The Kraken Rises

PROLOGUE

Dr. William Craven’s customarily pristine lab coat was shredded, long strands of loose fabric billowing wildly about him as he ran for his life. Ragged, claw-shaped gouges were etched across the chest of his coat and down the back of it; underneath, his red-and-white plaid-patterned shirt was tattered as well. In several places, the white fabric of his coat was stained with deep red splotches of drying blood. The doctor wasn’t sure who the coppery liquid belonged to. It very well could have been his own blood, or it might have belonged to one of his slaughtered colleagues left behind in the laboratory. Then again, it could have been a mixture of both.

A thick layer of salty sweat covered Craven’s leathery, crinkled, vulture-like bald head. The thin pair of spectacles that usually sat at the end of his beaky nose, in front of his steely grey eyes, was gone; lost at some point during the man’s mad rush as he fought to escape the blazing lab. Without his glasses, Craven was almost as good as blind; the world around him appearing blurred and distorted. Still, in a way, part of him was glad he had lost his spectacles. It meant he didn’t have to see his horrific creations hounding after him in all their putrefying, macabre glory.

Exhausted and terrified, the spindly limbed man stumbled down the hallway. With arms outstretched and his bony fingers feeling along the cold walls, the doctor tried desperately to steady himself, his arthritic legs periodically giving out on him. Worse still, every so often he felt the floor move beneath him, the ship tilting nauseatingly to one side or the other, its massive bulk rocking on the hectic, roiling waves. Slanting this way and that, Craven’s thin frame was painfully battered off the walls of the ship.

Wheezing like an emphysema patient, Craven tried with everything he had to outrun his bloodthirsty pursuers. Alongside his original test-subjects, many of them were former colleagues, all now transformed into something barely recognizable as human. The ageing man’s breathing was short and sharp, his lungs burning as they struggled to suck in a proper breath and hold it. He could feel his energy being sapped with each second that passed by. Craven felt about inside his pockets, searching for his asthma inhaler, but he couldn’t find it in any of his myriad pouches. He realized then he had probably left it back in his stateroom. The black-grey smoke wafting into the hallway was choking him, causing the doctor to hack violently, and cough up smarmy globules of green-yellow gunk.

Behind the figure of the winded doctor, phantom-like shapes shambled after him, some of them even wielding makeshift weapons in their scabbed and purulent hands. They snarled and screeched like minions shat from the bowels of Hell, their ghastly shrieks echoing off the metal walls. Their inhuman cries curdled Craven’s blood, sending a creeping chill up his gnarled spine, each one making him regret his decision to unleash them that bit more. Beyond the ghoulish horde at his rear, a fire continued to rage back inside the ransacked laboratory. Golden light from the relatively small conflagration seeped out into the tight corridor, casting gruesome shadows along its walls. Spider-like limbs and fingers danced along the corridor’s smooth surfaces, seemingly reaching out after the fleeing figure of Dr. Craven. Occasionally, William heard a member of the ship’s security detail fire their sidearm; the weapon issuing a distinctive pop! which caused him to jump with fright every time it sounded.

Through his hazed vision, William thought he could make out an opening ahead of him – a doorway perhaps. This sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through his flagging system; something that the exhausted doctor desperately needed if he was going to make it out alive. By this point, Craven could feel fluid building up inside his lungs, making it harder to breathe than it already was. Still, he fought on, desperate to make it to – what appeared to be – a flight of stairs lying in wait a little further up in front of him. If he managed to climb the stairs before the vile things chasing after him caught up, Craven knew he might be able to seal off the entry and lock them in – the rest of the crew be damned.

Traitorous bastards.

One of the lanky, trundling figures eventually found its stride, breaking into a kind of awkward jog. Others soon followed, traipsing after their cohort at a similar pace. Howling insanely, the inhuman things tried to catch up with their would-be prey, increasing their speed. Gnashing teeth and flailing emaciated limbs, their rising bloodlust continued to entice the throng of monsters, riling them on.

Without warning, a deep animalistic bellow tore through the confines of the corridor, reverberating off the high, metallic walls. It sounded like a cross between a bear and a lion, or so the petrified doctor thought to himself. The hellish noise came from somewhere inside the flaming laboratory. William noted this cry was different to that of the others. The creature making this clamour was something else entirely, much fiercer – and larger – than the other things wandering about the lower reaches of the facility. He knew exactly what the cries belonged to… PROJECT: CARCHARIS. Craven’s pet creature was coming for him, apparently finished with making examples of the doctor’s dissenters.

No! It isn’t supposed to be like this!

Craven was almost at the base of the stairwell when he heard the thundering footsteps of his greatest creation bounding down the hallway. Looking over his shoulder, the doctor could only make out blurred stick-figure-like silhouettes. Then something significantly larger than all the others appeared at the far end of the smoke-filled corridor, its head and neck obscured by a cloud of dense smoke hanging over the chaotic scene. The dark figure charged furiously in line-backer fashion up the linear hallway. The hulking shape broke through the black-grey fog, shouldering and swatting the smaller forms out of its way, treating them as if they were nothing more than bothersome flies. William could only listen as the bodies of his lesser creations were splattered against the surface of the vessel’s walls. He heard bones crunching and breaking as the big brute bowled down the hallway trailing after him, grunting like an incensed gorilla.

Dr. William Craven hadn’t expected to die this way. He always thought he would go out a little more peacefully, during his sleep perhaps. Once he had retired and completed his research, of course. For a second, Craven pondered the poetic justice of it all: the thing which he had given life to was about to take his away from him. Fate was a funny thing.

Despite the seeming inevitability of his demise, William struggled on, desperate to escape. He wasn’t prepared to admit defeat just yet. The man’s survival instinct wouldn’t let him. He had worked too damn hard to let that happen. So, on rickety legs, the doctor made for the stairwell, adrenaline pumping vigorously through his veins and fuelling his hurried retreat. Craven set foot on the bottom rung and prepared to launch off—

—as he felt something connect with his back. Working like a battering ram, the article – at first, he wasn’t sure what it was – punched its way into the man’s back. Skewering him, the piercing object went through flesh first, followed by the bones in his ribcage, before emerging out the other side. The ageing gentleman cried out in agony as he felt his flesh being penetrated and his body lifted up off the ground.

Craven hovered in the air, completely amazed he was still breathing. Head lolling, he looked down at the gaping wound in his torso. At this distance, the doctor’s old eyes were just able to make out the thick forearm and clawed, webbed hand that had smashed its way through his frail, liver-spotted flesh. Grey-blue in colouration, and lined by the occasional tract of darkened veins, the muscular limb held him aloft for a few moments longer, the doctor’s assailant seemingly admiring its handiwork. The clawed digits at the end of the powerful limb flexed and contracted, gore dribbling off them like strands of falling treacle. Behind him, lingering just by his right ear, William could hear his finest achievement sniffing as its teeth chattered feverishly. The beast was breathing in the doctor’s scent, ostensibly revelling in the moment and relishing its victory over him.

“Papa…” came a guttural voice.

Then suddenly, Craven was falling through the air. It was a short fall in any event. Retracting its mighty limb from the gore-rimmed cavity, Carcharis let the doctor plummet unceremoniously to the floor. With a heavy and sickening splat! the doctor’s body impacted with the cold, metal flooring. Still, Dr. Craven wasn’t dead just yet. He lay there flush against the chilly surface, quivering and sniffling, his fingers twitching involuntarily as blood pooled around him. Unable to do anything else, Craven simply waited for the end to come.

It didn’t take long. Carcharis made sure of that.

Lightning-quick, William felt fingers take a hold of his egg-shaped cranium. The pressure exacted by the collection of digits was phenomenal, pain inching over the top of his skull while the hand holding him squeezed tighter. A split second after this, Craven’s head was flicked left then right in swift succession, causing bones to snap and cartilage to crack with the sharpness of the action. The light went out in the old man’s grey eyes then. Next, the doctor’s killer wrenched his slumping head backwards, tearing it away from the rest of his lifeless body. The elderly victim’s spinal column came with it, pink-red tendrils of ragged flesh hanging loosely from several portions of the serpentine-like vertebrae.

Carcharis slinked away, his dark, spiny frame disappearing into the swirling curtain of smoke, clutching his trophy gleefully.

“Papa…”

Meanwhile.

John Andrews’ glistening, big, brown eyes were wide with fright, his sharp features illuminated by the red-orange glow emanating from the fire blazing to his right. Tendrils of flame licked at the base of several empty towering, tubular specimen containers lining the far wall. Generated by the spreading conflagration, a haze of grey smoke wafted overheard, stinging the man’s eyes and irritating his lungs.

The young security officer couldn’t believe what he was seeing; the scene before him was one of utter chaos, violence, and butchery. The screams of men and women – dying and injured – filled the smoky air. It was like the ship’s main laboratory had suddenly descended into a state of pure madness – but what had caused it? This wasn’t what he had expected to find when the ship’s alarm first sounded some minutes ago, and his superior ordered him to investigate the lab.

Amidst the panoply of workbenches, computers, and various other scientific instruments, Andrews watched as men and women – colleagues – turned on one another, engaging in the most brutal of acts. The man stood transfixed, wondering the whole time what could have induced such madness in people. One woman wrestled with a man, forcing him down against a benchtop and knocking over an expensive-looking microscope as she pinned him against the surface of the long table. The man struggled frenziedly, trying to free himself from her clutches, but in the end, the demented woman was too strong for him. She clamped her teeth down on his nose, biting it off with a gut-churning crunch! Clutching at the hole in the centre of his butchered face, the man squealed like a stuck pig before collapsing onto the floor and Andrews lost sight of him.

At the far end of the lab, Andrews caught sight of two other members of the ship’s security detail dressed in the same navy blue fatigues as him. The swirling fog of acrid smoke made it impossible to identify who they were exactly. Both had their Berettas raised and were firing into a small group of approaching laboratory technicians positioned at the opposite side of the room. Unperturbed by the wave of red-hot slugs, the lab techs vaulted over work stations to get at the two armed individuals, seemingly immune to the bullet wounds they were sustaining in the process.

Are they on drugs? What the fuck is going on?

Jaws agape, Andrews watched stunned as two of the lab-coated figures clambered over a work station littered with instruments, bullets battering into them still with seemingly no effect. The array of equipment in their path didn’t slow them down that much either. Pausing for a second, the white-clad pair sat back on their haunches like animals lining up their targets; one of whom was in the process of reloading, and the other firing off the last of their rounds. A moment later, both lab techs were flying through the air, arms outstretched, heading straight for the two security officers: predators pouncing on their prey. Then shouting and screaming, all four figures disappeared from view as they went down to the ground, more or less coalescing into a single thrashing mess of limbs.

Starting to come to his senses, Andrews removed his Beretta from the holster on his hip. Flicking off the safety, he chambered a round. It was only then that he noticed the two figures moving about over to his left. He raised his pistol preparing to fire, but stopped when he realized they weren’t a threat. Hugging the wall, the man and woman – both attired in laboratory coats – crouched low, trying to remain hidden from their marauding, seemingly psychotic colleagues.

“Hey!” Andrews called over the din.

He managed to get the man’s attention first.

“Help us!” the man yelled out.

“Follow me!” Andrews waved them over to him encouragingly.

Looking about cautiously, the pair checked left and right, their actions similar to children crossing the road, before they made their dash for Andrews. Coming to stand by his side, Andrews quickly appraised the pair. The man was short, but well-built, with big hazel eyes just like Andrews’ own. His dark African skin was drenched in sweat, salty beads rolling down his bald head. As for the woman, she was Caucasian and tall, with short, dark brown, almost black hair. In the changing light, Andrews couldn’t decide if her eyes were blue or green.

“Come with me,” Andrews told them.

Exiting the main laboratory (or A-1, as it was known to the vessel’s staff), the trio scurried into a rather claustrophobic corridor leading to an adjacent smaller work area known as B-2. About half the size of A-1, B-2’s function was quite simply to the support the larger lab. It was here where most of the research data was pored over by the junior technicians. Whereas the actual experiments were conducted inside A-1, B-2’s workers simply analysed the results of such; cross-referencing and collating the available information into reports and the like. It was boring stuff, but necessary to the overall operation nonetheless. So for the most part, B-2 was chock-full of desks stacked with the likes of computers and hard drives, and little else.

Moving swiftly down the corridor, Andrews and his two newfound companions ran hell-for-leather. They had only just entered the passageway when a horde of bloodthirsty fiends appeared on their heels, screeching like lunatics under the effects of a full moon.

“Try to keep up!” Andrews shouted over the clamour.

After a moment, Andrews let the other two overtake him.

“What are you doing?” the woman’s voice was panicked and shrill.

“Just go!” Andrews said forcefully, dropping down onto one knee. “I’ll hold them back!”

Beretta gripped firmly, the security officer squeezed the trigger, letting off several rounds, the empty casings clattering by his boots. One of his bullets hit an incoming figure square in the chest, causing the deranged-looking man to face-plant. This didn’t trouble those figures shambling behind him, however. Rather, they trod right over the man’s limp profile and kept coming. Still, the maniacs’ advance was restricted by the tight confines of the corridor. This at least worked in Andrews’ favour as they were unable to outflank him or overwhelm him, constricted as they were. Firing again, Andrews managed to strike one of his pursuers in the belly, the wound spewing blood like sauce from a broken ketchup bottle. This time his target, although hit, did not fall. Instead, the rampaging tide of flesh and bone just kept coming for them.

“Fuck this!” Andrews jumped to his feet. He knew if he didn’t keep moving, then they were going to overwhelm him, and sooner rather than later.

Spinning on his heel, Andrews took off, racing after his two cohorts who had just crossed into B-2. Standing on either side of the doorway, they called out to Andrews, eagerly waving him on, encouraging him to pick up his speed.

You can make it! he told himself. Just keep pushing.

All of a sudden, the lights went out, and the passageway descended into total darkness. Andrews felt a sickening knot take hold in his belly.

Has the power been cut? he wondered.

Following this, several things seemed to happen all at once. Andrews felt his stomach heave nauseatingly as the ship rose and fell, riding a series of huge, undulating waves. The unexpected motion threw him off balance, and the security officer collapsed to the floor, landing with a discernible thud! The man’s pistol fell from his grasp as his ankle shifted painfully beneath him, pain shooting up his leg all the way to the thigh. Simultaneously, he heard – who he could only assume was – the short-haired woman screaming hysterically somewhere up ahead, lost to him amid the blanket of darkness.

Get up! a voice in the back of his head ordered him to keep moving.

As Andrews made to stand up, a series of horrifying guttural snarls reached his ears. These were accompanied by the ominous sound of shuffling footsteps. His shadows had caught up to him. They were close. So very close.

There in the darkness, Andrews’ pursuers surrounded him, collapsing on top of him in a messy heap, hissing and biting, covering him in sickly salivate, Andrews did something then he hadn’t done since he was a very young child – he pissed his pants. In seconds, a warm stream of urine left his urethra, the liquid seeping through the fabric of his pants and spilling over the floor around him.

Up ahead, the man and woman he had escorted to safety listened as he screamed, crying out as the lumbering mass of inhuman things – the vile spectres of men and women he had been assigned to protect – ate him alive. Wrenching limbs free and biting off portions of flesh to dine on, the horde of monsters mercilessly eviscerated the young man. Andrews was a week shy of his twenty-third birthday.