Tremors: A Stone Braide Chronicles Story by Bonnie S. Calhoun

1

    Hilton Head Island, South Carolina
    Three young men pulled off what they thought was the coup of the century—spending the night in sleeping bags under a large outcropping on Grasslawn Beach.
    “Dude, I told you we could get away with it.” The blond surfer unzipped himself from his sleeping bag and brushed the sand from his hair. He slapped his tattooed friend a high five.
    “You were right, man. This saved us way mucho bucks,” the tattooed guy said.
    “This is the bomb,” the tall surfer declared as he stood and stretched himself to his full six feet. “I really thought they’d catch us down here.”
    “I told you nobody checks the beach after eleven at night,” the blond said as he pulled his board from under the outcropping.
    “Man, this sea air really knocked me out. It’s after one already. Let’s hit the waves. Look at ’em!” Tattooed Guy cupped his hands over his eyes to peer at the pounding surf.
    The three made a contest of who would get their boards in the water first.
    “Dude, we have the beach to ourselves. How much better can it get?” Tall Guy paddled out to the approaching wave on his belly. Reaching the point where he saw good waves breaking, he sat with his legs straddling the board, watching the other two paddling tohim. “Come on, move it! I’d at least like to catch one wave before I’m old and gray!” He whipped his hair around and flexed his muscles.
    “This is really pretty cool. We’re all alone. No amateurs to get in our way. Nothing but sun and hangin’ ten for the whole day.” Blond Guy sat up beside him, waiting for his tattooed friend. “Come on, did you forget how to swim?”
    They didn’t notice the current pulling them away from the beach. Suddenly a wave surge nearly landed them on top of each other. Their boards clicked together.
    “Hey, easy, man, what’s up? Don’t scratch the merchandise. This cobalt-blue baby is my pride and joy. It needs to look good for the ladies.” Tall Guy grinned and checked his board for damage.
    “Did you feel that?” Blond Guy looked into the water.
    “Feel what?” Tattooed Guy fisted his hands on his hips, his legs dangling in the water. Sea spray filled his hair and dripped down his bronzed torso.
    “The pull of the current. Look, we’ve moved pretty far from land.” Tall Guy squinted. “Why does the beach all of a sudden look really wide?”
    “Aw, man, forget it! Here comes a wave. Let’s rock.” Blond Guy stood up on his board, swaying back and forth, waiting for the wave to lift them up.
    The water growled up out of the sea as the shoaling wave grew to a height of fifty feet. The boys barely had time to react. When they did, it was already too late. They would not reach the top of that wave, or take a first ride on a new surfboard, or have the ride of a lifetime.
    Suddenly all three were submerged and drifting to the bottom of the sea, caught in a watery grave on a bright and sunny day, where there was no life.

    Selah Rishon Chavez saw the foam, smelled the surf, heard the waves. She flailed, then screamed, bolting upright, awake and gasping for air. Her arms and legs beat at invisible water. The only tangible wetness—sweat plastering the hair to her forehead. She’d fallen asleep with the sea breeze gently rustling her hair, but now sweat and sticky grass seeds had created a tangled bird’s nest in her long locks.
    She leaned forward, sucking in deliberate, controlled breaths asher hands encircled shaky knees. She pulled them tight to her chest. The third dream in as many weeks. Different locations, different people, always the same end—death by a great wave. But the dreams only happened when she fell asleep on the beach with the sound of waves crashing around her.
    Each time she labored to commit the scenes to memory, they drifted away in a matter of minutes like dandelion down. The strange pictures, scary and disquieting, were mental curiosities of a certain unknown grandness. How was this possible?