New horror story, rough draft for comments?

[moderntimes]

After some time off for my private eye novels, I've decided to get back to my Lovecraft-influenced horror novel, "Port of Blood" which is set in modern times, in a mid-size shrimping and fishing community, "Port Victory" on the Texas Gulf Coast.

Here is the Prologue and Chapters 1 & 5 for your comment. I'll post a couple other chapters later, so as to fill in the story better. Yeah, this is a novel and not a short story but we've not got a section for posting chapters of our budding novels, so here I stick my stuff. I've redacted a bit of the more rough language.

Couple of questions... Is the prologue too long? Remember that this will preface an entire novel, and the prologue only takes up 1 printed page. Also... In ch 1, is the scene set nicely so you can visualize it, and can you see into Mikey's mind, slow as it may be? And in ch 5... Have I described a shrimpboat well enough, and the scenes on that boat, how the work is done, how hard it is, and so on, so that it's understandable to the reader? Thanks in advance.

------

Prologue

We conduct our lives within a cloud of self deceit, fashioning for our emotional protection an artifice of familiar surroundings and circumstance, a barrier against the unknown. We cling to the premise that existence only consists of what we see or hear in our everyday lives, steadfastly denying those dark and hidden layers of the universe beneath.

In truth, the veneer can be brushed away in an instant to reveal primal reality, pressing us forward into the core of truth. And at the brilliance of this revelation we quickly turn aside, seeking to regain our comfortable and shadowed lives. Because we are afraid.

One such event had its beginnings 17 May, 19:43 GMT. Immense subterranean stresses, acting upon the intersection of the Caribbean and North America plates, caused the boundary region to fail, creating a horizontal strike-slip fault. These occur routinely, but normally under the land masses of southern California and northern Mexico. This one was unusual because it hit directly beneath the Gulf of Mexico, east of Mexico City and just southwest of the Houston-Galveston metroplex.

The quake was first detected by Texas A&M seismometers in Corpus Christie, and then at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Stations as far north as Vancouver and as far south as Santiago picked up the tremor, and seismologists immediately analyzed the signals, triangulating the source and intensity. Within seconds their computers pinpointed the epicenter and determined that the severity of the quake was moderate at best, only a Level IV on the Modified Mercali scale, a situation all earthquake-zone residents are accustomed to.

There was a rattle of windows and dishes on shelves, a few poorly hung pictures dropped from living room walls, and lots of people were frightened. Then it was over. Some minor aftershocks and the earth was again quiet.

News of the quake blanketed airwaves throughout the region. For people in Mexico, it signaled relief, because the quake was minor and out to sea. Memories of the 1985 Mexico City disaster were still vivid for many.

Texans on the other hand were greatly surprised and somewhat amused that they had survived an honest-to-goodness earthquake. Phones were jammed with people calling their friends and relatives, sharing stories of what they were doing the day the “Big One” hit when in fact it was so trivial that the tremors were generally dismissed within an hour.

Gossip died down rapidly and the famous Texas quake was soon forgotten.

Chapter 1

Mikey Boudreaux crouched low behind a big metal trash bin at the end of the dock, alert for any sign that Viet Cong were hiding on the shrimp boat nearby.

Gentle waves rocked the small shrimping vessel, hull thumping rhythmically against old truck tires that formed bumpers for the pier. Occasionally a soft creak issued from the mooring lines, a slap of waves beneath the planks. Otherwise there was no sound.

The moon was nearly full and Mikey could see the deck clearly from his vantage point. Everything on board had been neatly stowed and batten down for the night, gear put away, the decking scrubbed. Toward the stern of the boat was Mikey’s target, furled nets hanging from the booms, but for now he focused his attention on the wheelhouse where he suspected the Cong might be hiding. So far, nothing.

They weren’t really Viet Cong, of course. Mikey knew that. They were just wetback Viet shrimpers who’d horned their way into the God-given place of the real shrimpers years ago. They’d come here on Uncle Sam’s ticket, pushy bastards, run outta Vietnam and taking jobs from real Americans.

Mikey liked to call them Viet Cong anyway, even if they weren’t, especially when he was goofing around with his older brother Les and the other guys, down at the Bayside Tavern. Les would brag about hunting Charlie during the war and everyone else would hum and haw and laugh at Les behind his back.

One day Mikey sat down and figured out the years, and after doing his arithmetic several times, he got the same answer. Les was about seven years old during Vietnam. But when Mikey mentioned it, Les slapped him hard. “You friggin’ idiot! You know you ain’t got the friggin’ brains to figger out yer friggin’ numbers!”

So Mikey quit with the arithmetic. He didn’t like it when Les slapped him. But deep down, he still knew that Les was full of it.

That didn’t stop Mikey from getting some laughs at the Bayside, though. After Les told one of his made-up war stories, Mikey would pretend to be a gook. They’d all laugh, and he’d be able to cage a free beer or two, after squinting and sticking out his front teeth, saying “Me velly solly me come to USA! Me go back home velly soon!” Everybody would hoot and holler and slam their palms on the table, and pretty soon another beer would come Mikey’s way.

Mikey knew he wasn’t the brightest bulb on the string and he resented the way some of the men hassled him around the docks, but when he ridiculed the Vietnamese, it elevated him in the eyes of his pals and made him feel better about himself. He for sure felt better compared to when Les slapped him.

But Les was family anyway, and helped Mikey get work. Not that it was a problem, finding work. Mikey was bigger and stronger than most, and willing to do the jobs that nobody else would, like climbing down into the goddamn friggin’ hold in the goddamn summer, scraping off the goddamn rotten stinking shrimp so that the goddamn inspectors wouldn’t red tag their goddamn friggin’ boat.

Tonight, Mikey would take on another job nobody else wanted. All the guys at the bar talked a good game, mostly after they were drunk, but it took somebody with real guts to do what Mikey was planning, to sneak aboard the damn gook boat and cut their nets.

Mikey wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about it afterward, except Les, because of the cops. Too bad. It would sure as hell get him a bunch of free beers. At least Les would know. He’d been the one who suggested this mission in the first place, and Mikey now would do his brother proud.

It was time. He’d waited for nearly an hour and nothing was moving. Mikey was convinced that the Cong were all sound asleep at home and no one was on the shrimper. He rose from his hiding place and crept along the floating pier until he reached the boat.

It was owned by that pushy gook bastard Minh Dang. Screw him. He wouldn’t be such a hotshot when he found his nets cut up. Mikey grinned at the prospect of Dang strolling down to his boat the next morning, then standing there, jaw open, mad as hell, hopping around and jabbering at everybody in that whiny Vietnamese singsong. Serve him right, thinking he could move in on the shrimping at Port Vic, steal jobs from the real Americans.

Catching an upright brace, Mikey hauled himself on board and made for the fantail where the nets were hung. No time to waste. He pulled a big bolt cutter from his back pocket and began to snip through the riglines and connection points for the largest net, watching with glee as it sagged and drooped.

Mikey thought that the snapping of the bolt cutter was pretty noisy in the quiet evening, but it wasn’t nearly as loud as the clack-clack of the pump shotgun behind him. Mikey turned to face a slender young Asian man whom he recognized as Dang’s nephew Bobby. The barrel of Bobby’s gun glinted in the moonlight, pointed straight at Mikey’s belt buckle. The muzzle seemed a foot in diameter.

Mikey shouted “Hey!” but Bobby didn’t reply or move or anything. He just stood there, shotgun leveled and steady.

After a few seconds of raw fear, Mikey gathered his courage. He wasn’t going to be scared by some damn gook. He was the one with plenty of real guts, after all. Mikey hollered again, then started running, angling toward the dock and waving the big cutter over his head like a club. He hoped to scoot past Bobby or knock him down and escape. The gun probably wasn’t loaded anyway.

Mikey got about two strides when the shotgun blast hit him point blank, scattering plenty of his very real guts along with fragments of his spine across the pristine deck and into the murky dockside water.

Chapter 5

Alfredo Gomez peed into the water off the stern of the shrimp boat Mariella, then zipped up and stood there a moment, watching as the churning wake of the vessel spread across the mildly rolling water. Quiet now, seas were down, the sun soon to follow. They were running late and would make the final leg of the trip in the dark. Fouled and lost nets coupled with a clogged fuel line had stalled them nearly four hours, and they were headed back to port, dog tired, a long trip behind them and a meager catch to show for it.

Alfredo’s partner Jesus Ruiz had been insisting they try a different area for weeks, and after much complaint, Alfredo finally gave in. Now he wished he hadn’t. He glanced up into the rigging at a blank spot where a net should be hanging. One of their good ones, too. Damn.

It had been a bad time from the outset. Alfredo was out late the night before, drinking too much beer at Club Diablo, trying unsuccessfully to pick up one of the barmaids. He’d scarcely laid his head on the pillow before Jesus was pounding on his apartment door, hollering that he should get his sorry butt out of bed and get moving.

Head throbbing, Alfredo reluctantly followed his partner down to his pickup truck for the jolting ride to the boat. Too hung over to argue about their destination, he’d let Jesus steer them further out than their usual shrimping grounds to try their hand at the promised bonanza this new area would bring them.

Instead it brought only merde.

First the fuel line. Alfredo had changed the filter only last week, but somehow debris made it into the system and the engine clattered to a halt, starved. They had to disconnect the line completely and blow it out twice before they could restart. Nearly two hours wasted. Then when they finally arrived at the new area and started work, more disappointment. From their first net it showed on both men’s faces. The shrimp were scrawny, thin, and mostly legs, with none of the wide fat bodies that would bring top prices. And the catch was intermixed with numerous jellyfish, making the partners spend much of their time flinging the uneatable things overboard. Even the jellyfish seemed different, misshapen, too many tentacles for their body size.

Still, Jesus was determined to prove his point and Alfredo was too much of a friend to say otherwise. They’d been partners for seven years now, and one day’s bad shrimping would not come between them. So they kept at it, crisscrossing the same waters, hauling in net after net of junk. They were running across unfamiliar seabeds, too, and often they had to stop and reverse so they could unfoul their nets after they became hung up in the seaweed. It was backbreaking work, stoop labor in the hot sun, sweating in stinking thick gloves and boots worn to protect from the jellyfish stingers. Again, merde.

Just after noon their largest net became fouled for the third time, and it was cause for considerable rounds of cursing and shouting, both at the net and at each other. They seesawed back and forth, the winch straining until the little Mariella dipped and the rigging creaked from the strain, but the net still held tight.

Then finally, progress, a bit of give. Jesus gunned the winch once more and the lines began to reel in. It was at that moment the whole boat bobbed sharply and the lines came free, quickly rising from the water to reveal that the net was no longer attached. For a moment Alfredo was sure he felt something tug briskly at the lines before letting go, but that was obviously not possible.

Had they snared a big fish, a shark maybe, it would have struggled and tried to swim off. But whatever held the net was stationary on the bottom, not moving. And nothing sitting on the seabed could be large enough jerk the rigging that much. Regardless, the outcome was the same. They were staring in disbelief at a lost net.

“You hit the winch too hard!” Alfredo accused. “It broke the lines!”

“No,” Jesus replied. “I was pulling nice and slow. They came loose all at once.”

Alfredo didn’t bother to challenge his friend. He simply swung the boom inboard and grabbed for the loose rigging to check the broken ends for telltale fraying. That would prove his point. What he found instead made him stop and shake his head. The lines were cut clean across, as if they had been severed by a sharp knife.

Which was enough for both of them, so they decided to call it quits and take their losses before any more bad fortune came their way.

Jesus turned toward Port Vic while Alfredo secured the hold and furled the remaining nets. Now it was only a matter of time before they were home.

The last arc of the sun dipped below the horizon, giving that final and surprisingly blue flash of farewell. The chug of the smoky engine was the only sound, save the discordant call of the gulls trailing behind, tracking the wake and hoping for more tidbits of dead fish and chum to be tossed overboard.

Alfredo leaned across the fantail and spit a hawking gob of tobacco juice into the churning wake, and as he did, he thought he caught a glimpse of something large gliding through the murky water, just aft of the prop wash. Tuna, maybe.

Night comes quickly on the water. Alfredo turned toward the wheelhouse and made his way forward, clicking on the running lights as he walked. There was a sudden chill in the air, and Alfredo shivered within his thin jacket. Good to get in the cabin, make some coffee. Tomorrow they would return to their old area and the catch would be better. Alfredo heard a thump on the afterdeck behind him. A piece of rigging must have come unstowed.

He turned toward the sound and then he saw it, reaching for him, pulling him in. He tried to scream but his head was already enveloped.

The rest of him soon followed, piece by piece.

In the small cabin, Jesus peered through the grimy window, then looked down to check his compass heading. The Mariella was on course and making decent time. It was a big mistake, trying the new shrimping place, and Alfredo had been right after all. Jesus reached, switched on the radio. At least they could listen to some salsa.

The door at the rear of the cabin banged open, and Jesus spoke to Alfredo standing behind him. “I’m sorry, my friend. We argued and it was my fault.” There was no reply so Jesus continued. “I know you’re angry with me. But we are friends, yes?” He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that it was not Alfredo after all.

Unlike his partner, Jesus Ruiz had time to scream.

====

[DATo]

Wow! Very nice moderntimes. As you may have read from other comments I've made on these forums I always base my critiques on two criteria: the story itself, and the style in which it is presented. You have succeeded in what I have read thus far in this composition on both counts. The first paragraph of the Prologue immediately hints at the genre and the entire Prologue is very well presented and nicely articulated.

The story is presented with vividly descriptive scenes of both the setting and characters. I can see the story playing out in my mind's eye. There is a wealth of detail, but unlike other stories in which the detail serves more as filler than necessary components of the story yours fits perfectly to garnish both the scene as well as the action. In the small cabin, Jesus peered through the grimy window, then looked down to check his compass heading. Is this sentence necessary? No. But it adds to the realism of the piece and the integrity of the presentation. Your character descriptions as well take us beneath the skins of the characters and into their personalities in a subtle yet effective manner.

Excellent effort! Well written and compelling!

[moderntimes]

Wow, thanks! I do appreciate your feedback and yes, I have tried carefully to paint the scene carefully without adding unnecessary detail.

-- 16 Feb 2016, 08:10 --

Here's the outline of my story thus far, and understand this is still in the formative stages...

Port Victory was a small fishing port established in the 1840s after Texas independence. During the Civil War it got its name when served as a landing place for supplies to the Confederacy, although there were no real conflicts fought in the area. With good harbor and a solid community, it grew and during WWI was a military base, an Army training camp nearby. Even during the Depression, PV thrived --- fresh seafood is always in demand. The Army base was enlarged in WWII and served as a supply and training depot.

After the war, things took a strange path. As you know, Hitler and his pals were obsessed with the occult. A secret research facility in Germany was captured by US troops, and the German staff surrendered. Just as we brought rocket scientists here, a covert team brought the occult researchers here too, and a special facility was built for their use on the grounds of the Port Victory army base.

During the 50s, rumors were prevalent as to strange things happening, and even the local folks who worked at the Army base weren't allowed on the special area, which was under heavy guard.

In 1962, "something happened" and there was a fire and explosion (so they said) on the Army base. All hell broke loose for a day or so, and planes full of troops were flown in to deal with the "accident" but the details were hushed up. Immediately afterward, the special research facility was closed and sealed.

Just after this, the US Navy conducted "training exercises" offshore in a certain area. Enormous amounts of depth charges, bombardment, and deep water mines were exploded for several weeks. No one was of course allowed to bring civilian ships into that area offshore. The bombardment and explosions went on and on as the "training" continued.

During the Vietnam War, parts of the special research facility were re-opened but soon closed again. In the disarming period after this war, the base was closed completely, causing a real economic crisis in the town, as many there had worked and supplied the base. But the hard working Vietnamese immigrant fishermen and shrimpers revitalized the economy, and PV is a cozy and successful fishing community to this day.

As you can understand from the Prologue, the chance earthquake released that which had been buried during the Naval bombardment. And now, things begin to happen.

At first much of the problem events are chalked up to the continuing rivalry between the Viet and "good ol' boy" shrimpers but it becomes apparent that there's something else going on.

We've got several major characters... The town marshal is a sharp, fair, and tough lawman. He was brought in as a newcomer so he'd have no allies on either side and his fine police work has lessened the conflicts. There is a middle aged female physician who retired there years ago, wanting to take a break from the big city, and she serves as the town medical examiner. She's also very smart.

The best reporter -- actually he's the only "real" reporter -- for the local PV Journal is an experienced newsman who was canned from his Dallas big time job for sexual escapades. He's stuck in this little place because they're the only ones who would hire him. He's sleeping with the wife of the deputy marshal.

And so on. Each of my characters has a "secret" and these secrets become part of the overall plot arcs.

Anyway... that's how it's going right now.

[aparsons]

Hey @moderntimes! I am so excited about this! My dungeons and dragons group got me into Lovecraft, which I am reading now, and this seems like a really fresh take on his style! I am also reminded of Stephen King's style, when the vandal was shot in that silence on the ship. It seemed really surreal, and other worldly. I can't really comment on the set up, or critique this in any way, you have way more experience than I do. I couldn't find anything wrong with it on my end, the prologue's length seems fine, it just seemed a little, I'm not sure the correct word, ornate maybe?

" We conduct our lives within a cloud of self deceit, fashioning for our emotional protection an artifice of familiar surroundings and circumstance, a barrier against the unknown. We cling to the premise that existence only consists of what we see or hear in our everyday lives, steadfastly denying those dark and hidden layers of the universe beneath.

In truth, the veneer can be brushed away in an instant to reveal primal reality, pressing us forward into the core of truth. And at the brilliance of this revelation we quickly turn aside, seeking to regain our comfortable and shadowed lives. Because we are afraid. "

These two paragraphs don't seem to match the rest of the tone of the story to me, but I guess that is the only place I struggled a little bit. I wish this was done so I could read the rest! Thank you for sharing!

[moderntimes]

Thanks. The "ornateness" of the prologue is intentional. Prologues often wax poetic. The whole thing is that this high-literary and often slightly elevated language then is immediately contrasted by Chapter 1, and this increases the starkness of that incident.

Thanks again for your fine commentary. I cut my teeth on Lovecraft and the Cthulhu Mythos when I was maybe 11 or 12 and I've loved stories of that theme always, having written a couple of Lovecraftian short stories.

Regarding that, there's a first class collection of new short stories available under the title "New Cthulhu: The Recent Weird" and it's available on Amazon, Kindle and paperback. It's superb and I highly recommend this.

[aparsons]

Thank you for your recommendation! And thank you for the information about the prologue.

[moderntimes]

Most welcome. I'll post chapters 2 and 3 in a couple days.

-- 17 Feb 2016, 12:35 --

Here are chapters 2 and 3 from my in-progress novel “Port of Blood” -- some rough language has been redacted.

Understand, if you first read ch 1 above, you can see that I start the book as a modern, factual police procedural thriller, and only introduce the supernatural elements in ch 5. This is deliberate, because there is a “real” element to the novel, genuine problems which at first mask the Lovecraftian horror, and this 2nd element slowly becomes apparent to the protagonists. This is how real people would react and my book, even if it does include supernatural horror, is realistic in its portrayal of genuine human characters and how they react the crazy ideas at first, but slowly understand, and then join forces in battle. This battle is the major thrust of this novel. It’s therefore similar in some ways to Stevie King’s “Salem’s Lot” where the vampire is at first unbelieved.

What I would appreciate is commentary on the plot thus far developed in ch 1-3 in a straightforward crime novel way. Are the characters realistic? Does the story make sense? Do I paint a good visual image? My objective is to start with a realistic crime event and introduce the fantastic elements gradually.

Oh, yeah, by the way, all my postings from the novel are Copyright © 2016 Sam Waas and all that rot.

Thanks again!
-----
Chapter 2

The shrimpers were bunched into two disparate groups along the narrow roadway to the pier, Vietnamese on one side, Anglos on the other, strips of puny crime scene tape keeping them separated for now. The mood was fragile, muttering and occasional curses and one-finger gestures passing back and forth across the narrow lane, longtime rivalries roiling from the shooting.

Port Victory Chief of Police Ed Cramer nudged his big Ford Bronco between the twin lines of anxious men, sliding slowly forward so as not to run over any protruding feet. It was tense enough without another incident to push their anger higher. Three of Cramer’s officers waved the crowd back, and Cramer brought the car to a stop, sat for a few seconds to gather his thoughts.

He could have parked a ways off and walked, but he thought that the presence of the cruiser in the middle of the crowd might better serve to hold the two groups back from one another. They’d need to climb over the hood or car’s tall body and that would give his deputies time to intervene, a situation he hoped would never come. There weren’t enough officers to fend off a mob without resorting to warning shots, and once done, that would set the pattern of escalating violence where calm was sorely needed.

Cramer glanced at his watch. Just past four am, almost time for the boats to head out on their runs. He guessed that the need for another catch of shrimp would soon overrule curiosity, and send the men off to their various vessels instead of directing them into each other’s fists.

He unfolded his six-four frame from the car, stretched, then reached back in to grab his Stetson. He set it atop his buzzcut and simply stood there, squaring his muscular shoulders, bracing like the Marine he’d been, staring out with his cold grey eyes, not making eye contact with the men behind the tape, intentionally gazing at a spot just above their heads. All part of the game, and he was good at it.

Officer Billy Brenner strolled up to Cramer, giving the crowd sidelong glances and hitching at his gunbelt. Brenner was a good cop, an honest man, but he tended to hesitate at times, and worse, betray that hesitation to the citizen. Dangerous flaw for a cop, hesitation.

“Jesus, Ed, I’m glad you’re here.” Brenner gestured with a toss of his head. “Things look like they might go into the crapper any minute.”

“Sorry I was late,” Cramer said. “Jenny and I were out at Mike Sheffield’s place. His wife’s birthday.”

Brenner nodded. “A long drive back.” He fiddled with his holster, nervously snapping and unsnapping the keeper strap around the frame of the Kimber. Cramer made a mental note to caution Brenner about it later. “So you wanna talk to the shooter?”

“In a minute. First I need to find Tran.”

“He’s down by the boat. Want me to get him?”

“Yeah.”

As Brenner strode away, Cramer looked into the men’s faces surrounding him, treating them to his patented deadeye. He didn’t want trouble and the best way to avoid it was to establish dominance from the beginning. As he made eye contact along the line, faces turned away. Both the Viets and the Anglos received equal treatment from him, and he could sense the fight drain from them as he stared them down. Many of them had tangled with him in the past, and all had regretted it.

Good. Hard liner though he was, Cramer took no innate pleasure from violence. Instead he used his size and attitude alone to intimidate. His goal was to impose order on a tough coastal fishing town, and if it could be done without busting heads, so much the better.

Billy Brenner sauntered back along the dock, Jimmy Tran in his wake. Ed Cramer made a point of hiring an ethnic Vietnamese officer, recruiting him from the Houston force with promises of an easygoing lifestyle in lieu of the big city’s crowding and pollution. And Tran had been a Godsend. He was a bright kid, good sense of humor, and he’d quickly made himself a friend with the Vietnamese community, speaking several Viet dialects fluently. No telling how much trouble he’d staved off in the three years he’d been on the force.

“Hey, boss,” Jimmy said, smiling. “Nice night for a shooting, eh?”

Ed Cramer let a small grin break on the corners of his mouth, sighed, then got down to business. “What’s your take?”

“Pretty cut and dried,” Tran said, glancing at his notepad in the light of the dockside lamps. “As you know, we’ve been having vandalism reports on both sides, tielines cut, gas tanks sugared, the usual bull. I’m guessing Mikey Boudreaux thought he’d make a run at Dang’s boat, cut his nets. Problem was, Dang’s nephew Bobby was sitting in the boat’s cabin, listening to rap-crap on his headphones but otherwise watching out. With a Mossberg twelve gauge pump. One shot, Mikey expires. No more net cutting for him.”

Cramer pushed the Stetson back on his head and nodded. He knew most of it already. When Saigon fell, thousands of Vietnamese had fled to the States. Many had been fishermen and shimpers back home so they took up the trade again, settling along the Gulf Coast from Florida through Louisiana down to Texas. Problem was, they competed head to head with the longterm residents, and that had often led to fights, sabotage, and the occasional knifing or shooting. The good ol’ boys were tough, but the Viets were just as tough and wouldn’t back down easily. Friday or Saturday nights the jail would often be full of banged up shrimpers from both clans. The fact that the Vietnamese were second or even third generation Americans made little difference to the conflict.

Such was the way modern life was often unfortunately short-circuited into a sad parody of equality and opportunity. For many here, Liberty’s promise had little concern for those entrenched in the philosophy of “my family is the only family,” especially when such ideals drift into squalor of the soul.

Now it had spilled out into a killing. Justifiable, probably. On the way over, Billy Brenner had given Ed Cramer the preliminary on his cellphone. Mikey Boudreaux had been caught dead to rights, literally. He’d been shot from the front and died instantly. According to Texas law, the Dang nephew was within his legal rights to use lethal means to defend his property from vandalism, and assuming that the investigation bore that out, he’d walk.

Not that it would solve anything. Mikey’s brother Les was a real hothead and would certainly vow revenge. He’d probably urged Mikey to do the cutting and was therefore responsible for getting his dimwit brother killed, but Les would conveniently forget that. Ed Cramer sighed again.

It was going to be a long summer.

Chapter 3

Cramer glanced around. The crowd was thinning as he’d hoped, the lure of shrimp and the money it brought overruling the enticement of a good fight.

He glanced at Jimmy Tran. “Let’s head over to the boat, okay?”

“Sure,” Tran said. He was eyeballing the remaining crowd like his boss did. They strolled together toward the end of the pier, and as they did, even more of the spectators melted away. Good.

“Witnesses?” Cramer asked.

“Nope. Folks came running when the shot was fired, but nobody saw it go down.”

“Justifiable, though?” Cramer wanted his top assistant’s opinion.

“Yeah. No reason to feel other.”

Ed Cramer knew that there was going to be more trouble regardless of how the shooting turned out. But if he could clearly establish self defense and publicize it, the facts would brunt much of the reaction, and therefore lessen the violent drunken responses that were certain to fill the local taverns for months to come. “How about Doc Zimm? She give her blessing yet?”

“Nope.” Jimmy Tran shoot his head. “She’s still at scene, checking things out.”

Cramer took a final look at the crowd. They all leaving now, and he noticed that Officer Brenner was escorting the men to their various trucks and cars, smiling at them, reassuring them, making sure they departed in peaceful fashion. Good for Billy, and Cramer filed that point away as well.

“What’s the nephew’s name again?” Cramer asked.

“Bao, Americanized to Bobby. And wouldn’t you know, the name Bao stands for protector?”

Dang’s boat was one of the larger ones along the pier but it was pretty much the same design as the others. It had a sturdy wooden hull reinforced with steel plates, high rails all round, a small cabin and wheelhouse placed a bit forward, and a center mast with twin booms extended to the rear, laden with hanging nets and winching gear. Just aft of the cabin would be a single deep hold for the catch of shrimp and occasional squid, and aft of that, the engine housing for the boat’s diesels. The entire vessel was spotlessly clean, freshly painted, and without any of the rot or crud that was endemic to most shrimpers. The owner and the crew evidently took pride in their work.

The shooter, Bao Dang—or Bobby Dang, whichever, was sitting on a forerail of the shrimp boat, smoking a cigarette. He was about nineteen and seemed fairly relaxed for someone who’d just killed a man. He was under escort by Officer Ernesto Martinez, but Bobby hadn’t been formally arrested, and probably wouldn’t be. Texas law is quite specific. You are permitted the use of lethal force to protect your property in most cases, and the events thus far described a justifiable shooting. The case would be send to a grand jury as the law required for all intentional killings, but would be proffered without charges, and Dang would not be indicted.

Chief Cramer nodded to Ernesto as he stepped on board, then walked aft toward the flashes of the camera strobe where Doctor Irene Zimmerman was examining the corpse. Ed Cramer thought she looked more frail than when he’d seen her last, and older than the late sixties he knew her to be. Cramer remembered seeing file photos of Doc Zimm when she first set up practice in Port Vic. Then she’d been a cheerful, bouncy, and quite corpulent young woman, highly skilled medically but also possessing a winning bedside presence. Despite the small town prejudice against female physicians, she’d won everyone over and become a stalwart member of the small community. Never married, there had been the usual gossip about her sexual orientation but she weathered that conflict, too. In recent years she’s persevered against her waistline and lost an enormous amount of weight. But now she looked too thin.

Doc Zimm was bent over the corpse, helping the photographer select the correct angles for the shots. One of the morgue attendants, Joe Winton, was also there, smoking a cigarette and pacing. He held a big zip bag and was eager to stuff Mikey inside it and get back to his morning coffee. Well, he’d have to wait.

“What you got for us, Doc?”

Zimmerman glanced up and sighed theatrically. “One thoroughly deceased young man,” she replied, gesturing toward the body. Mikey Boudreaux lay on his back, eyes half open and now dull with that curious shrunken gaze that always accompanies violent death. There was a massive bloody wound in his chest, tissue and blood and clothing all splattered around it.

“Any idea as to the cause of death?” Cramer asked.

Zimmerman chuckled at the dark cop humor. She raised up from her deep squat with a grunt, peeled off disposable gloves and dropped them onto a plastic sheet by the body, then ran her fingers through her short cropped silvery hair. “I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but in my considered medical opinion, I’d say heart failure.”

“Caused by?” Cramer couldn’t resist a smile.

“Caused by the lack of one. His is in the bay.”
-----

[abowen]

I liked this. It is my favorite genre. It kept you interested.

[moderntimes]

Thanks. Later in the novel, the supernatural elements begin to appear, and it is of course a while before these rational people persuade themselves that the world is not how they picture it to be.

[aparsons]

I do think your writing is easy to visualize. I am a very visual person, and if I can't see it in my head, it's harder to understand and connect with. I loved the cause of death in your most recent chapter. It made me chuckle, and if it seems a little stereotypical dark cop humor, stereotypes are based on real things, right? It amused me at least. I am interested in the rest of the book once it's done, especially since I'm a huge King fan and just finished my first Lovecraft short story collection.

[moderntimes]

Well, of course, thanks. Tentative title for the book is "Port of Blood" which is of course deliberately over the top.

I can guarantee you that "gallows humor" is a real thing, and can get pretty rancid among cops, doctors (especially hospital staff, most specially pathologists), military, and other professions where real death is seen on a fairly regular basis.

The general story progression, as I said, is to start with a conventional conflict between immigrant Viet shrimpers vs the Texas "good ol' boys" and then slowly introduce the supernatural / horror theme, and so the "truth" of this horror is slowly realized by the protagonists, who then join forces to defeat the evil.

[KBrown]

I really like your writing style. I think descriptions are your strongest quality as a writer. You paint a beautiful picture using unique metaphors that I haven't heard before.

I think you describe the boat enough but could add how the boat/ water makes your characters feel. Do they feel like this boat is home?

I would also make your last sentence of your prologue pack more punch. Give a hint of the horror to come to make me want to keep reading.

Good luck and thank you for sharing!

[gali]

A pity moderntimes passed away before finishing this story. RIP!

[DATo]

@gali - In a manner of speaking all human lives are unfinished stories. But as Robert Lewis Stevenson once said, "To travel with hope is a better thing than to arrive, and true success lies in the labor." moderntimes life too was such an unfinished story, but of the story he left behind one can only marvel.

In his own words:

I'm blessed (cursed) with that ol' dual brain hemisphere mentality (and of course the left/right brain thing isn't nearly as clearcut as common folk belief tells us). I started off pre-med with aspirations to be a pathologist, migrated into chemistry w. math & bio minors, and then being a wastrel student, took a 2nd major in Eng lit, specializing in James Joyce. Worked for years in polymer physics research for a big oil firm, transitioned into computer programming (Fortran and later C++) and then wrote high-level analytical software which predicted polymer behavior. Went to work for a structural engineering firm and wrote programs which analyzed & designed high-rise building structures (both steel & concrete) such as hotels, stadiums, skyscrapers, etc. Then did computer analysis for printed circuit & computer chip design (a black art, really), was then product manager for an international engineering design software & hardware firm which sold all over the world, knew Unix and such very well. Finally transitioned into offshore engineering design, programmed and managed products for offshore exploration (drilling rigs, drill ships, etc). Finished my career as a consultant for offshore exploration & production engineering specifications, document analysis & tech documentation management. Whew.

But also worked for a newspaper part time as a stringer, wrote short stories and essays and articles, sold most of them, always kept my hand in the literary side of life too. Voracious reader in both literature, science, technology, plus military history and my particular interest in Imperial Roman history. Arts too-- I'm a classically trained bass-baritone, sang opera (the real thing, sets, costumes, makeup, singing in Italian, German, French, etc) as well as chorales. Double whew.

I agree therefore, finding many people formally educated and working in science, technology, as well in other "suit & tie" professions who find a second life in the arts.

I owe my cross-pollenization lifestyle to my parents, who never tried to push me into a particular thing but instead just buoyed my love for reading and learning.

I think that most any fairly bright person is capable of the same sort of thing. People often pigeonhole themselves due to familial and corporate mentality and never think it's possible to branch out. As you get older, it can become more evident that these things are actually possible, which is why we see so many middle-age people either frustrated, or changing careers. I think that a focus on a broad education helps young people in exploring all sorts of options for career and lifestyle, and that a good liberal arts (with bilateral interest in science) is a plus.

moderntimes life was not simply an unfinished story ..... it was an unfinished epic.

[gali]

@gali - In a manner of speaking all human lives are unfinished stories. But as Robert Lewis Stevenson once said, "To travel with hope is a better thing than to arrive, and true success lies in the labor." moderntimes life too was such an unfinished story, but of the story he left behind one can only marvel.

In his own words:

I'm blessed (cursed) with that ol' dual brain hemisphere mentality (and of course the left/right brain thing isn't nearly as clearcut as common folk belief tells us). I started off pre-med with aspirations to be a pathologist, migrated into chemistry w. math & bio minors, and then being a wastrel student, took a 2nd major in Eng lit, specializing in James Joyce. Worked for years in polymer physics research for a big oil firm, transitioned into computer programming (Fortran and later C++) and then wrote high-level analytical software which predicted polymer behavior. Went to work for a structural engineering firm and wrote programs which analyzed & designed high-rise building structures (both steel & concrete) such as hotels, stadiums, skyscrapers, etc. Then did computer analysis for printed circuit & computer chip design (a black art, really), was then product manager for an international engineering design software & hardware firm which sold all over the world, knew Unix and such very well. Finally transitioned into offshore engineering design, programmed and managed products for offshore exploration (drilling rigs, drill ships, etc). Finished my career as a consultant for offshore exploration & production engineering specifications, document analysis & tech documentation management. Whew.

But also worked for a newspaper part time as a stringer, wrote short stories and essays and articles, sold most of them, always kept my hand in the literary side of life too. Voracious reader in both literature, science, technology, plus military history and my particular interest in Imperial Roman history. Arts too-- I'm a classically trained bass-baritone, sang opera (the real thing, sets, costumes, makeup, singing in Italian, German, French, etc) as well as chorales. Double whew.

I agree therefore, finding many people formally educated and working in science, technology, as well in other "suit & tie" professions who find a second life in the arts.

I owe my cross-pollenization lifestyle to my parents, who never tried to push me into a particular thing but instead just buoyed my love for reading and learning.

I think that most any fairly bright person is capable of the same sort of thing. People often pigeonhole themselves due to familial and corporate mentality and never think it's possible to branch out. As you get older, it can become more evident that these things are actually possible, which is why we see so many middle-age people either frustrated, or changing careers. I think that a focus on a broad education helps young people in exploring all sorts of options for career and lifestyle, and that a good liberal arts (with bilateral interest in science) is a plus.

moderntimes life was not simply an unfinished story ..... it was an unfinished epic.