Free The Creeping Kelp by William Meikle, Wayne Miller

pumping the pedal for all he was worth. Not that he could hear the effect much—that was drowned out by the stereo system. It was turned up to ten and if there had been an eleven, it would be turned up to that. Parallel parked beside him, Jake Brown put the pedal to the metal in his Nova. They smiled like sharks at each other through the open windows.
    You’re going down, Brown.
    It was near midnight and the drag contest on Weymouth promenade was reaching its climax. Both lads knew that they’d made enough noise in the past ten minutes to wake up half the town and that the police would be here any minute now. But there was time for one last race—the one that would assign bragging rights, for this week at least.
    He kept his eye on Jake, waiting for the slightest twitch, like a gunslinger waiting to draw. Jake winked... and popped the clutch, gaining a vital few yards before Derek reacted. Derek pushed the pedal to the floor and the Escort leapt after its quarry.
    No way he beats me…no way in hell.
    Derek lived for these nights. Long working days spent loading and unloading crates for the County Council were ameliorated by nights spent in his Dad’s garage, tinkering with the innards of the Escort, buffing up the paint work and ensuring that the stereo was the loudest it could possibly be. Later in those evenings, he would sit behind the wheel and dream, about the last race of the night, flying straight in the dark towards glory at full volume.
    He put his foot down full and felt the engine kick under him.
    By the time they were half way along the run, Derek knew he was going to win.
    Nobody beats this car on the run in from here. Nobody.
    He looked over as he drew level with Jake and gave him the finger. Jake screamed something at him that couldn’t be heard above the pounding bass from the stereo, but Derek didn’t need to hear it. He knew he had Jake beat and Jake knew it too. He tried to push the accelerator all the way down to the floor and they hit a hundred and thirty on the long straight.
    They were bearing fast down on the end of the promenade when Derek saw that there was something wrong. Normally, there was a row of lights where the other cars waited at the line to hail the victorious driver with a cacophony of horns and squeals. But tonight, that end of the track looked dark and quiet. Even the light from the lampposts overhead seemed to be dim, as if a heavy fog was, even now, advancing in from the bay.
    Derek didn’t slow. The race was the thing and Jenna Smythe— with a y —was waiting at the finish line, promising kisses and other exciting tokens of love to the victor.
    But worry started to gnaw at him. The darkness ahead was starting to look like a cave.
    Blackout? Have the cops got there already?
    Jake Brown pulled up first with a screech of brakes. Derek gave his best victory yell and floored it hard, barrelling straight into the blackness. He peered through the windscreen, trying to see the finish line. If it was the cops, they were being sneaky and that wasn’t like them. Usually they just turned up, shouted a lot, and left again. This quiet dark wasn’t their style.
    If it’s the rest of them playing a trick, I’ll give them something to think about.
    He kept his foot down and turned into the slight curve that marked the end of the promenade. If they were waiting for him in the dark, he would scatter them like ninepins as they would be expecting him to slow.
    What do you think about that?
    He hit a wall of kelp at nearly ninety miles an hour, ploughing inside a squirming mass of fronds and tendrils that smacked and slithered again the windshield. He just had the presence of mind to push the button for the side windows as the first tendril tried to snake inside.
    What the hell?
    The sound of the winding motor seemed to confuse the attackers and the window closed with a satisfying thunk, leaving the tendril on the other side to slither wetly against the glass . Only then, did he have time to