Horror From Below Read online

  Brant shook her head and clenched her jaw as she scrutinized the crime scene. “This can’t be connected with our other vic—this body looks like it’s been rotting in the ocean for God knows how long.”

  Hadden bit her lip as she encircled the body, her head bobbing up and down before glancing out at the ocean.

  “What is it?” said Brant.

  “Nothing, this just reminds me of a book I once read, minus the Japanese accoutrements.”

  “Do I even want to know what you read for pleasure in your free time?” chuckled Emerson.

  “Are you kidding me? Hadden doesn’t read books,” said Halsey. “She only reads the crime stats on her lunch breaks like other people study the stock market.”

  “Better than the Hardy Boys books you read, hoping to understand investigative procedures,” Hadden said, causing Halsey’s smile to fade while the others turned away to hide their laughs.

  “How is this connected to the book you’re talking about?” said Brant.

  “It was a horror story based around these well-preserved bodies kept in an underwater lab at the bottom of the ocean that get washed ashore after a typhoon destroys the facility. It was written by a local author, James Archer, and had a ton of realistic science in it. He’s that guy who does all those zombie books and is headlining the big Horror-Con event at the Embassy Hotel this weekend.”

  Brant squinted her eyes. “Archer—that name rings a bell. Wasn’t his father on the board of trustees for the hospital several years ago?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. He died in a plane crash overseas about ten years back,” said Hadden.

  The coroner returned her attention to the corpse, squatting down and brushing away the flies while examining the mangled neck region, prodding her gloved index finger into the yielding flesh. “There are wood splinters in this tissue similar to what was under the other vic’s fingernails.” She moved down to the waist, where part of the midsection was exposed. Hadden lifted up a corner flap of the uniform and studied the rotting epidermis, which was covered in small barnacles, as if they were woven into the fabric. “Crimony—how long has this guy been in the water?”

  Brant moved closer, inching up to the round bronze medals while waving away a centipede. She pulled her head back abruptly as her eyes went wide, glancing down at the stamped date.

  “What is it?” said Halsey.

  Brant’s mouth went dry as she stroked the metal with her gloved finger then looked back up at the others. “The date—it reads 1942.”

  Chapter 2

  “Welcome to this year’s Horror-Con Festival,” said the bald-headed announcer on the podium at the Embassy in downtown San Diego. Over nine hundred people stood before the stage, the atmosphere charged with excitement. Most were dressed in attire apropos to the event: ghouls, vampires, werewolves, crazed elves, witches, superheroes, ghosts, skeletons, killer clowns, and, of course, zombies, which comprised a third of the crowd.

  “We have a record enrollment this year, with over one hundred and thirty thousand people due in attendance over the next five days. This is the epi-center of the horror world—from demons to zombies and serial killers, we have it all. In addition to our usual exhibition area with vendors and author signings, we have a masquerade party tomorrow night and a graphic film festival in the afternoon.”

  The man stepped around the podium and raised his left hand towards the red velvet curtain at stage-left. “But you didn’t come here to listen to me. Please welcome our keynote speaker— winner of seven Butcher Awards, an international bestselling author, the master of dread, and my good friend—James Archer.”

  The crowd broke out in applause as a man in a finely tailored Italian suit walked out on stage, mimicking a zombie shuffle for a second then smiling and trotting up to the speaker. The two men exchanged hugs and then James moved up to the podium, nodding at the bellowing audience. His blue silk shirt was partly unbuttoned, and he ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. A legion of young female fans was screaming at him from the front row as a line of security guards gleefully served as their wave break. Archer eagerly smiled at the crowd, his grin nearly extending to his ears. Out of all the book signings, TV interviews, and horror conferences that his agent arranged for him to attend, Horror-Con was his favorite, partly because of the raw energy and sheer numbers of his fans that flew in from around the world, but also because it was in his favorite city—his hometown. And the media, businesses, and mayor all reminded him that he was their favorite son, especially when attendance at the event soared to record numbers like it did this year.

  “Thank you for that devilishly warm welcome.” His smile quickly faded to a stern face as he lowered his voice while widening his eyes. “I have to tell you that my jet-lag after returning last night from a London book festival has suddenly been replaced with a wave of energy, as if the forces of darkness emanating from within this room have engulfed my soul, unleashing a maleficent storm of such monstrous proportions that it could lay waste to any army of undead that might visit its wrath upon this city.” He leapt off the stage, clutching his microphone, then landed in a fighter’s stance beside a young woman, who shrieked, then giggled. He swept his gaze upon the audience, his volume increasing. “And you, my dark denizens, shall fight alongside me as we take back these shores from the evil wrath on our doorstep.” He swung his head from side to side, narrowing his eyes as the crowd stood frozen in silence. Then he flung his shoulders back, letting out a wicked grin that nearly filled his face. “And one more thing…” Archer flung his right hand in the air like a symphony conductor while screaming into the microphone, “Welcome to this year’s Horror-Con.”

  The crowd erupted in raucous cheers and applause as Archer was lifted off his feet by the fans in the first row. He waved off the security guards as he was carried along through a parting throng of admirers to the exit doors. This never gets old, he thought as he was whisked into the hallway and into the flashing cameras of gawking journalists.

  ****

  After he’d finished administering colorfully rehearsed sound-bites to the reporters in the central courtyard, Archer scampered down to the main floor for a two-hour book signing for exclusive fans, who were mostly fluty-voiced college girls. The majority of them were followers of his fifth series, The Hungry Ones, which represented his extremely successful trilogy of books chronicling a young lawyer who is bitten simultaneously by both a vampire and a zombie, becoming a hybrid with abilities in both realms of horror while maintaining his successful legal practice. The series broke new ground and shook up the horror world, not to mention catapulting Archer back into the limelight. However, his fortune and considerable fame had largely been made through his ongoing series of zombie-mystery novels, featuring rugged action hero Mitch Riker.

  Archer had his right arm casually resting on the edge of the faux-walnut table as he finished shaking the hand of another female fan whose book he had just inscribed. As she ambled away, he couldn’t help but notice the sleek figure of a thirty-something woman in a tan trench coat slowly sauntering through the crowd before his vision was obscured by the next buxom woman in line. Her cleavage nearly spilled out of her low-cut vampire dress as she leaned forward to hand him a book.

  “So, that part where you, ya know, have Mitch rescue those female scientists from the zombies attacking the CDC.” The woman paused, taking in a deep breath while blinking slowly. “That was totally rad.” She clutched the book tighter, pulling it into her chest. “Oh my God, who do you think should play Mitch Riker when your books finally get made into films next year?”

  He extended his hand forward, motioning for the book while he glanced at her buttery smooth skin. “Well, I’ve always seen Mitch as an extension of myself, of course, so I’d have to go with Chris Pine or maybe Ryan Reynolds for the protagonist.”

  “Oh, yeah, totally—they would be so cool.” She fluttered her eyelids. “What’s a protagonist?”

  He scribbled his name without looking, his gaze drifti
ng beyond the vapid figure before him as he saw the woman in the trench coat appear again along the wall to the right as she meandered past a group of men dressed as werewolves. He lost the woman in the crowd as the next fan filled his vision, the wings of her wasp outfit nearly covering the entire table. As he reached out for her book, he noticed movement to his immediate left and turned to see the bright eyes and athletic figure of the trench-coated woman. She was flanked by two men who looked like they had stepped out of the suit section of a Kohl’s ad.

  “James Archer,” she said, holding up a badge. “Detective Lindsey Brant with the San Diego Police Department. Can we have a word?”

  “Of course,” he said, swiveling his chair toward her with a puzzled look while waving his hand at his fans. “But these ladies are all over eighteen. I don’t know what you heard about what happened at last year’s show, but there’s nothing illegal going on here.”

  Brant looked at the scantily clad brunette in her high heels and wasp costume then back at her colleagues, whose eyes had shifted to the long line of provocatively dressed women. “Mr. Archer, can you come with us? We could use a less distracting setting.”

  Archer stood up and quickly signed his name in the outthrust book before him, then stood on his toes and yelled out to the eager fans that snaked down the hallway, “I’ll be back later, so come see me then.” He whispered over his shoulder at the crowd, pointing to the three detectives waiting impatiently, “Apparently, the police need my help solving a case.”

  Brant’s cheek muscles tightened, and she clenched the badge in her hand. “Mr. Archer, I’d like to have that conversation now.”

  “Right…right,” he said, trying to pull his eyes away from his enthusiastic crowd. He reluctantly grabbed his leather shoulder bag off the floor and waved to his disappointed fans, following behind Brant and the two men as they made their way to a small conference room at the end of the hallway.

  Upon entering, she motioned for him to sit at the table in the middle, and she took up a position opposite him while the two detectives flanked her like Greek statues. Archer sat down and then abruptly stood back up, reaching across the table and offering his hand to Emerson.

  “Hi, I’m James Archer, but you can call me Jim.” Then he did the same to Halsey, who thinly returned the gesture.

  Archer grinned, then adjusted the sleeve of his suit. “Yeah, you’re real men, with handshakes like that. Outstanding—I always like to know who I’m dealing with.” He sat down again, leaning the chair back while looking at Brant. “So, the San Diego PD, eh? I used to play racquetball with the chief of police there, Eddie Napalme. It’s been a few years—he still running the show?”

  Emerson shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, sure—you know Chief Napalme? Not likely. Can you believe this guy? He’s a storyteller alright.”

  Archer blew air through his mouth, ruffling his lips, and began to speak but was cut off by Brant.

  “Mr. Archer, can you sit still and be quiet long enough for us to talk or do I need to come back after your bimbo-induced caffeine rush has worn off?”

  Archer leaned forward and crossed his arms, staring at Brant and then at the stern faces of the men. “Uh, yeah, we can talk, sure. I’ve worked plenty of times as a consultant for different police departments, and I’m always happy to help. What’s this about?”

  “I don’t need a consultant—just a few answers.” She opened a manila folder and removed several color photographs, sliding them towards him. “This is from a crime scene on the beach, taken this morning near Point Loma. It’s strictly confidential.”

  “Geez, you guys still use print photos? Don’t you carry Smartphones?” He saw the irritated look on Brant’s face and lowered his eyes towards the photos. The first one showed the body of the mauled fisherman while the second was of the headless corpse. Archer grimaced, narrowing his eyes. “Eek, these are not what I was expecting to see tonight. I thought you were going to show me photos of some surfer brawl gone bad.” He pulled the picture up closer to his face, scanning the uniform and medals on the latter picture. “Is this guy Japanese? Oh, man, that’s cool. Those medals remind of some that I saw in a museum in Tokyo a few years ago where I was doing research for my fourth book in the Zombies vs. Godzilla series. Cool premise—about this old warlord who gets bit by an infected geisha and then summons…”

  Brant loudly cleared her throat while rolling her eyes. “We believe that to be from a Japanese sailor, though autopsy results won’t be in for some time.”

  He put the photos back on the table except one, sliding them back towards her. “Whew, I gotta make a copy of this dude,” he said, taking out his Smartphone and activating the camera. “This would be a big hit with my fans.”

  “Confidential, remember!” She quickly grabbed the photo and his phone from his hands, slamming them down on the table. “This isn’t a graphic novel or one of your horror books, Mr. Archer. We’ve got two bodies that washed up on the beach and no answers. This is a murder investigation, and it just so happens that it resembles something out of one of your books, Their Flesh Withers.”

  “You mean my first Mitch Riker book, where he finds that decapitated zombie off the coast of Belize and has to stop the demented scientist on Cannibal Island from creating an army of undead guerillas so he can stage a coup?”

  The two men gave incredulous looks at Archer, not even attempting to contain their smirks. “God, you really make a livin’ writing that shit?” said Emerson.

  “Well, is it really a ‘living’ if he’s making up stories about the undead?” said Halsey with a smirk.

  Archer glanced at the photo again, spinning it around on the table. “Yeah, I can see where you’re coming from with that observation.” His eyes narrowed then darted back up at Brant. “Wait a minute…you’ve read that book of mine? That’s been out of print for years—only my most rabid fans even know about Their Flesh Withers and the follow-up, Masters of Evisceration.”

  “My coroner is the one who tipped me off on your work, and I glanced at a copy of hers before heading over here. She suggested talking with you.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Look, Mr. Archer, I’ve just spent the day in the sun slogging around the beaches, trying to turn up clues while being assaulted by every biting insect in California, so I’m getting impatient, and my precinct, unlike the good ole days, doesn’t allow us to slap around our subjects anymore, so just answer the question.”

  “We’ll look the other way, boss,” said Halsey with a grin. “That pretty-boy face hasn’t ever been touched before except by creamy lotions, so you could get him to spill his beans by just raising your hand.”

  Archer’s expression went flat, and he reached out for the photos, spreading them beside each other. “In my book, the zombies had been submerged underwater for decades by the nefarious scientist to see how long they would remain intact and functional despite the extreme deprivation.” He hesitated and then looked up at her. “As you might know from reading the bio of any of my three-dozen other books, I, unlike other horror authors, had two parents who were physicians, so I had a wealth of practical experience to draw upon for my writing, in addition to having access to some of the best scientific minds in the world for collecting my material. For that particular book, Their Flesh Withers, my father’s later work in cryogenetics provided me with the information around which the story was based.”

  “And what did you discover—or rather your late father?” said Brant, folding her arms.

  “Well, there’s a fine line between science and science fiction, and we writers like to straddle that threshold to invent alternate but potentially plausible realities. Dad found that if a recently deceased corpse was placed in a refrigerated aquatic environment that was lacking ultraviolet sunlight, had a high alkalinity, and was in the range of 38–44 degrees Fahrenheit, flesh decomposition would be greatly reduced, even over many years. He conducted his research off the coast of the Philippines using medical cadavers, but his work was sound and was criti
cal to my understanding of the decomposition process.” He looked up at the two incredulous men. “My father was hoping to use this data in helping to preserve the bodies of terminally ill patients who were beyond immediate help. He was a scientist, and his approach took a very different direction from the pseudo-science quacks selling life extension formulas and cryo-freeze chambers.”

  Archer paused and slid all the photos back towards her, noticing a long scar on the back of her left hand as she reached forward. He looked up at the two men, whose expressions had changed from stolid to inquisitive.

  “The science is such that there are only a few places in the world’s oceans where those perfect conditions exist in the ideal combination, but…” he chuckled, puffing out his chest, “my readers don’t care about that. They just want a skilled, manly guy who can plow through an army of undead and save the world.”

  “And some busty co-eds without a brain that need rescuing—not much different than the zombies themselves,” Brant said.

  “That was just in my first book series, when I was a fledgling, albeit more hormonally driven writer,” he said, clearing his throat. “The women in my other books are tough and resourceful, as well as quite lovely.” He dragged the last word out, glancing at her tan neckline.