The Glass Ocean

The ocean was completely broken. Water should move. Water should breathe. This water did neither. It sat heavy and black against the sand. There was no tide and there were no waves. The absolute silence from the shoreline pressed against the thick walls of the concrete coastal bunker.

Mark pressed his forehead against the viewing slit. The cold cement offered a small distraction from the heat building inside the enclosed space. The bunker smelled of old urine and dry rot.

Chris paced the width of the small room. Four steps to the left. Four steps to the right. His boots scraped across scattered debris.

"Stop moving."

Elena said the words softly from her spot near the rusted steel door. She held a heavy piece of driftwood across her chest. Her knuckles were white.

"I cannot just sit here," Chris said. He stopped pacing but began shifting his weight from leg to leg. "They took the boat. We are stuck out here on this freakish dead beach. Someone is out there."

They all knew someone was out there. The fresh blood on the cooler they found by the shoreline an hour ago proved it. It was not fish blood. It was pooled thickly on the white plastic. The discovery had sent them running for the only shelter available on the desolate stretch of coast. This abandoned military relic half buried in the sand.

Sarah sat on an overturned plastic bucket in the corner. She hugged her knees. She had not spoken since they locked the bunker door. Her eyes darted between Mark and Chris.

"Do you think it was the fisherman we saw yesterday?" Sarah asked. Her voice trembled.

Mark turned away from the viewing slit. "The fisherman had a limp. The footprints we saw near the cooler were spaced far apart. Whoever left them was running. Running fast."

Chris pointed a trembling finger at Mark. "You brought us here. You said this cove was a hidden gem. Nobody knows about this place. That is what you told us."

"I did not know a lunatic was hiding in the woods."

"Are you sure about that?" Chris took a step closer to Mark. "You have been acting strange since we arrived. You kept wandering off towards the tree line."

Elena slammed her piece of wood against the wall. A loud crack echoed in the tight space.

"Shut up. Both of you shut up right now."

The echo died. The oppressive silence of the waveless beach rushed back in.

"Listen."

Elena tilted her head towards the heavy steel door.

Crunch.

It was faint. A heavy boot crushing dried seashells.

Crunch.

The sound was closer.

Nobody breathed. The air inside the bunker felt entirely depleted of oxygen. Mark felt a drop of sweat roll down his spine. He gripped the handle of his pocket knife. It was a pathetic weapon against whatever was hunting them.

The heavy footsteps stopped right outside the door.

They stared at the rusted metal. The door had an old latch system on the inside. They had jammed a piece of rusted pipe through the handles to secure it.

A gentle tap resonated on the steel.

Tap. Tap.

It was a mocking gesture. The person outside knew exactly where they were. The person outside knew they were terrified.

Chris backed away from the center of the room. He bumped into Sarah. She whimpered and shoved him away. Trust was entirely gone. In the dim light filtering through the slit, they all looked like strangers to one another. Cornered animals waiting for the slaughter.

The door handle rattled. Slowly at first. Then violently.

The thick steel shuddered. The rusted pipe holding the latch groaned under the immense pressure.

"Help me hold it," Elena whispered fiercely.

She threw her body weight against the door. Mark rushed forward and pressed his shoulder next to hers. The metal was freezing.

Chris stayed near the back wall. He was shaking his head repeatedly.

"Come here and help," Mark grunted.

"No. If we open it we can run. We can scatter. It cannot catch all of us."

"You coward," Elena spat.

The violent rattling stopped abruptly.

Silence returned.

Mark kept his shoulder pinned to the steel. He looked at Elena. Her eyes were wide with a question nobody could answer. Did the attacker leave?

A shadow passed over the narrow viewing slit on the opposite wall.

Mark realized their fatal mistake a second too late. The bunker had two points of entry. The door and the ventilation shaft above the viewing slit.

Something heavy dropped from the ceiling opening into the center of the room.

It landed with a sickening thud. The smell of copper and rotting meat instantly filled the cramped space.

Sarah screamed. A raw guttural sound that tore her throat.

In the center of the floor lay a large canvas sack. It was heavily stained with dark wet patches. The sack twitched. Something inside was alive and moving.

Mark backed away from the door. He stared at the burlap material.

Chris kicked the sack.

A muffled groan came from inside.

"Open it," Chris demanded. He looked at Mark. "You have the knife. Cut it open."

Mark approached the sack. His hand shook uncontrollably as he reached out with the small blade. He sliced the thick material.

A hand burst through the opening. Fingers clawed at the air.

Mark stumbled backward and tripped over a piece of rubble. He hit the ground hard.

Elena shone her small penlight onto the figure emerging from the sack.

It was the fisherman from yesterday. His eyes were wide with absolute panic. His mouth was bound with silver duct tape. His clothes were soaked in blood. He was missing his left arm from the elbow down.

He was not the killer. He was bait.

A deafening screech of metal tearing metal ripped through the bunker.

The rusted pipe securing the main door finally snapped in half. The heavy steel door swung inward with terrifying speed. It slammed into Elena. The impact threw her against the concrete wall with a sickening crunch. She slumped to the floor. The flashlight rolled from her hand and stopped near the severed pipe.

A massive figure filled the doorway.

The lack of light made it impossible to see a face. All Mark could process was the sheer size of the intruder and the long curved blade held loosely in its right hand. The weapon looked like an agricultural sickle but much thicker. The blade dragged along the concrete floor creating a sharp scraping noise.

Chris broke.

He scrambled up the back wall trying to reach the ventilation shaft. His fingers clawed helplessly at the smooth cement. He was crying loudly.

The figure stepped inside. The air in the room dropped ten degrees.

Sarah threw her plastic bucket at the intruder. It bounced harmlessly off a heavy leather apron. She scrambled on her hands and knees towards the corner.

The killer moved with terrifying purpose. There was no hesitation.

A single swing of the sickle caught Chris in the back of the legs. The blade sank deep into muscle and bone. Chris shrieked and collapsed heavily. He thrashed on the ground screaming for help.

The killer ignored Chris for a moment. The massive head turned towards Mark.

Mark scrambled to his feet. His pocket knife felt absurdly light. He lunged forward out of pure desperation.

The killer swatted Mark aside with a heavy forearm. The blow caught Mark in the chest. The force drove the air from his lungs and sent him crashing into the fisherman. Mark gasped for breath. His vision blurred.

The scraping sound returned.

Mark forced his eyes open. He watched the killer stand over Chris. The injured man was crying and crawling towards the open door leaving a thick trail of blood on the dusty floor.

The killer raised the sickle high.

The blade came down. The screaming stopped.

The metallic smell of blood entirely overpowered the scent of old rot.

Sarah was pressed into the darkest corner of the bunker. She covered her mouth with both hands. Her whole body shook violently.

The killer slowly turned around. The heavy boots crunched on the debris.

Mark tried to push himself up. His chest burned. He looked at Elena. She was entirely still. He looked at the open doorway. The black waveless ocean sat outside. It offered no escape. The beach was too open.

The killer stepped closer to Sarah.

Mark knew he had one chance. The killer had their back to him.

He gripped his small knife. He forced himself up and charged. He aimed for the thick neck exposed above the leather collar.

The killer shifted slightly.

Mark buried the small blade deep into the back of the thick shoulder.

The figure grunted in annoyance rather than pain. A massive hand reached back and grabbed Mark by the throat. The grip was impossible to break. Thick fingers crushed his windpipe.

Mark was lifted off his feet. His legs kicked empty air.

He stared into the face of the killer. A rough canvas mask covered the features. Two small holes revealed eyes devoid of any human emotion. They were completely flat and dead. Just like the ocean outside.

The grip tightened. Darkness began to creep into the edges of Mark's vision.

He saw the sickle raised again. The curved steel caught a glint of the moon outside.

The weapon descended.

Then nothing but silence returned to the concrete room. The unnatural quiet of the beach reclaimed the night. The water remained perfectly still against the sand.