The Endlands (vol 1) Read online

  New instincts overcame her. When intuition told her to concentrate, she concentrated. She closed her eyes, envisioning herself flying over the treetops. A pair of leathery wings sprouted between her shoulder blades.

  She smiled at her newfound ability.

  The vampire took Diana by the hand and she saw that he too possessed similar bat-like wings. They lifted, wings flapping in the sky. For the first time in her life, Diana's skin was exposed to the night air. She never before realized how beautiful the dark hours were with their velvety blackness. And the stars . . . she had never seen stars before because the lights from the homes had always hidden them from her. Diana knew that she would never see the sun again, but that was all right. The moon, the beautiful silvery orb, was just as beautiful as the golden sphere that was the sun. From now on, the moonlight would be her sunlight.

  As she soared over the city, Diana enjoyed the sensation of flying. She twirled in the sky, performing aerial feats, laughing joyfully. It was a bizarre, unearthly sound, similar to the wind during a storm, so different than her old, human chuckle.

  Inside their homes built with silver nails, with their bottles of holy water in their cupboards and their gardens of garlic cloves, the citizens of Polidoria heard her. They knew what the sound was and shuddered as they made the sign of the cross. A merry vampire was never a good thing.

  There was nothing more frightening than the sound of vampire laughter.

  Flying Fish

  by David Stubblefield

  Fer Wilkins tugged hard at the thick nylon rope. Another wave slapped at the side of his wooden boat, soaking the aged fisherman with frigid seawater. He really didn't want to lose another anchor, but if he couldn't get this one up, he'd have to cut it loose--one of the hazards of the area. The fish loved the wrecks and debris that littered the deep water, but the same wrecks loved to eat anchors. Over the years, Fer had lost a half dozen or so anchors, wedged under a rusting hull or dropped neatly through an open hatch. He pulled again, swore to himself, then sat on the side and reached for a rag to wipe his face.

  Hard to believe I could work up a sweat in this cold.

  He'd give it another shot--pull and release and try to jar the cheap metal hook loose--then cut the line and move on if he couldn't free it. It was really more about the rope than the anchor. He could make an anchor out of scrap sheet metal--he'd once used a two-foot length of railroad--but half an anchor rope was no use at all.

  "One more time." Fer pulled.

  Nothing.

  He stretched for his tackle box and found his thick-bladed utility knife and turned to look over the edge and reach as far into the water as possible to salvage a few feet of rope. Something caught the light in the featureless deep--something big. The boat began to lift as if a huge swell had passed under, then it began to creak and tilt, rising higher but still held by the anchor line.

  "Whales." Fer muttered under his breath.

  The wake from one of the huge animals could tip a boat if it got too close, but they usually passed in seconds just making the deck unsteady. But the boat kept straining upward and the nylon rope grew taut as piano wire. Fer shot a glance at the life preserver hanging on a peg next to the helm, but before he could move the boat heaved upward.

  It's coming up directly underneath me!

  For a moment, the Lucky Leena rose bow upward, then began to slide aft first toward the sea on the back of the whale. The crash sent spray flying in a fan shaped arc from the rear of the boat, and backwash poured in as the boat righted itself, still swirling and twisting around the anchor line. Fer landed on his back in the middle of the open deck.

  Fer rolled over to his stomach, grabbed a rail for stability, and rose to one knee. A quick glance told him the boat wasn't sinking. The engine had stalled, probably water in it. He could get it going, but . . . there! The huge whale that had risen up under his keel was breaking the surface. But something was not right. The whale didn't perform the graceful roll so characteristic of its mammoth gasp for air. It rose slowly, but didn't drop back down. First the broad head came completely out, then Fer saw the lateral fins emerge, and last of all there was a huge wave as the tail propelled the animal slowly but completely out of the water. And it continued to rise at a forty-five degree angle. It looked as if someone had fired a tractor out of the ocean in slow motion.

  Fer watched open mouthed as the massive whale cleared the surface, water still pouring off its sides and tail. It waved its fluke three or four times in the air picking up speed, and Fer felt the wind blow against his face. About a hundred yards out, it dipped once, picking up more speed in the dive, and leveled out cruising just above the tops of the swells. Finally, it fanned its tail, maybe a dozen times, each time the fluke tips splashing gently against the surface. Accelerating, then gracefully arching and coasting upward, the whale silently fled until it became a dot in the distant sky.

  Fer slumped down to the deck of the boat. "Holy Mackerel!"

  "Sheriff. We got another call."

  Sheriff Art Nettles stood at his desk and looked up from a stack of messages. "What does this one say?" he asked.

  "Says the whales are terrorizing Warner's Bluff Elementary."

  Warner's Bluff was near the coast, and the school was just close enough to see the ocean from the windows, but it was far enough away that the children had no chance of wandering off the precipice.

  "Parents are calling in, too. Asking if we know anything."

  Nettles had finished leafing through the notes. They all said the same thing--flying whales. Some from panicked parents. Some from fishermen. Seems like half his job was investigating false alarms, and even though he didn't believe in UFOs, Chupacapra, or Elvis sightings, he still had to investigate. He came in on his Monday off because his newbie deputy had called him, unsure how to proceed.

  "Let's go see."

  When they arrived, a crowd had gathered near the small elementary school. Some parents were already pulling their kids out of school. Others were just arriving. Cars filled every parking spot and some were pulled up on the grass. A news truck from a TV station in nearby Dowt was parked in the fire lane in front of the main door.

  "Doug, go threaten anyone in the fire lane with being ticketed and towed. If we had a real situation there's no way an emergency vehicle could get in here."

  Doug headed off for the fire lane and Sheriff Nettles walked around the side of the school where he saw a crowd in the playground facing the bluffs. "Art! Come to see the show?" Art turned to see Nancy Graig. She taught biology at Newkirk Junior College.

  Nettles rolled his eyes. He was sure it would be some kind of prank. "Oh, yeah, nothing gets me perked up like swimming weather balloons."

  Graig's eyes danced with mischievousness. She knew something. "C'mon. I think even you will be impressed."

  As they rounded the back of the building, there was a mix of adults and children. Inside the back windows there were more children with their faces next to the glass. Before he could ask Nancy for details, someone yelled, "Here they come!" Nettles turned toward the ocean expecting to strain to see some distant, obscure mirage, but instead he stumbled backwards and fell surprised by the sight of a gigantic California Grey Whale rising over the edge of the cliff and headed straight up. It soared up, then paused as it lost momentum, then began speeding downward at an angle and curving in a path that would take it right in front of the school windows. As it neared the ground it leveled off and cruised just above the playground fence and left a wake of wind as it passed.

  "There are the others!" Again a shout came from across the playground.

  Not just the one, but also a pod of three more whales rose above the edge of the bluff, peaked, and tilted over to race past the school. The first one had risen gently at the end of its pass and shot back down the cliff out of sight toward the ocean. Then, the others passed, each one leaving the parents and children awash in awe. As the last of the three dropped over the edge, the crowd broke into applause.

/>   Art was stunned. He looked questioningly at Nancy who grinned and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't have a clue," she said. "But isn't it cool?"

  By late afternoon all the networks arrived. Someone had posted cell phone video on the Internet. The local Dowt station had sent good quality video to national affiliates. There were reports of soaring whales all over, but for now, Warner's Bluff seemed to be the only place they kept appearing to ride the cliffs like hang gliders.

  Someone from CNN had telephoned Sheriff Nettles to ask about an official statement, but he had nothing to offer. The big animals weren't breaking any law. So far there was no health hazard. The children would have to play inside--no one wanted to see little tykes crushed by a clumsy whale--but otherwise it was a spectacular show.

  That night the media was completely preoccupied with the event. Scientists bluffed their way through interviews, late night talk shows were full of whale jokes, and talking head politicos offered an amazing variety of wild, self-serving guesses.

  One said, "global warming" was the cause for this radical behavior change. Others suggested oceanic pollution, alien invasions, government genetic experiments, Al Qaida, hoaxes, Republicans, and overfishing.

  "What do you think?" Art took a bite of his grilled cheese as he sat at a corner seat at the counter of Aunt B's Diner with Nancy.

  Nancy shrugged. "Don't know. Nobody can know. There's nothing like this in all biology. They're not flying, they're floating. It must be genetic somehow, but no telling what caused it. It's either environmental, in which case something made them change, or it's inherent in their DNA and something just triggered it." She looked down at her salad. It was clear Art wasn't following. "Could be that something in the water, in their environment, affected their DNA. In that case it's scary, because whatever caused that," she motioned to the TV over the counter showing one of the Greys doing what looked like an Immelman, "might be damaging the DNA of every fish in the ocean. We may be seeing only one version of change. But the odds of something on that scale, that dramatic, are astronomically small. I think it's something already in the whales' DNA that has just been triggered."

  "Already in the DNA? You mean that Moby Dick up there has always had the ability to fly, but something just made him turn it on?"

  "Something like that. Or some mixture of genetic strains produced just the right combination. You know, there are gazillions of parts to your DNA that don't seem to have any purpose, but they're there. Maybe you already carry some hidden talent, and your children will manifest an ability that has been dormant for hundreds of generations." There was a hint of flirtation in Nancy's face.

  "Okay, what triggered it?"

  "Again, no clue. Could be something environmental. Could be solar flares or survival instinct responding to falling population numbers or something else entirely. Could just be automatic at a certain level of development."

  "Why multiple animals at once? You'd think one might change, but not groups."

  "You got me." She smiled at him, "Maybe change is infectious."

  Art stared at the grilled cheese. "What if what triggered the whales to fly triggers something else?"

  Nancy grinned. "Everything we love would be up for grabs."

  It took about a week, but eventually, classes at Warner's Bluff Elementary were temporarily turned into whale watching parties. The students flooded the windows to catch the passing whales. The crowds, mostly gawkers and news people, overran the place making any hope of classroom decorum impractical. Tuesday of the second week, a crew from National Geographic set up a camera on the playground directly under the whale's flyover path. A lone cameraman stood with mounted equipment and carefully aimed the lenses at an oncoming pod.

  As the first big whale closed, it twisted its head slightly to give an inquiring look toward the cameraman, then it twisted back sharply just as it passed, turned it's head sideways, opened its jaws and snapped its mouth shut on the cameraman leaving only his wiggling feet hanging out. The whale pulled directly upward, opened its mouth for a moment to bite hard and let gravity drop the meal in deeper, like a gull gulping down a fish. It broke from the usual path and headed directly over the bluff to the sea. A single hiking boot, with a foot still inside, fell on the playground next to the swings.

  Children inside the windows screamed. Reporters bolted for cover as the rest of the pod broke ranks and began to swerve over the playground and parking lot chasing reporters like a school of minnows. The whales were big and fast, but they couldn't make sharp turns. The reporters made it to the trucks, and seconds later, the world was hearing that the playground whales had turned to killers.

  By nightfall, the mood of the country had turned dark. Maybe they were cute and amazing, but the whale charm had been lost. Reports were coming from around the globe of similar incidents. Other flying whales were buzzing ships, sometimes snapping up deckhands or knocking them into the water. Some were venturing farther inland. At one Northern Californian mall an entire row of cars had been crushed by a whale bashing its fluke on the ground trying to regain altitude after it scooped up three shoppers. Now they were flying at night, especially when it was foggy. When the weather was clear, you could see them coming, but where it was overcast, people just disappeared.

  "They appear to like water," Art commented to his deputy. Doug looked confused. "Fog. They like the fog," Art explained.

  They had spent the better part of the day answering calls and rushing to sites where whales were unexpectedly showing up and chasing neighbors. Some calls were not just reports; they were complaints that the Sheriff wasn't doing anything practical to help. But what could he do? They were whales. He wasn't Ahab. No one had captured one of the flyers. No one knew what had caused the flight, or attacks, and no one had any idea of how to stop them either. Art was frustrated, feeling responsible to do something.

  "I'm going to see what I can see."

  The first hour he cruised, sometimes with lights on, then with lights off. He drove slowly with his window down, letting the thick, moist air saturate his clothes and upholstery. He wanted to listen, but the fog dampened all but the loudest noises. "Doug, you getting any new reports in the last few minutes?"

  "No, Sheriff." The volume and clarity of the radio startled him in the muffled silence. "Some calls, but mostly tree top sightings. No attacks."

  "Keep me posted." Nettles flipped the radio off and stopped the car. There was a streetlight a half a block away. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he strained to hear anything unusual. He stepped out in the street and slowly closed the door so it quietly clicked shut, then he took a few steps away to the centerline of the empty street and listened. He heard a dog yapping, but it suddenly stopped.

  There was nothing.

  Just as he turned back, the dim glow from the streetlight blacked out. He spun and tried to gauge the distance, but couldn't see anything but a growing shadow, lunging toward him. He dropped to the ground and covered his head with his hands just as the huge grey animal passed inches above him, and he could hear what must have been wind whistling over its open jaws. The blast of air was incredible. The fog, thick with moisture, was like a wave at the beach and rolled him over. The whale was back above the trees now, but he didn't know which direction.

  Nettles instinctively reached for his holster and lifted the safety strap. With one hand on the grip, he started to stand, and just as he was upright, he heard a ripple in the air. He turned again, straining this time into the darkness away from the distant streetlight, and seconds later heard a fluke smashing the ground as the whale approached from the darkness. Nettles pulled the gun level in front of him. He had to wait. He couldn't just fire off into the darkness. No telling where the rounds might go.

  The grey shape was suddenly bearing down on him, water droplets on the massive head reflecting the streetlight behind him. Nettles fired, emptying his nine-shot clip in seconds, and fell backward again just as the beast roared over. He rolled to one side and landed next to his car as the
gaping mouth reached for him. The side of the massive jaw grazed his head and he felt the slick skin against his cheek. He crawled up and was back on his feet in time to watch the whale pull up and clear the power lines near the light.

  "I gotta get a bigger boat." Looking at his pistol, he holstered it, and stepped around to the rear of the car.

  He'd risk the trunk light making him more noticeable; he had to get more firepower. There was a shotgun, and Nettles started to load shells, but then he paused, and dropped the weapon back in the truck and began digging through the emergency roadside kit. He pulled out a flare gun, loaded a cartridge and lowered the trunk lid. If he could get a flare in the big fish, he could see it coming on the next pass.

  The wait wasn't long. The big grey had dipped back into the street in the canyon between the trees and was headed for another pass. Nettles waited as long as he could. He wanted to hit the whale squarely on the snout so it would look like Rudolph.

  Wait.

  His training overcame his panic as the distance narrowed. He'd need some distance to jump aside or even fire a second round.

  "Wait," he told himself.

  About fifty yards remained between them, the whale approaching more slowly this time, perhaps remembering the sting of the handgun. It's huge, Nettles thought to himself as it decreased speed, warily closing. He wanted to run, but made bait of himself.

  At thirty yards, Nettles fired, hitting the whale dead center. It twitched as the shell hit, burrowing into the thick skin. Then, beginning around the flare the entire animal erupted into flames. Over the course of a second, the fire raced down the length of it all the way to the tail, poured around the contours of its mouth inside its open jaws. For a moment, the animal struggled to flee, turning upward and above the trees crackling as it rose. There was a moment when it paused, a hundred feet up, wailing, the fire making the once dark street as bright as a clear noon.