‘Fangtooth’. 86,000 word horror novel.

There’s something in the sea. Something ravenous.

 

Fangtooth - CHAPTER 1

The trawler Silver Queen plunged through the relentless waves, plaything of the Gods. Wood creaked and squealed like the cry of an animal in pain as the boat plummeted from the top of a swell, a rollercoaster ride through the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

“What the hell is it?” Howser said.

Billy Trasker looked up from the echo sounder at the skipper, and shook his head. “It might be a large school of fish … but to be honest, I’m not sure.”

“Well, so much for technology. I’m going with my gut instinct on this one, and if you ask me, we’ve struck the mother load.” He shoved his head out of the open window at his side. “JOHNSON, SECURE THAT BUOY,” he shouted, fighting to be heard above the cry of the force 8 gale.

The men on deck hurried about their jobs. Soaked to the skin, they worked with a proficiency gained from years of toil at sea. The wind howled around their ears, but they seemed oblivious to its roar.

Billy frowned. “We could sure do with some fish in the hold after three days at sea, but I’m not sure. Look,” he indicated a large, jagged line on the colour LCD display, “it’s not like anything I’ve come across before. Normally, the fish reflect the pulse, and the air in their swim bladders makes them visible to the echo sounder. But this, well, it’s not like any fish I’ve ever seen.”

Howser glanced at the display. It was all double-dutch to him. His wife, Maureen, had only recently dragged him into the technological age of mobile phones so God help him if Billy thought he understood what he saw on the screen. That’s why he employed men like Billy. But sometimes, a man had to go with his gut feeling, and he knew this was one of those times.

Waves as high as a double-decker bus crashed against the bow and Howser struggled to keep the boat on course. After months of finding no fish, he wasn’t going to let a little bad weather stop him landing the biggest haul the villagers back home in Mulberry would have seen in years. Sea-spray gushed in through the open window, but Howser paid it little attention.

He cast another glance at the sonar device used to track shoals of fish. When he was a lad they relied on instinct, but then there had been plenty of fish. Nowadays, they needed every bit of newfangled kit they could get, but it wasn’t cheap. Howser was in debt up to the top of the mast above his head, and the banks were closing in like sharks.

That’s why this haul was so important. He had to get those nets out, now.

Howser rang the alarm bell three times to alert the deck crew he was going to shoot the nets.

“Okay Billy, let the nets out,” he said, leaving Billy to work the winches from the control position in the aft starboard corner of the wheelhouse.

The motors whined as the net descended into the icy depths, and Howser slowed the boat to two knots to compensate for the drag. Weighted with heavy metal rollers on the bottom, the trawler would drag the enormous nets over the seabed, smashing and crushing everything in its path. An indiscriminate form of fishing, Greenpeace were fighting to have bottom trawling outlawed because much of what they caught was useless and thrown back overboard dead or dying. Howser swore that if he ever came across one of their vessels, he would ram the blasted thing. Didn’t those bleeding hearts realise this was his livelihood.

“We should get a better indication about what it is from the net recorder now that the nets in the water,” Billy said as he stared at the monitors.

Howser nodded. He knew the basics of what the equipment did, and the net recorder worked alongside the colour echo sounder to give specific information on the net and the fish moving into it. Experienced skippers could tell not only how much fish, but also what kind they were catching. Again, Howser left that to the likes of Billy. All he wanted to know was when to haul it aboard.

“So what we looking at?” Howser asked.

Billy frowned and pressed a couple of buttons. He shook his head. “I haven’t got a clue.”

“Then what the blazes do I pay you for?”

Before Billy could answer, a huge wave swept over the bow, knocking one of the men on deck off his feet.

“YOU OKAY, JOHNSON?” Howser shouted out the window.

The man on deck regained his feet and gave a thumb up.

The boat suddenly lurched in the water. Through experience, Howser knew the net had caught on something. He ground his teeth. This was all he needed. The hydraulic clutch to the winches whined.

The wheelhouse door opened with a clatter and Johnson stepped into the room, his body moving in time to the waves, in tune with the sea.

“Skipper, we’ve got a problem. The starboard trawl wire’s leading across the after deck to port and the spare nets blocking the freeing ports, so we’re taking on water fast.”

Howser was about to respond when the vessel lurched to port. He gripped the wheel as tight as he could.

Wave after wave crashed over the boat. Seawater flooded into the engine-room through the ventilation trunk, and moments later, they lost main electrical power, and with it, the hydraulic power to the winches. Through the spray-spattered window, Howser saw Skipp trying to release the winch brake by hand, but the load on the snagged trawl wires remained locked on.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Howser felt calm. He clenched his teeth. “Johnson, see if you can help Dawson in the engine room. Billy, go and help Skipp free the trawl wire.”

A large wave hit the boat and Johnson stumbled back, waving his arms in a futile attempt to grab something that might save his fall.

Another wave rolled across the boat, smashing down like a giant fist. Through the spray, Howser saw Skipp on the deck, but there was someone beside him. With poor visibility through the windscreen, Howser leaned his head precariously through the open window, squinting to see through the spray that buffeted his face. The figure beside Skipp looked unlike any of Howser’s crew. Too short for one. He frowned.

“SKIPP,” he roared. “Who’s that with you?”

Despite the banshee roar of the wind, Skipp must have heard because he turned. The look on his face turned to one of abject terror, and even above the roar of the wind, Howser heard Skipp scream as though he were in the wheelhouse, standing right next to him.

Next minute, the figure beside Skipp lunged, raking out an arm that trailed a ribbon of blood in its wake as it slashed the deckhand’s neck.

Howser gagged. What the hell was going on out there?

In his fright, Howser let go of the wheel, allowing it to spin like something possessed and the hull of the boat squealed as the sea seemed to contract against it.

Regaining his composure, Howser reached out to grab the wheel and the boat suddenly listed violently to port. The vessel seemed to teeter on its side for a moment, then it rolled over like a dog offering its hull to the malevolent Gods to scratch. Unsecured equipment rained down onto the ceiling. Strapped into the chair, Howser felt the blood rush to his head. The vessel’s lights illuminated the turbulent sea, highlighting Skipp’s face as it smashed against the glass. Scraps of skin flapped on the deckhand’s cheeks like grotesque gills.

What the blazes had happened out there?

Next minute something sleek and black snatched Skipp’s body away. Howser stared aghast at the swirl of water beyond the glass.

He reached up to undo the harness that secured him to the chair, when the glass around the wheelhouse shattered and gallons of water gushed in.

And with the water came something else. Something that moved with ease through the swirling current.

The force of the water gushing through the broken windows pressed Howser into his chair. He took a deep breath; felt as though he was in a washing machine filled with glass shards that sliced his flesh. He tried to move, but the force of water pinned him more securely than shackles.

Something swam past his face, something that danced in the turbulent currents. Too afraid to close his eyes, he stared through the stinging water. Blood from cuts on his face swirled around his head, hampering visibility. His lungs felt about to burst. He needed to undo the harness and swim to the surface. No way was this captain going down with his boat.

With a last desperate attempt to move, he managed to raise his right hand and grab the buckle, but then the last of his breath gushed out in a gargled scream of absolute terror as the thing that had entered the wheelhouse swam into view.

He gagged and saltwater filled his lungs, but death didn’t come quick enough to relieve him from the horror of the creature closing in for the kill.

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