Free Black Tide by Del Stone

using boards and other flotsam. Or we could start a fire – not that one more fire would work effectively as a signal. To be honest, I had no other ideas.
    As we stood there, pondering the awfulness of the world around us, DeVries’ voice carried through the nylon weave of the tent at a near-shriek: ‘I’m thirsty!’
    Heather sighed wearily and turned to go up the beach. ‘I don’t know why he keeps saying that,’ she mumbled, seemingly more to herself than anyone else. ‘I give him water but he won’t drink it.’
    â€˜That’s ’cause it’s not blood,’ Scotty murmured and cast a furtive glance my way. I didn’t respond, partly because I knew if I did it would only encourage him to further provocations, and partly because there was the chance he was right – in a way. If it were not fresh water the creatures craved, then some other component of human metabolism must be involved. At the moment I was simply too tired and frightened to think about it.
    Heather had crawled halfway into the tent to check on DeVries when she called, ‘Guys. I think you’d better come look at this.’ I didn’t want to look at anything, to be honest, and I could tell Scotty felt the same way because for a moment, neither one of us moved. Then Heather shouted more urgently, ‘Guys!’ and we both rotated and began tramping laboriously through the sand toward the pair of tents. Heather’s ass jutted suggestively from the flap and I tried hard not to appear too interested. I didn’t even glance Scotty’s way to see if he were appraising my level of interest. Instead, I let my gaze droop to the sand.
    Heather backed out of the tent, her face pinched into an expression of deep worry. She looked at me hesitantly and said, ‘Fred, something’s … happening.’
    I dropped to my knees and crawled forward, into the tent, which reeked of unnameable odours, some embarrassingly human and others unidentifiable. It was ferociously hot inside, yet DeVries’ body vibrated spasmodically, as if a high-voltage current were arcing through his nerves. I recalled old black and white film reels about the Pacific campaign during World War II, and the men who’d been stricken with malaria. This looked remarkably similar. I laid the palm of my hand across DeVries’ forehead, expecting it to be clammy, but instead felt an uncharacteristic chill. His head whipped back and forth and he whispered, ‘Thirsty – thirsty –’ as saliva flecked with blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. I gingerly peeled away the sticky mat of T-shirt that covered his wound and reared back, revolted by what I saw. The bite was blackened as if cauterised. Tendrils the colour of road tar had begun spidering through the flesh, following the paths of blood vessels. It looked for all the world as if an alien infection were slowly consuming his body. Osmotic pressure within the vessels caused them to bulge obscenely.
    â€˜I’m thirsty!’ DeVries moaned, this time with greater vigour. In fact, the tone of his voice carried the hint of a demand.
    â€˜Heather, can you get me a bottle of water? Let’s see if I can get him to drink.’
    She scrambled away as Scotty said something in a low voice about DeVries and how we should have cut him loose the night before. I felt a hot breath surge through me. How could he consider such a thing, much less advocate it as a course of action? ‘Infected’ or not, DeVries was a human being who needed help. And he had come back for us at tremendous personal risk. He had earned our efforts to help him.
    Heather was back, handing me the water through the tent flap. Though it had been sitting out in the sun, the bottle felt infinitely cooler than the sweat lodge of a tent. I unscrewed the cap and placed the lip of the bottle at DeVries mouth. ‘Try to drink some of this,’ I told him gently, and