Justin Somper

Vampirates: Tide Of Terror

Sunset. A deserted cove. The waves reach out hungrily for the sand, which changes hue from white to honey gold to fiery amber as the sun grows weary and dips down into the inky waters. The hungry waves soon swallow the ball of light.
  Now it is a world of shadow upon shadow. No human eyes could discern the joins between land and water or between water and sky. No human eyes could make out the insistent rush and tumble of the ocean. For this isn't the lacklustre darkness of towns and cities. This is real darkeness - deep and strong and velvet black.
  Where is the moon? It's as if she chose not to come out tonight, reluctant to witness the happenings of the coming hours. Where are the stars? They too seem to have elected to keep quiet distance. No moon. No stars. On a night like this, you could be forgiven for thinking that the world was about to end. And, for one of you that might be true.
  For the dark waves protect a secret. A man - at least, the semblance of a man - riding a surfboard. It's no free ride. The black waves are as tall as they are fierce, testing the surfer to the very limits of his strength and endurance. He never loses his footing, in spite of the swell, in spite of the lack of light to guide his way. His musclebound body twists and turns, locked to the board. It's a battle for respect that he fights with the mocking waves. And he's holding his own out there.
  At last, the waves seem to grow tired of their sport and reward the surfer's determination by easing him into the shallows. Still, he moves at speed, the knife-edged surfboard skimming the thin sheet of opal water.
  He jumps from the board, his feet touching the sandy floor. The waters make a final teasing grab for the board but the surfer reaches into the foam and lifts it out of their clutches. Board under his arm, he strides across the dry sand.
  He does not pause for an instant, in spite of the weight of the board. Nor does the night air chill him. And, strangely, though he has come from the depths of the water, his skin and hair are already dry. His clothes too are dry as bone. He isn't wearing a wetsuit, just regular clothes - trousers and a shirt, the sleeves ripped off at the shoulder to allow his arms maximum motion. His feet are bare.
  He comes to the foot of a cliff and props the board against the rock, leaving it behind as he begins his ascent. At first there's a path for him to follow but, as the rock climbs higher, so must he reach out with his hands to haul himself up, using his feet with equal dexterity. Now he seems less like a man, more like a wild animal. In truth, he's a little of each. And a little more besides.
  He reaches the top of the cliff and pauses for an instant, looking back with satisfaction down the sheer rock he has climbed, looking out across the sand to the rough sea by which he arrived here. No human eyes could make out the joins between land and water. But his eyes drink it all in.  His eyes are at ease with darkness.
  He wastes no more time on self-congratulations but turns forward instead. There's a high fence but, after all the other hurdles he's jumped, this one is easy. His feet land on soft grass. He looks ahead, far ahead, to the house in the distance - its windows lit up, eve at this late hour. It's almost on fire with so much light. It brings a lightning crack of pain to his eyes but he bites it down and keeps on walking.
  His long strides make short work of these grounds, so sizeable are they. He passes a field where horses are running. For a moment, he pauses to watch them. They do not see him but sense him, freezing still for a moment. They are frightened by the stranger, as well they might be. But tonight, they need have no fear. He moves on.
  There's a vast swimming pool and, ever the showman, he can't resist diving into it and swimming a powerful crawl from one end to the other. He hauls himself back out, and again his clothes are bone dry.
  Up ahead is a tangle of trees, a fruit orchard. As he walks through it, brushing against the branches, ripe fruit falls to the ground. Carelessly, he crushes peaches and pomegranates under his thick feet.
  Beyond the orchard is another stretch of lawn, this one even softer than the last. He smears the fruit off his soles as he continues on. He's almost at the house now. All that stands between it and him is a garden of roses - a profusion of twining stems, sharp thorns and thick, velvet blooms. And, in the centre of the flowers, is a woman. He knew she was here. Now he stands still to view the curious sight.
  She's a middle-aged woman, round in the figure from a life of too much ease. Dressed in a pink silk kimono, she has a basket looped over one arm and, clasped in her plum fingers, a pair of secateaurs. On her head is a band with a small flashlight on the front. She looks utterly ridiculous but is smiling happily to herself as she reaches out to the roses and snips at their stems, before sniffing at the blooms and laying them tenderly in her basket.
  For a time she is oblivious. Then his foot, half intentionally, crushes a fallen branch.
  'What was that? Who's there?'
  She spins around, the light on her head darting about like a firefly.
  She still does not see him. After a moment's pause, she returns to her sweet labours, humming to herself. She sounds like a demented bumble bee. He decides to have some fun and breaks another twig underfoot. It works. She jumps into the air - well, as high as her plump body will propel her.
  He steps out of the shadows, directly across the pool of light.
  Now she sees him. She looks up to take in the vast measure of him. Still, to give her credit, she's not as scared as he might have expected. Instead. She bristles with anger.
  'Who are you?' she asks. 'What are you doing here?'
  He stares at her.
  'Who are you?' she repeats.
  'Who are you?' he asks.
  'I'm Loretta Busby, of course. And this is my rose garden. And you have no business being here.'
  He takes a step towards her and smiles, reaching into her basket and grabbing one of the roses. He lifts it to his nose. It smells sickly - overpoweringly sweet. He crushes the bloom in one hand and tosses it away.
  'How dare you, you brute!' she cries. ' Do you know who I am? Do you know who my husband is?'
  'Busby,' he says. Does she think he's stupid? He isn't stupid.
  'That's right,' she says. 'Lachlan Busby - Director of the Crescent Moon Bay Cooperative bank, President of the North East Region Board of Trade, Elder of the Crescent Moon Bay Progressive Church and the most powerful man for mils around.' She fixes him with a glare, literally, as her flashlight catches him in the eyes. 'You've walked into the wrong rose garden tonight, you halfwit.'
  He's insulted now. Insulted and irritated. The light is boring into his eyes and the smell of the roses is thick and syrupy. He looks down at the woman, who continues yapping at him like an annoying little puppy. Finally, he can take no more.
  He reaches out his muscular arms and lifts her up, until her face is level with his. Shocked, her legs paddle through the air, as if she still thinks she might run away from him. She stares at him indignantly but now, for the first time, she sees his eyes properly. Or rather the holes where the eyes should be. For they are merely pools of fire - deep pools of spitting flame. There are no more words, for her voice has gone. Her legs cease their useless motion. Her flashlight slips lower and the last thing she sees is his teeth. Twin gold teeth, like daggers, bearing down towards her.

Vampirates: Tide Of Terror © Justin Somper, 2006. Published by Simon & Schuster.