Page 3

Anchor

Saturday night on Skull Island wasn’t just busy, it was buzzing.

From the haunted house’s turret-style roof down to the gravel paths near the lake, every inch of the island pulsed with life and noise. Fog drifted like breath from the trees, curling around strobe lights and actors in blood-soaked costumes. The chainsaws were already screaming, the speakers inside the haunted house piped in thunder and moans, and a crowd of tourists lined up at the dock, their excitement thick enough to taste.

I stood near the boathouse, coffee in hand, watching it all unfold. My kind of chaos. The kind that made us money.

Kids ran around the ticket kiosks with glow sticks clutched like torches. Parents milled behind them, some pretending to be too old to be scared, others clinging to their partners as if they might not make it out alive. Our crew, dressed in everything from plague doctor masks to rotted sailor uniforms, wove through the crowd. The makeup team had outdone themselves tonight: sunken eyes, twisted teeth, jagged wounds that looked way too real.

Lost was near the dock’s edge, helping a group of teenagers onto the boat for the next haunted cruise. The lake behind them was pitch-black, perfectly still, until you were halfway across and the ghost town lights came into view.

The guests screamed, ran, laughed, and, most importantly, spent money.

“We’re almost at capacity,”

Push said as he stepped up beside me, clipboard in hand.

“Another three boatloads before we hit our limit. Haunted house has a 45-minute wait. Bob’s running out of peanuts.”

“That means it’s a good night,”

I muttered and sipped my coffee.

“It’s a damn great one,”

he agreed.

“And Skull says the generator’s running clean. No surges.”

I nodded. That was rare. Usually, we lost a fog machine or lighting rig halfway through a Saturday night.

I turned to scan the edge of the path leading back toward the food court and saw Skull gesturing near the funnel cake stand. He was half in costume: leather duster, fake axe slung over his shoulder, dark makeup around his eyes that made him look half-dead. He pointed to the ticket line, made a twirling motion, and then jerked a thumb toward the dock.

“Skull says rotate boat crew after this run,”

Push translated.

“Fine. Send Pull in for Lost. Tell Wannabe to help him.”

I moved back toward the dock, passing a group of twenty-somethings doing their best to act braver than they felt. One of the girls screamed as an actor lunged from behind a crate. She laughed right after, breathless, and I smiled to myself.

It was working.

Everything we built—the haunted tours, the scare setups, the ghost town, the elaborate boat ride—it all sold the story.

We made the freak show run like a machine.

Until Lost’s voice crackled through my radio.

“Anchor, come in.”

I hit the button. “Go.”

“You need to come down to the lower dock. Now.”

The tone in his voice made the hairs on my neck rise.

“What is it?”

“It’s... we found something. You just need to see it.”

The walk down to the lower dock took less than two minutes, but it felt like a mile. My boots crunched over gravel as I rounded the corner and spotted Skull, Piney, and Lost huddled near the far edge of the dock. Guests were still moving through the queue like nothing was wrong, but Lost had set up a makeshift barricade using rope and prop barrels. I could hear murmurs and confusion from a few guests nearby.

“Keep them back,”

I snapped at the nearest worker. He nodded and started redirecting traffic toward the opposite side of the dock.

Lost looked pale and was shaking.

Skull was crouched over something in the reeds. His body blocked most of it from view. Piney stood behind him with his arms crossed and his jaw set like stone.

I approached slowly.

Skull looked up at me, and his face was unreadable.

“He’s real.”

My eyes connected with the body he was kneeling over.

I dropped to a knee beside him. The man in the water was facedown, one arm hooked awkwardly around a broken piling. His shirt was soaked, clinging to his back in tatters. His jeans were half ripped. Swollen hands with bloated fingers. His neck was tilted at an unnatural angle.

Skull reached forward and turned the man over with a careful grip.

That’s when I saw it.

His mouth had been sewn shut. Crude black twine pierced through his lips, jerking them tight together in a grotesque pucker. His face was swollen, and his skin pale and sickly green. But what really grabbed me was the carving.

Five letters, jagged and deep, etched into the man’s bare chest:

KOAMC

Kings of Anarchy Motorcycle Club.

The letters were raw. Carved after death, maybe, or maybe just before. Either way, the message was loud and clear.

Piney swore behind me. Lost turned away and dry-heaved over the edge of the dock.

“Do you recognize him?”

Skull asked quietly.

I studied the man’s face. Shaved head. No visible ink. No scars I recognized. Just blank, dead features and a grotesque warning carved into flesh.

“No. He’s not ours.”

Skull stood slowly.

“It’s a message.”

“Yeah,”

I said, standing too.

“But from who?”

Piney stepped closer.

“What kind of sick bastard sews a man’s mouth shut like that?”

“One who wants to scare us.”

“Or send a warning,”

Skull added.

I looked around. The dock was well lit. Cameras overhead. Guests only just starting to notice the disturbance. I pulled my radio and hit the main channel.

“Push, get Vin. I want a scrub of all dock footage from the last three hours. No excuses. And have Cross get down here.”

“On it.”

“Also,”

I added, lowering my voice.

“keep it quiet. No cops. Not yet.”

Skull raised an eyebrow.

“You sure?”

“We don’t even know who this guy is. We call it in, and they start digging into our business. Not happening.”

Piney nodded, but his fists were clenched.

I crouched again and stared at the man’s face.

“You think this has something to do with—”

Piney started.

“I don’t know what this is,”

I cut in.

“But we’re going to find out.”

The water lapped softly against the dock. The lights flickered briefly, and the sound of laughter and screams from the haunted house still drifted down the path.

The island was alive.

But down here?

The real nightmare had just begun.

And somebody had dragged it right to our doorstep.