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Dark Cries of the Sea	By : maiafay376 Category: Individual Celebrities > Orlando Bloom Views: 2163 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Orlando Bloom. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Dark Cries of the Sea
- 1
~Dark Cries of the Sea ~
An: This is my first RPS, (so be kind) and it was one of those plot bunnies that wouldn’t go away. I actually thought of this while slicing turkey at my job…go figure. Anyway, I am aware the crew for POTC did not finish filming in the Bahamas--and I‘m aware that “At worlds end” is NOT the title of the third POTC--however, I will change the title when I learn of it, and the location was changed to fit the history of the Bahamas.
Not sure how many chapters this sucker will be, but I guarantee you probably won’t find a story like this one…“anywhere.”
Warnings: NC-17, slash, Non, con, violence, gore, tentacles, general creepiness, and language.
Pairing: Orlando/ OC's
Summery: Strange wailing, a violent storm, missing crew members--all are linked to the same secret, an ancient past buried beneath the waves of the ocean. The lines between fantasy and reality cross, and one man’s life is changed forever…
Disclaimer: No this never happened, and no I don't know Orlando Bloom personally. This story is a work of fiction, and therefore not real.
*************
He felt odd being the last cast member left.
There were still supporting crew drifting about, but many of the main actors had went their separate ways days ago. Keira and Johnny departed that morning, each exchanging heartfelt goodbyes and promises to keep in touch. There was that hint of nostalgia in the air, the bittersweet feeling of something good ending; fond times now a distant memory. It was a sentiment he wanted to shrug away because it made life seem fleeting; reminding him that nothing remains the same--no matter how much you desire it. It made him uncomfortable really. He despised the forlorn atmosphere hovering around him, but was unable to bear leaving the island just yet. He wanted to enjoy these last few days, alone and reminiscing over everything he had shared with the others. This was not as painful as when LOTR ended, but the twinge was still felt--that hollow feeling making his stomach clench, and mood, restive.
The rest of the staff seemed to mimic the same agitation. Like him, they wanted to cling to the pleasant memories, to the happy times while filming “At World’s End.” Everyone was optimistic that this final installment of “Pirates of the Caribbean” would outdo both predecessors. The writers knew that they had a demanding crowd to please, but were confident that this one would assuage all the complaints that “Dead Man’s Chest” received.
Last night, the crew had put on a farewell party for Johnny and Keira, knowing that both were leaving the next day. It was a wild time, and the cheerful ambience seemed to cast away the melancholy that had been plaguing him ever since the final shoot. However, despite the roaring fun, he now sported a hangover, and his stomach threatened to expel the coconut shrimp he relished the night before. He chased the headache away with aspirin and a few more hours in bed, not moving until the insistent rays of the sun flicked him awake. Blurry eyed and irritated, he stumbled into the shower, lingering under the hot spray longer than usual. After drying and a few more aspirin later, he collapsed on the bed and began the grand task of staring at the wall. He dreaded going back to London. He was due to start filming with Kate within the next week, but he was feeling oddly hesitant. He had barely spoken to her this past month, and it was more than just his busy schedule--or hers. It was a lot more.
Not wanting to dwell on those thoughts, he grunted and stood, pulling on his swimming trunks and white T-shirt ,then made way for the hotel's dining area.
He ate a light lunch, (his stomach still grumbling about those shrimp) and wandered out to the pool, sipping his orange juice and squinting at the afternoon sun. The day was balmy and moist, the sky a little cloudy for his tastes, but he still snatched a nearby chair and sat down next to the poolside. There were only a few people in the water, and less on the patio. No one he really recognized, so he ignored them.
Sighing, he stripped off his shirt and rolled onto his stomach, nestling his head in the crook of his elbow. His hair was the usual mess of tousled curls, humidity taking no prisoners as it invaded every strand. He shaved “Will Turner’s” beard last night, since the itching drove him mad throughout most of the filming. He sighed again and closed his eyes, deliberately clearing his mind of anything that was not sun, warmth and laziness.
A muffled snort intruded his thoughts, but he kept his eyes closed, willing the pest away. The slaps of bare feet thumped by and a wild “woop” cut through the air--the voice sounding vaguely familiar. A giant splash was heard the next instant and then his back was engulfed with a wave of cold water. He flinched, but remained stationary, the words “bloody bastard” mumbling from the soggy mass of curls. Snickering answered the insult, and now he knew exactly who the perpetrator was.
“McNally you fuck.”
More giggles, and he turned his head to glare at Kevin (better known as Gibbs) who was bobbing like a hairy cork in the middle of the pool. He rolled his eyes, groaning as he shifted his position to sitting. “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping? You know, after last night the amount of alcohol alone should have put you into a coma.”
“Never went to bed actually!” Kevin burbled; a huge and stupid grin on his face. “Come on Orlando! No sense in staying up there. You’re already half soaked and the water is fre--really wonderful.”
“No thanks,” Orlando said and grabbed his shirt, frowning as he realized the material was sopping wet. “Damnit."
“Oh stop being such a git! Get your skinny rear in here and enjoy yourself!”
He shot Kevin a withering look, shaking his head in mock disgust. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be drunk and swimming; isn’t that dangerous? Don’t expect me to save you if you start drowning.”
Kevin bobbed harder, small waves lapping at the edge of the pool rim. “Ah, no worries, Mackenzie will save me, won’t ya lad?”
“Absolutely not.”
Orlando turned in surprise to find Mackenzie Crook (Ragetti) directly behind him, dressed in a garish Hawaiian shirt consisting of blue and yellow parrots. The older man was smiling, even though his eyes looked tired. Kevin muttered a “bah” and proceeded to the other side of the pool-- where coincidently, a few sparsely clad females had decided to enter. Orlando smiled in spite of himself, wringing out his shirt as he looked back at Mackenzie. “So, what’s up?”
Mackenzie shrugged; his face grim as he pointed a crooked finger up at the sky. “Gore wanted me to tell you guys that there’s a big tropical storm heading our way. Should be here this afternoon sometime. Not a huge deal, but if you’re planning on doing anything today, it better be indoors.”
Orlando gave a disappointed noise and looked down at the beach. White sands peeked seductively through the palm trees, as the hotel they were staying was only a few yards from the shore. The ocean seemed a little choppy, and already Orlando could tell surfing would be rough if he attempted it. He bit his lower lip, weighing the risks in his mind. He looked back at Mackenzie, brown eyes calculating. “How long until it hits?”
“Dunno know really, maybe around four-ish? You better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
Orlando smiled, the grin lighting up his face and chased the gloom away. “Of course I’m not thinking. If anyone wants me--I’ll be at the beach.
“Orlando!”
He waved a blithe goodbye and left the pool area, taking the stairs back to his room two at a time. He snatched the surfboard he had tucked away in the closet and the jar of wax from the drawer. He also grabbed a long beach towel, folding it neatly under his arm as he proceeded back down the stairs.
Orlando whistled to himself and waved at a few cameramen who had joined Kevin in the pool, his mood improving considerably from that morning. Salty air tingled his nose as he sauntered down the dirt path, his sandals now coated with sand. The hotel sat on a steep incline, and the path had wooden steps every few feet to aid with the decent. Palm trees shaded most of the journey, but Orlando could feel the air was becoming heavier, more saturated with moisture as the threat of the storm loomed only miles away. He nudged away the concern and walked briskly out into the clearing, making his way toward the shoreline.
There were a few beachcombers present, but all were either tanning or too busy to notice him. Orlando felt thankful that no one realized who he was, even though the filming of “Worlds End” was common knowledge to the islanders and tourists. Recognition made things awkward when he was trying to enjoy himself. He normally did not mind signing autographs or posing for pictures. He loved his fans, but sometimes he just wanted to be left alone.
After waxing his surfboard and carrying it to the shore, he paused by the water's edge to gaze over the ocean. The blue green waves were frothy, and the swells just the right height. However, the sky was a bit overcast, and Orlando could see the wisps of black clouds sneaking over the horizon. A foreboding came over him suddenly as he watched the storm gather, the sense of motions and actions teetering right on the cusp of some pivotal event. A mirror of his life. He was unsure of what lay in store for him, and the next few weeks seemed tantamount to those clouds, dark and snaking--holding the rain of uncertainties over his head.
Orlando cracked his neck and shook the melancholy away, wading into the sea. The water was a bit chilly, though idle for the hot weather. He mounted his board and paddled forward until he was a few yards out, noticing the ocean was scenic today; sunlight dancing over the surface and tiny fish sparkling by, their fins flashing as they weaved an erratic trail to the reefs. Waves splashed his chest, and he tasted salt in his mouth; the sensations of rising and falling making his tender stomach a bit queasy.
As he sloshed about waiting for the right wave to come by, the sea around him suddenly stilled. It was the oddest thing. One minute waves, the next--eerie calm. Orlando propped himself higher on the board, looking around him in confusion. Not a wave in sight. Nothing. The sea was flat as a stagnant pond. That feeling of foreboding came over him again, this time with a good dose of anxiety. He had never seen the ocean behave like that before; save for on TV or movies when earthquakes struck below the surface. Suddenly alarmed, Orlando craned his head to view the horizon, watching for any change in the water's height. He watched for several minutes, wind playing with his hair and absorbing the droplets tricking down the sides of his face. He looked back toward the beach, but could not discern if anyone noticed this strange tranquility. All looked like bright blobs in the distance, still lounging and having fun--oblivious to the fact that no water rolled onto the shoreline. How could they not notice?
Orlando stared at the coastline again, his heart speeding along as the calm persisted. He began paddling towards shore, looking around him in continued disbelief. Then he heard it. A sound that made the hairs on his neck stand on end and gooseflesh crawl. He stopped paddling and sat straight up on the board, listening. It sounded like a whale, or similar to a whale’s cry. Yet, that was where the resemblance ended. It was mournful, bleak, a wail that caused the water around him to shiver. Almost songlike, it weaved and hung in the air, substantial--as if the sound was almost a living thing. It seemed far in the distance, but also close by, as if whatever issued the call could appear next to him at any moment. The cry continued, waxing and waning over the water, and Orlando sat frozen, unable to move-- fearing somehow of attracting its attention. It was a ridiculous notion, but it made him stay still, clenching the sides of the board with white fingers. The brassy sound ebbed finally, but not before Orlando had the unnerving sense that something out there was watching him. Studying him. Observing his actions and movements. He stiffened and pulled his feet out of the water, kneeling now on his board, and wondering how he was going to reach shore without swimming.
A crash of thunder rolled overhead and Orlando peered up at the sky, startled that the clouds had gathered so swiftly. The storm was a black wing now over the west horizon, its feathers spreading across the blue like dark blades. The feeling of being watched was still strong, but Orlando shoved it away, rolling to his stomach and began paddling for shore.
Abruptly, the sea sprang to life around him, churning waves knocking the board around and almost caused him to capsize. The wind rose and howled, salty spray stinging his eyes and forced him to duck his head. He gritted his teeth and propelled his body forward, riding on the crests of waves to make things easier. Orlando reached the shore within moments, stumbling off his board and began running up the beach. Everyone else had left, or was in the process of leaving--with no one giving him a second glance as they raced for shelter. Orlando trudged up the path, forgetting that he left his board, sandals and towel behind. He paused at the top of the trail, dodging windswept debris as he considered going back for his belongings. However, jagged lighting tore the sky apart, making his mind up for him. Those were things he could replace--his life was another story.
“Orlando! Bloody hell mate! Get your arse up here!”
It was Kevin, with a huge towel wrapped around his waist, looking wild and bug-eyed. Orlando rushed past him with a grunt, rain now falling in sheets and soaking them both within minutes. Kevin swore and hurried behind, the duo entering the hotel through the patio doors. Once inside, Orlando saw a crowd gathered in the lobby, most consisting of the filming crew and a few other guests.
The lobby itself was expansive and baroque, with lavish palm trees and a myriad of exotic floral decorating the walls and floor. Several couches lined glass tables in the center, and love seats sat beneath bay windows lined with silky white curtains. They were pulled back in three places and tied with golden leaves, the top decorated with ornate trim. A large flat panel television mounted in one corner, with brochures and pamphlet’s littering the coffee table in front. Double staircases extended from either side of the front desk and a set of hallways opened behind. The front desk itself was literally an island; with glass siding and wood polished a rich brown. The manager stood behind the desk, dressed in a brown suit, the color almost the same shade as the wood surrounding him. His hair was silver, and skin a deep black. He watched everyone mill about, his expression unreadable, but his eyes flickered to the weather outside.
Orlando’s attention returned to his fellow crew, many now huddled around the television to watch the storm forecast. Gore Verbinski stood to the side, looking at the TV with disgust and sipping on a margarita. The director finally noticed Orlando’s presence and began immediately walking towards him, his expression a mixture of both irritation and concern.
“Glad you made it back here all right. When Mackenzie told me you were down at the beach, we got pretty worried when the storm came. Damn thing wasn’t supposed to hit for another few hours--figures, just when we all had some free time…” He let the thought trail off and paused to look outside. Orlando mopped his face and chest with a towel someone gave him, his eyes following Gore’s line of sight.
“How long is it supposed to last?” He asked softly, his mind still dwelling on the unnatural wail.
“Have no idea, the weather's been unpredictable lately.” Gore replied. He walked to the window, squinting at the sky. Orlando followed him, watching the palm trees bend with the wind and the sea beyond crashing violently. Gore mumbled something and stepped away, shaking his head. Orlando glanced at him a moment, before returning his gaze outside.
It was raining too heavy to see clearly now, but Orlando pressed his face against the glass anyway, straining to view the beach. Aside from the turbulent waves, the white sands were now a dull shade of brown, and thick piles of seaweed marred the shoreline. One clump looked different than the rest, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the detail.
It moved.
Orlando jerked his head back, glancing at the others who were busy watching the storm coverage on TV, then resumed staring out the window. His eyes went wide when the clump seemed to drag itself further upon the shore, its lower limbs still within the ocean‘s grasp. Orlando’s nose fogged the glass as he pressed closer, trying to see through the mess outside. Palms trees obscured his vision for a moment, but when they cleared the “clump” was standing. Orlando made a noise of surprise, his mouth slightly agape. He could make out no distinctive features of the…man, or what he perceived to be a man now facing the hotel. He could see no clothing, no characteristics such as blonde hair or weight--just a dark irregular shape that remained stalwart against the crashing surf. Orlando blinked and furrowed his brow, trying to make sense out of what he was seeing. He turned a moment to the crowd at the TV, spying Kevin nearby. The big man was staring blankly at the screen, and the towel he had wrapped around his waist was dripping puddles on the floor.
“Hey Kevin, I need you to look outside for a minute. I think there’s someone still at the beach!”
Kevin gave him a peculiar look but came over anyway, wiping his face with the palm of his hand. “You can’t be serious. Anyone out on that beach now must have a death wish.”
“No, I’m telling you, there's someone out there. Look for yourself!”
Kevin snorted and peered outside, running his tongue over his teeth and clasped the towel around him as if he were naked beneath. Orlando peeked behind, pointing with his finger to the spot along the east side. “There-- over there. Can you see him? He should be standing right at the shore.”
“No mate, can’t say I see anything but flying papers and rain. Nobody’s out there.” Kevin squinted and shook his head, giving Orlando a placating smile. “If there were really someone on that beach, they would’ve high-tailed it by now. This storm is getting pretty wild--now they say it's going to stick around for the rest of the night. Better stay away from the windows lad.” Kevin patted Orlando on the shoulder and waddled up the stars, leaving a thin trail of water on the carpet. A few others noticed the exchange, Gore being one of them. They declined to comment however, and resumed watching the news.
Orlando returned to the window and tried to locate the man again, but could see nothing on the beach. He scanned every inch of the shoreline within sight, but only saw seaweed and ocean--no strange shapes, or odd looking clumps. Feeling foolish, Orlando let the curtain fall back into place, and tried to appear nonchalant as he took a seat on a couch. A few crewman plopped down beside him, each asking trite questions of “how he was“, or “did he need anything.” He smiled politely and assured them he was fine--eyes straying every now and then to the window. He was starting to feel the chill from the air conditioning, since he was only clad in his swimming trunks and nothing else. He wondered briefly if he should go back to his room and change, but decided against it when the lights suddenly went out.
A collective gasp rumbled through the crowd, with many stumbling into each other in the instant search for flashlights or candles. The hotel manager told everyone to calm down, and that the generator would kick on any moment. However, several minutes passed--and no generator. The murmur began to shift into complaining, and the hotel staff was forced to locate flashlights and halogen lanterns--passing them out to all the guests present. The few people that were sitting with him got up to collect their bounty, leaving Orlando alone on the couch. Gore came by and handed him a red flashlight, shining his own on the young star as Orlando fumbled with the switch.
“You okay?”
Orlando looked up in surprise, but nodded, his dark eyes wary. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Gore did not look convinced, but he let it pass. “Okay then. I need everyone to stay in one group for right now. A few of the techies and I are going to see why the generator’s not kicking in; so we’ll be right downstairs if you need us. We also need everyone to stay away from the windows--is that clear? No looking out or trying to open them--if wind speed gets any higher, they could blow out. I want you all to stay on ground level, and I’m giving Mackenzie the walkie to make sure everyone stays put. He’s in charge. Any issues you have until I get back, will be run through him--okay?”
Orlando resisted the urge to be sarcastic about Gore’s choice of the “leader”, and simply nodded. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
“Good, see you in a few.”
Orlando looked on as Gore and several members of the tech crew followed the manager down the hall, flashlights waving back and forth as they walked. Everyone else remained in the lobby area, including most of the staff. A few maids and bell hops were huddled in one group, watching the filming crew warily as if they were about to pounce. Orlando frowned at this behavior, wondering why they were acting that way.
Probably just the storm…
With the TV not working, many crew members slouched on couches, or cast nervous glances outside when the wind howled louder and debris thumped along the walls. Orlando remained silent, mulling over his experience at the beach, and what he believed he saw a few moments ago.
Perhaps I was imagining it all...it was probably just a whale or something, and maybe someone got caught in the storm…
Orlando repeated this mantra in his head, willing his mind to believe it was nothing. Kevin came back down the stairs with mismatched clothing, carrying only a small pen light. The star fought a smile as the big man sat down, glaring with envy at the over-sized flashlight in Orlando’s hand.
“Bollocks, guess I just have to be “A list” to get anything decent around here.”
Orlando laughed, plopping his flashlight into Kevin’s hands. “Here you prat, take it and stop your bloody whining.”
“Ah I don’t need it now. You keep it. There’s enough damn light in here anyway. What did they do? Hand them out to everyone?”
“Yes, you missed the complimentary gifts.”
Kevin looked crushed. “What? You get to take them home?”
Orlando laughed again, his anxiety melting away and relaxed on the couch. “No, I don’t think they’re that generous. But who knows?”
Kevin grunted and got comfortable, resting his head on a cushion and then promptly fell asleep. Orlando smiled and watched him for a while, then watched the others as they engaged in quiet conversations. His mind idled along with various thoughts, until he realized an hour had passed--and there still was no sign of Gore. A shiver of unease snaked through him, and rising, he went to find Mackenzie.
The thin man was found leaning against the far wall, holding the walkie tight and staring off into space. Orlando shone the flashlight on his hand, illuminating the device with a cold glow.
“Any word on how they’re doing?”
Startled, Mackenzie blinked at him, but then shook his head. “No. nothing. Must be a problem with the generator that they weren’t expecting.”
Orlando shook his head, his stomach doing unpleasant things with his anxiety. “No, Gore would have called by now. Here, let me see it.”
Mackenzie shrugged and handed Orlando the walkie. “Suit yourself.”
Orlando fiddled with the phone a moment then pushed the send button, lowering his voice to keep the others from noticing. “Gore? Gore, it’s Orlando. Are you guys okay down there? We haven’t heard from you in a while--any problems?”
He waited a moment, watching Mackenzie with concerned eyes and holding the walkie close to his ear. Several minutes passed. No response. Orlando tried again. “Gore? Hey you guys! Can anyone hear me? Where are you?”
His voice was louder that time, and it attracted the attention of a few crew that were sitting close by. They stopped talking to look over, eliciting a chain reaction until everyone in the room was silent and staring at him. Mackenzie shuffled with discomfort, eyeing the walkie as if he intended to snatch it out of Orlando’s hands. Orlando turned his back to him, not caring how loud he was now. “Hey! Can anyone hear me? We need to know if you guys are okay. Hello? Gore? Anyone? Please respond!”
“It’s probably broken. Honestly, there's no need to shout about it.” Mackenzie moved to take the walkie, but Orlando swung the device out of reach. Mackenzie then held out his hand, his expression reproachful. “Orlando don‘t be like that, give me back the walkie.”
“It isn’t broken.” He protested stubbornly. “These things are practically brand new! He should be responding, but he isn’t--I’m telling you, something’s wrong!”
“This is bloody stupid Orlando. It’s just a storm, and I told you, the damn things probably broke anyway. Who knows, maybe they’re out of range or something.”
Orlando titled his head in irritation, shaking the walkie in his hand for emphasis. “I can call my mother in bloody England with this. Don’t tell me they’re out of range!”
Now Mackenzie was getting angry, and he threw up his hands in frustration. “What do you want me to do Orlando? He said to say here--”
“--And what? He’s a director, not our bloody general. We can go look for him if we want to.”
“That’s not the point! He said--”
“--Stop, both of you‘s. Ve look for duh director and duh manager--You‘s stay here.”
Orlando and Mackenzie stopped arguing, and turned to stare at the tall Jamaican man who stepped forward from the shadows. It was one of the bell hop‘s, his face young, but his eyes were stern. He gestured to a few of his colleagues, all of whom gathered behind him, their faces gleaming with dark amusement. “Ve go now and come back vith your director. You mind duh windows and stay away. Ve be back wery soon, don you worry abut nothin. Errything okay., jah?” He suddenly smiled wide, white teeth shining bright in the dim room. Orlando and Mackenzie looked at each other and grudgingly nodded, allowing the five bell hops to walk past them down the hall. Orlando stared after them as the darkness swallowed their forms, wondering out loud. “Well, what if they don’t come back?”
“Bloody hell Orlando!” Mackenzie rolled his eyes and crossed his arms as he resumed his position against the wall.
“Blimey! What are you all fussing about?”
Kevin had awoken, annoyed, and was blinking at them with a cranky frown. One of the nearby crew members just laughed, apparently finding the whole situation funny. “Orlando here is getting everyone riled up.”
“Needlessly I might add!” said Mackenzie with a sullen pout.
“Oh, is that all?” Kevin shrugged and laid back down, content to drift into slumber once more.
“This isn’t funny you guys! Don’t you think it’s a little odd that Gore hasn’t checked in? That no one has came back from downstairs yet? It could be flooded or something!”
A few snorts answered his proclaim, and Orlando had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming at them. Furious, he stalked back to a different couch and flopped down, glaring angrily at the room. A few of the hotel maids watched him curiously, and one more intently than the rest. He cast a sidelong glance at her, but she looked away as soon as their eyes met. Her face was pretty, oval shaped with large almond eyes. She wore many rings on her fingers, and her slender wrists seemed weighted by all the bracelets she had on. Orlando stared at her, intrigued.
The islanders always fascinated him for some reason. Perhaps because of their exotic ways--the sense of feral culture lingering behind their smiles and endearing lingo. They were just so “different” than what he was used to.Their society was so enticing, so free. They had a casual way of living that was appealing to him--nothing like the social restraints of England. You could be whatever you wanted, go wherever you wanted--and no one questioned it. It was what he would miss most about these islands--unconditional freedom.
Orlando resumed staring at the window and the rain pouring down. He had the nagging feeling to go over to the glass--just to see if the odd man was still at the beach. He squelched the impulse however, knowing that as soon as he tried to approach the window, he would be told to sit his “skinny arse” back down.
“Orlando?”
He turned and found Judy, (one of the make-up artists) looking down at him. She had a plain face, but she made up for that with her friendly personality. She gave him a warm smile as she sat next to him, tucking a piece of dark blonde hair behind her ear. “I’m worried too you know. It “is” weird that no one has come back from downstairs yet. I think we should wait only twenty more minutes, and then everyone ought to go look for them.”
“Thank you Judy. I agree.” Orlando forced a smile and leaned forward, resting his elbows across his knees. He shot a look at Mackenzie, wondering if he heard what Judy said. However, the thin man was watching the window to his left, fidgeting as he chewed his lower lip.
So, it seems that he’s worried after all…
Orlando scanned the room, and saw that many of the film crew were shifting uncomfortably, watching each other and the windows with unease. The storm raged outside, the debris hitting the hotel harder now, causing many to jump after each impact.
“You know what I think we all need? Some RUM!”
Only weak chuckles followed that statement, and the camera man who attempted to lighten the mood said nothing more afterwards. Orlando bounced his knees restlessly, drumming his fingers along the arm of the couch. Judy noticed his distraction, and took the opportunity to scoot a little closer. Her warmth against his side was welcoming, and Orlando allowed the close proximity.
“I need a glass of water.”
The quiet murmuring of the room abruptly ceased, and Orlando gaped at Judy in surprise. “What? Right this second?”
She shrugged her shoulders, a sheepish smile plastered on her face. “Yeah, I kinda have to go to the bathroom too. Since we can’t wander off by ourselves, I figured you could take me.”
“Can’t you hold it?” said a voice across the room. It was one of the key grips standing next to the lobby desk, watching them closely, and with a sneer twisting his lips. Judy unexpectedly glowered back, her hands clenching at the sofa cushions.
“No. I’ve been holding it since this morning--don’t you remember? You wanted to hurry up and go sightsee. I didn’t have time to do anything trivial like take a piss.”
Orlando glanced back and forth from Judy--to the key grip, (whose name he could never remember) with raised eyebrows. The last thing he wanted was to get in the middle of a lover’s quarrel, especially if said lover was trying to hit on him. He shifted to the side to put some space between the blonde and himself, but Judy refused him escape.
“Please?” She pleaded; green eyes soft and round. “It will only take a few minutes. I just don’t want to go alone.”
“Shit Judy, you gotta flashlight.” snarled the key grip. He looked like he was about to walk over--but another voice stopped him in mid-step.
“Oh, let them go, or we’ll never bloody well hear the end of it!”
Still propped against the wall, Mackenzie gestured with his hands in a “shooing” motion, indicating that Orlando could escort Judy to the bathroom. “Just hurry up, because I think once you come back, we‘re all going to start looking for Gore.”
Orlando was so pleased to hear those words, that he forgave Mackenzie for sticking him with this clinging female. He nodded in relief and stood, indicating for Judy to follow. The sooner she got her glass of water and took a tinkle, the sooner they could find Gore.
Everyone watched as Orlando lead Judy down the west hall, their mutters fading with each step. His flashlight held steady, but his direction was uncertain. In the dark, it was hard to tell one thing from another--let alone trying to find the water dispenser or a bathroom. After they were out of sight from the main group, the blonde hooked her arm through his, bare skin rubbing the side of his chest. He pressed his lips together and tried to remain casual, not wanting to insult the woman as he attempted to pull away with subtle motions. She refused to budge however, snaking her other hand up the same arm, grasping his shoulder tight.
“Where’s your flashlight?”
“Oops, I forgot it. Sorry. I figured yours was bigger anyway.’
Orlando fought not to groan at the innuendo, and kept his eyes straight ahead. His flashlight illuminated a sign along the wall that said “Dining Room,” and realized he had found the door to the kitchen area.
“You can get your glass of water from the fountain Judy, I remember seeing it a few times when we ate here. You know, I think there’s also a bathroom nearby, but I’m not sure. I always just used my room for that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, you’re right. It‘s somewhere around the corner I think.”
Judy clung to him until he was through the doors, then she reluctantly detached herself and proceeded to the drinking fountain along the far wall.
Orlando sat on one of the plush chairs and set his flashlight on the table, waiting patiently until she was finished. The wail snuck into his thoughts again--although he was positive it had never really left. It idled in the back of his mind, as things did when they refused to be solved. A riddle, a problem that defied logic and a natural explanation. He was sure there was a reason why such a thing happened, but he could not determine the “why” and “how” just yet.
Judy rose and wiped her mouth slowly with the back of her hand, giving him a lingering look as she adjusted her hair back into place. Orlando turned his head to the side, somewhat annoyed by her obvious attempts to be sensual.
She was never like that during filming…
Judy always remained professional and friendly whenever Orlando was around her, never behaving like the star struck groupie she was now. He wondered if it was the storm, or perhaps her inhibitions were just muddled by the stress of the filming--or her key grip boyfriend acting like an asshole.
Orlando cleared his throat, pointing with his flashlight to the corner door. “I think the bathroom’s through there Judy, go on and I’ll wait here for you. Please hurry, the sooner we get back, the sooner we can search for the others.”
She gave a little pout and nodded, the apple green sarong riding a little higher on her legs. She sashayed through the door, pausing once to glance back at him and smiled. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Orlando gave a little wave and a fake grin in return, dropping it as soon as the door closed. Maybe it was because he had on only his swimming trunks, and all that skin showing was an invitation to come on strong. Whatever the reason, it was really getting on his nerves.
A sudden bang made him jump, and he rose to his feet, flashlight pointed at the kitchen door. He listened for a moment, hearing nothing--until metallic clanging and a sharp crack issued inside. His heart began pounding as he proceeded with caution, hesitating a little before swinging the panel door open.
He saw the problem immediately when he entered; the exit door to the outside had blown open during the storm, and was flapping against the side of the hotel. Rain and wind were soaking the tile floor, and the pots above the prepping area were swaying in wide arches. Utensils clattered off the countertops and bounced, while papers began whirling in circular motions. Orlando set his flashlight down and rushed to the door, bullying it shut with his weight, and throwing the bolt back in place. He wiped the water from his face and turned around, ready to pick up his light and meet Judy.
He froze.
Orlando remained rooted to the floor, his eyes unblinking as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. Thin wisps of black coiled in the air in front of him, extending like vines from the ceiling. Orlando lifted his gaze above, his breath coming along faster, and then hitched in his chest as he stared in awe.
The ceiling was swirling with inky vapor, long tendrils snaking downwards and curling. The stain coated over half the surface and seemed oddly thick, as if hiding something bulky within.
Orlando grappled for his light without taking his eyes off the ceiling, shining the beam above as soon as his hand touched the handle. The light however, could not penetrate the darkness, and was swallowed without providing any hints to what lay beyond the surface. He noticed the smell next--a mixture of sea and musk, with undertones of rotting fish. It was strong; making his throat close in disgust and his eyes water. That feeling of being watched was upon him again, he could feel a presence under the cloud, staring at him, appraising him--eyes roaming his form as he stood there stiff and frightened, unable to make himself cross beneath it. The sensation of being studied was too intimate, too unnerving--and Orlando forced his body into motion, carefully edging around the prepping table, keeping to the side of the room. The stain swiveled in his direction, rippling over the ceiling like smoke--unfurling tendrils towards him. Orlando froze again, feeling very much like a fly stuck on the wall about to be swatted.
“Orlando?”
His eyes dropped to the kitchen entrance, and saw Judy standing there with a frown, hands on her hips and staring at him in confusion. “Orlando?” She wrinkled her nose in distaste, her mouth turning down. “What’s that smell?”
The next instant she was gone. All he could see was a black column of ink; the darkness straining, rolling and crushing against the space that used to be Judy. He heard her shriek, a high pitched scream that no horror movie could ever duplicate. He heard the sound of bones snapping, and a series of wet tearing noises that made him want to retch on the floor. His breath came in shallow gasps, panic and adrenaline making his head pound. He stared transfixed in horror, his eyes dropping only to watch the blood spread beneath the vapor, glistening black under his flashlight. The beam of yellow was shaking with his hand, and when the black column finally withdrew--Orlando screamed and lurched backwards, blindly grabbing for the kitchen door.
Judy was gone. In her place--was a mass of tissue, frayed bone and pieces of clothing saturated with blood. The smell of raw meat hung in the air, mixing with the sea and rotting fish, making Orlando cover his nose to keep from gagging. Her entire body was split, hollowed out like a shell. One foot remained with a dirty sandal hanging off her big toe. It seemed she had painted her toenails green to match her sarong.
Orlando threw his head to the side and vomited, tears streaking down his face as he struggled to open the door. In his panic, it did not register that he had thrown the bolt, and he wasted precious time slamming his body into the door to make it open. The dark thing moved toward him, its tendrils growing thicker, reaching. The scent of it was overpowering, nauseating--and now sounds issued from the mass; whispers, distorted wheezes, hollow clacking--all juxtaposing on one another, forming a bizarre ensemble that was disturbing to his ears. He gave up on the door and skittered against the far wall, keeping ample distance between the creature and himself. It halted its advance and stood still, black mist rolling ceaselessly around its form. Orlando thought he could see a head peeking through the vapor, something pale and grotesque that was regarding him--tilting its neck from side to side--like a curious bird.
Orlando took this opportunity to finally bolt--sending the panel door flying as he raced out of the kitchen and through the dining area. He did not look back, but he knew it was behind him; he could still smell it--he could still feel it. There was no doubt in his mind that this creature was the same one from the beach, the same beast he heard while out on the water. He had no idea what it was, what it wanted--but it just killed Judy--or more accurately, it just ate Judy. No animal he knew of behaved like that. This creature was something unnatural, something malicious--
Something hungry…
Terror made Orlando swift as he fled down the hall, flashlight whipping back and forth, casting thin shadows on the walls. He skidded around a corner, and then another--and another--until he found himself by a recreation area. Frustrated that he was in the wrong section of the hotel, but too frightened to stop running--he slammed into the glass doors, flinging them wide as he darted out into the courtyard. He finally halted in the middle, panting and holding his sides as he turned to look behind him.
Nothing.
The rain pelted his face as his gaze flickered back and forth, searching the doors and surrounding area for any sign of the creature. The storm crashed with fury above, lightning streaking and illuminating the volleyball nets and basketball hoops that were scattered throughout the yard. Many had fallen on their sides, driven to the ground by the fierce wind. Cold water dripped from his curls, trickling into his eyes as he continued to watch, waiting for that tell-tale smell, or the black vapor to alert him.
Nothing.
Chest heaving, he began walking slowly to another door, looking behind him and to the sides--ignoring the storm and remaining vigilant. His feet were slopped with mud and his swimming trunks were torn in several places. Orlando inspected his clothing as he reached for the door handle, bemused at how he could have ripped the material.
He jerked the door open--and the smell hit him full force--knocking him backwards with a terrified yelp, and caused him to stumble to the ground. He looked up, dark eyes round and scared as he began crawling backwards, his hands sinking into the mud and slipping. The creature glided forward with grace, its movements unhurried and dark fog rolling towards him.
“No!” Orlando shouted and threw his flashlight, watching in dismay as the thing batted it aside with little effort. He thrashed backwards, finally rising and running blindly towards the way he originally came. Yet, in his haste, Orlando slipped and fell, slamming his head against the pole of a volleyball net. Pain blossomed though his skull and he gave a sharp cry, slumping to the mud in a graceless heap. The last thing he saw was the mists streaming forward, a black curtain that shimmered with the rain.
Then there was only darkness…
TBC
Sorry, me and my cliffies...rest assured the next chapter will be posted soon. Feedback demanded...er, encouraged.
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Dark Cries of the Sea