The fuel dock came into view at the far end, exactly where he said it would be. An old, rusted crank pump sat at the end of the dock beside a faded sign: SELF-SERVICE FUEL. The paint peeling, the metal stained orange with corrosion.
Jeff steered alongside, his hands quick and practiced, every movement controlled.
“Alright,” he said softly. “Fast and quiet.”
Callan grabbed the dock piling and hauled himself up, a sharp breath escaping through his teeth as his injured foot hit the planks.
I jumped out beside him immediately.
Jeff and Ethan followed close behind.
The dock creaked beneath our weight, each groan of the wood too loud in the silence. The marina stretched around us—long, narrow lanes of floating docks and boats, too many blind corners, and way too many shadows. But the water on either side offered some comfort. Those things didn’t seemto swim. We only needed to worry about the dock ahead.
One way in. One way out.
Callan shoved the pump nozzle into the fuel intake on the Mariner and gripped the crank handle.
“Here goes nothing.”
He turned it.
The pump shrieked, like nails on a chalkboard, a rusted metallic scream that shot across the still water and echoed off everything in the marina.
We all froze.
“Shit,” Ethan whispered.
Callan didn’t stop; he kept cranking. The pump groaned and squealed with every rotation, broadcasting our position to anything within a half-mile.
CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.
Jeff and I moved into position ahead of him on the dock, gaff hooks raised. The long wooden handles gave us reach. The steel hooks at the end curved to wicked points, designed to punch through the jaws of hundred-pound tuna.
They’d have to do for this job; the wind carried salt and diesel fumes across the dock.
And then—
A faint sound. Low, guttural, a moan that didn’t come from the distance but close, way too close.
From the dock to our left, a figure stumbled into view between two boats. It moved chaotically—lurching, stiff. Gray skin hung loose from its face. Its eyes sat deep in hollow sockets, clouded over, locked onto nothing and everything at once.
“Get ready, don’t let them bite you,” Jeff growled.
The corpse dragged itself toward us, arms outstretched,fingers blackened and curled. A low, gurgling rattle came from its open throat.
Behind us, Callan kept pumping.
CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.
“Don’t stop,” Jeff said, his voice steady.
More movement from deeper in the slips, another shape between the boats. Then another. They moved forward, slow at first, drawn by the rhythmic clang of the pump like moths to a flame.
“Shit,” Ethan breathed.
Jeff stepped forward and swung; the gaff hook arced hard and fast, the steel point jamming through the side of the first corpse’s throat with a wet, sucking sound. The hook sank deep, catching on vertebrae, and a spray of dark, clotted blood splattered across the dock planks — black, thick as motor oil. Jeff wrenched the hook sideways, and the thing’s neck tore open in a ragged flap of gray skin and ropy tendons. He shoved forward with the handle and drove the body off the dock’s edge. It hit the water with a loud splash and sank.
The second one stumbled toward me.