Underwater, no one can hear you scream.
Sixty feet beneath the ocean waves was the worst place Angie Greaves could choose to panic. Breathing was already difficult in the scuba mask and now became next to impossible as the panic set in, pounding at her head in a desperate attempt to take over her entire being as she fought to escape the horror in front of her. This was no ordinary panic, the kind you get when you realize your laundry has been in the downstairs dryer for the past two hours; this was the oh my god I'm going to die type of panic, the headache-inducing, hyperventilating, heart-rending type. She thrashed in the water, her ragged breathing resulting in a cloud of bubbles that surrounded her, obscuring her vision from the rotting corpse that stared back at her from only two feet away.
Breathe, she thought, desperately trying to calm herself, nobody is trying to hurt you. Breathe. Somewhere in the back of her skull
(skull)
was the knowledge that breathing too fast from the oxygen tank not only depleted the air faster but that it was also life-threateningly bad for her. It was something the instructor had told her several lessons ago and hadn't really seemed that important. She was supposed to be going on a relaxing scuba dive looking at fish and sunken ships underwater. What she wasn't supposed to be doing was finding a rotting corpse inside of a statue at the bottom of the ocean.
Her new friend, Panic reared its corpse grin again, eager to take hold of her mind, always ready to produce screams that nobody would hear--
Puppies and kittens, Angie thought desperately. Puppies and goddamn kittens!
Somehow that seemed to work. She could already feel her heart slowing down, and her breathing returning to as close to normal as she could get it.
Finally calm, Angie Greaves opened her eyes. The corpse's face stared back from the broken concrete statue in front of her. The empty socket was unmistakably human. She could have almost thought it a clever prop, a terrible joke of sorts, if not for the stringy water-logged flesh that floated in loose patches from the skull. Those patches of skin surrounded a deep gash in the skull about four inches long.
That's what killed her.
The thought came out of nowhere, a great leap of logic, and with it came a wave of sadness that was almost physical. A chill swept through her body, and she pushed backward through the water with one slow kick of her flippers.
The statue was a dark green, covered with moss or whatever other sea life there was on the reef. It was of a young woman, one hand at her side, the other reaching for the surface high above, her neck craned so she looked upward. The statue was chained to the ocean floor, but it was the heavy concrete block under her feet that helped to secure it to the limestone rocks.
She might have floated there forever in the water, just a girl in scuba gear staring at the statue with a body inside
(rotting flesh)
but some distant thought was pulling at her, begging for her attention. She realized then how it might have looked to anyone watching from a distance. It was exactly the type of macabre scenario that her sister would have loved to paint, her oils swirling to give depth to the scene, adding threat to the shadows--
Movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention. Angie turned in the water, her thoughts still not completely in the moment. She had to blink a few times before she realized what she was seeing.
Roger, a slim black man with lean muscle, her guide and diving instructor, waved at her from about fifty feet away. He floated in the water, his arms spread wide in a question.
What's wrong?
Angie's arm came up to mime the reply that there was a dead body in the statue, but she froze, her mouth suddenly dry.
There were three green statues between her and Roger. The artwork was similar to that of the hopeless girl, but these three were of young men. All of them reached for the surface that they would never again see.
What if there are corpses in those statues as well?
The ocean water off the shore of Barbados was almost crystal clear. On a typical dive, you can see for at least a hundred yards in any direction before it starts to get murky. What Angie saw now was not the hauntingly beautiful sculpture garden she had come out here to see with Roger, but instead, she saw the truth and the horror that came with it.
This was a graveyard.
There was no holding back panic this time.
Angie kicked off in the water, her powerful kicks pushing her swiftly toward the surface. She was already taking huge lungfuls of air, but she was beyond thought. All she felt was the pressure in her head and the need to escape, get the fuck away, right now, run, run goddamit!
She thrashed to the surface, about fifty feet away from the catamaran they had sailed out in. Angie's training took over and she leaned backward as she yanked the mask and breathing apparatus from her face–
The remains of the hearty breakfast she'd eaten three hours ago, exploded out of her into the ocean water. The brownish vomit spread out into tendrils of yuck that the fish would be snacking on later, carried away by the constant motion of the ocean waves.
Sobs wracked her body then, huge heaving sobs of terror and grief, so much grief for what she had just witnessed. Her heart strained too hard against her chest, pain running down one arm.
"Angie?" Roger's voice was a distance away, and was he freaking out? She couldn't blame him, because she sure as shit was freaked right the fuck out. "Hey, you okay?"
"THERE IS A FUCKING DEAD BODY DOWN THERE!" Angie screamed, her throat already raw and not at all happy with her. But at least she still had a voice with which to scream, right? "IN THE STATUE!"
"What you talking about?" Roger seemed genuinely confused, his Bajan accent more pronounced and forceful. It sounded more like "Wha you" than "what you", and took her a moment to reorient. The panicked thought came to her then that Roger had killed that girl, and this was his way of showing off.
Angie whirled in the water, heart thumping as she trod water to stay afloat, the weight of the scuba tank not even a thought. "Did you know about this?"
"I ain't even know what you talking about," Roger replied. "What got you like this? Them ain't no dead bodies. Them is just the statues."
Angie shot a look towards the shore, still not sure if she could trust this guy. An almost deserted white beach was about two hundred feet away, an easy swim for her on any day. The catamaran was closer, anchored only fifty feet away, but that was Roger's boat and she just had no way of knowing how much danger she was in. He had to know, right? This was probably just some sick game for him.
Down below the surface, she could make out the blurry shapes of the statues with their arms outstretched, and it seemed as if they were reaching for her--
"You stay away from me," Angie warned, and in an easy move began to swim for the shore. The scuba tank hampered her almost immediately, and she cursed silently but shifted her position. It would be slow going, but she had been swimming for most of her life.
She struck out for the shore, this time compensating for the extra load. A quick glance backward, revealed that Roger wasn't chasing after her. In fact, he had not moved at all. His head bobbed in the water, his face
(rotting skull)
a mask of confusion.
Angie headed for the safety of the shore. Roger's involvement, or lack of it, would have to wait.
Later.
***
Angie unbuckled the cursed scuba tanks and dropped them onto the sand, using the straps to drag them the final few feet through the water before abandoning them on the fine white beach sand. The waves gently splashed against the canisters, as if tasting and teasing at a new treat, a new toy. It was almost as if the water wanted to reclaim them, pull them back into the deep--
She fell to her knees, suddenly drained.
"Everything okay dear?" a woman's voice asked. It was a strong voice, a little rough as if she had been a lifelong smoker.
Angie turned her head to squint at the elderly woman seated in the large wicker chair as if it was a throne. She was attractive, what Angie's dad referred to as a Silver Fox, due to the way her hair had turned silver with age rather than white. There was no cigarette in her hand, but Angie was sure at that moment that there would be one before the day was over. The woman was tanned in a way that was lived in rather than borrowed, the kind of tan achieved by the local Caucasians which made them easy to spot among the pale tourists. She also held herself with an indefinable attitude, that pride of ownership that came from a history of being among the ruling class.
"You have to help me," Angie croaked, her voice breaking over the words. "There are dead bodies down there. Hundreds of them."
It wasn't horror she saw on the woman's face, only bemusement.
"Are you speaking of my garden?" the woman laughed and removed her sunglasses, revealing icy blue eyes that sparkled wickedly, the crow's feet at the corners only adding to her charm. "Those are only statues, my dear."
She reached down to pick up a large pink conch shell from the sand as if she found it suddenly interesting.
"I saw a dead body in one of them!" Angie insisted, sure that this woman could help her. She knew of the statues, but surely she didn't know the terrible secrets they held. Where was her cellphone dammit? "There was a girl. The concrete came off and there's a skull inside. It was so horrible." Angie sucked in a shuddering breath, feeling the tears coming, the relief of finally saying the words washing over her. Except... What was it the woman had said?
"Oh dear," the woman said, and it seemed as if she was mocking Angie. Condescending her. The slight British accent made it even more obvious. "Should we call the police then?"
"We need to call someone," Angie insisted. "There are so many of them..."
"Two hundred and thirty-one," Silver Fox replied and got to her feet, looking intently out at the water. She stretched lithely, the conch shell still in her hand, and then smiled humourlessly as she directed her gaze to Angie.
"Excuse me?" Angie stuttered.
"There are corpses in all of them, dear," the woman said smoothly, and a chill ran through Angie's body. "Two hundred and thirty-one as a matter of fact. Every one of them, a perfect specimen." She smiled and ran her eyes over Angie's body in a brisk examination. Her smile was calculating now, almost sharklike.
Angie should have run then. Every one of her senses screamed at her to get up and haul ass out of there, to get back to the water, or run up the beach. She had to do something, anything, but instead, she did the one thing that she thought she would never do if she was in danger. She froze, unable to believe what was happening.
"You'll make a perfect addition," Silver Fox snarled.
Angie did try to run then, but the older woman was on her in a second, faster and stronger than she would have ever suspected. Angie reached up to deflect the first blow,
(reaching)
and felt her forearm shatter in a white-hot flash of agony as Silver Fox struck with the conch shell. Her arm bent at an impossible angle, a white shard of bone jutting out from the flesh. It was just for a moment before the blood came, spattering her face and bringing blinding agony with it--
Angie never saw the second blow coming, the conch shell almost shattering on impact with her skull. Blood flew as the killer rained blow after blow onto Angie's head and face.
There were no screams, only the relentless thud... thud... thud... and the gentle sound of the waves crashing against the shore.