All Chapters of The Rip: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Gabe twisted in his sleep, sheets half-kicked to the floor, breath catching on a word he never finished.Six Months AgoTwo response boats hammered out of the police shed, bows knifing the bay toward a black-blooming smear of smoke. Sirens didn’t carry over water; urgency did. Gabe helmed the lead with Joanne beside him, headset on, eyes narrowed against glare. In the second boat, Andrew drove while his younger brother, Tim, rode shotgun, scanning the horizon.Andrew keyed the police band. “Hey, you two lovebirds—where we going?”Tim stood and waved across the wake. Gabe and Joanne glanced over.“See that bloom?” Gabe pointed. “We find out what did that.”Tim squinted, recognition crawling over his face. “I know this patch. Remember the sailor we dragged off the reef a few years back?”Andrew nodded. “Big storm night.”Gabe raised binoculars. The heat haze shimmered, then a stern swam into view, letters crooked by distance.Prognosis.He passed the glass to Joanne.“Hey, boys,” she ca

A month after everything, the beach wore a CLOSED sign like a dare. NO SWIMMING. NO SURFING. The council’s stencilled red screamed from a weathered post, but the sea didn’t care and neither did the kids. Far offshore, a few idiots cut dark silhouettes against the moon, riding glowing green boards across the backs of black waves as if the rules were for other towns.A cool breeze combed the dunes and rolled the bonfire smoke sideways. The party sound from the school up the hill drifted down in gauzy thumps—tinny bass, an MC who thought shouting counted as charisma. Around the fire, Year Twelve huddled like a small tribe at the edge of the world: Nick, Rachel, Tony, Prue, Tina, Bob, Jasmine, Con, Toni, Nathan. Beers sweated in sand. The girls passed a cheap bottle of red; a joint pinwheeled through the inner circle, glowing like a firefly on every second inhale.Travis picked at a bass guitar, fingers working chords he didn’t have to think about. He wound American Pie into something l

It was a sultry morning. Heat rode the breeze like breath off a beast. The sun shouldered itself up over the horizon and laid a gold knife across the restless sea. The beach was moving—search parties fanning along the tideline, cops in hi-vis combing dunes, witnesses huddled under thin shade. Lucy’s name went out again and again, thinner with each repetition until it sounded like a gull’s cry torn in half.Two police boats prowled the inshore channels, engines low and disciplined, crews scanning for anything that didn’t belong to the ocean. Overhead, the helicopter carved circles into the sky, rotors thudding a heartbeat too big for the morning, its shadow skittering across white water like a dark thought.In the car park, a battered Camaro rattled to a halt and coughed blue smoke. It coughed again and died. Gabe stared through the windscreen at the moving picture of sirens, uniforms, cameras, blankets. Three days of beard, eyes like raw meat. He unscrewed the hip flask with fingers t

Nick lay there a second longer, counting her breaths like a prayer. In. Out. In. Out. No black water. No screaming. Just the soft hiss of the old split-system and the slow click of the cooling house.He wiped his face with the heel of his hand. His skin felt grainy, like he’d slept on sandpaper. The sheets were damp under him, clinging. He glanced at the bedside clock—4:37 a.m.—and slid out from under the doona as gently as he could.The floorboards were cool. The room smelled normal again—lavender, shampoo, a hint of last night’s candles. He stood in the doorway a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the soft dark of the hall. Photos lined the wall: Rachel at five with a toothless grin; Nick and Rachel in school uniforms; a goofy shot of Jasmine and Lucy at the beach, tongues out, middle fingers up. He stared too long at that one and felt the dream climb back up his spine.“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, as if the word might break whatever had followed him out of sleep.He padded to t

The nave exhaled them into the cool hush of the transept, past votive candles guttering like little endurance tests. Frank led, robes whispering, Gabe half a step behind with the folder under his arm and the half-idol heavy in his pocket like a hot stone.They slipped through the side door by the pulpit—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY—and into the sacristy’s square of white tile and oak cabinets. Linen smelled like starch and lavender. Frank didn’t stop. Another door; a short hall lined with framed parish photos. Another door; old timber; a key that needed persuasion.The room beyond was smaller than Gabe remembered and bigger once you saw the shelves. Books wall-to-wall, spines the colour of wet leaves and old bruise, gold letters rubbed faint. A crucifix above the desk. A kettle, a bottle of Power’s Irish hidden behind it like a bad habit, two mismatched mugs. The air had that mildewed sweetness of paper that had outlived its authors.“I said drink,” Frank said, catching Gabe clock the bo