Shark Beast 2: Paranormal Sharkitivity Page 7

  Something's wrong.

  ~ ~ ~

  Consider this as she picks up the phone.

  She is still naked, except for that towel, which seems to be bunching in all the wrong areas, so -- whatever! -- she takes it off, lets it droop damply over the cool water droplets chilling her shoulder. It is very dark in her bungalow bedroom, and she gropes blindly for the little smiley-face lamp that she knows is somewhere on her night stand with one hand, as the cell phone slips and wriggles from the soapy grip of the other.

  She sneezes -- probably from being so wet, and the air conditioner, being so dependable (though it did seem to be making an unusual thump-sound, of some sort -- whatever! piece of junk) -- another sneeze! Towel hits the floor. Why not? Chills, come get me, I'm yours! She thinks about turning the air conditioner even higher, just to spite herself -- why not! She gives it a thump -- it seems to thump back --

  Yet another sneeze!

  Why not!

  Bring it on!

  Stupid night beach air!

  She lets slip a particularly vulgar phrase -- twice! -- and then chases that with a shivery squeal of irritation that is the sole domain of Annoyed Pretty Girls, and finally, after much soapy-slick juggling: lights are lit, sighs are abandoned, phones are, finally, answered.

  ~ ~ ~

  A voice on the other end --

  And instantly the pretty girl's defenses slip a notch, then two -- it is her girlfriend (and fellow co-waitress/actress) from Seaside Coffey's Coffee Sea Stop (catchy, no?) (no); from Tae Kwon Do class; from a number of dubiously arranged Double Dates From The Past. The defenses don't disappear completely because the Girlfriend's Voice is addled by a slippery nervous tone of her own, a tone that radiates I-Know-This-Is-Going-To-Sound-Silly-But ...

  Moments later, our pretty girl is smiling. Turns out -- imagine this -- Tae Kwon Girlfriend is trapped in her car, in the bowels of her apartment garage, and she's seen a shadow, heard a sound, one, the other, or both, and is now afraid to make the dash through the concrete shadows to the apartment elevator. Do you mind talking to me over my cell until someone I know drives in? I see some empty parking spaces, so I know someone will be along soon, I promise ...

  The smile deepens. This is so her, this girlfriend, this situation. The Original Drama Queen. Sure, our Pretty Girl answers: I'll talk with you.

  Imagine: She's on the bed now. Her pretty body warmed only by the frantic wattage of a small nightstand Seventies-novelty lamp. She's talking, trading stories, boy stories, date stories. He did what? she squeals with surprise. Right there at the concert? No way! Then it's her turn: Well, my night was better, I must say, definitely. My guy at least waited until we got home before he pulled his out! More squeals; then, she turns coy: I don't want to say, she coos. I'm not supposed, you know, it's supposed to be a secret. Playful now: No, no details. Struggling to be discreet, but it's a battle you can tell she wants to lose: No, I want to, but I can't. I promised. I prom-iiis-ed. No, no, I...well, I --

  She wants to say something, something very badly -- but --

  Well... she promised.

  A half-a-frown pinches into her cheek.

  Her eyes dart to the left; to the right; and, with a sigh, up, up, up into the shadows of her ceiling.

  There follows this: a not-too-convincing hesitation.

  Then: All right, but you have to absolutely vow not to tell anyone, and I mean anyone ...

  She starts off slow, her bottom lip enduring a doubtful nibble: she knows she shouldn't be talking about this, she knows it just as well as she knows she's going to talk about it anyway. But she feels a little obligation to dance around the subject a bit, not to do what she'd rather: just plunge right in. That at least paints the illusion in her mind: I tried. She pried it out of me.

  But slowly, oh-so-inevitably, it comes out. After some vague scene-setting (we met at this pizza place, I can't say where), she zeroes straight in on The Sex (yes, we did it, did it, did it), hoping without much deep belief she can tell the What without revealing the Who. And out it comes: she describes how (as compared to Drama Queen's date) suave he was, how knowing --

  (An older man, Drama Queen deduces! Married, too, I bet!)

  Ignoring her, the pretty girl continues, revealing how gentle his kisses are at first, how searching, how he dance-touches his fingers to the nape of her neck -- oh, imagine this! Even as she speaks, this naked girl on the bed, her free hand roams. Impossible, yet it's happening, there on the bed, there in the deep shadows of the night. She notices, and is delightfully appalled: phone sex, with my Tae Kwon Girlfriend, here, now?

  Outrageousness--!

  She can't help laughing out loud, into the phone. Drama Queen, one imagines, asks what's so funny, but apparently doesn't really care. Get back to the story, what happened, and you know you're going to tell me who --

  The pretty girl's face flushes slightly, then blanches, then notices the air conditioner making a funny sound (whatever! I'm in the middle of girl gossip!)--

  And then, his kisses took hold, and he explored the inside of my mouth, and she giggles at this point, at the words: the inside of my mouth, but she continues. As does her hand; one has no trouble imagining that. And so she goes, softly tracing delightful images on the sugary cobwebs of her memory.

  And he slipped his hand slowly up my thigh, carefully, uh, very sensuously (it is important to her that she differentiate quite clearly her Lover's Moves from the inept maulings of Drama Queen's date) and he touched me, touched me softly with a gentle caress that circled in slowly, getting closer and closer, and finally, he touched me right--

  Eyes grow hazy at this point, voices slip slightly into the distance. Her words tumble carelessly, becoming airless tumbleweeds of reflection, and -- imagine this -- she replays the events of the earlier evening, before the phone call, before the shower, replays them here, naked, in her mind, on her bed, over her phone.

  ... gently, tickling with feathery fingertips, all the while kissing me totally, completely. It seemed to take forever... Her voice wells up in a simmering tremble, like the frothy, onrushing wave of sparkling ocean waters. She can't believe she says next what she says next, but she does, she does:

  But he waited, he didn't just ... go for it. More touching, more caressing, like he was building up to it, saving it for last. Then he lifted my blouse up -- without unbuttoning it -- and he, uh, you know, while the shirt was over my head, while I couldn't see. It was the most, the best ... and then, we were both, he took off all of our clothes, piece by piece, always kissing me, always with, uh, kissed me with firm, dangerous lips, and I could feel him, the touch of him, pressing against, uh, and then, with a sudden open-mouth kiss, he... he... and it was so, it was so, it was sooo --

  And she tries to describe the indescribable, express the inexpressible, and fails by miles.

  But both girls know. They know perfectly.

  Imagine the silence at this point.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was delectably wicked, indisputably perverted, and nothing -- if you believe the waxy look of innocence on her face -- like her at all.

  A thin glaze of a daze still sheens across her eyes as she half-heartedly protests: no, no, I've said too much, I can't say who it --

  And then, as if affronted by smelling salts, she blinks harshly as she cuts her words off with a throaty chop.

  Drama Queen, deep in her garage, has heard something.

  Are you sure you --? but our Pretty Girl is cut off again.

  Her eyes are alive and blazing now. A shameful smile hooks her lip. Something's happening. Even though she would not wish badness on anyone -- let alone a semi-best friend -- she can't stop that I'm-watching-a-horror-movie thrill goosefleshing across her towel-less body. It is the impotent, shuddering delirium -- the full-blown bone-chilling wow! oh no! -- of a person who can't do anything to help, can only watch -- or in this case: can only listen. And, pulling her knees up underneath her, sitting up in an expectant crouch as she cradles that phone with b
oth hands securely to her ear -- even as she notices -- just barely -- whatever -- the air conditioner has shut itself off, oddly -- anyway! -- that's exactly what she does.

  She listens.

  ~ ~ ~

  Imagine now: the girl in the garage.

  Wide-eyed, pupils engorged, whites the color and shape of freshly-laid eggs. Breath scorching and icy at the same time, cutting like razors against the dull O-shape of her lips. Heart, pounding against her ribs like the stony fist of a boxer bludgeoning his way across the canvas. Cell phone in knuckle-whitened hand. Staring out into the willowy shadows of this cement dungeon, this girl -- this drama princess -- our girl's mostly-best friend -- not thinking for a minute to hang up and call 911.

  Hers is the face of Bambi watching her mother die, as a shadow darts sharply to the left. She tries to say something into the phone -- her bulging eyes glisten with ineffectual tears, she wants to speak so badly -- but her lips will not close, will not loosen their grip on that O. Spoilt cherries foul the insides of her mouth.

  All she can think of are the stories, of those beach people, those teenagers -- didn't something awful happen near here? Was it ever solved--? And how, who, what --

  And the shadow moves again.

  Her heart splits like rotten fruit in her chest, and bright grey dots speckle her vision. She wants to scream, but she can't swallow, can't even enjoy a final breath. In her mind loom tall stone columns that are giant garish letters, and the words they spell are these:

  I AM GOING TO DIE.

  And they stand there, like ancient ruins that refuse to crumble, patiently waiting to serve as the tombstones they were created to be.

  I AM GOING TO DIE.

  She tries to push those words out of her mind, to banish them, but they are huge, monolithic: they are going nowhere. And there is no room left for other words or thoughts; just the airy woosh as sheets of panic push themselves between the stone towers of doom.

  I AM GOING TO DIE.

  If our Pretty Bungalow Girl is saying anything over the line, offering words of confusion or comfort, they aren't being registered in any room here at the Drama Queen Hotel. The shadows are dancing outside her car window, jerking and twisting in a manner that is just not natural --

  And then, that's when Drama Queen sees the cat.

  (wha)

  (no--!)

  (yes!)

  (Yes yes YES)

  (it was only a --

  (garage kitty!)

  (O YES)

  Imagine! It was only a cat, standing in front of what, headlights? Emergency lights? Maybe the cat itself was glowing, casting off its own shadows, who knew! Who cared! It was a cat! Oh how those stone tombstones came a-tumbling! Pow, gone just like that, bursting into warm and friendly circles of drama queen fairy dust. How silly she was, how funny, wait until she can catch her breath and tell our girl, our bungalow baby, it was only a cat, only --

  And that's when Drama Queen felt an explosion, a icy-whiteness piercing through her ear. Something grabs her heart, gives it a frightful tweak.

  A scream.

  Loud and desperate, a spiraling squeal one imagines only in nightmares and empty car garages.

  Startled, her hand fumbles, her throat catches, she drops her phone. Drama Queen blinks, tilts her head, puzzled. Several combination locks click in her brain, slowly. A scream ...?

  From the cell phone?

  She picks up the phone, intending to give pretty girl a piece of whatever mind Drama Queen has left after the shadows, the cat, and now this not-at-all-funny joke. Some friend! Yes, she has words, and she's going to give her ex-Tae Kwon Do partner more than an earful.

  She picks up the phone.

  And there is only this:

  Absolutely nothing.

  ~ ~ ~

  Imagine one last thing:

  Our girl, our bungalow beauty, on pretty hands and pretty knees, clutching her chest crudely, groping it, one assumes, in the manner her man had earlier that evening. Sweat and kisses then; now, there is only blood, arcing solidly through futile fingers, in liquid red ropes, to the forlorn pulse of her withering heartbeat.

  The air conditioner has fallen, shattering the window frame and splintering the supports, glass spilling like diamonds, everywhere, into the room. Something was on the other side, something that rode the air conditioner to the floor, then --

  Sprouted ... tentacles?

  She crawls, she bleeds, she tries to scream, like she did before, but: nothing. Just stringy puffs of spittle, and, yes, there is blood there too. It's everywhere, even in the dots that curdle her vision. Those dots, they are blood-veined, purple bruise colored amoebas, splitting, multiplying with every blink, with every spasm of her wounded heart muscle. Her left arm stiffens, tremors, and when she moves it to steady a fall, her pinky twists and snap! Breaks just like that. It is the least of her troubles at this point, sad to say, the most innocuous of her injuries, but that's the one she can't shake out of her mind. Maybe it's a crutch, focusing on that warped, fractured little digit; whatever, those are the words her stone tombstones form:

  I BROKE MY LITTLE FINGER

  I BROKE MY LITTLE FINGER

  I BROKE --

  She feels the attack from behind, hears the bone chip inside her as the

  (knife? icepick? fangs? she'll never know)

  stabs, and stabs again. Her body goes wow, and images blur in the blood-tinted prisms of her tears. I used to be so pretty, so pretty, so pretty, so so SOSOS --

  (goo-o-nnng)

  And there goes the arm, and she tilts forward with an awkward careening grace. When her face hits the floor, it ... hits ... hard -- her nose breaks, her jaw fractures, two teeth chip, and her neck wrenches with a grisly pop-pop-crack sound.

  But all she can think:

  I broke my little finger.

  She doesn't feel much of the rest of it.

  And then, eventually, she feels nothing at all.

  ~ ~ ~

  Imagine that.

  Tentacle SEVEN

  Trainwreck Sadie

  "She's coming! She's agreed to do the movie!"

  "Who?"

  "You'll never believe it."

  "Something tells me I will."

  "You won't."

  "I might if you tell me."

  Jake the Producer stood there, on the beach house back porch -- very enthused. This made Mike very nervous. J the P never got enthused -- let alone very enthused -- about anything that didn't involve perturbed digital birds or end up causing mountains of trouble.

  "Hollywood Outcast, America's Trainwreck ... Sadie Sienna! She's agreed to be in our film! They just let her out of rehab!"

  "I don't believe you."

  "I told you you wouldn't!"

  "You did, and you were right."

  "And it's sooo true! I told you! It's great! Think of all the publicity!"

  "Wait -- you're telling the truth?"

  "Yes! I just said I was!"

  "Sadie Sienna -- here? In our piece of crap movie?"

  "I totally told you you wouldn't believe me! Why don't you ever believe me when I tell you you won't believe me! Because, believe me, it's happening!"

  "Sadie Sienna? The Sadie Sienna?"

  "How many Sadie Siennas do you want? Because we got one -- and she's the real deal! Enthused? I sure am enthused! Very enthused."

  "I think I'm going to be too busy trying to keep her sober enough to stand up in front of the camera."

  "Hey, with a bod like hers, who wants to film her standing up."

  "Isn't that one of the things that got her in trouble in the first place?"

  "Oh, c'mon, every starlet has a sex tape these days. It's more embarrassing not to."

  Jake the P started doing his "happy dance." Which was never a pretty sight. "You know what's going to be really embarrassing?" Mike said, sitting in his comfy director's chair-slash-beach-foldout, trying to avert his eyes. "When she steals our camera and pawns it off for another tattoo."

 
"Oh, huh. She totally had that charge reduced to petty felony. Or whatever. Besides, shoplifting's barely a crime anymore. It's chic. Holly Go-whatever did it, and they made a movie about her."

  Mike sighed: not going to even bother touching that bit of logic. "So how did this all happen, anyway? I thought all the movie bond companies said she was uninsurable."

  "That would be a huge problem -- if any of our movies ever had insurance. Mikey, m'man, don't fight it -- we've got ourselves a bonafide disgraced movie star, and you get to direct her."

  "As what?"

  "Didn't you read one of the latest scripts I e-mailed you? She's going to play the wife."

  "What wife?"

  "Hmm?"

  "The wife of who?"

  "The wife in the 'Paranormal Sharktivity' part of the movie. You know, the part that takes place inside the beach house, where the couple move in, not knowing there's a shark ghost or beast spirit or whatever is in the house."

  "Or, it's a shark ghost now? Are you sure you want to go in that direction? Sounds like it actually almost has absolutely nothing to do with the movie we started out making."

  "Look, it's simple -- half the film is all shark attacks and bikinis in the surf. The other half takes place in the bedroom of the beach house. With one surveillance camera filming the couple sleeping and the occasional spooky unexplainable occurrence. Whatever they did in that 'Blair Witch-anormal Activity' thing. We'll save tons on our budget, and have two movies in one! It's win-win."