Black Tide

by E. W. Farnsworth

Coronado Beach was constantly changing, even evolving. In the early morning, the ambient air was redolent of oleander scent and dropped, decaying blossoms smelled a little sinister, like rotting corpses. On the beach, of course, mass breeding was the rule, from periwinkles to penis fish to razor clams. Shells and spent entrails littered the sands in layers. Then there were the colored tides, the green tides with algae, the red tides with nefarious but identified microbes and, on this singular occasion, the black tide.

This morning’s attraction was the sinister contents of an enormous enclosure demarcated by police crime-scene tape. Forensic specialists in space suits were collecting their samples as a small gathering of beach regulars quietly observed them except to exchange information with the policeman in charge of the scene. I could barely make out at the epicenter of the crime scene a partly decomposed torso of a human, covered with a black tar-like substance that oozed and scintillated. 

I overheard the policeman whisper to a reporter, “Beats me. We were called at daybreak about the body. When we arrived, the informer had vanished and that ghastly trunk was where you see it now, only it was larger then but becoming smaller by the minute.”

“I’ve never seen a tide as black as this one,” the reporter remarked, gesturing toward the bay. Looking where the newshound was pointing, I was certain he had a point. Uncharacteristically, the authorities had not raised a colored flag denoting this black tide. This was the first time I had witnessed a BEACH CLOSED sign at the approaches.

As I sidled over to the reporter, I heard him query the others about the usual bathers. They recalled Mary Saddleton, former Olympic swimmer and Sam Hasbruck, a beach bum and surfer. Neither swimmer seemed present, but one of my neighbors said he saw Hasbruck’s wooden board bobbing on the sea. It was still out there bobbing on the undulating waves, and something large and black was riding low upon it.

The policeman having finished talking with his forensics team, ambled over to ask whether anyone present could direct him to the residence of one Mary Saddleton as the victim on the beach was wearing a lanyard with that name on it. I looked at the stub of a body on the beach and told him where she lived, not far away. I then pointed to the surfboard and suggested his team should check the surfer for identification as Sam Hasbruck.

The reporter guessed correctly I was a native. He asked me, “Do you come here often?”

“I have lived on the Island all my life. I usually visit the beach at first light. I have not seen a body here since I reported a murder victim four years ago.”

“Have you ever seen a tide with that color?” His eyes indicated the indigo water. 

“No. I have seen green and red, but nothing close to the black out there right now.”

The dozen or so spectators began to mill around, but the policeman blocked the exit as he said, “Folks, no one is leaving this beach until my team and I have interviewed every one of you.”

One of the forensics team reversed the signs to indicate no one on the beach would be permitted to depart until cleared to do so. 

I told the reporter, “There’s another first. On the day the beach was closed, the patrons are being told they cannot leave.”

We observed the slow, meticulous work of the police. But, some people never get the memo. I saw four people on Ski-Dos slice into the black goo before realizing beach conditions were not normal. The policeman yelled at the intruders in his stentorian voice to drive ashore for questioning.

The comics on their Ski-Dos pretended they could not hear what the lawman was saying. They started their machines and attempted to flee the area. The policeman drew his weapon, but he need not have bothered. One by one, the intruders were overcome by the black tide. Three of their vehicles were spinning in situ while the fourth failed and sank. Now above the sounds of the machines, the screams became pronounced. We spectators watched helpless as three young men and their lady friend were slowly consumed.

The reporter was using his cell phone to record what was happening. Right in front of his lens four humans were being murdered by something beggaring description. Two of the forensics team wanted to help the intruders, but the policeman pointed his still-unholstered pistol to dissuade them. Soon the screaming stopped, and the Ski-dos ran out of gas. On the surface of the bay floated four human bodies covered in black tar.

The forensics team had refocused on their original task when, one by one, they fidgeted strangely before ripping off their protective gear. I saw their skin was being covered by the tarry substance, and they had no escape. I nudged the reporter to include the infected team in his recording. Once again, the air filled with screams, but now I could hear the approaching sirens of first responders and back-up police.

The reporter had the presence of mind to suggest that the policeman wave off his reinforcements as they would only be endangered by interfering where the unknown threat was clearly prevailing. The lawman did not like being told what his business was, so he ignored the reporter, who continued to record the inevitable denouement.

When the firemen and policemen rushed to do their jobs, I knew what was going to happen. So, I led the other beach patrons through the exit while the dissonance was enhanced by cries of a flock of laughing sea gulls. Behind us, I heard threats of the policeman and, finally, I thought, a warning shot. I urged the others forward anyway. I turned to witness mayhem, a set of blackening, shrinking figures in sundry postures—and a reporter who had become a victim of his own story.