"The Beast of Trash Island" is a horror/suspense novella written by Red Jack Press author Steve Metcalf. It was originally penned and published in 2016. We will present the story in its entirety in serial format. You can discuss the novella with the author through his website.
The Beast of Trash Island
Prologue, Abandoned Ship
THE GRAY MURKINESS caused by the morning clouds was enough to bury the ocean in depressing shadows. Seabirds circled the yacht in curiosity, but none dared to land on it.
The USS Pendragon reached the location of the abandoned yacht—the Aqua Tom—just after seven o’clock the morning of March 18th. The Navy destroyer had been on maneuvers 1000 miles north of Grant Island and, thus, was the first to respond to the yacht’s distress signal.
Ship personnel immediately began recording on all passive and active systems as soon as they entered the area of the nebulous North Pacific Garbage Vortex—often referred to as Trash Island.
A force of six seamen boarded the Aqua Tom to look for survivors and begin a cursory examination of what might’ve led to the electronic distress signal being bounced off a dozen different satellites eight hours previous. Once the boat had been secured and cleared of any obvious danger, Commander Wiley joined the advance team on the deck. Alfonse Wiley was a thirty-two-year-old career man—trim, fit and well above average height at 6’ 7”. He towered over most enlisted men, and some people felt that had given him an advantage over others on the path of promotion. Right now, he was being groomed for his own captaincy—either the Pendragon herself, or another tier two ship in the Pacific fleet.
He lifted his cap by the bill and ran his right hand through a shock of short black hair before sliding the cap back into place.
“Clear signs of a struggle, sir,” Mr. Beaumont said, looking up at Wiley, who had a habit of standing with his back to the sun. Beaumont squinted. “No survivors. No bodies, for that matter. We’re sweeping for the captain’s log as well as any recorded data.”
Mr. Beaumont, a man of 23, thick through the arms and chest, was counting the days to get landward. He was due for a desk appointment through the last few months of his wife’s pregnancy. He began pointing out oddities to the commander.
Nearly every flat surface of the yacht was covered in dents, cracks and scrapes. Some seemed to have bullet holes. A section of the port gunwale showed apparent signs of a fire. A Navy man was, right now, taking close-up photos of the bullet holes. Most troubling was the absence of dead bodies and, in fact, the absence of any spilled blood.
“A battle that left this level of scarring on a boat of this size should have resulted in organic evidence, Sir,” Beaumont said. There was a call from across the yacht. “Excuse me for a moment, Sir.” He jogged off to see what one of the advance men had found.
Commander Wiley crouched to examine a series of bullet holes that Beaumont had pointed out in particular. There were three spread out over a pretty wide area. The person firing might have been trained, but the shots had been erratic. Perhaps he or she was being chased. He ran his fingertips over one of the holes.
“What the hell happened here?” he muttered.
Beaumont returned moments later. By this time, the commander had made his way to the aft of the yacht. Two of his men were crouched down, examining something on the deck.
“What have you found?” Wiley asked.
Both men stood and turned to face him as he continued walking toward the rear of the yacht. He stepped around a fallen deck chair and finally got a clear look at what the two advance men had found.
It was a black sphere—a flat black, not reflecting any light from the steadily rising sun. It was about the same size as a common beach ball. The two men shrugged in response.
“We’re not entirely sure, Sir,” one of the men said, looking from Commander Wiley to the sphere and back to the officer.
It was impossible to get a sense of the object’s weight. It didn’t appear to be anchored to the deck floor, but it could have just as easily been held in place by a bolt.
Even so, the sphere appeared completely immobile - as if it was fighting against the undulations of the Pacific Ocean. Pieces of debris on the deck were rolling to and fro with the waves—the sphere didn’t move an inch.
“Also,” said the first man as he bent down and rubbed his gloved index finger along the floorboards at the base of the sphere. He stood, raising his finger in the air. It was covered in a dark liquid. “It looks like blood, Commander.”
Beaumont spoke without taking his eyes off the sphere.
“Sir,” he said, holding the captain’s log open. “There were 20 people onboard. Crew of 8, and 12 passengers.”
Commander Wiley looked down at the book, checking Beaumont’s numbers. They were all laid out by name—crew at the top, passengers following. The commander nodded and turned back to the sphere.
“What do you suppose that is, Beaumont?” Wiley said, indicating the sphere with a raise of his chin. His hands were clasped behind his back. “Ever seen anything like that before?”
They were interrupted by a third man.
“Sir,” he said, addressing the commander. “We found fifteen cellphones. Eleven were destroyed either by the weather or physical damage. Three have complex password systems—we’ll get them unlocked. One was open. This was the last thing recorded.”
The young man touched “play” on the screen and turned the phone to Commander Wiley. Mr. Beaumont leaned in and shielded the screen with his left hand.
The image on the screen was dark and shaky. There were terrified screams various distances from the phone’s microphone. Suddenly, the camera’s light hit upon a body lying on the deck, his neck twisted at a horrible angle. He was, very obviously, dead.
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” came a tinny, female voice from the phone’s little speaker. “He’s dead. Oh shit, he’s dead.”
The image on the screen wobbled again and it turned around quickly. There were people running and dodging and screaming. With the movement of the phone, it was hard to get a read on anything that was happening.
“We’ll be able to pull the video off the phone and clean it up, Sir,” the seaman said. The commander nodded in response, his gaze never leaving the phone.
“Holy fuck,” came the voice from the phone. “Oh shit. What is that?”
The image came to rest on the dead body yet again. This time, however, the body started moving. It was sliding along the deck as if being pulled by invisible strings. As the female followed the body with the camera on her phone, the black sphere came into view.
What happened next made Mr. Beaumont’s stomach turn.
“Good Lord,” Commander Wiley said, his face turning ashen. He wheeled on the two men examining the sphere. “Get away from that thing,” he screamed.
But it was too late.
コメント