The Serophim Breach (The Serophim Breach Series) (8 page)

“Sarah!”

Moving without thinking, Sarah scrambled up the stairs on all fours, mouth gaping, sobbing for air, tears spilling down her face. Behind her, Lani screamed again, pinned down. Sarah heard her friend’s legs flailing against the floor and wall as the crazed man attacked her, but she could do nothing to make herself turn back. The image of the man’s face wiped everything from her mind but the command to run. Turning the corner into her room, she scrambled into her closet and pulled the door closed behind her quietly, huddling against the back wall. She stuffed her fingers into her ears and tried not to hear.

Paul pulled hard against the water once and duck dived into the smooth side of the wave. The surge tugged along his body, and he grinned as he broke the surface. Jones sat on his board ten feet away, his ruined Mohawk dripping saltwater on his face. Sitting up on his board, Paul faced the beach to watch a wave roll over the swimmers closer to shore, then spread out languidly against the slope of the sand.

“You get up yet?” he asked, turning to his friend.

Frowning, Jones leaned forward and popped the front of his board out of the water, caressing it.

“It’s early. We’ve barely gotten to know each other,” he said, and shook a fist at the waves. “I miss my longboard.”

Paul chuckled, remembering the scene as Jones dragged the two halves of his board out of the surf three days earlier. He looked like a kid who had licked his ice cream right off the cone. Greg and Boomer had goaded him into trying a shorter board like the rest of them, but Jones was clearly less than comfortable with his new purchase.

“Hey, guys!” Paul heard Derrick’s voice, muffled by the wind and water, and twisted to find him. He was floating several yards away, facing the beach, his eyes squinted and his chin jutting forward. Bringing a hand up to shield the sun off his face, he pointed toward the shore. Paul waited for the swell to roll beneath him, and as he rose with the wave, he caught a short glimpse of the beach.

Greg stood in the shallow water, waving his arms in sweeping arcs through the air. He was shouting, but the steady wind and sound of waves covered his words. Behind him, Boomer was dragging himself down the beach. It looked like he was yelling too. Greg glanced over his shoulder, then began frantically waving for them to come in as Paul sank down the back side of the wave.

Derrick cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Did you see that?”

Nodding, Paul stretched his neck up to see over the line of the swell rolling toward the shoreline. Higher up the beach, a few small groups of people all stood looking in Greg’s direction, but his friends were still obscured.

“Jonesy! We gotta head in!” he shouted over his shoulder. Behind him, Jones was paddling toward an approaching set. He pulled up short and sat back up on his board.

“What?”

“I think Boomer’s real sick,” Paul called back. Turning back to the beach, he saw Greg was helping Boomer stand and still shouting for his friends. He hoisted Boomer up and slung his arms over his shoulders.

Jones cursed under his breath. “Let him sleep it off in the car,” he said.

Frowning, Paul said, “I don’t think he’s hungover, man. Greg looks pretty freaked.”

“God dammit, man. I’m gonna punch that guy square in the chode,” Jones grumbled. With a heavy sigh, he flopped down on his board again and started paddling toward the beach. Derrick caught a wave, popping up easily on his board. He hooted as he passed Paul and Jones, cutting right, then left.

Paul pulled up out of habit, letting Derrick take the wave; Jones showed no such courtesy, paddling into the wave as well and shooting toward the beach still lying on his board. As the wave rolled on, Greg and Boomer came into view again. Boomer still had his arms around Greg’s neck, but now they were locked in some sort of strange embrace. Suddenly, Paul realized they were struggling violently with one another. Greg stumbled forward onto his knees just as Boomer lashed out a vicious kick at his face, then tackled him to the sand. People on the beach stood up to observe cautiously; a couple of guys jogged toward them, bodies tensed. Finally, Paul saw Jones striding through waist-deep water and shouting at his friends, gesturing wildly. Greg rolled on the sand, his hands over his face, and Boomer pounced on him.

The final wave of the set approached, and Paul rode it in on his belly, watching the shore. Jones had reached Greg, but was now backing up the beach, hands stretched out in front of him as Boomer stalked up the gentle slope toward him. Still lying on the ground, Greg was writhing in pain; brief snatches of his cries flitted by on the wind. Another of the beachgoers had reached him and looked to be trying to help, pressing a towel down on a bleeding gash. Farther down the beach, the other tourists were all standing to see what was going on.

Closer to the beach now, Paul caught snatches of wild, incoherent shouts that he thought might have been coming from Boomer. A man in purple board shorts jogged over to stand near Jones, holding a palm up to Boomer as well. His wide chest and thick arms were corded with muscle, and a heavy brow shadowed his eyes. Under normal circumstances, Boomer would have turned aside. Today, he continued forward at the same measured pace, shoulders hunched, weaving slightly from side to side like some kind of primate.

“Guys!” Paul shouted. His arms chafed against the board as he dug into the water hard. Twenty feet in front of him, Derrick splashed out of the surf and ran toward Boomer, just as Greg stumbled to his feet. He looked a little shaky and still had his palms covering most of his face, but Paul was relieved to see him standing. Without thinking, he slid off his board and was surprised when the water came up to his shoulders. Keeping his palms on his board, he pushed through the surf toward the beach. The details were getting clearer as he approached; now he saw that Greg was bleeding from wounds on his face, neck, and arms, but he was also moving quickly to help subdue Boomer.

Then, an eerie wail rose up, blending with the insistent cries of the gulls; a few of the tourists put a little more distance between themselves and the melee. Greg was still sprinting up the beach. He collided with Derrick only a few feet behind Boomer.

Derrick shouted, “Knock it off!” as he shoved Greg away. His wounded friend snarled and leaped for him again, throwing him to the ground. Jones was still yelling at Boomer, frantically now, and backing away up the beach. The soft sand beneath his feet gave way, and he slipped, tumbling to the ground. In an instant Boomer was on him, but the man in the purple board shorts ran forward and hefted him up, striking him in the face. Boomer was knocked to the ground with such force that Paul winced, but he was back on his feet almost immediately, grappling with the man in the board shorts.

“Guys! What the hell are you doing?” Paul screamed over the surf. He looked frantically for Jones and found him curled in a ball only five feet from where Boomer began savagely attacking the man in the purple board shorts. People on the beach looked confused, unsure whether to approach or run away. Many were gathering up their things or shouting for friends to get out of the water. Several stood near the parking lot on their cell phones, looking horrified; movements of confusion and fear rippled down the beach.

Paul was in knee-deep water when Greg appeared at the water’s edge in front of him.

“Greg! You okay?” he called out. The look on his friend’s face stopped his feet.

Greg paced in the shallows, muttering to himself. Blood pulsed out of a gash on his right arm, turning the froth at his feet pink. Eyes locked on Paul, he snapped his teeth and took a step deeper into the water. When a scream came from the beach, Greg’s mouth wrenched open, and he screeched in some kind of terrifying, primal answer. A shudder ran through his body, and an ugly grin spread across his face.

Paul kept his eyes on Greg, who was prowling deeper into the water with every turn, his eyes still locked on Paul. He was close enough for Paul to see that his pupils were blown out and the gash on his arm was only one of many bite marks.

Paul shouted, “Greg! We need to call nine-one-one!”

His friend slowed his pacing, his body shaking with cold or shock. It wasn’t until he thought he heard Greg laugh that Paul took a few slow steps back into deeper water. His board bumped against his calves as the surf rolled in, and Greg inched closer. Paul continued to back away slowly, and let his eyes focus on the beach behind his friend.

He could no longer see Boomer, Jones, or Derrick. Neither could he understand what was happening: bodies moved in every direction. Several people struggled to pull a larger man off someone cowering on the asphalt. The air was filled with screams, shouts for help, growls, and vicious snarling. A woman shouted for someone named Scott to call 911. Still working his way back into the water, Paul was disoriented by the thought that he could see the violence as it pulsed down the shoreline, toward Waikiki.

He was still distracted when Greg lunged, leaping forward, clawing the air, swiping at Paul’s face with a hideous snarl. Ducking backward, he stumbled over his board and fell to his knees in the water. Greg thrashed behind him, pulling himself into deeper water with handfuls of water and sand. He jabbered insanely at Paul, screaming and gnashing his teeth.

Frantically, Paul thrashed through the water, dragging his board behind him. Greg launched himself from his knees again and latched on to the edge of the board. The force yanked Paul’s feet out from under him, and he slammed face-first into the water. As he struggled for the surface, the cord yanked against his ankle again and again. Another wave washed over him, pushing him back toward the beach—and Greg—as he tried desperately to regain his footing.

He popped up gasping for air, face-to-face with Greg. Paul’s shout was garbled by a mouthful of seawater, and he pushed himself backward just as Greg swung an elbow at his face. He flipped over onto his stomach and swam as hard as he could, hoping he could wrest the board away and escape into deeper water. He dug deep, keeping his face buried in the surf until he felt that his lungs would pop. Greg’s weight still tugged on his ankle strap, yanking violently against the rhythm of his strokes. Taking a quick breath, he threw the last of his energy into a frantic burst of movement. Finally, the weight on his ankle broke free, and he shot forward through the water. Surfacing, he turned to look for his friend.

They had already been in chest-deep water when he started swimming, and his panic had pulled them to the point where he could just barely skim the sand with his toes. Behind him, Greg’s head stuck out of the water; he was coughing and sputtering as he flailed against the surf, trying to turn himself around to face the beach. His eyes were wide, unblinking, like a child in the deep end of a pool for the first time. Paul pulled his board to him and loosed the ankle strap.

“Grab on!” he shouted, and shoved his board toward his struggling friend. But Greg’s eyes remained focused on him; they never even acknowledged the surfboard that floated only a few feet from him.

Greg was still thrashing in the water when Paul felt the gentle suction of a gathering swell. The roar built behind him as it broke, but he kept his eyes on his friend until it slammed into the back of his head. He kicked against the current, trying to make sure he maintained a safe distance from Greg. When the wave passed, he surfaced quickly to get his bearings and wait for his crazed friend to emerge. As he waited, he felt a knot tighten in his stomach; too much time had passed. After another minute, he hauled himself up on his board and called out for his friend a few times, still scanning the water.

Finally, he tore his eyes away and looked up toward the beach to find it strangely quieter. Bodies were strewn on the sand, blood puddling in the divots around them. A number of people were still up, staggering around; two or three raced down the beach toward pockets of violence that Paul could barely make out. The man in the purple board shorts was on his feet, stumbling along the shoreline, screaming at the sky. A woman stood far away from the water with her hands on her head, looking dazed and helpless. The current swept Paul’s board closer to the beach, bringing all the grisly details into sharper focus. He shuddered and closed his eyes as a cold gust blew across the water, whipping up spray. On the beach, one of the wounded let out a barking cry, which was answered by several others, and a feeling of terror clamped down over the knot in his gut.

He scanned the beach, looking for his friends, and he could not decide if it was a relief that he could not find them among the too-still bodies. Looking farther down the coast, he could see that whatever madness had happened in front of him was moving quickly away; no more than fifteen people remained staggering around the sand, but they moved with the same terrifying motions as he had seen Greg using. And then he knew: he could not make it to the truck while the beach was occupied, at least while the sun was still up. Unable to do anything but wait for darkness, Paul vaguely hoped someone had called the police. Lying flat on his board, he waited for the welcome sound of sirens.

~

Brandon’s body was numb except for the horrific pain at the places where Trent’s teeth had pulled his skin away. He couldn’t tell if his own eyes were open or closed; all he saw was red. The asphalt grit chafed his skin as he pulled his knees to his chest, and he knew he was still lying on the street. Over his own ragged breath, he heard another voice panting, “Shit. Shit. Oh God. He’s dead. Shit.”

Brandon’s pulse beat harder in his temples as he thought,
Is that me? Am I dead?
A moan slipped through his lips, and a sudden pressure seized his arm.

“Brandon?” It was Kai’s voice, but Brandon still could not see anything but the red. “Brandon? I’m calling nine-one-one; just hang on.”

It was not unconsciousness that took over, because the world did not go dark or quiet. The sound of his blood rushing through his body beat louder in his ears, and the light that streamed through his eyelids or the blood in his eyes bit mercilessly into his brain. For a moment he could not think, he had no memories or words, and the pain throbbed out from the wound on his neck and forehead, pulsed out into his face and chest like poison spreading, but he was too disoriented by a suddenly unfamiliar body to care. There was nothing left of Brandon to be afraid of the overwhelming fury that burst to life in his head and coursed down into every limb; the body around him shook and contorted, but he had lost his mind and could not grasp what was happening.