Behemoth

by Michael Cole

  Jeb looked at his inventory notes, hoping that there was a mistake in the paperwork about the number of specimens. But it was confirmed, there were supposed to be six. It was thought that Architeuthis Brachyura was the only hybrid to have escaped.

  “Oh, God,” Jeb said to himself. “This is Jeb Keith to welding units! Cancel your current assignments and come back in!” He paused, waiting for a response. “Keith to welding units, come in please.” He waited another moment. Still no answer. “Welding units, this is Jeb Keith! Somebody respond, damn it!” His heart thumped heavily and his hand begun to quiver as he looked over his notes for the missing creature: Isurus Palinuridae. Lobster-Shark.

  Read on for a free sample of Vengeance from the Deep

  Chapter 1

  KUTA KEB-LA

  Three years earlier

  A loud clap of thunder brought fifty-five-year-old Captain Frank Addelson back to consciousness. A hazy darkness flashed before him until he drifted out. He inhaled the salty air, and that’s when the pain came. His shoulder joints ached deeply, and his wrists were on fire. “Aaagh!” he grimaced, feeling like he was being pulled in half. As his vision cleared, it was easy to see why. He was stretched out in an X shape, bound between two huge posts by wrists and ankles—and as naked as the day he was born.

  “What the—?”

  He had once awakened buck naked in a Durban pig’s trough, but the lads at Murphy’s Law Saloon weren’t capable of this. The roughly hewn poles were spaced about fifteen feet apart. A glance down showed the pilings leading into the misty, black sea. Lapping waves transformed into froth against the wood.

  What kind of madness is this? Squinting his eyes, he glanced all around him, only to discover that he was inside a massive underground lagoon. Twinkling in the pitch, a series of small fires outlined the hazy shoreline. Their dancing flames reflected eerily along the water’s edge. The air was foul. Every time the wind calmed, a vile stench rose from the pilings.

  Maybe that’s it. He gazed into the flames. Maybe I died at sea, and this is hell.

  His vision blurred. He almost blacked out until the pain once again awakened him. He groaned, throwing his head straight back. Looking up, he saw the poles reaching high above toward the roof of the cavern. A fiery torch atop each piling illuminated dagger-like stalactites. He felt the heat radiating from the lapping flames, yet an icy chill crept over his bare skin.

  No, this isn’t hell. At least not yet.

  Above the poles, and strung beneath the roof of the cave were a series of ropes and pulleys. Best he could tell, it looked like rigging from an old sailing ship. The ropes led to a towering cliff off to his left that hung eerily in the darkness. Its rocky ledge was illuminated by a single torch.

  “WHO PUT ME IN HERE?” The captain’s voice roared through the cavern.

  The pounding in his head made it difficult to think. Vaguely, he recalled piloting a fishing trawler off Port Elizabeth, South Africa. Images of a hostile storm flashed before him—the forty-foot swell off port side, clinging to a lifejacket while rolling over huge waves in the pounding rain. Lastly, he remembered waking on a dark shoreline.

  Like a fly snared in a spider’s web, Frank squirmed helplessly between the ropes. A loud crack of thunder resonated through the cave. As the deafening rumble faded into the distance, it seemed to take on a rhythm—or was it something else . . . a drumbeat? Slowly, the tribal drums grew louder, echoing impressively throughout the vast cavern. Squinting into the pitch, Frank inhaled a deep breath of salty sea air. The mist cleared further, and then he could see them.

  Like demons in hell, countless dark figures glistened in the flames along the banks. Every face wore a strange white stripe. Spears in hands, their shimmering bodies writhed like serpents to the drumbeat.

  The cave fell darker. The wind swirled around Frank’s bare flesh, growing cooler.

  KABOOM! A flash of lightning illuminated the cavern, and for a split second he could see his captors clearly. With half-painted faces, their blue-black bodies seemed frozen in the light. And then darkness returned, leaving only the silhouetted figures writhing in the hellish flames.

  Frank twisted, screaming between the ropes, “Take me down from here, you black devils!” he snarled. “Cut me down!”

  There was a squeak from above.

  Peering up, he saw a small tribesman dangling by one of the ropes. The little man scurried across the rope like a monkey, muscles glistening in the torchlight until he disappeared behind the ledge of the nearby cliff. Beyond the ledge, Frank saw more shadowy faces peering down at him, their eyes shining in the pitch.

  A loud squeak from one of the pulleys.

  Another squeak. And then another. The ropes above the captain grew taut and came to life, twisting and turning beneath the stalactites of the cave.

  SWOOOOSH.

  Frank struggled to look upward as a large, brown object glided down a rope and squeaked to a stop, swaying ominously above his head. It was a four-foot round sack, constructed of animal hide. The stench was undeniable . . . and unbearable.

  “What are you doing?” Frank screamed. “What have I done?” His pleas echoed through the huge cavern, unanswered.

  This is madness. What kind of nightmare have I awakened in? Straining against the ropes, Frank’s eyes darted back down to the hazy shoreline. One of the tribesmen appeared to be some kind of chief. Bathed in firelight, the portly man stood and raised his arms as though in worship. The drumbeat ceased. Spears and torches stopped waving, and the banks fell quiet. The crashing sea could once again be heard. The chief pointed toward the posts that held Frank’s body. Thunder cracked. Lightning flickered off every half-painted face as they all turned and looked Frank’s way.

  If this is a nightmare, now would be a good time to wake up. But Frank’s aching shoulders and the ropes burning into his wrists were all too real.

  “KUTA KEB-LA!” bellowed the chief.

  The surrounding tribesmen roared with delight, “T’lay, t’lay!”

  Thunder rumbled. Lightning flared.

  Upon signal from the chief, a tall tribesman took off along the bank, spear in hand.

  WHOOOOSH!

  Frank’s eyes widened as the spear arced over the lagoon, flashing through the darkness, plummeting toward the posts. He screamed, thinking the spear would go right through his chest. But it didn’t. It struck the sack above his head.

  SWOOOOSH!

  A gushing warmth cascaded over his naked skin and splashed down into the black water. Chunks of flesh pelted him. He writhed in the warm blood, as he screamed, strung up like a pig between the poles. Out of the periphery of his vision, he could see a length of intestine dangling from his right arm like a snake. He shook the ropes violently until the intestine slid off and plopped into the black sea, coiling beneath the waves.

  Twisting frantically, Frank looked down at the blood spilling from his body and into the water below. A scarlet cloud swelled between the poles.

  The drumming intensified.

  A shout went up from one of the tribesmen. He pointed to the far side of the lagoon.

  A shark fin broke the surface.

  Panic surged through Frank’s body. Another glance down showed small metallic blurs—a shoal of fish—shooting by the pilings, fleeing the area.

  A trail of urine splattered against the sea—Frank’s bladder contracting from sheer terror.

  The men along the banks roared with fury. Rhythmically pounding the blunt end of their spears against the rocks, they began to shout, “T’lay, t’lay! Kuta Keb-la.” The chant grew louder and louder, echoing madly through the cavern.

  The drinking, the divorce, his daughter’s tears—every mistake of Frank’s life flashed before him. “God, no,” he shook his head. “Not now. Not like this.”

  The tall fin emerged from the pitch in unison with a crack of thunder. Then a flash of lightning illuminated the giant, torpedo-shaped body beneath the fin. The great white circled below, attracted to the blood still
draining into the lagoon. A former army sergeant, Frank had seen action on the front line, but he’d never known fear like this. Had the drumming increased in tempo . . . or was it his pounding heart? His breathing was rapid and shallow.

  The ropes tore into his flesh as he twisted more violently in an attempt to pull his hands free.

  Below, the giant shark glided between the pilings. The crimson waters divided in the wake of the passing fin. Frank’s heart was about to burst. He didn’t know how much longer he could survive the enormous foreboding in his heart. He knew that with just one leap from the water, the creature could easily reach him, devour him.

  His tormented screams echoed in the darkness.

  “You’ll burn in hell for this, you bloody savages. Burn in hell,” he shouted. “BURN IN HEELLLLL!”

  ~~~

  On the rocky shoreline, one of the chief’s guards watched eagerly from behind the flames. Thirty yards out in the center of the lagoon, the sacrificial offering twisted hideously between the poles. His painted-red flesh shimmered; his screams muted by the thundering drums.

  ~~~

  Frank’s eyes were riveted to the approaching great white. His body quivered uncontrollably.

  Then, in an instant, he stopped moving. His terror and pain was diverted completely by what he saw beyond the great white’s fin.

  Again, the surface of the lagoon rose and dropped as if something of immense proportion had stirred beneath it. A swell sent out from the movement slapped the posts, sending a cool mist around his bare thighs.

  ~~~

  Along the banks, the drumming increased in tempo. Anticipation swelled. Shouts and cheers rose from the tribesmen as the fin arced through the darkness and turned toward the posts. The great white lunged from the lagoon. The shark’s hyper-extended jaws soared above the surface, zeroing in on the bound man.

  As it did, a new set of colossal jaws burst from the water. Machete-sized, spiked teeth surrounded the great white shark and the sacrifice, engulfing them both in a single split second.

  The mammoth creature had elicited such a splash that it was impossible to make out its lines. All the men could see were jaws—massive, indomitable, twelve feet or more in circumference—closing around its prey, ripping the man from the wooden poles, leaving only his hands and feet still tied to them.

  “Kuta Keb-la! Kuta Keb-la!” The tribesmen went wild with religious fervor as the body of Captain Frank Addelson disappeared beneath the waves, into the jaws of . . . the beast.

  A clap of thunder echoed through the cave.

  A flicker of lightning, and a huge swell sent out from the plunging head crashed into the rocks, sending a spray over the cheering crowd. In the center of the lagoon, the water boiled beneath the empty pilings, while smoke from the extinguished torches curled and drifted upward to the stalactites.

  Chapter 2

  SEARCHING FOR “OLD FOUR LEGS”

  Present Day

  It was quarter past eleven by the time John Paxton wheeled his rented Jeep onto the Port Elizabeth College campus. It was late November, and on this side of the globe, the middle of summer. But was it always this hot? He gasped as he crossed the sunbaked parking lot. Raking moist hair from his eyes, he hurried along a sidewalk, dodging students who were obviously more acclimated to the heat.

  Having attended the school two decades ago and returning just last year, he assumed he could find the professor’s office. But now that he was here, every one of the ivy-covered buildings looked the same. Nice move . . . forgot to write down the building number again.

  After canceling another expedition and paying an exorbitant airfare to get to South Africa on such short notice, he didn’t want to be late for the appointment. Besides, this expedition was different. This wasn’t just another one of the professor’s witch-hunts or expeditions based on a hunch or hearsay. No, that much he could sense in her voice the moment she had called. As the professor had pointed out over the phone, this one could prove to be the crowning jewel in an otherwise stale career. She always did know how to push my buttons, John thought. But the old girl was right about one thing: on a find this significant, other archeologists would be waiting in the wings to take his place. Being late wasn’t an option.

  John stopped and peered up at one of the old buildings. “Computer Center,” he muttered. “Not this one.” He glanced at his watch then picked up his pace while his thoughts raced ahead. Why the professor had selected him for this particular expedition was still a mystery. John was more accustomed to excavations on dry land, like the fossilized eggs of the prehistoric elephant bird of Madagascar he had helped the professor unearth eight months ago. Ichthyology was hardly his field.

  Two young coeds carrying tennis rackets were heading along the sidewalk. In passing, one of the girls flashed him a shy smile. John wondered briefly if she thought he was a teacher or maybe a student. Yeah right. He glanced back. They’re practically children. At forty-two, John didn’t consider himself old. Other than a scar on his left eyebrow, he knew his smooth complexion seemed to contradict his years of excavating in the hot sun. But every time he visited this campus, the students appeared to get younger. Now he felt like he was visiting a middle school.

  He turned onto another winding sidewalk, and it was more of the same. Rows of ivy-leafed geraniums, striking pink flowers common to South Africa, cascaded down ivory-colored walls. He passed two more identical buildings. Two more lady coeds. He looked at one of the buildings again. Was that the one? No.

  “I’ll never find her office.” Then he sensed a familiarity to the building at the end of the sidewalk. Walking closer, he saw the bronze imprint of a prehistoric fish above the double doors. “Figures . . . the last building.”

  Opening the door, a burst of air conditioning brought welcome relief from the blazing heat. Okay, right building, now which room? He squinted his eyes as he thought. Wait a minute . . . three oh two, second room on the right! John opened the door to the sound of creaking hinges. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a striking, silver-haired Englishwoman in her early sixties. She was seated behind a desk in front of a large aquarium. Beneath the faint aroma of cigar smoke, the room held a strange, ancient scent, matching the surroundings.

  “Well, tally along, take a seat. I haven’t got all day.” The professor waved him closer.

  John smiled. “Professor Atkins. Crotchety as always.”

  “John Paxton, I presume,” countered the professor. “Discourteous as always. And late.”

  John walked deeper into the professor’s lair. Various skulls of prehistoric creatures, including a velociraptor, stared out from illuminated nooks in the wall to his right. Anchored to the wall to his left was a six-foot-long mammoth tusk recovered from the Bering Sea. Past it was a series of flat sheets of rock containing the fossilized indentations of fish from the Devonian period. John passed all these interesting items without a second glance.

  The professor stood behind her desk and extended a hand. “Welcome back to Port Elizabeth. Seriously, I appreciate you coming out here on such short notice.”

  Up close, her square-rimmed glasses magnified piercing gray eyes. As always, John imagined how stunning she must have been in her youth. Her coarse fingers and battered nails contrasted with her beauty, attesting that she was still doing her own excavating.

  “I see you’re still not acclimated to our weather?”

  John nodded without a word. He pulled out an antique chair in front of the desk and sat down. He could almost feel the professor’s anticipation of his questions. He didn’t disappoint. “Okay, what exactly did you see that night?” he asked. “Repeat what you told me over the phone. Start with the village . . . and exactly where was this island?”

  “Eager to get on with it, are you? That’s what I always liked about you, John. Not one for, as the Americans call it, chitchat.”

  The professor picked up a lit cigar from an ashtray, drew on it, and spewed the smoke from the side of her mouth. “Handelsgold,” s
he said, withdrawing the stogie from her lips and holding it delicately between her fingers as only an Englishwoman could. She eyed the cigar in her hand. “Dreadful habit, I thought at first. My second husband, Randall, got me hooked on these bloody things. I’ve acquired quite a taste for them over the years . . . too bad I can’t say the same about his lazy carcass.”

  She took another drag from the cigar and paused as if intentionally drawing out the moment. A tendril of smoke curled from the side of her mouth and rose beside her square-rimmed glasses. An excited look appeared in her eyes that seemed to brighten the room.

  “Okay, I was on a little island off South Africa. It’s about three hundred miles southeast of Port Elizabeth and was completely off the charts until only three years ago. Seems the Navy discovered it while searching for a fishing trawler that went missing in the vicinity. Oddly, the Navy found the capsized trawler less than a mile from this tiny island, but not a trace of her eight-man crew. They assumed that the sharks got to them before they could make the short swim to shore.”

  The professor leaned closer. Bubbles from the aquarium’s regulator rose behind her head. “Anyway, our expedition involved studying a remote fishing village on the island’s southern tip. After a quick gander at the village, Chief Omad led us into a large hut, where we were seated at a table. The chief stood, clapped his hands, and shouted, ‘Unda-Kuta-Legway.’ Then someone leaned over to me and said, ‘That mean let’s eat.’

  “That someone was Kota. As a youth, a visiting missionary took Kota back with him to South Africa where he was educated in Cape Town. I’m not sure how many years of schooling the lad received, but he spoke Afrikaans and some English. Later he returned to the island and became the villagers’ link to the outside world. He was like a shadow . . . never far from the chief’s side.”