Lies (Gone 3)

The fire had spread and now seemed to cover half the town, although there were no new explosions. The smoke had reached them out at sea. Quinn’s eyes stung. His heart was in his throat.

Not another

massacre, not another atrocity. Enough! He just wanted to fish.

The rowers were silenced by the awful spectacle of their homes burning.

They reached the first of the piers and saw a group of kids staggering onto it, no doubt panicked kids running away, thinking the marina would be safe.

Quinn called out to them.

No answer.

His boat touched the bumper that sloshed in the water. His moves were automatic from long practice. He tossed a rope loop over the piling and pulled his boat closer. Oars were shipped. Big Goof jumped onto the pier and secured the second line.

The staggering gaggle of kids on shore ignored them and kept moving. They moved strangely. Like frail old people.

Something strange about them…

And familiar.

The dawn was still an hour away. The only light was from the fire. The false stars were blotted by the pall of smoke.

Quinn jumped onto the pier.

“Hey there! Hey!” he yelled. Quinn was responsible for the boats. The marina was his.

The kids kept moving, like they were deaf. They headed down a parallel pier toward the two boats that were kept fueled for rescues: a bass boat and an inflatable Zodiac.

“Hey!” Quinn yelled.

The foremost of the kids turned to face him. They were separated by fifty feet of water, but even in the faint fire glow Quinn recognized the shape of shoulders and head.

And he recognized the voice.

“Penny,” Caine said. “Keep our friend Quinn busy.”

From the water a monster erupted in a tremendous geyser.

Quinn bellowed in terror.

The monster rose, taller and taller. It had a head like a tortured, deformed elephant. Two black, dead eyes. Curved teeth. The jaw gaped open to reveal a long, pointed tongue.

It roared then, a sound like a hundred massive cellos played with garbage cans for bows. Hollow. Tortured.

Quinn fell back. He fell from the pier. His back hit the edge of his boat. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs and he fell head-down into the water.

Panicked, he breathed. Salt water filled his throat. He gagged and coughed and strained with all his might not to breathe again.

Quinn knew the water. He’d been a good surfer and a very good swimmer. This was not his first experience of being upside down and turned around underwater.

He grabbed onto his fear and kicked hard to bring himself around. The surface, the barrier between water and air, death and life, was ten feet up. One foot kicked dirt. The water was not deep here.

He began to rise.

But the monster was reaching beneath the pier. Insanely long arms, with impossible clawlike hands.

The arms reached for him and he backpedaled away. Panicky, kicking, pushing at the water, lungs burning.