By D. A. Dalessandro
There's a horror as previous because the sea. for hundreds of years, it has stalked unsuspecting sailors and is actually the stuff of legends. deadly and constant, it strikes via evening and moves unexpectedly. within the yr 1856, it has come to the remoted island of Nantucket to feed. Screenwriter D.A. Dalessandro ("Snakes On A Plane") channels Bram Stoker and Jules Verne in his meticulously researched twist at the Gothic horror novel. whilst Harvard clinical pupil Balthazar Andrews arrives to check a physique discovered tired of blood, he's drawn into an experience that shatters his realizing of technological know-how and the flora and fauna. fortunately, he acquires a stalwart ally-eighteen-year-old Prudence Mott, a feisty Quaker with a devotion to the works of Edgar Allan Poe. As our bodies pile up, Balthazar and Prudence assemble an eccentric naturalist, a crusty soldier of fortune and a Samoan whale hunter in a determined quest to break the creature they name "Anathema."
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Additional info for Anathema
You kill him, uh? That would be nice, to have him gone. He drives the banditos away. ” Toweling his face with a swatch of frayed burlap, Yakima turned to her. She reclined naked amidst the bed’s twisted sheets, her head propped on an elbow, her rich hair spilling across her wrist. A smoky smile lit her eyes, which the sun discovered as it rose now behind the eastern ridges and slanted through the window. ” Yakima turned back to the basin and washed his privates. ” “Shame on you. ” She smiled lustily, savagely, showing her teeth.
The redhead fired twice more at Yakima as he gained the top of the stairs. 44. The man lurched forward and dropped to a knee, grabbing his right shoulder. He poked the pistol through the rail pillars, showing his teeth as he glared down the revolver’s shivering barrel. The pistol flashed and popped, the slug chewing into the floor and throwing slivers across Yakima’s boots. The half-breed sprinted to the bottom of the stairs, grabbed the newel post, and sprang up the steps two at a time as the redhead scrambled to his feet and bolted off down the hall, bellowing like an ox in an abattoir.
The single window looked out on a narrow balcony and the corrals in the canyon below, which was quickly filling now with purple shadows as the sun sank behind the western hills. A lone coyote yammered atop the opposite, saffron-bathed ridge—a slight gray smudge beside a single, gnarled pinion, the brush wolf’s slender snout canted skyward. Yakima dropped his saddlebags on a chair and leaned his rifle against the wall beside the window. The pad of bare feet sounded in the hall, and he turned as Sabina entered, a beaded leather pouch in one hand, a basin of water in the other.