Forgotten Tales of Mobile
Did I tell you that thing? That one thing? That thing I never told anyone?
I guess I better get you up to speed… This all happened several years ago, during a heat wave that overtook Mobile, Alabama.
You’ve heard of Mobile, right? But you don’t really know it’s darkness, the things that happen in the dead of a humid, sweat-soaked night.
Mobile is a maritime center, cheaper hub than New Orleans with much less booze, cheaper than Miami with much less beauty. Mobile is the type of place the rig hands and gulf fishers hunker down in their days off, cheap on the wallet with limited off-time fun.
It’s no surprise the number of odd and sometimes violent encounters between the city folk and the offshore workers, the verbal sparing at the diners, the bar fights, the back alley brawls. In late spring, police patrols doubled during the wee hours of the night when the most horrific violence occurred. ER’s also doubled their staff, tending to the wounds inflicted by fists, knives or guns.
It was late July when the disappearances started. I was keeping bar at a little dive joint not too far from the shipyard. It wasn’t much but the workers tipped decently so I was able to afford my rent without a second job. I worked the late swing, catering to those who wanted refuge from their vessels for at least one night a week. Though the bar only served liquor to the state-allowed time of 2am, we converted to an all night diner past last call.
Sure, we had our regulars who were just as nocturnal as myself that summer. They’d get wasted on whiskey and then tend to their sobriety by shoving a plate of hot, greasy eggs and bacon and endless cups of coffee down the throats. By 6am, they were ready to emerge back into the endless humidity of Gulf Coast morning.
That July, one by one, the regulars stopped showing up. It took a couple weeks to really notice, especially since there were others who replaced them. It was easy to dismiss their absence, given the transient nature of offshore work. Once the shipyard master dropped off the map, people started to take notice.
The disappearances were correlated with a thick fog that enshrouded the coast. Workers would stumble out of the bars into that humid night into oblivion. The fog engulfed my bar too, and I did my best to prevent my customers from leaving, even bending the rules by giving out free shots after last call & piling on extra helpings of kitchen slop.
Enormous silhouettes were visible from the windows on these fog-cursed nights. I was never able to get a good look and I didn’t dare go outside in these conditions. After my first sighting, I locked the doors anytime the fog rolled in.
One such night, as I was cleaning up after a particularly wasted customer known to the bar keeps as Sloppy Steve, loud banging came from the entrance.
“Yo, Kip, why’s the door locked? Isn’t this dump open 24/7?” slurred Sloppy through his spittle.
I gave him a nervous chuckle as response, moving towards the front. It was apparent the visitor had been caught in the fog unaware. I gave the key a tug and turn, opening the door for this unlucky fellow. He stumbled inside, visibly shaking.
I offered him a seat at the bar, poured a shot of decent whiskey, setting it in front of him. With unsteady hands, he threw it back, staring ahead with unseeing eyes, trapped in a memory. He didn’t say a word, so I poured him a glass of water. He downed that in the same silent manner, his hands trembling from the trauma of whatever transpired.
I left him with his thoughts as I pulled a small cot out for Sloppy Steve to snooze in. I had taken to stocking the back with small cots for guests to keep them safe from whatever was lurking out there. I had a feeling the newcomer had an otherworldly encounter that fateful night. A shriek broke the silence and confirmed my suspicions.
I rushed to the front where the newcomer was still shrieking a blood curling call. I quickly poured another shot of whiskey, trying to silence him but he refused to acknowledge my presence. He stood stiffly as he continued his shrieking, customers now getting upset at his ear-shattering noise.
“Hey Kip, get that asshole to shut the fuck up” voices around me urged. I didn’t have a chance to act before one of the rougher hands shattered the screams with an upper cut. Mr. Trauma fell flat against the bar, slamming his head against the wooden edge before collapsing into a messy pile, blood pooling from his broken nose.
“Hey Kip get that asshole to shut the fuck up” voices around me urged. I didn’t have a chance to act before one of the rougher hands shattered the screams with a leather gloved upper cut, probably concealing brass knuckles. Mr. Trauma fell flat against the bar, slamming his head against the wooden edge before collapsing into a messy pile, blood pooling from his broken nose.
“What the hell happened? Why’d he start screaming?” I demanded.
“Don’t rightly know, Kip. He was silent until he saw his reflection in the mirror. Then he wouldn’t stop that bloody screaming, like he’d seen a ghost or some shit.” Shirley said, getting up to check on him. Shirley worked the evening shift in the nearby ER & often ventured over to my bar after hours.
I gave her some gloves, napkins and sanitizer to deal with the minor biohazard developing with the unconscious man. She checked his pulse after wiping up the leaked blood, frowning as she counted.
“His heart rate is abnormally low, especially for that shock.” She shook her head and straightened up. “You got a cot for this guy, Kip? Can I get a couple volunteers to move him to the back?”
I nodded in reply & moved to get a cot ready next to Steve’s unconscious body. As a couple workers dragged his limp body to the back, I heard them making comments about a strange smell originating from the man’s body. As we positioned him into the cot, I got a whiff of that scent, a combination of sea and rot.
I approached Shirley at the front, washing her hands in the bar sink, staring blankly at the front as she vigorously rubbed her hands with soap suds.
“What’dya think about that guy? Something strange about him.”
She jumped at the sound of my voice, her thoughts broken by my interruption. Rinsing her hands, concern worrying her face while she asked cautiously “You did lock the front door, right?”
“Of course-“ my answers halted as more screams originated in the back. We darted to the back, only to stop in stunned silence. The workers who moved the man were screaming as they held their hands out, but their hands weren’t their hands, they had transformed into… something else.
Shirley gasped in horror. Following her gaze, I realized she had focused on the monstrosity on the floor, flopping around, making gurgling sounds from it’s fish-like head. Hapless Steve was still unconscious next to this unimaginable transformation. I started to move into the room when Shirley grasped my shoulder, yanking me back as she slammed the door shut.
“You got the key?” She demanded.
“We gotta get Steve outta there!” I shouted.
“Don’t you realize, whatever happened to them, it passes through direct skin contact. I don’t know what the hell happened, why they have that appearance or how medically that’s even possible. I just know that the exposed flesh transformed into something it never should have, and the same will happen to everyone who is touch by the afflicted. We gotta quarantine them.”
I heard the truth in her words, and acquiesced the key.
“Besides, Steve’s best defense is just staying unconscious. They may not even notice him if he doesn’t move much.”
I went to the front and grabbed the hand held, dialing the emergency number.
“I’m not sure how to report this… but we had an incident at the Seaman’s Liver (classy name, I know). There’s been a disturbance-“
I was cut off abruptly by the operator. “Sorry sir, we can’t help you.”
“WHAT?”
“We’ll get someone out there as soon as the fog clears, but we’ve lost too many good people to the fog. The ones who come out don’t return as they should and quickly disappear from the hospitals. We can’t comment beyond that. Take precautions to keep anyone affected by the changes from making contact with others, lock your doors & stay out of the fog.”
The line went dead as I stared at it, uncomprehending. The sound of glass smashing brought me back to the reality. I quickly scanned the front, not seeing any damage. The noise occurred again, and I realized the small windows lining the top of the room must have been broken. There was very little else in that room capable of breaking.
Shirley grabbed my arm, wanting to know what I’d been told. The look in her eyes told me she already knew as I nodded in confirmation.
The room was filled with the wet, sucking slaps against the back door. Checking the integrity of the door, Shirley began to fill me in on the details not released to the public yet. The nearby hospitals had been hit first by this phenomenon.
They don’t have a name for what happened or its cause. An “infected” person wanders into the ER, stunned and non-verbal. Anyone who has direct contact is also “infected”. A strange rotten sea smell is excreted by the infected. The touched areas start to transform into fish-like scales or flippers. Any dripping blood turns to a deep blue color and thickens. These infected become passive once whatever pathogen takes control of their brain until they become violent without much warning, breaking out of their containment, trying to either convert others or escaping into the night.
Hospitals lock their doors and only open to specific codes that change every 6 hours. All personnel are instructed to wear full HazMat suits to prevent exposure. Whatever this is may not be a virus like Ebola, but this… infection? Transformation? Whatever you want to call it, is much more dangerous than Ebola which just kills you. This… makes you something else, losing yourself to become some sort of demented sea monster out of legends, a bipedal fish-man.
I stared slack jawed at her as she began to account stories from her coworkers. The worst waves of the violence occurs before nautical twilight. The fish men try their best to get more converts, and failing that, they make a break for the water. Although they’re non-verbal, they communicate some other way, making rudimentary plans and simple tricks to achieve their objectives.
As she was finishing this explanation, more wet smacks began to fill the bar. Turning to the front, we saw the windows and doors surrounded by these creatures, slamming their flappers, bodies and heads into the glass.
I noticed most of the customers had already found shelter in the restrooms. They had quickly spotted the danger first and quietly moved away from the figures. At least the remaining alcohol in their blood streams kept them calm rather than panicking.
Shirley and I found a small storage closet with only a couple terrified souls huddled in. We huddled with them, securing the door before waiting as the noise increased.
“It’s nearly 4:30am, which means it’s going to get worse until twilight breaks at 5,” she whispered to no one in particular.
A small sob broke the silence, and I was startled to realize it came from me. The shock of the night’s events were just starting to hit home as I sank into a fetal position on the floor.
It seemed like hours had passed before Shirley squeezed my shoulder. “It’s 5:45 now, Kip. We should be safe.” Addressing the two terrified customers, she said compassionately, “Stay here for now. We will get you out once we check out the rest of the building.”
I stumbled to my feet, too exhausted to say anything in response. I unlocked the door with trembling fingers, pushing the door open. Peering out, nothing seemed disturbed although the entire kitchen area smelled like rotten sea death.
“There goes our restaurant business” I thought grimly. “No one is going to have an appetite- or thirst- with this nasty stench.”
Shirley stopped dead in front, turning quickly to herd us back to the closet.
“Don’t look!” she yelled at us. Obeying, I diverted my eyes & moved quickly to the back. A gurgling sound began softly, amplitude increasing steadily until there was nothing else. I clutched my ears as I stood paralyzed, catatonic and helpless.
I don’t know how long passed before I felt something shake me out of my stupor. That noise rung heavy in my head. Another smaller noise was replacing it and I realized that it was Shirley shouting my name.
I hadn’t realized I had closed my eyes until I opened them, confused by the latest audible attack. “What the fuck happened?” I uttered, words choking on their way out of my mouth into the room.
“I think we just witnessed the call back to safety by whatever force is converting people.”
Checking the restrooms, everyone was safely barricaded inside. At the sound of our voices, they cautiously opened the doors, exiting with a stunned silence of those who witness unspeakable horrors.
By now, the sun had broken over the horizon, and dawn was stretching its arms into the bar. The windows were covered in a putrid smelling slime as well as the back room. It was occupied solely by Steve, still sloppily snoring in his cot.
With shaking hands, I wrote my resignation and thrust it into the face of the next poor fool covering the morning dining shift. I rushed outside, leaving all the questions unanswered in my wake.
I packed my small apartment up that day & drove straight through to the foothills of the Appalachians. I never spoke of that cursed summer to anyone, hoping the memories would remain buried if I refused to acknowledge them. I know now that was a fool hardy thought, and I can’t escape that darkness, as the shadows and rotten stench have started to appear whenever the fog arises on a stifling hot summer night…
Great start to random story….
