From the depths (THE DEPTHS TRILOGY Book 1)

by DAN MONTY

  FROM THE DEPTHS

  A NOVEL BY DAN MONTY

  First published in 2020 by KDP publishing

  ©️ 2020 Dan Monty all rights reserved

  Cover design by Dan Monty

  ©️ 2020 by Dan Monty all rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. No part of this book should

  be copied, sold, hired out, or reproduced by any means

  without the prior written consent of the author .

  ISBN: 979855009008

  This work is copyrighted ©️ 2020 by Dan Monty

  All names, places and incidents herein are fictitious and any

  resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  This book is not intended for younger readers.

  By the same author

  The Granville Train Disaster

  Undead in Texas

  Poe

  Rusalka: Lady in Lake

  The Astonisha trilogy

  Crush on Drew

  For my son, Michael. Beware! The world is full of sharks -

  and Joanne, who saved me from a few of them.

  Forward

  It’s the Spring of 2020. Trump is fighting to stay in the White House. Australia (well, the world) is still in the grip of the coronavirus epidemic and in the immortal words of Bob Dylan, “times are a-changing.” It was amidst this chaos and several trips to the beach that I started contemplating the idea of another book. The idea had chased me around for the fifteen years that had passed since my last book The Granville Train Disaster, my last book and first and last venture into the realm of non-fiction. It was 2005, and I’d been paid to write about one of Australia’s worst rail disasters. It took the longest part of the year to complete and upon the completion of the said book I was deflated. There were no more tales of fiction in my head, nor non-fiction for that matter and for fifteen years it stayed that way. But there were always whispers on the wind – thoughts ticking like a grandfather clock. Maybe... one day, something would surface. Sharks had always interested me, from Peter Benchley’s iconic novel Jaws to the very creature itself – great monsters lurking in the deep. I fear them, respect them, and wanted to understand them. The ocean is vast – so vast that we actually know more about the moon. There’s something bizarre and scary about that in itself. I wasn’t sure I could write another horror novel but I did want to write something to do with the sea. Something dark, mysterious and oceanic.

  I’d like to welcome you gentle reader, to my latest voyage...

  I hope you don’t mind getting wet.

  - Dan Monty, Spring 2020, Victoria, Australia.

  PART ONE

  THE FIVE

  “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”

  - HP LOVECRAFT.

  1

  Jonathan Leipzig was 57, bald, and grossly overweight. He had tried for so long to lose weight, but the idea of a burger that he hadn’t tried yet just didn’t sit well with him. So he ate, and after an exhausting divorce, two kids on drugs, and nothing but sarcasm from his good-for-nothing therapist, he was just grateful his life wasn’t much worse off.

  He sat on his arse in a small boat on the Caribbean, drinking from a bottle of Jack and baiting another hook on his fishing rod. Worms weren’t bad bait, but he was done with using lures – those things were about as useful to him as pushing shit up hill in a cart with no wheels. He thought about using eels, but the bastards were too much of a hassle, and it didn’t matter because the bait shop guy never had any. So he sat on his fat arse, scratching his bald head, and waited for a bite – goddamn story of his life. John had struck nothing but bad luck and blue days since the divorce. The one bedroom flat he'd moved into on a beach in Jamaica smelled of cat piss, on account of the neighbour’s cat Jangles, sneaking in through his window at night. He’d shut the window, but it got so damn hot he couldn’t sleep. “GET OUTTA HERE YA BASTARD!” he said one day, jumping out of his chair and scaring the life out of Jangles as it feasted on leftover pizza from an open box on the floor of his filthy apartment. His cleaning lady had quit and the whole flat was littered with Chinese take-out boxes, pizza boxes, Burger King wrappers, and clothes all strewn about the place. Any womans worst nightmare, but John barely remembered to shave, let alone clean up. And so, the filth grew until it practically consumed his life. Roaches were building townhouses, rats were having tea parties, and John couldn’t care less. So the boat became an escape and the sea became his friend.

  The line of his rod went taut! Finally! Something was biting and it was big enough to be bending that rod like it was made of rubber. “Wooah! What do we got here?” he mumbled under his pizza-stinking breath, his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he fought hard to reel it in. His catch was pulling but he could handle it. He’d wrangled some small swordfish and cod, but this was a fighter! Praise the Lord, she was fighting him! “Reminds me of my ex-wife," he stammered in a Southern accent. He’d wrangled ‘gators with less fight, and this felt smaller than a ‘gator. He reeled it in hard, fighting and mopping sweat from his brow – cursing when he kicked his bottle of Jack and it spilled into the boat. No time he thought, Jack'll forgive me when I reel this bitch in.

  The fight was nearing its end and he whooped for joy as he pulled in a shark – it looked like a baby bull. “Now that’s a baby bull shark! Well slap my ass an call me Christine! That’s a baby bull!” he whooped. The shark fell into the boat and danced around gasping. John wasted no time slitting the throat and gutting it as it thrashed around wildly. He threw the guts overboard, laughing as he cut the fins off, spraying the floor of the boat with blood. He tossed the fins into his esky filled with ice, then continued cleaning his four-foot kill. The sharks eyes had rolled back white. Its agony ended. John tossed the meat into the esky with the fins, oblivious to the much larger fin that was only now circling his boat. He mopped more sweat from his brow and popped the lid off another bottle of Jack Daniels. Not bad for a days work. Sadly, his day was just getting started.

  There was a stillness in the air and John looked around – too late, as a heavy thump rocked the boat hard, sending him flying into the drink. He hit the water like a cannonball, an epic splash and he was under the boat, the booze and all that blood was in the water. John lunged up, splashing around and coughing like a kid that had been beset by a giant wave.

  He sputtered and did his best to keep his head above sea level – but something grabbed his legs. Searing pain! Agony! He screamed, coughing up mouthfuls of blood as the giant bull beneath him made quick work of him. Its serrated teeth cut through flesh, muscle and bone. His bloody screams became gurgles as the monstrous beast dragged him fast, pulling him beneath the waves. He was gone for a moment and burst from the abyss again – howling! Begging! Praying! Blood shot from his mouth as he went down once more, bubbles rising to the surface one final time.

  Then... silence. There was none but an empty boat, and the sounds of the sea.

  In the wake of Jonathan Leipzig‘s death came a stir of echoing tabloids. The headlines were always shocking; BULL SHARK VICTIM FOUND ON BEACH, and SHARK ATTACKS ON THE RISE: FISHERMAN FOUND DEAD, and of course, KILLER SHARK ON THE RAMPAGE – press fodder that the readers lapped up with horror, sensationalized by the story hungry media. Beaches were closed. Police investigated. Over time more evidence washed ashore. It was like a circus had come to town. No-one bothered to mention the fisherman had a taste for shark fin soup. No-one knew the attack only happened because the female bull shark had been protecting its child.

  The press and police just saw what remained of the bloated, mauled body of a fishe
rman. The esky full of shark fins and meat? Ignored. Over time, it was forgotten. Three days later, the female bull was caught, strung up, and photographed beside legendary shark hunter, a tanned Caucasian surfer-looking guy named Bo Landers and a couple of Jamaican fishermen.

  The shark was eight feet long, one hundred and thirty pounds – pretty standard for a bull. The hunters smiled proudly by their kill, and gutted her on the dock for all to see – her intestines spilling out in a steaming, stinking pile. Sure enough, one of John’s flabby legs spilled out of her stomach. Bo had caught him a KILLER alright. A foul, horrible monster. What he didn’t know then, but would come to learn in time was not all monsters had fins.

  Bo Landers was known for his hunting adventures on cable television shows like Shark Hunters International and The Wild, both shows had owed a lot to Australia’s Steve Irwin, but Bo had that Californian surfer language that drove the ladies wild. He drank a lot, partied like an animal, and had travelled the world climbing mountains and swimming with sharks. There were people that said he knew how to find sharks because he thought like one, which of course was completely insane. He had a houseboat, a plane, and plenty of money – but his love, his life, and his lady was the sea. There were scars on his right leg, a little love bite from the one that got away – a tiger shark that had attacked a boat he had been filming on and a female crew member had sadly been taken. Grace her name had been, Grace Star. She had been lost to the sea and Bo had almost drunk himself to death. He had plenty of similar tales he often told for TV cameras and bars, but he didn’t spin lies. “Never tell a tale unless you’ve got the scars to back it up,” he often said with a wink. His body was tanned by the sun, his hair long and ocean bleached. He could have any girl he wanted, but settling down was never his style. Sure, there were girls. Lots. Moving port to port there always are, but a wife? Kids? Nope. This man was married to the water.

  Bo had always loved the surf. Growing up in California he was always surfing, and when he couldn’t he was skateboarding in empty swimming pools with friends. Bo lived for the rush. Bo lived for thrills. Shark hunting was a hobby he was born into. Time magazine called him: “The shark whisperer,” on account of how close he could get to these beautiful creatures. His friend Jonah used to say he was Aquaman, referring to the popular superhero in Detective Comics. Bo was good at what he did. He loved the ocean, respected its creatures – but if a shark tastes blood in the water, it can be dangerous. He didn’t believe in culling, but if it came down to him dying or the shark, it damn sure wasn’t going to be him. He was the predator in a situation like that and he was always prepared for aggression.

  The day he got the call inviting him to an island off the coast of Jamaica, he was saying goodbye to smoking reefer on the beach. He’d smoked weed like it was going out of style when he stopped doing television shows and he’d finally figured out a way to kick the habit using yoga and meditation. He answered his phone mid-stretch as he stood on a yoga mat on the beach and adjusted his Ray Ban sunglasses. “Landers!” he exclaimed into the phone. He listened to the calm, somewhat excited German accented voice on the other end of the line.

  “Mr Landers, my name is Strucker. Hans Strucker. I have a business proposal and I think you might be interested,” the man said, pausing for a reaction. Bo considered his words, looked around and nodded, “I’m listening," he said and he did. The voice on the phone had his undivided attention.

  ◇◇◇◇

  Jordan Reeves was terrified of sharks. Actually, he was terrified of a lot of things. He was forty, obsessive-compulsive and for reasons best known to themselves he was also a constant bed wetter. He opened his eyes in his New York City apartment that overlooked Central Park, sweat dripping from his face and his breathing frantic. Another nightmare. He threw back the covers, running hands through his dishevelled hair and noticed the piss yellow stain on his sheets, soaking his pyjamas. “Great! Fucking great!” he whined, jumping out of bed and crossing the room to the adjacent bathroom.

  He pissed for what felt like a fortnight thinking, How can there be anything left in me? shook once (twice made him feel like he was masturbating), and ripped the sheets off his bed, tossing the urine stained bed clothes in the hamper. His morning routine began the same every day; brush teeth three times, gargling Listerine four times. He’d shower for an hour, scrubbing his skin viciously with a brush caked with soap, turning the hot and cold left then right two times each. He towel dried his hair vigorously, which would always remind him of the way gramma Patty had done it when he was a kid. She always said “cleanliness is next to Godliness, Jordan!” and she was right. Everything in the world was so dirty. It was so important to keep clean.

  The filth! Oh heavens! The filth was everywhere! His apartment was immaculate, yet was it? Was anything ever clean enough? Jordan didn’t think so. He’d bet dollars to pesos it wasn’t. The streets were disgusting, so he made sure to scrub the soles of his shoes every day with a toothbrush bought to serve just this purpose. He’d lay them by the heater and they would dry – the filth gone for a another day. The streets were rank with the smell of whore sweat and crack pipes. He didn’t see it, but it was there. The smell of decay, parlour sex, and debauchery, his mother used to warn him about. “Fornication is the instrument of evil!” his mother would say. She was never wrong. She taught him so well about the filth of the world. “The city is a toilet and women are bending over in every alley to take the sword of dirty men” she’d say. She was so wise. Jordan knew all about filth. Cleanliness was next to Godliness. His ma and gramma were right. Jordan flipped the light switch in the kitchen three times, unlocking the fridge (because God forbid a robber got in and wanted to make a sandwich), removed a bottle of OJ and poured himself a glass. Jordan locked the fridge again and flipped the light switch three times, returning to the bedroom to complete his morning routine.

  His shoes were dry and he inspected them thoroughly before placing them neatly on the floor by his oak dresser which smelled of cleaning products. He stepped into a pair of neat, pressed trousers and buttoned a long sleeve blue shirt. He unfolded his socks and stepped into them. His nails were always trimmed, his hair was always brushed, his face shaved and splashed with cologne. Jordan was impeccably neat and always on time.

  His job allowed him to work from home. Jordan wrote articles and novels for the New Yorker; mostly commentaries on social etiquette, and movie reviews, but his detective novels were his passion. His latest, The Killer on West Avenue was about a burned-out detective on the hunt for a psychopathic killer. It was trashy, airport novel fodder, but the publishers were eating it up. His agent had called him the next Andrew Kevin Walker, who had penned screenplays for films like Seven and 8MM. Jordan hadn’t seen either film, but took it as complimentary regardless. He had also written several essays on marine life and despite a fear of sharks, had demonstrated a true respect for the creatures and a love for the sea. The phone had been ringing for hours but he hadn’t heard it as it was set to vibrate. He finally picked it up, coughing and clearing his throat.

  “Hello?” he offered and listened to the calm voice on the other end of the line. “Do I have the pleasure of talking to the great author, Jordan Reeves?” the voice asked, a voice that sounded European or something. “Who is this?” Jordan asked just wanting to get to the point. Time was money and anything else was bullshit. “My name is Hans Strucker, and I have a business proposal for you. I’m a big fan of your work, Mr Reeves and I’m prepared to offer you a very handsome payment for your time. You do like money Mr Reeves, I know you do. I can offer you more than anyone has before. All you have to do is come to my island... “ but Jordan was already curious. No. Jordan was already sold. “How much are we talking about here?” he asked, already counting dollar signs in his mind.

  ◇◇◇◇

  A song by AC/DC was playing from a waterproof speaker as two divers descended into the abyss. The water was cool and fresh, the sound of You Shook Me All Night Long erupted from the speaker, a
s the two divers approached the great white, which at first was confusing to the shark, but seemed to calm it. The two divers wearing state-of-the-art D-masks, with breathing regulators attached to the sides of the masks, and inbuilt microphones, were Jerry Owens and Connor Hill, shark divers that had been working together for near on twenty years. Jerry was 43, cocky and had a tendency to crack jokes. Connor was 42, pale and bearded as well as being shorter and more rotund than his taller buddy.

  The D-masks lit their faces and allowed them to communicate underwater without being restricted by holding a breathing apparatus in their mouths. “I told you, Connor! They love heavy metal, baby!” he whooped and Connor shook his head. “This is amazing! I knew sharks were drawn to low frequency pulsing sounds, but dude! AC/DC? That’s just badass!”

  They bumped fists as the great white circled by them, seeming unbothered by the divers and charmed by the metal music. The white was a 15 foot female and to most people, it might be very intimidating. 300 razor-sharp teeth lined its jaws, its eyes were as black as the eyes of a doll. It glided through the blue, not seeing definition and colour, but vibrations. A sharks vision is based on movement and electrical waves in the water. Its gills opened and closed as it passed, the two divers calm and still, but careful not to take their eyes off her for a single moment. “This is incredible!” Connor said, making a note on his underwater phone, despite the portrayal of sharks in films the great white sharks rarely attack humans unprovoked. Humans simply are not appropriate prey because the digestion of a shark is too slow to cope with a human's high ratio of bone to fat and muscle.

  In most shark bite incidents, great whites had broken off contact after the first bite. Deaths are usually caused by blood loss from the bite and not from critical organ loss or from being eaten whole. Sharks simply don’t like the taste of us.