scanning the
sonar screen. He glanced at Zander and nodded as though in encouragement, but
Zander couldn’t help wondering if the bravado that had fuelled this voyage
wasn’t running out. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Not that he
would dismiss it as foolhardy now, but out here, where the sea ruled, it made
him take stock.

He looked to port where Robinson was
busy on deck, and caught sight of his own reflection in the glass. He looked
manic, wide-eyed, crazy from lack of sleep. It’s no wonder McKenzie didn’t
argue, one look at Zander probably made him think twice.

The cliffs were visible at the fringes
of the searchlights. Zander knew them well, and he could plot his position by
those alone.

When they reached the location where he
had seen the creatures, Zander eased off on the throttle.

Muldoon leaned closer to the sonar
screen. “There’s something down there, but the readings are strange.”

Zander knew it wasn’t only the readings
that were strange. He sounded the alarm, and then lifted the microphone, his
voice booming out of the speakers: “Right everyone, make sure you’re armed and
ready. These creatures are tough sons of bitches.”

The men on deck signalled with thumbs up
and Zander started lowering the nets, creating a ladder leading up from the
ocean.

Brad patted the six cylinder, turbo
diesel engine, pleased to hear it rumble contentedly. The rocker arms clacked
up and down in quick succession. He checked the gauges and monitored dials,
giving the oil pressure gauge a tap. Oil and grease marred his forehead and his
hands were black with grime.

The metal walls of the engine room were
rusty. Remnants of paint made up abstract patterns that if he stared at them
for long enough, formed into pictures. Here a face, there a cat.

Tangles of wires and pipes filled the
room, each pipe colour coded: blue, fresh water; green, seawater; red, diesel
and yellow, oil. The belts running from the engine whined, but Brad liked it
down here. The engine was his baby. He was at home changing fuel filters,
bleeding the system, doing oil changes, tune-ups and cooling system
maintenance. His mechanical expertise was second to none, and he figured he
could get her up to speeds of twenty knots if he needed to.

The engine shuddered, and he tapped it
with a spanner, which made her tick over contentedly again. Out here, a loss of
engines could mean certain death.

He heard the alarm. Metal clanged
against the hull, the sound reverberating around the engine room as Zander
lowered the nets.

Brad picked up a dirty rag and mopped
the sweat from his brow. Plainspoken, he wasn’t afraid of calling a spade a
spade, and he didn’t like that McKenzie fellow one bit. If it were up to him,
he’d toss him overboard as fish bait. None of the men on board would comment,
or breathe a word about what happened. They were closer than a family, so
perhaps if he had a chance, he’d do it for Zander anyway. He had never killed
anyone before, but had thought about it plenty of times, especially his
ex-wife, Maureen. He couldn’t believe she wouldn’t let him see their son, Sean.
What did she think he was going to do? The bottled rage bubbled up, and he
concentrated on the engines to quell the anger. Now was not the time to lose
it.

A sudden noise against the hull caught
his attention. He was used to hearing noises down here, but this sounded
different – almost like someone tapping against the side. He cocked his head
and listened, heard a sharp rat-a-tap-tap, then a protracted scratching sound,
like sharp fingernails dragged across the metal. He remembered the creatures he
had seen in the water. Not an easy man to scare, Brad was surprised to find he
was holding his breath, and that goose bumps mottled his arms. He scanned the
sides of the boat, trying to trace the sound, but it seemed to be moving, first
one side and then the other. That’s when he realised the sound originated in
more than one place at once.

The engine seemed to cough and wheeze,
bringing Brad’s attention back to the task of keeping the boat running. He
adjusted a couple of valves and the engine sputtered and then continued
chugging smoothly.

He kept a small cassette player in the
engine room, and he turned it on. The sound of Robert Wyatt’s haunting voice
drifted out with the
Sea Song
: You look different every time you come
from the foam-crested brine.

He had always thought the song was about
a mermaid, but listening to it now, he heard it in a new light.

Down in the engine room, Brad turned the
music up loud to drown out the sound of scratching on the hull.

Now alone in the wheelhouse with Zander,
McKenzie glanced at the knife. Zander had put it on a shelf where it was
clearly visible and accessible. McKenzie wasn’t stupid. He knew Zander wouldn’t
have put it within reach if it wasn’t for a reason, and that reason was
probably to let him know that out here, if he did anything stupid, there was no
way he could pilot the boat himself. But as soon as they reached land …

He stared out of the window at the nets
descending into the deep. In the beam of the lights, the nets seemed to
glisten. Flecks of foam coated the buoys and clogged some of the holes in the
net itself. He heard the heavy clang of metal as something banged against the
side of the boat. This was nothing like the fishing he used to do in the river
with his dad when he was a lad. He remembered the day they caught an eel. The
thing hadn’t been that long, but it had wrapped itself around his arm and
refused to budge, which made him understand where the term slippery as an eel
came from. The hook was wedged firmly in its mouth, and his dad had struggled
for ages to unhook it without being able to get a good grip. Eventually fed up
of watching his dad try to unfasten it, McKenzie sliced the eel with a knife –
the same knife Zander had put on the shelf – and the fish unwrapped itself and
flopped aside. Yes, that knife had a history, and that was the first blood it
had shed, but it certainly wasn’t the last. While many of the local gangsters
used guns, McKenzie preferred the personal touch associated with a knife. There
was nothing like standing next to your victim and being able to see the look of
horror and pain on their face as the blade penetrated their flesh.

He had been questioned about various
crimes, but there was never enough evidence to make a conviction stick, so he
wasn’t about to let some fish-stinking fisherman call the shots when the police
had never been able to.

He had plans and dreams. One day, he was
going to take over from Monty. And then there wasn’t going to be any of this
pussy-footing around with small—

A high-pitched squeal cut into his
thoughts. McKenzie narrowed his eyes and turned to look at Zander to ask what
the hell that fuckin’ noise was, but when he saw Zander’s nervous expression,
he decided against it. He had never seen the skipper appear anything other than
stony, and the realisation that something had rattled the man made him feel
anxious too.

McKenzie glanced at the knife, wanted
the comforting feel of its handle within his grasp, but it was out of reach at
the moment. He chewed his top lip and looked out at the net.

The high-pitched noise caused Zander to
flinch. He stared out, saw something hauling itself up the outside of the net,
clawing its way along the mesh.

“Here they come,” he said.

McKenzie stared at him. “What the fuck’s
going on?”

Zander pointed outside, saw McKenzie’s
expression turn to shock as the first of the creatures flopped onto the deck.

A large wave washed across the starboard
bow. The boat listed precariously.

McKenzie jumped up and grabbed his
knife. A small grin altered his expression as he opened the blade. “What are
those things?”

“I told you, they’re what took your
drugs.”

McKenzie narrowed his eyes. “If this is
some fuckin’ sort of joke … if you’re fuckin’ with me …Right, let’s go see how
they like the taste of cold steel.” Then he turned, ran towards the door and
disappeared outside.

Although not a religious man, Zander
said a prayer then picked up his shotgun and followed McKenzie outside.

The wind roared around him, sea spray
stinging his face. McKenzie ran on in front, slipping across the deck. He
reached the nearest Fangtooth and started stabbing it with the knife. The blade
pierced its body and the creature slashed out in retaliation, raking its wicked
claws across McKenzie’s arm, tearing cloth and parting flesh.

Zander raised his weapon and pulled the
stock into his shoulder. He tensed his finger on the trigger and aimed, but
couldn’t get a clear shot as McKenzie kept bobbing in his way.

“Get down,” Zander roared.

McKenzie dropped to the deck and Zander
pulled the trigger, peppering the creature’s chest with lead shot.

As McKenzie stood up, he grasped his
arm, wincing. Blood rained from his injury, splashing the deck with lurid
patterns

 “Take that, you son of a bitch,”
Robinson shouted as he lashed out with a gaff hook.

Zander fired at a couple of creatures
scrambling over the net, punching them back into the water. But behind those
came more. Lots more and he couldn’t reload fast enough to keep up.

One of the creatures lurched forwards.
McKenzie slashed at it with the knife, but the creature ducked underneath the
attack and sank its teeth into his stomach. McKenzie screamed, the sound
reaching an ear-splitting crescendo as it tore its head back, ripping out a chunk
of flesh. Loops of purple intestine and viscera slopped out onto the deck.
McKenzie staggered for a moment, then collapsed in a heap.

Oblivious to Zander, the creature
dropped down onto all fours and started chewing on the wound it had inflicted.
Zander opened fire, lead shot tearing through the creature’s body.

McKenzie scrabbled around on deck,
trying desperately to push his intestines back into his stomach. “Help me,” he
whined.

Zander gritted his teeth. McKenzie was
beyond saving. He levelled the barrel at McKenzie’s head, finger tensed on the
trigger. Despite his hatred of the man, he had never killed anyone before, and
even though it would be a mercy killing, he couldn’t do it. He exhaled and
lowered the weapon. Shook his head.

McKenzie scrunched his face up in pain.
“Please,” he said.

Before Zander could reply, Jim ran past
and rammed his knife into McKenzie’s chest.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Jim
said.

The boat listed, throwing Brad across
the room. He picked himself up, heard the ear-piercing scream over the sound of
the engines and he vaulted across the machinery, donned his oilskins and headed
up towards the deck. What was going on up there?

The first thing he saw when he stepped
out onto the deck was Zander firing from the hip. Then on the deck he saw
McKenzie’s eviscerated body, next to which lay a dead creature, its body slick
with blood and seawater.

The rest of the crew was back peddling
against the tide of creatures surging up the net.

Brad sprinted across the deck and
grabbed the fire axe from the side of the wheelhouse.

Movement to his left caught his eye and
he raised the axe, prepared to deliver a deathblow when a voice shouted, “Stop.
It’s me.”

Brad focused his gaze and stared at
Robinson. He shook his head. “I fucking nearly killed you, you idiot.”

Jim appeared behind Robinson. “Might
have knocked some sense into him at least.”

Robinson whirled on Jim. “Now’s not the
time for your sarcastic comments.”

“Might not get another chance,” Jim
cackled. His expression changed. “Behind you,” he screeched.

Brad turned and glared at the creature
making its way towards them across the deck. It walked on all fours until it
was about seven feet away, then it raised itself up to stand on its rear legs
in an almost humanlike way. It opened its mouth impossibly wide, revealing
long, sharp fangs. Brad could see down its ribbed throat – it was like staring
into the bowels of hell, the teeth the gates to Hades.

“Come on you mother,” he said between
clenched teeth. “If you wanna piece of me, come and get it.”

The creature scurried forwards, head
thrust out, mouth open ready to bite.

Brad heard a scream, thought it might
have been Robinson but couldn’t be sure. Well, nothing on this earth was going
to make him scream like a baby. Not when he could make it scream first.

With expert timing, he swung the axe up
and around with all his strength. The sharp blade struck the creature on what
purported to be its neck. Brad clenched his teeth against the bone jarring pain
that shot along his arm, but he didn’t stop following through. The creature
didn’t even have time to blink as the axe severed its head clean off. The
headless creature still moved forwards at an alarming speed, and Brad stepped
quickly aside. A geyser of blood gushed out of its neck, spraying the deck with
gore as it sailed by. Brad felt a sense of power, and he was about to whoop
with joy when he heard another scream. What was it with Robinson? Brad never
thought of him as a big crybaby before. He turned, about to tell Robinson to
can it, but the words died in his throat.