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  REEK

  By Bradley Freeman

  Text copyright 2014 Brad Freeman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

  This is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Lyrics within this book are from 'As Good As It Gets' by The Feelers.

  All rights remain with the copyright holders.

  http://www.thefeelers.co.nz

  Cover by Matthew Moss

  http://matthewmoss.com

  Bradley's Official Website:

  www.freemanbradley.com

  Also from the Author

  Momo & Matsu

  Punchline

  For Glenda

  Thank you for the steady diet of horror films growing up.

  The slashers, the mysteries and of course, the one with the robot shark.

  I couldn't have wished for better, thanks Mom.

  This one is for you.

  CONTENTS

  REEK

  Front Matter

  Also from the Author

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  The Smell

  Meat

  The Five Stages of Decomposition

  Stage One: Fresh

  00:00:00:00

  00:20:00:12

  00:50:00:01

  01:40:00:10

  02:05:00:13

  02:59:00:09

  Henare

  03:14:00:02

  God

  03:46:00:15

  Stage Two: Bloat

  The Portable Station

  05:51:22:03

  06:21:32:11

  06:52:14:01

  07:27:49:03

  07:33:14:05

  07:39:22:22

  07:54:00:19

  08:35:11:20

  08:39:10:21

  08:43:32:11

  08:48:58:09

  08:52:02:20

  08:57:59:05

  Stage Three: Active

  08:59:57:22

  09:02:14:11

  09:41:54:22

  09:50:01:03

  09:59:59:24

  10:01:01:01

  10:03:46:11

  10:05:46:19

  Pie

  10:14:40:20

  10:20:19:11

  10:33:14:12

  10:35:57:11

  The Captain

  Stage Four: Advanced Decay

  11:04:12:02

  11:11:58:20

  11:16:15:11

  11:25:44:01

  11:42:36:18

  11:44:46:10

  11:47:11:03

  11:49:00:16

  11:54:26:12

  11:57:48:18

  11:58:14:20

  11:59:46:23

  12:00:00:00

  12:00:17:00

  12:10:04:--

  12:11:?-:--

  12:3#:--:--

  1!:--:--:--

  The Boat

  &-:--:--

  Stage Five: Dry/ Remains

  --:0-:--:!- error: undefined timecode

  -#:--:--:0- error: undefined timecode

  --:-&:%-:-- error: undefined timecode

  !-:--:--:99 error: undefined timecode

  The Island

  -:-Z:1#:-- error: undefined timecode

  -/:-*:--:-- error: undefined timecode

  --:-!:+-:a- error: undefined timecode

  -`:-+:*-:|- error: undefined timecode

  --:--:--:-- error: end of timecode

  Much Later

  AFTERTHOUGHTS

  MUSIC

  THE AUTHOR

  自業自得

  [じごうじとく, Jigou jitoku]

  You reap what you sow

  The Smell

  The stench reached out across the land.

  An invisible cloud; wispy hands spreading out over the water, suffocating nearby bays in a thick, rank odor. Once inside your nostrils the smell never left; an image etching itself onto your retinas, burrowing its way to your brain. Never forgotten, just waiting for a slight whiff to bring it all back.

  From the start, the fisherman in the area had no trouble realizing the reek for what it was. They were experienced. Likewise, the slow influx of soldiers coming back from war. They knew it too, old bedfellows by now.

  Pull up a chair, buddy.

  Funny thing about a stink is that there is only so long you can put it off; smells have a way of getting in deep, the olfactory version of dirt under fingernails. The country was picking itself up off the ground after the war, attentions were focused elsewhere. A perfectly irrefutable excuse for a perfectly innocuous harbor. No matter, though. People working in an abattoir will tell you straight: a reek cannot be ignored forever. A reek will tickle you, catch you unaware; bring you crashing down during your high points.

  Yes, still here, buddy. Not going away.

  The harbor of Lyttelton could bear it no longer. Each town around the port laid a formal complaint with the district council. With reports and claims stacked head high, a plan was put into action. Unlike most civil complaints, no one grumbled about why something was only being done now. The reasons why it had taken so long to act. They knew. The fathers, the mothers, the children.

  Going over there was out of the question.

  The island had been in a state of lockdown for years, though the exact number people were fuzzy on. Nobody knew what went on over there. Most people did their best not to think about it, as though the whole place wasn't sitting just outside the harbor itself. But then the reek came and so things began to move forward, long before the realization that some things are best left alone. Long before Death moved in next door.

  In the days leading up to the expedition–official name along the lines of 'Conservation Research Trip'–local newspapers stirred up a small throb of interest and excitement. For the country, the entire district was best forgotten, much like the island itself. But for the locals of Lyttelton, everyone couldn't help but wonder.

  “What's been going on over there?” they had whispered in bars, at the dinner table, in church. “Two decades at least, I reckon.” “Is anyone still alive?” “What do you think they look like now, eh?” “Hang on, wasn't there some sorta rumor about a priest going mad over there?”

  Days passed since the expedition's departure. More than needed. Then a week. Another one. No sign. As if in reply, the smell returned in their place.

  Still here, buddy, still here. Thanks for the surplus.

  The Reek. With the hollow sensation that a lack of answers provides, the stench seemed worse. Heavier, richer. Humans are nothing if not stubborn little animals. Jesus was destroyed, the secrets that science kept clutched to its bosom almost at hand. Men felt they were masters of all.

  They would send more people, this time a bigger group. Safety In Numbers; humanity's oldest mantra, aside from: Kill it, Eat it. I
magine the frustration when again, no one returned. Even a few brave locals, driven by the loss of family members did not come back. The island was a black hole. Take, take, take. You would think this would spur people on, the malaise climbing the government ladder. Ah, but you forgot.

  The smell.

  Anyone venturing into the district understood it like a strike across the face; the raw sensation of the attack enough to stop the most ardent of fighters. The stench made it all too clear.

  If man had learned another mantra after the war, it would be: Leave Well Enough Alone.

  The country was tired, the locals reporting the stink had become intermittent. People wanted to forget; they wished it so and aren't wishes the most powerful force? Especially a community, all wishing and hoping together. The district needed to move on, as did the country. Yes, people wished, and their dreams came true.

  The 'accidents', the island, and in a good year, the smell too fell out of memory. Buildings sprung up around the harbor, blotting Pokere Island from view. Ships began taking the long way around. Locals deflected questions from nature-loving tourists.

  “What island?” they would say, the reaction down to a fine art. “Eh? Nah, it's nothing to write home about. Better to visit Kaikoura, no? Hear you can see some whales.”

  That was that. Generations grew up knowing to steer clear of over there.

  As Lyttelton moved on, Pokere Island fell into shadow. Left to the obscurity of time and rumor.

  The island waited, as evil does. Waited, and wished.

  Still here, buddy.

  Meat

  Blood. Blood. Blood. It pulsed in his veins; pure, thick vessels that shot red life throughout his body, propelling him forward.

  His back stung; sharp, deep tingles. Something flapped, loose and wet. The body is a strange thing, telling you something is wrong; letting you know that it feels different from all the years and days it has been servicing you but until you see the change and feel it with your fingers, there is no way of knowing how bad the new status quo is.

  If he could see his back, take in the shredded meat, he would faint there and then, defenseless.

  He was the last of the team. Jules, Mic, Gazza, Reg. All gone. Sent to map and photograph, of all things. Thanks, Google. He was the only one left, Donald. The only one with the key to the boat.

  He ran down a hallway–the place felt like one giant, long hallway–dust puffing around his feet; little clouds billowing out as his soles landed against the wood. He knew they should never have come here, though it didn't matter much to the team themselves. Regret was for the living.

  It had been decades. People hadn't just forgotten, they had all migrated past forgotten a long time back. Even him. The team had been bullish, laughing at the people who had gone before, scoffing. World War Two junk.

  “Hysteria built upon public misinformation,” Mic had said. Mic, the guy with the patchy beard. Clumps of ginger hair dotted about his face. The last time Donald had seen him, something had torn Mic's nose clean off. Jules had screamed so much back then. That was before everything went quiet. Until the chewing noises started.

  Donald's breath raked his lungs, he felt as though he was a gasp away from a heart attack. The double doors were ahead of him. Those horrible doors. He could see faint traces of light bleeding through the murky windows. Sunrise, finally.

  Thank fucking Christ!

  A noise from behind. That noise. It had been following him ever since he got here. Since he opened those damned double doors. He skidded, his feet sliding as he spun to look behind.

  The hallway stretched out, black and heavy, as though the air itself was trying to choke the life from him. He could see his footprints in the dust, clear as day. Only one set, his.

  That noise, he heard it again. He had described it to Gazza like someone mopping the floor; a disgusting kind of slopping noise with no real rhythm. Gazza had laughed it off. Damnedest thing though, the noise always sounded like it was getting closer. Coming towards him. Right now, it sounded near, like it was right on him. Reaching for him.

  “Fuck this,” he said.

  A smell shot up his nostrils as he sucked in a huge gasp, ready to run. It reeked of dead things, decay and horror hitting him like a punch; hard and immediate. Vomit surged up his throat, spilling out onto the floor. In his panic he grabbed at his mouth, coating his chest and shoes in hot puke. He tried to breathe through his mouth as the others had. His throat burned, small chunks of food lodged midway. Staggering, he moved towards the double doors. His hand closed around the handle, the rust coarse against his palm. He felt dizzy, had to breathe, the run alone had sent him out of breath. He tried to draw in a small amount of oxygen through his nose, just a little. The odor was heavier than before, like a fog surrounding him; rot and maggots. He looked back down the hallway, out across the foyer.

  Nothing. No footprints save his own. Nobody.

  In the back of his mind, he realized Reg's body was gone. It had been here when he took off, away from the screaming. Away from them. He puked again now, spattering the door handle, his bile steaming off his hands. His head swimming, he pulled. The door groaned against his efforts, starting to open.

  Thank Go-

  Something had him by the head. Something cold.

  He looked up, instantly wishing he had kept pulling at the doors.

  They were all there. On the ceiling.

  Pulling him up.

  He screamed, spittle and vomit running into his beard. Hands closed around him, digging into his skin. He resisted, trying to pry the fingers loose from his neck. He felt something give, a tension slackening. As he yanked with the power of terror and adrenaline, his hands flew outwards, a clump of mottled fingers coming away with him. He felt a sharp tug as his arms fell to his sides, his body screaming at him that something bad was happening. Another pull as the most intense pain he had ever felt exploded down his back and neck. He started to convulse as they pulled him up. Something spilled out of his mouth. Hands swarmed around his back and head. With one last tug, he heard a ripping noise. Blood fell to the floor, spraying out across the foyer. Something else tore open with a slurp, heavy suction holding tight as it came loose. He had the momentary feeling of cold air rushing inside him, then watched as his body spilled away from him, crashing to the floor below.

  As they bit down into his skull, he watched his spine twitching underneath his chin. A noise like nuts being broken open, something mashed into his brain, and then he was gone.

  The Five Stages of Decomposition

  Stage One: Fresh

  00:00:00:00

  Kojima felt a maddening urge to jump up onto the hefty, lacquered wooden table and take a shit right on the shiny surface in front of them.

  They looked at him like he was diseased. According to the trade papers, he was. Someone had emailed him an article, one of those damned 'Top Five Reasons Why' things. He hadn't read it based on the title alone: TOP FIVE REASONS WHY SHIGEYUKI KOJIMA'S BEST FILMS ARE BEHIND HIM.

  Probably one of these pricks in front of me who sent it in the first place, Kojima thought.

  They sat across from him; a line of suits kept at a professional distance by the huge slab of table. He wondered what it would feel like to have his hands around their necks, their skin bunched up under his thumb. Squeezing until something popped and cracked.

  Bastards. They have no idea, no damned respect!

  An intake of breath over to his right. It was about to begin.

  “It goes without saying, Mr. Kojima, that we are all huge fans of your work,” a thin man said in a suit two sizes too big. “You were robbed of the prestige award. That last film of yours, Yokai, should have won. It was the best all year.”

  Ah, the kind tickle before the slap, Kojima thought. Even more humiliating.

  “Thank you,” Kojima said, “I always felt the same, yes.” A slight ripple went through them. Small glances back and forth.

  “In any case,” the thin man continued, “we have
reviewed your proposal and gone over the material you've given us. The mock trailer was...effective.”

  He gripped his seat, words beginning to punch up his throat, desperate to spill out. He had used his own money making that trailer. Money he did not have.

  “However, after looking at all the options and taking into consideration several key factors, we've decided not to move ahead with your project.”

  His pulse sped up. He knew this was always an option, that ever-so-polite no, especially after his last three pictures tanked. But still, he couldn't help it.

  Don't they see, are they really that blind?

  “Why?” Kojima said, voice a guttural bass line.

  Another ripple, this time an uncomfortable one.

  Fuck them. If they've got the balls to turn me away–me–then they better have the balls to stomach what I have to say about them.

  “The market is changing. These kinds of pictures just don't have the staying power they used to,” another suit spoke up. This one, despite being over fifty still hadn't mastered the art of avoiding a uni-brow.

  “Fuck you and fuck your fucking market.”

  His pulse throbbed in his neck, quickening at the harsh words.

  Oh, that felt good.

  “This picture has three big-name stars signed. Two of which, are currently in one of the highest rated NHK TV dramas in history.”

  “Yes,” Uni-brow started up, “but the show is scheduled to finish soon and your movie wouldn't be released until March next year, at least, taking into cons-”

  “Don't bullshit me with your considerations. The budget is low, lower than most films your company makes. It's a tragic romance where the guy dies of cancer in the end just after the couple gets married. The audience eats up that shit, the biggest movies in the past ten years have had the same formula. The agencies are behind this as much as they can be, so what is the problem? How can you fucking idiots sit across that desk, some of you so young that I was making movies before you were sniffing your sister's panties at night, and tell me you are not moving ahead on this?”