“What about other sharks?” I asked.
“What about ’em?”
“We need a great white, right? Won’t the chum attract other sharks?”
“Sure it will. But once the whites show, and we get ’em into a bit of a frenzy, the others will steer well clear.”
“Frenzy?”
“That’s right,” Gene said. “We get ’em curious with the chum line…” He held up a big spoonful of chum, blood and guts dripping down the ladle. The smell went right up my nose and I almost barfed. “Whites can smell the tiniest bit of blood and guts from miles away.” He mercifully tossed the ladle overboard and I exhaled. “Once they’re curious, we toss ’em a few appetizers—keep ’em put until they get a proper meal.”
I almost asked what the proper meal was—and then the sobering truth smacked me on the back of the head. So I suppose I did what I do best: I kept watching the movie—
(pathetic)
—and steered away from that sobering truth.
“What are the appetizers?” I asked.
Gene motioned towards two other white buckets a few feet away, bigger than the chum bucket. “I’ve got some big cunts in there. Whites aren’t too choosey once you get them up to the counter. In fact, be a mate and crack one of those buckets for me. I want to get a few sorted beforehand.”
I headed towards one of the big buckets, cracked the lid, and withdrew a fish that was at least three feet long and felt like it weighed as much as a kid. I handed it to Gene. “This alright?”
Gene dropped the ladle back into the chum bucket and took hold of the fish. “This’ll do fine, mate.” He placed the big fish onto the edge of the boat, dipped to his left, and unsheathed a giant machete fastened to his belt. With a firm grip on its handle that made his already massive forearm bulge, he braced the fish with his left and brought the blade down onto its belly with his right. The fish instantly fell in two, one piece slapping the deck, the other beneath Gene’s hand on the edge of the boat.
He asked for another and I brought it to him. Same as before: fish on boat ledge; machete; whump! Fish in two. He asked for one more. Same process.
Finished, he sheathed the machete, organized the fish halves into a pile at his feet, and went back to the chum line.
“Who’s driving the boat?” I asked.
“The ocean,” he said. “We’re far enough out now to let the sea take us where it wants.” He flashed a sneaky smile. “Goes without saying we need a bit of privacy for this kind of thing, yeah?”
I looked at my feet.
“You alright, mate?”
I looked up. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just…I don’t know what I should be doing.”
Gene frowned. “I told ya; you’re doing the deed, mate. You’ve done this before, yeah?”
“No—I mean yeah, but not like this. Not on a boat. Angela didn’t really give me specifics about…procedure.”
Gene nodded. “I gotcha. No worries then—carry on with the chum line and I’ll go below deck and get the harness sorted on the sheila.”
“The harness?”
“That’s right. We’ve got us a fishing pole.” He pointed to a large metal pole attached to the roof of the cabin. The pole did not stand up straight like a flag pole; it was fixed horizontally, pointing out towards the sea. Its height was maybe a good ten feet from the deck, like a pull-up bar for giants. (Gene probably used it.)
I’d barely noticed the pole when boarding because I had no clue what should, and should not be on a boat like this. As I studied the pole now, I saw that it was segmented, capable of extension. I also saw a pulley system that ran the length of the pole, the tip ending in a big wheel that fed the line, the base ending with two large cranks. Had Gene not told me what it was, I would have assumed it was a pulley system rigged for a sail or something. Like I said; I didn’t know boats.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “I thought we were just pushing her overboard.”
“Nah—what fun would that be? We’ll get her all rigged and she’ll be a nice juicy worm on a hook for Jawsy.” He smiled and winked at me.
I looked away and could not help muttering, “Jesus…”
Gene inched towards me. I looked at him and saw concern on his face. It wasn’t friendly concern. “You won’t be losing your nerve come kick off time, will you, mate?”
I looked away again, shook my head.
“I hope not,” he said. He nudged me, insisting I meet his unyielding gaze. “For your sake.”
35
I had just cracked open the third chum barrel and ladled out two spoons when Gene came up from below and approached.
“I reckon that’ll do for now, mate,” he said, taking the ladle from me and dropping it into one of the empty buckets.
“What’s up with the girl?” I asked.
He flicked his chin towards the cabin. “Go on down and have a look if you like.”
I did.
The girl was still tied to the chair; still bound and gagged, but was now wearing the harness. It looked like a parachute to me.
Andrew came up on my left. “All gift-wrapped and ready to go,” he said. “All we have to do now is wait for dun-dun-dun-dun…dun-dun-dun-dun…”
John Williams’ classic theme to Jaws. The sick fucker—Andrew, not John Williams—wore a maniacal grin as he performed, his face inches from the girl’s, his “dun-dun-dun-duns” getting louder and louder, his black eyes behind those horn rims wilder and wilder.
The girl was damn near having a seizure; sobbing and screeching into the gag as Andrew carried on.
Andrew suddenly stopped, stood upright. “Fuck! This is gold, man. I need to be getting this shit.” He grabbed his camera, fiddled with a few things, then shoved the lens into the girl’s face. “Come on, honey, make love to the camera for me…” The girl kept turning her head away from the lens, but Andrew was undeterred; he followed her every move, started giggling as he continued to taunt. “Give me scared…oh, oh yeah, yeah that’s good.” Giggle. “Visualize for me, baby. Picture the biggest fucking shark you can…” Giggle. “Now picture that scary son of a bitch chompin’ down on you like a fucking meatloaf!”
I placed my hand over the lens and guided it towards the floor.
“Hey!” he screamed. “What the fuck?”
Calmly, I said, “I don’t want you getting my face on film.”
“So then put your fucking mask on!”
I got in his face. “Easy, man; I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”
I saw him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny neck.
“You’re supposed to be doing a job,” he said, his tone softer.
“I understand that,” I said, my voice still calm but firm. “But when you start getting excited, waving that camera all around, you might end up with a shot of my profile, and I really don’t want that.”
He swallowed again. “But the job’s all about fear; we gotta get her scared.”
I glanced back at the girl. The fact that her heart hadn’t burst from her chest was nothing short of a miracle. “I think she’s plenty fucking scared, asshole.”
Andrew turned his back to me and set his camera on the shelf. Perhaps in an attempt at salvaging some sense of pride, he turned back and asked, “You do have a mask, right?”
I did. Angela had given me a hood this time. Like an executioner’s hood. Like the one I remembered seeing in her lovely montage. I’d taken it from my bag and shoved it into my back pocket soon after I was below deck.
“Yeah—I got one,” I said.
“Maybe you should get it ready then.”
“Maybe you should shut up before I start beating you with your own camera.”
“You wouldn’t say that shit if Gene was here.”
“You gonna go run and cry to him?”
“I’m just sayin’, you wouldn’t—”
Gene boomed from above, cutting Andrew off. His shouts were loud and clear and they chilled me. The movie I was watch
ing had hit a pivotal scene.
Gene yelled: “WE’VE GOT ONE!”
36
Andrew and I hurried up the cabin steps and joined Gene by the edge of the boat. His eyes were wide and intense as he looked down at the water. I followed his gaze and looked down.
“I don’t see anything,” I said.
Gene smirked at me, took one of the fish halves, and tossed it overboard.
There was a brief moment where the dead fish floated on the surface as though it would eventually drift away untouched. The water appeared so dark and still, I felt that anything below had surely gone. I was seconds from voicing this when a monster’s mouth emerged from the deep blue without warning, impossibly wide, unsheathing rows of white knives, slamming shut on the fish, taking it whole.
I jumped back, nearly tumbling over my own feet. “Jesus Christ!”
Gene exploded with laughter and slapped another heavy hand on my back. “He’s a big one, ain’t he, mate? I’d say a good fifteen footer.”
My heart hammered in my chest. I’d never had a problem with sharks and I was about to shit myself. This girl was going to have a fucking coronary before we even got her into the water.
(So you’re definitely going through with it then?)
Gene tossed two more fish halves overboard. Andrew’s camera was on the shark’s whereabouts, had been the whole time. I wondered if the sick bastard flinched like I did when the bear trap with fins appeared.
“Right,” Gene began, “Andrew, turn the camera off for now while we get her on the hook.” He looked at me. “Go on below and grab your mask and the sheila. You need any help with her, give me a shout. I’m going to stay here and make sure Jawsy stays interested.”
(Do something.)
Like what?
(Hit the bastard! Toss him overboard.)
He’s a fucking house.
(Just hit him! And KEEP hitting until he’s in a fucking coma, then hit him some more.)
“Calvin!”
I flinched and my daze broke. Gene was frowning, spearing me with his eyes. For some reason, I muttered, “What?”
“The fuck ya mean, ‘what’?”
(Hit him hit him hit him hit him)
I looked at his jaw. The thing was huge, no way I’d miss.
(Hit him hit him hit him hit him)
Gene shoved me back a step. “Well go on!”
I turned and headed below deck.
(You useless…)
37
The girl started a desperate struggle with her binds the moment I arrived. The harness Gene had wrapped her in was still fastened tight; all I needed to do was untie her and bring her up so she could be attached to a giant fishing pole.
The gag in the girl’s mouth prevented her from any sensible dialogue, but it did not stop her from trying. She eventually resorted to sobbing the word please over and over (it came out sounding like “leez”) as though each utterance might carry more impact than the last. And it did.
“Shut up,” I said. “If you just shut up it’ll be easier.”
“Leez.”
Don’t look in her eyes. Start untying her binds.
(Pathetic…)
“Leeeez…”
Almost done. You don’t hear a thing.
(Pathetic piece of…)
“LEEEEEEEZ…”
“Shut up!” I grabbed her throat with my left and cocked my right.
She did shut up, but not out of fear. Not because she thought I’d hit her. She shut up because she could see it. Could see that I was doing it all against my will. Probably saw it from the start. She stared into me now with eyes that no longer begged for mercy, but asked for it. There was a difference. And even after her realization, those eyes did not convey relief or victory, they were wise; they embraced the truth of our situation, spoke with soulful blinks and focused appeals to my humanity: I could not even bring myself to hit this woman, yet I was to feed her to a shark?
I slowly took my hand off her throat and lowered my fist. We stared at each other; that new gaze of hers louder than her pleading had ever been.
Gene from above: “Calvin! Let’s go, mate!”
(What are you going to do?)
Aloud, I said: “I don’t know.”
The girl frowned, looked at me quizzically.
(Go up there and end this.)
“How?”
The girl frowned some more, even looked over both shoulders to be sure someone else wasn’t below deck.
“How?” I said again.
The girl tried talking through her gag, an upward inflection in her tone, likely asking me what the hell I was talking about.
(You can do this, man.)
“Yeah.”
(You can still make it right.)
“Yeah.”
Gene’s heavy feet suddenly thundering down the cabin stairs. “For fuck’s sake!”
He shoved me to one side, untied the girl, and heaved her over his shoulder. She began screaming and kicking at once. He thundered back upstairs. I followed.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at mate,” he began, furiously attaching the girl’s harness to the series of thick ropes hanging from the wheeled-end of the pole, her struggles and swipes against his work futile, a child fighting an adult. “But you better pay attention right fucking now…”
Gene stomped towards the cabin, towards the cranks that operated the pole. He flipped a large metallic latch and began operating one of the cranks. The girl’s feet left the deck as she began to rise. Desperate kicks and screams during the ascent.
“You watching?” he asked me.
The girl was now several feet above deck, legs constantly flailing, muffled screams relentless. Gene flipped another latch and began working the second crank, this one extending the segmented pole, guiding the girl out to sea.
Before long she was truly a worm on a hook, dangling overboard, her toes ten feet from the water. She looked down and screeched—a shrill, piercing sound, like blasts from a whistle. Streams of urine started down her bare legs and dripped into the sea.
I don't know what she saw, I couldn't see from where I stood. Maybe it was the shark. Maybe ten sharks. Or maybe none. Maybe none was worse. Looking down into the chum-red water, knowing your darkest nightmare lurked somewhere below, waiting for you.
(Unless you stop it.)
Gene turned back to me. “Were you watching? Were you fucking watching me do it?”
I nodded.
(You were watching—watching the fucking movie. Make it right, Calvin.)
Gene spun. “Andrew! Camera ready?”
Andrew gave a thumbs up.
Gene spun back to me. “Right, when he starts filming, you lower her into the water like I showed you. Let her toes skim the surface, but no deeper. Try and tease the bastard if you can. If it looks like he’s about to take a nibble, jerk her up; let her keep seeing what’s waiting below. We want to milk this fear shit as much as we can. If the big cunt does manage a bite then bring what’s left of her back up—we want to get all the gory bits on camera. I’ll let you know when we drop her for good. Where’s your mask?”
I took the hood from my back pocket and showed it to him.
“I’ll tell you something else, mate,” he said, “no fucking way are we getting equal splits when this is done. You’ve done fuck all this whole time.”
He backed away, left me to the cranks. Turned to Andrew and screamed: “Stand by!”
I didn’t move.
Gene screamed at me: “Put ya fucking mask on!”
I looked at the girl on the hook. Her face was a sickly white, fear syphoning all blood. Her body convulsed as if in the throes of a seizure. More urine flowed down her legs. Over and over again she cried: "Leez, God! Leez, God! Leez, God!"
I dropped the hood.
Gene stormed over, shoved me back. “You weak fucking cunt.”
He picked up the hood and put it on. Began operating the cranks.
"LEEZ, GOD!!! LEEZ, GOD!!!
"
(Do something.)
The girl started to descend.
(DO something.)
"OH GOD, LEEEEEEEEEEEZZZZ!!!"
(DO SOMETHING, YOU GUTLESS FUCKING—)
I hit Gene with the hardest punch I’d ever thrown. The hood made it hard to get my accuracy right; I prayed I got his jaw.
He flew backwards, landing heavily onto the deck.
The girl’s descent came to a jarring halt. She dangled a good five feet from the water. Still safe.
Gene sat up, removed the hood and smiled. “I see,” he said, rubbing his chin. Apparently I had hit him on the jaw, but the tough bastard took it like a slap. “This is how you want it then, yeah?”
He got to his feet and removed his shirt, fanning out his massive torso. He grinned and started forward, fists clenching and unclenching, dying to get a hold of me.
I backed up, frantically looking around for anything I could get my hands on.
“No one’s helping ya, mate,” he said, grin widening. “You’ve made your fucking bed…”
Unbelievably, Gene’s size became an asset for me. He was slow. I could see him angling his body sideways to load up with a big right hand. I beat him to the punch and fired a quick jab with my fingertips into his eyes. I didn’t actually get my fingers into his eyes, but I did swipe the general area, causing him to flinch and giving me the precious second I needed to punt his nuts up into his throat. He doubled over and groaned, but as I moved in for a second punt to his head, the big fucker lunged forward and caught my leg, lifting me up over his shoulder.
I struggled like a cat on a leash as I believed I would be heaved overboard, but to my relief (sort of) I was slammed back down onto the deck with Gene’s full weight on top of me. My breath vanished and for a second I saw black.
I fought to regain consciousness and instantly covered my head. Gene drew his fist back like a club and hammered it into my guard. The impact was so great it drove my forearms into my face, jarring me as much as any decent shot I’d taken over the years. One or two more of those and he’d break through my defense and put me out.
I started bucking my hips wildly, but he was just too big; he wasn’t going anywhere and neither was I. He reared back, the second sledgehammer ready to come down.
Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller Page 12
