Fangtooth

Chapter 35

Upon hearing the commotion, Powell ran towards the harbour. Along the way, residents started emerging from their houses.

“Stay inside,” Powell shouted. He ran out of a backstreet, his eyes growing wide when he saw the boat that had rammed into the harbour. Smoke billowed into the sky and firelight flickered in the wheelhouse. “Jesus,” he whispered. The people he had been talking to in the bar stood by the harbour wall, waving frantically.

“Help me!”

Powell looked up at the wreckage to see Bruce hauling Erin up the side, and just behind him, scampering up the deck, something monstrous…

With no time to lose, Powell pulled the taser gun out of his belt. He aimed, but his hand was shaking.

Powell held his breath, steadied his aim and squeezed the trigger. The two barbed darts struck the creature in the chest, delivering an initial 50,000 volts, and it flopped back. For the first time in his life he wished that British police were armed with guns.

He quickly radioed base and relayed what he knew of the situation, which wasn’t much, then he started to clamber up the boat using a chain that hung down the side.

Powell glanced down at the water to his left, saw things swimming just below the surface. His police training had never prepared him for anything quite like this.

His wife, Juliet, would go ballistic if she could see him now. She had never liked him being on the police force, thought it was too dangerous, and her pregnancy didn’t help. For the last couple of months she had been overly emotional, bursting into tears at the slightest thing. Seeing her husband now would likely be the last straw.

The bow of the boat projected into the air—it must have hit at some speed to end up like this, he thought. The chain he used to clamber up the side rattled and clanked against the hull. He thought he heard a groan, but the sound of the chain drowned it out.

He wondered what had happened to cause the boat to crash. Wondered what morbid sights awaited him.

At the top of the boat, he scrambled over and sat on the bow to catch his breath. Across from him, Bruce hauled Erin on board and then gave him a wave of thanks.

Powell nodded, then glanced down at the mayhem on deck. Nets, ropes, buoys and baskets lay scattered all around. Intermittent sparks illuminated the interior of the smashed wheelhouse. A column of black smoke rose from somewhere further back on the boat, and the caustic smell of burning rubber and plastic filled the air.

“Hello, is anyone on board?” he shouted. He surveyed the wreckage below for any sign of movement, but apart from a swaying boom and the clank of chains, there was nothing.

Keeping hold of the side of the boat, he slowly started to descend. The acute angle of the deck made it hard to keep his footing, and if it hadn’t been for part of a broken boom, which doubled as a ladder, he would have been left dangling.

The lower he went, the more pungent the smell of burning became. It seemed to cling to the back of his throat, making him choke. When he reached the wheelhouse, he swung himself across and entered through the already open door. The inside of the room was a mess of broken equipment. Sparks shot out from the front panel and skittered towards the back of the room. Bracing himself in the doorway, Powell removed his torch from his belt and shone it around the room. The severity of the damage amazed him. It looked as though someone had literally torn the place apart.

Something clattered against the wall, made him flinch. He shone the torch towards the back of the room, but couldn’t see anything.

Although not one to be overly sentimental, Powell looked forward to the birth of his son; had decorated the spare room in blue, stuck Disney transfers to the walls, hung a Winnie the Pooh mobile, even purchased a remote control Porsche. He remembered Juliet laughing when he purchased it, saying he didn’t need to use the baby as an excuse to buy a toy. Of course he played with it–just to check that it worked–it’s not as if his son would be using it for a while.

The noise came again, bringing him out of his reverie. He shone the torch around, then started to descend through the wheelhouse towards the bank of fallen equipment that lay jumbled against the rear wall. “Is anyone there?” he asked. No one replied.

The angle of the boat made the descent difficult. Anchored to the floor, the skipper’s chair presented a good starting point. From there, he reached across and grabbed the edge of a desk, then scuttled down.

The equipment lying against the rear wall consisted of monitor screens, a broken tabletop, radio equipment and other electronic tackle whose purpose Powell couldn’t even guess at.

When close enough, he slid the last few feet and arrested his fall by placing his hands against the wall.

About to squat down and investigate the clutter, a bloody hand shot out of the jumbled equipment and grabbed his ankle, taking him by surprise

“Help me,” a voice said.

Powell took a couple of breaths to steady his beating heart, then squatted down. He lifted a monitor screen aside, then shone his torch into the debris. A face stared back at him, the haunted features scratched and bloodied. Powell recognised the stubbly chin and short brown hair as that of Zander, the man who had run out of the bar when he tried to question him earlier.

“Are you okay?” Powell asked.

Zander grimaced. “My leg’s trapped.”

Powell peered over the rubble, saw a piece of heavy equipment lying across Zander’s legs.

“Are they broken? Can you move your toes? Are they cut?”

Zander shook his head. “For Christ’s sake, just get it off me before the creatures come back.”

Powell crouched down, took a hold of the equipment and used all his strength to lift.

Something squealed; he realised it was Zander. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Just get it off.”

Powell nodded, rubbed his palms against his trousers to remove any sweat, then grabbed the equipment and lifted. His arms strained, and he felt the muscles in his back pull taut. After a moment, the apparatus shifted, then came clear, and Powell gently laid it aside. He took a breath, needed to get down to the gym.

Zander sat up and rubbed at his legs. He rolled the bottoms of his pants up to caress the spot where the apparatus had lain, then he gingerly got to his feet.

“I’ve got to help my men,” Zander said.

“How many were on board?”

Zander started clambering towards the door.

“Zander. How many?”

Zander turned. His face looked pale. “Six. McKenzie’s dead. So is Robinson, perhaps Brad too. I don’t know.”

“So there might be two or three more people on board. Is that right?”

Zander nodded, then he pulled a knife out of a sheath in his waistband and clambered towards the door.

Powell hesitated a minute, and then followed.