Second Wave

By Zoe Cannon

For three hundred years, Leila's family has protected the town of Whispering Sands. When the beast beneath the waves grows restless, they offer it the blood it demands, and the waves are quiet once more.

But now outsiders have come to Whispering Sands. Newly out of lockdown, seeking a respite from the stress of the pandemic, throngs of tourists are spreading the virus through the town Leila's family has sworn to protect… and waking the beast from its slumber.

And the beast is angry.

This short story is 15,000 words long, or approximately 50 pages. It is a companion story to Safer at Home. These stories stand alone and can be read in any order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zoe Cannon
• Release date: Apr 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393613350

Book preview

Second Wave

A Tale of Masks and Monsters

Zoe Cannon

© 2020 Zoe Cannon

http://www.zoecannon.com

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Second Wave

The beach on a hot summer day is for sunbathing, and collecting brightly-colored shells, and relaxing with the trashy books people don’t allow themselves to read during the rest of the year. It’s for gentle waves tickling toes, and children’s laughter, and ice cream that feels like it doesn’t have any calories. The beach is shorthand for carefree fun, which is why when people argue about whether or not to close the beaches, as the daily virus cases rise along with the temperature, they’re not just talking about some sand and water. What they’re really afraid of losing out on is the ability to take a break from the brutal transactions of life: work a job that’s likely to give you the virus, so you can earn enough money for food and a place to live; give up everything you’ve been looking forward to for the next six months, so you and everyone you love can live to see next year. It’s the chance to pretend, for a magical summer day or week or month, that you don’t have to do anything but lie back and let nature serve you.

But that’s the beach during the day. Not many people visit the beach at night.

On this particular night, the air smells like brine and rotting seaweed. Bullfrogs croak a warning as Leila pads silently down the hill and across the dunes, behind her father and her grandfather and her great-grandfather. Long grasses grab at her legs, whispering as the wind blows through them. She can barely make out the dark cliffs that rise up at the edges of her vision, each stretching out far into the water, marking the boundaries of the town of Whispering Sands. The moonlight illuminates needles of water that shoot up with each crashing wave. The sea is restless here in Whispering Sands, despite the placid surf forecasts in the towns to either side.

But it won’t swallow Leila, or her father, or her grandfather, or her great-grandfather. Not until it’s time. Or at least that’s what she’s been told. But she still hangs back as she crests the dune to see a wave rise up higher than her head. The others, though, have done this before. They walk without fear to meet the water as it bubbles and hisses up the beach, and watch together as it recedes with a whisper. Leila steps up to join them, and hopes the night is too dark for them to see her nerves.

Her great-grandfather bends down and starts to dig, his movements stiff with arthritis. Next to him, her grandfather clears his throat. With a laugh, her great-grandfather stands and steps back. Force of habit, he says with a laugh, in his thin and weakening voice.

The ground shakes, sending jarring vibrations through her body. It’s been doing this all year—first a tiny tremor every few weeks, then once a week, then once a day. These days, they’ve been coming every hour, at minimum. But they still make Leila jump every time. Her father sees her reaction, and murmurs in her ear, It’s all right. It will be over soon.

They need it to be over by tomorrow, before the town’s official beach season starts. That’s why they’re out here tonight. The official season doesn’t matter much—people have been coming out to the beach for weeks. Even so, some people like to mark their calendars and make a day of it. Leila doesn’t expect there will be many this year, considering the virus. But a few people are likely to come out anyway, and they’ll expect gentle waves, and a shore that doesn’t growl and shudder under their feet.

Her grandfather is hard at work already, digging a long and deep indentation into the sand, running his hands along the curved bowl like a potter until it’s perfectly smooth. Her great-grandfather watches with a critical eye. Smoother than that.

It’s not your time anymore, her grandfather rumbles. And I know what I’m doing. You taught me, remember? If you aren’t happy with my technique, you have only yourself to blame. He motions Leila’s father closer. Jonas, come watch. Next time, it will be your turn.

Leila’s father moves up behind him, to watch him shape the sand under his hands like clay.