Ex-Isle by Peter Clines (electronic reader TXT) 📕

Madelyn’s goggles sat crooked on her forehead, pushing her hair in random directions. She was squinting against the sun, but her chalk eyes were plain to see, and more than a few people in the crowd were pointing at her. She twisted her hands back to claw at the arm holding her neck, and her free leg kicked back at his chest.

“Put her down,” said St. George. “I don’t know what the hell your problem is, but it’s with me, not her.”

“You disgust me,” said Nautilus.

He took a few steps back and shook Madelyn for emphasis. When her head stopped moving her eyes went from St. George up to Zzzap and back. “Kick his ass,” she wheezed. She didn’t need to breathe, but she still needed air to talk. “Don’t worry about…”

Her lips twisted up in frustration as she ran out of words.

“Let her go,” said St. George.

“The Mighty Dragon was one of the greatest men I’d ever known,” said Nautilus. “When the dead rose, he fought to save human lives. Not to protect these things.” He glared at St. George. “He knew how to deal with ex-humans.”

Nautilus flexed his shoulders and tore her apart.

Madelyn’s neck stretched, snapped, and her head swung around. Her arms flailed. Her hips cracked. The wet suit pulled tight and burst as her stomach ripped open. Gray intestines spilled out onto the deck, and lumps of meat and muscle fell after them.

Nautilus let the two halves drop just as St. George slammed into him.

The punches echoed across the small courtyard, the sound of a sledgehammer hitting a punching bag. The sledge struck three more times, driving the blue-gray giant back with each blow. St. George leaped into the air, bringing his knee up to smash the other man’s jaw—

There were kids behind him. If Nautilus went down he’d crash right on top of a little girl and boy. St. George hesitated and the other man grabbed his leg.

The world spun and the deck rushed up to strike St. George in the face. Two of the planks cracked. He pushed himself up and Nautilus yanked on the leg, swinging him up, around, and back into the deck. Another plank split. One more heave and he was in the air, spinning. The crowd whizzed by, the captain’s chair, a quick glimpse of Madelyn’s arm, and then wind ripped at St. George’s hair as he flew away.

He focused and came to a stop in midair. The ship was off to the side and a bit below him. He looked back and forth, spotted the open area of the courtyard, and then saw the figure growing in his vision.

Nautilus slammed into him. One thick arm wrapped around St. George’s back, squeezing his ribs. The other one came down again and again, driving punches into his face. They wrestled in the air before St. George realized the ship’s hull was next to them. Nautilus twisted around, and the Pacific Ocean crashed into St. George’s back.

Much like he’d heard, hitting the water from a great height was like hitting pavement or concrete.

The waves closed over him, and the sound of wind vanished. Nautilus grabbed the lapels of St. George’s biker jacket and dragged him through the water. The cold pressed in on him. The sunlight dimmed.

They were going deeper.

St. George threw a punch that churned the water around them. It bounced off one of the other man’s armored shoulders. He lashed out again, connected, and the hand holding his jacket let go.

Nautilus slipped back through the water. He glared at the hero. Then his legs kicked twice, and he vanished in a whirl of bubbles.

St. George thrashed in the water, trying to get his bearings. The same dim blue-green stretched in every direction. There were no shafts of sunlight or a mirror-like surface.

Bubbles. Follow the bubbles. Bubbles go up.

He tried to relax and his lungs gave him a burning reminder he needed to get back to the surface. A few precious grams of silver air flew from his lips. They went off to the side of his mouth and raced away to his left.

Left was up.

He twisted himself around and swept his arms through the water. A few strong strokes carried him up enough that he saw daylight in the distance.

Something huge and dark loomed off to the side. St. George watched the gigantic chisel-shapes grow in his vision and realized he was seeing the underside of the ships. Three long wedges surrounded by smaller ones.

A long shape drifted beneath them, dwarfed by the monstrous hulls. It was hard to see in the shadows, but it looked like a whale. It didn’t seem to be moving, and he wondered if it was dead or—

Nautilus came rushing at him like a torpedo. He caught a glimpse of the shark grin before the boxing-glove fists slammed into his gut and the last of his air erupted from his mouth. The cloud of silver bubbles flew away and Nautilus grabbed his collar and dragged him in the other direction.

The tightness in St. George’s chest crawled up into his throat, pushed at his jaw, clawed at his throat. He grabbed the merman’s wrist, flung him away, but Nautilus spun around and came at him again. St. George batted away a punch, took another one in the jaw, and took in a sharp breath through his nose without thinking.

Water gushed through his sinuses and clogged his throat. He tried to cough it out, and more poured past his teeth and down his throat. He coughed again, choked, spat, and the ocean filled his mouth, his nostrils, his lungs, his chest.

Nautilus released him and he drifted away. He thrashed in the dim light. He needed to find the surface. He needed to follow the bubbles.

There weren’t any more bubbles.

In the back of his throat, the burning itch of flames was smothered and went out.

The water dimmed. He was sinking deeper. He had to move in the other direction. He…

He realized the