And It Arose from the Deepest Black (John Black Book 2) (3 page)

3

We managed to sneak back without being seen again, despite Bobby being so thrilled with himself that I thought he was going to erupt in giggles at any moment. We were so focused on slipping in the back way that I didn’t pay much attention to who was out front. I got inside, gave Bobby a quick salute, shut the door, and headed to bed.

It was the next morning that everything seemed different.

I woke up like any other day, maybe a bit late due to my nighttime adventures. Mom was none the wiser, and even Holly seemed to have no sense that anything had changed. I walked into the kitchen wiping my eyes.

“Morning, John,” Mom said. “Eggs?”

Holly brightened to see me, so I went to her and we tapped our foreheads together.
Sup, Hol?

Sup? Supper? Breakfast time, Johnny.

Sorry, Hol. I meant
What’s up?
When you say it fast, it sounds like
Sup.

Holly furrowed her brow. She didn’t much like it when she wasn’t up to speed on things. But she got over it quickly.

Sup, Johnny!
She smiled and went back to eating her cereal.

I went to the fridge, grabbed the milk, and poured myself a glass, then sat at the table next to my sister. Mom was cooking eggs and sausage. The whole kitchen smelled like heaven. It was Saturday morning, and I had nothing to do but relax. I suspect that if I were a normal kid I wouldn’t have appreciated it as much. But I had survived on the road, faced Sol, then lived in a paparazzi-induced prison. A day to do nothing was amazing.

Mom shuffled back and forth across the kitchen floor, tending to the cooking, rinsing utensils she was finished with, fetching things from the fridge. I wasn’t really paying attention to what she was doing. Until she went silent.

I looked up and saw her staring out the small window by the sink. She didn’t move for a long time, and, based on the smell, I think the food on the stove started to burn. “Mom?” I asked.

She turned back, an urgency in her eyes. “John — come here!” I hurried over and she put an arm around me, pointing out the window with the other hand. “They’re gone!”

And sure enough, not a single car sat on our street. Overnight, we had apparently ceased to be interesting. Without meaning to, Mom and I simultaneously breathed a loud sigh of relief. “Why?” I blurted, not knowing what else to say.

Mom turned to me with wide, happy eyes. “I have no idea. And I don’t care. Good riddance to them all!” She hugged me.

Then I had an unpleasant thought. “Mom?”

“What, John?”

“What if something
bad
is happening?”

Mom considered my words for a moment, then shrugged. “Bad things happen all the time, John. At least, whatever it is, it isn’t happening
here
.”

* * *

A couple hours later, we all went for a walk. Just a simple walk around the block, down a couple of random streets, all very close to home. Something any family would do. Except we hadn’t been able to for so long without being accosted. Our new liberty to do something so mundane was noticeable.

I don’t remember much about that walk, because it wasn’t meant to be memorable. Just
ordinary
. In fact, the one thing that I do recall was people — neighbors, friends — simply waving to us. “Hello!” Like nothing had ever happened.

It was totally normal.

Which is why it was so unusual.

* * *

By Sunday night, there had been no strange cars parked on our street for two full days. Something had changed, and we were all enjoying it. Even Holly said to me, during one of our mental conversations,
I’m happy it’s quiet now. I didn’t like the noise. Or the lights.

I know, Hol.

I imagine it’s the same for most anyone who becomes accidentally famous. One day, you’re living your boring life. The next, you can’t get the photographers to leave you alone. And the day after that, no one cares if you run naked through the front yard.

Well, Miss Janice next door might care. Check that. She would definitely frown on me streaking through the neighborhood. Anyway, you get my point. I think everyone suddenly thrust into the public eye is just as surprised when it all disappears as they are that it happened in the first place.

But by Monday, Bobby and I were heading to school, and almost reveling in the fact that no one cared.

Bus 73 picked us up at the corner of my street and drove us to Arthur Avalon High School. The bus was always crowded and hot in the early fall, when temperatures could sometimes still be in the high 80s or low 90s.

I had come from Thomas Edison Middle, where there was never a shortage of Thomas Edison–related puns and jokes — if there was a teacher who could flick on the lights without proclaiming himself or herself the inventor of the light bulb, I never had the pleasure of being in their class. So it was a little odd to go to a school named after someone I’d never heard of before. Who was Arthur Avalon, namesake of our school, emblazoned on every football/baseball/basketball/soccer/softball/volleyball/hackeysack/horseshoes jersey, and the subject of every cheerleader’s rallying cry? I have no idea. Sports star? Politician? Arborist? Let’s go with arborist. Arthur Avalon, world-famous arborist. Sure. He could arbor the heck out of things. A fine man, he.

Have you ever played the game where you and your friends try to decide what superpower you would want if you could have one? Well, I had real superpowers, and yet there were still more I desperately wanted. The power to overcome acne. The power to talk to girls without breaking out in a sweat. Those would have been great add-ons. Come on, alien thorns in my cells. Help me out here.

Alas, it didn’t work that way. That Monday, Bus 73 had no sooner appeared than it was squealing to a stop at our corner. The driver, Mrs. Worchart, swung open the (also) squealing door for us to climb aboard. Mrs. Worchart was a very nice lady, always chipper both morning and afternoon, giving every kid a hearty “Hello!” or “Good morning!” She was also rather large, so inevitably her bus became known as the War Cart, a tired play on her name.

We stepped up into the War Cart, and entered the fray of high school noise and mayhem. And who should I bump — literally — into? Carrie McGregor. She was sitting in the front row but turned around to talk to a girlfriend, so one of her knees was in the aisle. My knee touched Carrie McGregor’s knee. I was dumbstruck.

“Oh, hi, John,” she said, tucking a curl of red hair behind one ear and batting her eyelashes at me. Okay, that’s a lie. She probably just blinked. But as I’ve said before, any movement of her eyelashes even moderately directed toward me caused heart palpitations.

“Carrie. Hey.” A witty retort, no? Then Bobby pushed me in the back.

“Come on, stud. Seats open in the back.” He gave a knowing smile, which was about the least subtle thing ever. Carrie looked away, but I think her cheeks had turned a little red. Ever since the time I had asked her out — and she had apologized but declined — I could barely speak to her. I wanted to ask her out again, but without the construct of a school dance coming up, I floundered. I couldn’t just ask Carrie McGregor to go to the movies. That’s something I would do with dopes like Bobby or Steve or Tom. I needed an
event
. And even then, I didn’t think I had the nerve to try a second time.

Sitting in the back, I closed my eyes. Everyone was talking too loud, as always. I was lost in thought. Then I opened my eyes and saw Carrie, turned around to look at me. Just for a second. As soon as we made eye contact, she faced forward once more. But it happened, I swear.

Maybe I could find the nerve to ask her out again, after all.

4

Somehow I didn’t hear the news until, I think, Wednesday or Thursday. Between classes, I was swapping books at my locker when suddenly my shoulder sluiced, all by itself, just a few inches. There was a loud bang as flesh and bone hit metal.

“Ouch, Jesus!” Steve Martucci had apparently felt the need to surprise-punch me in the shoulder when he walked up behind. Obviously, he missed. He pulled back his fist and clutched at it with his other hand. “Nice freaking ninja move, John. I nearly broke my knuckles.”

I had to play it off. “
The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting
.” I waggled my eyebrows at him, just to increase the ridiculousness of it all, throw him off the scent. “Besides, I didn’t ask you to try to sucker-punch me.” As careful as I was to avoid having people find out what I could do, random acts like my shoulder sluicing about on its own were mildly terrifying. My body just did its thing. One day someone was actually going to notice. Then I’d really be labeled a freak and a weirdo. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Thank you, sensei.” Steve rolled his eyes, still rubbing his hand. “Hey, did you do the homework for seventh period…?” He gave me a cheesy smile that I assumed was supposed to win me over.

“Do your own homework, Steve.” I closed the locker and started off to class. Steve trailed after.

“Come on, man. There’s no time for me to read the assignment and write out the answers. It’s already fifth period, and I’ve got gym. Just let me take a peek.” Again with the smile.

I stopped and sighed, opening my folder to find the assignment. “You have 60 seconds.” Steve snatched up my paper and ducked around the corner to a place of relative seclusion. “Make sure you change the answers enough that it sounds like you,” I said. “You know, make them dumber.”

“Very funny.” He was already furiously scribbling words on his own paper.

“Can’t you do it in the bathroom or something? No one had better see you.”

Steve just waved a hand at me as he continued to write. “Like that thing in the ocean, I’m hidden in plain sight.”

I furrowed my brow. “Oh good. That’s very clear. What
thing
in the ocean?”

“The thing all over TV. The thing they’re tracking.” He kept writing, not looking at me.

I shook my head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Steve paused, just for a moment. “There’s a thing. A big thing. In the ocean, somewhere out west. They don’t know what it is. They can see it, well, sort of, but they can’t really see it. Because it’s underwater, you know? And it’s moving toward land.” He went back to writing.

“Oh, well that makes sense,” I said, looking around to be sure no teachers had noticed Steve with my homework. “Are you done yet?”

He scribbled one more line, then handed my paper back. “All set — thanks!” Steve rushed off toward his next class, but a few feet down the hall he turned back. “What do you think it is? The thing in the water.”

“How should I know?” I shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“I think it’s a whale, but they say it’s too big for that. Maybe it’s a prehistoric whale or something. Like the Loch Ness monster.” With that, he was gone.

Was he just messing with me? Or was the Loch Ness monster headed to shore somewhere out west?

He’s messing with me.

I checked my watch and saw that I had about 35 seconds before my next class started. And it was two floors below me.

Thanks a lot, Steve.

* * *

That night, I made a joke about it with my mom during dinner. “No, I don’t think Steve was kidding, John. I saw some report about it. Weird, right?” She took another bite of chicken. “We can turn on the TV after we clean up and see if there’s any news.”

So we did.

And that was the first time I saw Mac the fisherman tell his tale. He talked about something swelling up below him. He said it looked like a giant head.

The reporters were skeptical. So far, they had footage of something large and dark moving eastward underwater. Radar showed it to be a big, solid shape, but offered few other details. The same loop of scenes played over and over. So-called “experts” were interviewed, each with their own opinion, but mostly just saying, “We have no idea. We have to wait and see.” Mac was different. Not an expert in a suit, just a fisherman ranting on a pier about a monster in the sea. Telling the biggest fish tale of all time.

Nothing happened that first night. The story got old. No change.

Two days later, everyone was glued to the TV. The thing hit land.

* * *

Branding is a cultural phenomenon in modern society. Everything needs a brand. Every conflict needs its own name and clever graphic. Every scandal gets “-gate” added to the end. Without a name brand, things don’t stick. So, not surprisingly, as soon as the creature broke the surface of the water, people raced to give it a name.

It rolled onto shore in a tight ball, like a meteor rising from the ocean rather than falling from the sky. Then it stopped, and unwound.

It was massive. It seemed to be made of stone. Simply put, it looked like a giant demon from hell. Someone — I think a Russian — tried to call it a gargoyle. Apparently
gargoyle
in Russian sounds sort of like “Gorgol,” which in turn sounds exactly like the name of a monster in a Japanese movie. And there you go. But a gargoyle is a little dude up on a cathedral wall, staring down menacingly at the people below. This Gorgol certainly could stare down menacingly, but it would crush a cathedral to stone dust if it got near one.

The news channels all jumped on the name. The Gorgol had come. Rolled up, it was about 150 feet in diameter. That’s like a 15-story building. It was covered in huge, dark, rough scales, like shards of mottled brown and black stone. Imagine eight full-grown elephants holding each other’s tails, over and over. That’s how wide it was. Imagine four city buses standing on their faces, stacked on top of each other. That’s how tall it was. And that’s just when it was rolled up.

Making land, the Gorgol unrolled and stood. It had four legs, sort of short and stubby, but thick and powerful, all about the same length. These too were covered with those rocky scales, and ended in round feet with spiked toes in the back and long-fingered hands with terrifyingly sharp talons in the front. When it started to walk, it did so hunched over, balancing on its back two feet. Because of that, it was actually a bit shorter unrolled. It didn’t seem to be the most limber of creatures, but then we all watched dumbstruck as it
stood
to take its first good look at the world above the water’s surface. Stretched out, it was nearly 200 feet tall. One big boy.

And its eyes… Deep reddish orange, and glowing with some sort of internal fire.

On live TV, the Gorgol lowered itself back to its hunched walking position. And proceeded to trample the seaside town where it had landed. It didn’t look angry or vengeful. It was just big. Just as you could stomp an anthill without ever noticing, the Gorgol crushed houses and buildings without concern. People ran in every direction like the end of days had come. Maybe it had.

Watching the scene on TV, I was stunned. And that was saying something. Because I had seen some really weird shit before.