CHAPTER 10: Post-Morbid

Last week on APOCALYPSE ROCK, we discovered that there’s mysterious goings-on up Mount Costo, right near the new age retreat — but are they connected? THIS WEEK: a new darkness washes ashore…

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THE DOORBELL CHIMED AS DOUG WALKED INTO BRANDI’S CAFE, ENVELOPING HIM IN THE HOPE-FILLED SMELL OF COFFEE. It was the lull between the early morning crowd and the lunch rush, so the cafe was empty. As the door closed behind Doug, the cafe sound system played out the searching, pensive calls of a whalesong. A placid synthesizer instrumental began underneath the singing sea mammal, as if in duet. It was Brandi’s favorite lull-time music.

“Hey, Brandi,” Doug called out.

“Hey, hun!” came a shout from the kitchen. Brandi Moffat was busy preparing a stack of sandwiches, “You after a caffeine injection?”

“Caffeine won’t help what I got,” Doug quipped, making Brandi laugh. “Okay if I put up some new posters?” Doug asked.

“Go right ahead, Mr Busy!”

Doug pinned up a slightly crumpled, bright yellow “No Job Too Small!” poster among the other ads, business cards and offers on the cafe noticeboard.

“I have a kinda weird question,” Doug called back to Brandi. “Did a woman come in here about a half-hour ago? Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Very good posture. Bright yellow rain jacket. Would have been after some coffee beans. Sound familiar?”

“Nope, sorry, hun,” Brandi blew back her fringe. “No one like that. Unless I fell asleep on my feet. Pretty sure I didn’t, though!” Brandi laughed as she chopped another sandwich in half.

“I could’ve sworn she came in here.”

Brandi stopped slicing, turned to Doug and lifted an eyebrow. “What’s she done to you, Dougy?”

“Nothing. Just someone I gave a ride to.”

“Oh-ho. I’ll let you know if I see them. Any special message to pass on?”

“Kinda. I found something on the beach this morning. A small glass cylinder with carvings on it. But I can’t find it now. She might have taken it by accident.”

“Okay. I’ll ask if I see her.”

The doorbell chimed and Bear Stanley George barrelled in.

“Hey babe…” Brandi came out from behind the counter, and gave Bear’s round, smoothly shaved cheek a peck. Pinned on his jacket lapel was a large white badge with a QR code on it, and text reading, “Taxes taxing? Talk to me. I’m a registered accountant!”

“Exactly the people I wanted to see!” Bear said, holding his phone up.

On Bear’s screen was a picture of brightly colored Nike running shoe. It was sitting in wet sand and seaweed. It was a small size, maybe for a child. Despite the water damage and some wear and tear, the colors were still vibrant. The contents inside the mouth of the shoe had been pixelated. Below the image was written, “Update: New Foot Found!”

“They found another foot on Bainbridge,” said Bear. “And the trolls are out already! Super freaky ones!”

“That’s such a small shoe,” said Brandi.

“I heard about it on the news earlier,” replied Doug. “I haven’t looked at anything online yet.”

“Well, here you go,” continued Bear, scrolling down the page.

“Posted September 19, 02:57am PST,” was pinned under the photo. The author, Bad_Sleep_In_The_Salish_Sea wrote, “New foot washed ashore, this time on Murden Cove, Bainbridge Island. The foot’s still inside, really well-preserved so there’s a good chance to get DNA from it. Lots of wear and tear, and it looks like a recent Nike model made somewhere in Malaysia. The police will try and find some factory batch number and trace it like that. This is the 29th foot recorded washing ashore since 2007. It looks like a child’s size. We’ll post the police reports as and when they are released.”

Under the post was a link, “257 comments… (click to see more).”

The friends looked down at the picture of the little shoe resting on a mudflat.

“This gets me down,” said Brandi. “I know it’s supposedly only accidents or suicide. But people get some kind of sick thrill from this stuff. I mean, someone actually died here. And it’s probably a kid.”

Bear and Doug nodded in agreement, then returned their gaze to the image. Bear tapped on the comments section. There were hundreds of posts – mostly people expressing shock or morbid curiosity. He scrolled down and stopped at one particular comment.

“This one’s been commenting on everything about the feet,” explained Bear. “And it’s always something nonsensical… like this,” Bear pointed at a comment posted by @PORKY_sizzle and read it aloud in a mock sinister tone: “In the obscured sky a moon does float, newly, a wishing moon, a sliver of ancient rock, a goddess, a wink. They regret…”

Doug felt a chill run across his skin as the dream he had earlier that morning returned to him.

“… an actor should, they witness the indiscriminate killing of wild dolphin populations. However, that is a myth, according to bomb never, a witch of collapse. The practice of feed, shame…” Bear ran out of breath. “That’s some purple prose spam right there! Reminds me of the early 2000s.”

Doug reached out to bring Bear’s phone closer.

“Man, what happened?” Bear pulled his phone out of reach, frowning at Doug’s poorly bandaged hand.

“Only looks nasty,” Doug just wanted to see the post. “Ramses gave me little bite this morning.”

“That’s funny,” Bear lowered his phone further away from Doug. “He’s always been a gentle giant…”

“Bark’s worse than his bite,” Doug continued impatiently, “He ran away this morning. I saw him out near Collier’s Bend. But he bit me and ran off.”

“Hun, you gotta get that looked at, right?” Brandi said.

“Yep, yep, I will…” Doug turned back to Bear’s phone, his thoughts focused on the uncannily familiar post. “Who’s the person writing that stuff?”

“I dunno really. This porky yahoo posts tons of weirdass stuff like this, just garbled and weird shit. But only on these detached feet stories, from what I’ve seen.”

Doug read out a response to @PORKY_sizzle’s comment. It was by someone calling themself The Beachcomber: “Enough of your cryptic mumbo-jumbo spells! My patrons will not stand for this. You colonize the dreams of others, but we will fight you to the end. Those of you who are not following this topic can catch up on my campaigning content playlist, here…”

“Who’s The Beachcomber?” Doug asked.

“Yeah, she’s pretty special too. She’s usually just posting links to their own content on YouTube,” Bear explained. “Mostly true crime, unsolved mysteries, stuff like that. It gets into conspiracy theory crapola sometimes. But not too much. I’d say she’s got what you might call a unique voice. If you get what I mean.”

“I’ve seen her videos,” said Brandi. “She’s a friggin robot.”

The bell on the door chimed and a gaggle of local kids on lunch break from school charged into the cafe. Brandi went behind the counter.

“See you at town hall tonight?” Bear asked.

“Ah… yeah… sure…” Doug drifted a bit. “Got the girls later, but I should be able to make it…” He trailed off, his eyes staring into the screen of Bear’s phone.

“Doug? You okay?” Bear asked. “You look pretty shaky.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Doug blinked and straightened up. “Just a funny morning.”

As the group of kids shouted and chatted among themselves, and Brandi served up sandwiches and snacks, Doug told Bear about the strange cylinder he had found on the beach that morning. The app it had put on his phone, and the cylinder’s subsequent disappearance.

“That’s pretty interesting,” Bear said once Doug had finished his story. “Gotta say, it sounds like something this Beachcomber character would definitely cover. We should message her.”

“Isn’t that like inviting the crazies into your house?” Doug replied. “Enough of those over here as it is.” They laughed.

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