Horror Business (11 page)

“You and your little lady friend go out and have a good time.” He adjusts the waist on his pants and scratches his stubble. “Listen,” he says, speaking quietly and leaning in close. “You can bring her around. I don’t care. I’ll give you some privacy. And let me know if you need any protection. You know.” He makes a ring with his thumb and index finger and puts another finger through it. “Just want you to be safe.”

I shudder and mumble some sort of thanks before walking past him.

“Please let me know if you’re going to be out late.”

“Sure Dad.”

“And Jason.”

“What?” It sounds snappier than I intend.

“That dog of yours—he doesn’t look right. I think he needs to go to the vet.”

“I know. Don’t let him in the house.”

***

The aquarium looks like nothing else in Silver Creek. Most buildings stick to more of a rustic décor, but the aquarium looks like it was made in the near future, with glass domes jutting out and smiling dolphins painted on the side. It’s really more of a complex, a plagiarized version of Superman’s Crystal Fortress, but somehow more oppressing. I enter and meet an animatronic, talking octopus. The craftsmanship on the creature is pretty good—the latex arms unfurl as the sea creature welcomes you to its home. The voice of the octopus sounds like someone trying to do a Bela Lugosi impression. It’s a little upsetting. I turn away only to meet a similar, talking clam. The shells are too aggressive when they flap together. I retreat outside and wait for Ally.

Her mom drops her off. I forgot that she probably can’t ride a bike after her accident. I make the friendliest face to her mom that I can muster. She gives me a disapproving look from inside the car and says something to Ally. They both look annoyed. After one more hostile look in my direction, she lets Ally go and drives off.

I can’t even pretend to hide my happiness at seeing her.

“Hope you haven’t been waiting long.” She gives me a hug. Any awkwardness that could exist from the other night in the graveyard disappears with that embrace. Even with an injured arm, she squeezes hard.

“It hasn’t been too long.” I pause and look behind me at the entrance and gesture to the sea monsters. “I didn’t want to wait with them.”

“Oh yeah?” she says. “Well, don’t worry. I’m sure we can fight them off together.”

“If you say so.” Somewhere in the parking lot, a child screams, which is immediately cut off by the sound of a car door slamming shut.

We enter the aquarium fortress holding hands.

***

We get by the electronic animals without any hassle, and they seem more comical now that Ally’s with me. It makes me feel very childish. They seemed so scary when I was alone.

It doesn’t take very long for the quality of our town’s aquarium to amaze me. The vast amount of sea life is breathtaking. Ally and I wander through the tropical fish area, which is arranged in a massive water-maze: the walls are actual, clear tanks that extend from the floor to the ceiling. There aren’t plaques specifying species or anything, just one big ocean world where the multi-colored fish swim in and out of the protruding walls. The speakers run ambient music and muffled underwater noises to compliment the overall ethereal quality. Every now and then, a soothing woman’s voice comes over the music and talks about the species swimming along the walls. She has a British accent. I ask Ally if British people know more about marine life than Americans. She says, “Yeah they probably do.”

I watch kids run behind the protruding glass walls; their images become blurred and distorted. There’s a little kid behind me, blowing on the glass with his lips suctioned to it. I smile at the thought of these kids trapped like fish.

The next room has touch tanks and more kids run around, playing tag and yelling while their parents stand oblivious. Futuristic podiums jut out of the floor, each one supporting a large Petri dish of sea life. I touch a sea anemone. There’s a slight suction and its little arms curl around my finger. On the other side of the room, a wild kid lets out a piercing scream that causes me to jerk my hand back, pulling the anemone out with it. The creature lets go of my finger and drops to the carpet. Ally stifles a giggle. I hurry to put it back in the dish, hoping that it’s not dead.

We walk over to the screaming kid and see that the Petri dish is full of urchins. He’s sucking on his finger, his cheeks vacuumed in for maximum healing effect. He must have poked himself on one of the sharp spikes. I dare Ally to touch one of them.

“Aren’t they venomous?” she asks.

“You think they would let you touch venomous animals?”

Ally points to the
CAUTION
sign and shrugs. “I don’t know. Some people can be evil. It could be a trick.”

“Like some evil genius uses this aquarium as a front to kill people with his deadly urchins?”

“Something like that.”

“Awesome.” I look down at the urchin and decide that it’s actually not such a far-fetched scheme.

“Fine,” Ally says, “I’m going to touch it, but if I die it’s your fault.”

She lowers her hand slowly into the dish, fingers spread and palm-down. While her attention is focused on her hand, I take advantage of the opportunity to look at her body. Barely visible through her sweatshirt, the slight swelling excites my imagination. I almost forget about the urchin. My eyes move up toward her face, but not before noticing the milky-whiteness of her skinny neck poking out of the baggy sweatshirt.
A neck that would be beautiful to strangle,
I think before quickly adding,
in a Dario Argento film.

She looks afraid to take the plunge. The stalling gives me more time to study her. Besides a few acne blemishes, her face is perfect. Her glasses have slid down her nose and I want, with all my being, to push them up for her. I also want to tuck her hair behind her ears, and then kiss her. Maybe I would like to feel her up, moving into a private bathroom where she would wrap her legs around me and I would carry her into a stall, unzipping her hoodie and. …

She yelps. She pulls her hand out of the water and shakes it dry before sticking her finger in her mouth like the kid earlier. She grimaces at the taste. She coughs. She puts her other hand up to her neck and her eyes roll back, white.

“Ally?” I reach out to grab her shoulder, but she falls right on me. I ease her on the floor.

I look around to see if anybody’s watching. One of the kids stares in amazement. “You’re not fooling me.”

Her gagging quickly becomes laughter. “I totally had you.”

“Not for a second,” I say. “I can’t believe I let you be in my movies. “

She gets up and brushes herself off. “Whatever. When your movie wins for best acting in the talent show, you can thank me.”

Before leaving the room, I take one last look behind me just in time to catch the kid, who just moments ago was screaming in pain, reaching back into the Petri dish for another go at the urchins.

The room funnels into a dark hallway. Two more animatronic robots wait for us at the end. I see their eyes. Another child’s scream flies past us, bounces off the far end and echoes back, distorted and alien. I reach for Ally’s pinky with mine, but she forgoes the pinky and takes my hand.

The robots at the end of the hall are supposed to be two bioluminescent anglerfish. They’re posed like guardians to the deep-sea exhibit. Their fins flap with excitement as we move close. Motion activated.

“Welcome,” says one of the robots. His gaping mouth is filled with jagged, plastic teeth and his eyes are milky-dead. At least the octopus’s Romanian voice was somewhat charming; the sound coming out of the angler is purely robotic and droning.

“To the world of deep-sea!” His buddy completes the sentence. We whirl around to face the creature behind us. Fiber optics run through them both, lighting up random parts of their bodies. A protruding branch grows out of each forehead; at the end, there’s an illuminated bulb.
A lure to trap its victims.

His voice is at a higher pitch. It makes him sound slightly manic.

“In this room you’ll learn all about …” Angler One begins.

“… how guys like us see and eat in the pitch black of the deep,” Angler Two finishes.

Something in Angler Two malfunctions; a whirring of gears or something else fails. The voice becomes distorted beyond comprehension. The giant mouth keeps opening and closing, flashing massive chompers. The high-pitched scream of electronics peels out from the dark mouth. Behind us, Angler One tries to give us the necessary information to enjoy the deep-sea room. His eyes seem brighter, excited at his buddy’s malfunctions.

“Let’s just go in,” I say.

Ally laughs at the crazy robot. A smelly, disheveled maintenance guy appears out of nowhere and unplugs the creature.

“Shit. I hate it when they go all coo-coo-bananas.” He bends down to work on the thing, exposing his hairy ass. “You kids better just continue on.” He hocks a wad of snot and swallows it.

The fish’s dead eyes follow me. I push Ally past the robots and into the deep-sea room.

***

Ally notes how scary the fish were when we leave the deep-sea room. Outside, a mother is trying to convince her frightened children to go inside. She gives us a dirty look, knowing that we just set her progress back. Ally sticks her tongue out at the woman, and we run off.

The last room is the shark room. There are no robotic monsters guarding the door, but that doesn’t keep it from being threatening. The doors are industrial black with
SHARK ROOM
written, stenciled-yellow, over them.

“I don’t know, Jason.” Ally seems very serious.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing.” But when my stare persists, she shies away. “I’m afraid.”

“But you weren’t afraid of the deep-sea fish?”

“Those are different. They’ve never made a movie about an anglerfish before.”

“It’s the last room.” This is actually the one room I’m looking forward to seeing, and the idea of missing it irritates me. “You can close your eyes if you want.” I take hold of her hands. “Please?”

She hesitates. “I guess.”

We enter. The room feels pressurized, more oppressing. It feels like entering a funeral home or old folks’ home, or any place where death is imminent. The entire room is half-moon shaped and submerged. There are no windows to let in natural light. The curve is entirely made of glass that looks out in the dark water. Lights in the water give everything a bluish hue. Even Ally’s skin looks like the blue zombie skin from the original
Dawn of the Dead
. Like the first room, muffled music and British narration play through unseen speakers, adding to the claustrophobia.

There is no shark.

The depth of the tank extends farther than I can see.

We sit on one of the cushion islands and listen to the polite narrator.

The bull shark, Carcharhinus leucas, also known as the bull whaler, Zambezi shark or, informally, Zambi in Africa.

Zambi,
I think.
Zambi zombie. Zombie.
I look over at Ally and her blue skin.

“You remember the other night in the graveyard?” she asks.

“What about it?” I think I know what she’s trying to get at. The kiss.

The kiss crosses my mind before the detached finger.

“I’m sorry if I led you on.” She pauses, looks away into the deep. “It was probably the whiskey.” It sounds like she’s pretending to sound mature, like a soap opera, but it still hurts to hear.

“You didn’t mean it?” I follow her gaze and realize that far off, a dark shape moves in circles.

“No, it’s not like that. It’s just, you know. Your brother and everything—all the crazy stuff that’s going on.”

“Brian’s gone,” I say. I mean it to sound hostile.

Bull sharks tolerate fresh water, and will sometimes travel long distances up rivers. As a result, they are responsible for the majority of shark attacks on humans.

Ally does something that I don’t expect: she leans over and kisses me on the mouth. I feel her tongue. I kiss back. I can’t help but feel that this is some way to pacify me, to let me feel like I’ve won.
Were we fighting?

I peek, curious to see if she’s keeping her eyes closed. In my peripheral, the shadow of the shark slides across the length of the wall. I squeeze my eyes shut.

I reach up to cradle her face with my hand but then reconsider halfway. I try my luck in her shirt. I venture with caution, first rubbing the bra-strap under her arm until finally bringing my hand around to her front. Before I have the chance to wonder if this means that we’re together, she stands up and walks out of the room. I remain on the cushion, out of breath. I glance around to see if anyone had walked in—her reason to leave—but there’s nobody here. I look to the shark tank.

The shark is gone.

I stand and move closer to the glass. I lean in on the glass, use my hands to block the peripheral. I scan the entire window. Nothing.

I look down. The shark is there, four feet beneath me.

I jump back.

It’s just floating.

Like other fish, sharks extract oxygen from seawater as it passes over their gills.

The shark rises as if lifted by an invisible string. It stops when we’re face to face. I’m reflected in its dead eyes.

It’s fake, like one of those scary robots. It has to be.

I reach out to touch the glass that separates me and the creature. Those eyes. I think of the videotape, the dog, the finger, and Brock all at once. I put my face close to get a better view.

The shark lunges.

I scream and fall back. Its black eyes roll back, replaced with frightening whites. Its jaws push forward and the teeth break off as they slam into the glass. I cower with every thud.
It saw me making out with Ally. It’s angry. Jealous.
Blood pours out of the shark’s snout—a dark red cloud that makes everything hard to see. Just thrashing, teeth, and blood. The pain doesn’t stop the fish from hitting the glass. A crack forms. The audio playing the woman’s voice keeps repeating
responsible for the majority of shark attacks.
I run the length of the wall to the door, and the shark follows me, leaving a trail of blood, like plane exhaust. When I get to the door, I look behind me and the shark is floating again, docile and nightmarish, watching me retreat with a toothy grin.