MEG: Nightstalkers

by Steve Alten

  The deep guttural sounds of the twin outboards reverberated beneath his feet, mixing with the “Moves Like Jagger” lyrics pounding from fifteen-year-old Matthew Dunn’s iPod.

  “Hey kid, it’s show time. You want to gut Bambi or me?”

  Matthew held up the sheathed Bowie knife to his uncle. “Can I use this?”

  “Sure you can handle it?”

  “No problem.” The teen followed his uncle to the gray tarp. Rod pulled back the covering, revealing the dead buck. The smell was gamey and rancid, tufts of white fur lifting into the wind. A one-inch-thick braided rope was already tied around the animal’s neck and attached to the stern winch.

  “Give me a hand.” Rod grabbed the deer by its antlers; Matthew the hindquarters—the two Canadians half wrestling, half dragging the carcass on top of the transom.

  Matthew inspected the buck’s bloated belly. “So … do I just slice it open?”

  “Not in the belly. Shove the knife in its asshole and work your way up.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “What’s wrong, eh? Afraid you’re going to hurt it?”

  Matthew gripped the knife with one hand, the buck’s left leg with the other.

  “Sometime today, kid.”

  “Maybe you ought to do it, Uncle Rod.”

  “Gimme the knife, Davy Crockett.” In one motion the big man shoved the tip of the blade into the dead animal’s anus, working his way up its belly as he eviscerated the deer.

  Matthew gagged at the sight of the intestines as they oozed from the wound.

  Rod pushed the carcass overboard. The buck fell into the emerald sea, twisting on the line. Moving to the winch, the big man released forty feet of rope. “Okay, kid. First one who spots a dorsal fin gets a beer.”

  * * *

  The moon rose amber to define the dark horizon, splaying a funnel of lunar light that seemed to follow the fishing trawler as it circled to the south.

  Jonas stood in the bow, the crook of his casted left arm wrapped around the support of a searchlight, his right hand free to hold the night-vision glasses to his face. The neon-orange life vest was secured around his chest, the precaution drawing laughter from the crew.

  Jonas couldn’t care less what they thought. The Canadians’ bravado was forged on a confidence that came from years at sea and an ignorance regarding the sisters’ ferocity. Paul Agricola was the biggest offender, his attitude toward Jonas a mix of cockiness and judgment. Jonas Taylor had led the life the former marine biologist coveted, only he would have done it better.

  “No offense, Jonas, but Angel escaped twice on your watch. How many innocent people died because you neglected to permanently seal the canal doors? Even when she was in captivity she still managed to kill four or five people. Now the sisters are on the loose, spawning genetic clones … You can bet the down payment that my team won’t be making the same mistakes yours made.”

  “We got sharks, boys!”

  Jonas’s heart raced as he made his way back to the bridge, where the crew had gathered around Presley Gibbons and his fish-finder. The screen showed five sharks circling beneath the boat’s keel and the bait.

  “One minute the screen was clear, the next—there they were. I dunno, Paul, maybe there’s a trough or an underwater cave down there … something that concealed them.”

  “It doesn’t matter; what matters is that we net one of these bitches and get her on board as quickly as we can.”

  “We’re on it.” Presley led Rod and his nephew outside to a thirty foot trawl net supported by a central mast.

  “Matthew, man the winch; I want the bait no more than ten feet behind our wake. Rod, let’s get the net in the water.”

  Jonas watched as the two men released the net over the starboard side, allowing it to sink forty feet before maneuvering it into position beneath the deer carcass, which was being dragged along the surface just behind the boat’s white water wake.

  The boat turned ninety degrees to port, Paul Agricola pointing the bow east. The Marieke’s captain had moved the hopper-dredge farther south so that its lights were now visible in the distance, the four-mile stretch of water framed by Obstruction Island to the north, Blakely Island to the south.

  The presence of the ship gave Jonas a false sense of comfort.

  Facing the stern, he focused his night glasses on the bait. Within his olive-green vision the ghostly head of an albino Meg pup suddenly appeared, the six-foot predator gnawing at the carcass with the right side of its mouth before submerging.

  Jonas was about to shout out to Presley when he saw something cut across the moonlit sea farther behind the bait, and by the way these fins were rolling along the surface he knew they were not sharks.

  “Orca!” He pointed to the west where eight to a dozen tall blade-shaped dorsal fins were moving in formation—only to disappear.

  “Shit.” Presley moved to the aft spotlight. Powering on the beam, he aimed it behind the boat, sweeping the surface.

  Paul’s voice called out from the two fishermen’s radio. “What the hell is going on out there? There are more sea creatures on the monitor than I can poke a stick at.”

  Presley reached for his radio—then turned to his left as the surface erupted sixty yards to starboard.

  The twenty-eight-foot, eight-ton orca breached, the adult bull flinging an albino Megalodon pup clear out of the water. Before the shark could recover from the bite and toss another killer whale was on it, heaving it sideways like a rag doll.

  Presley directed the beam of his light at the onslaught—then pivoted around to port as an even larger eruption of sea and foam obliterated the night.

  The orca was a twenty-foot mature female. It emerged horizontally from the sea, its fluke wriggling violently as Bela’s jaws pinned it just above the surface. The killer whale thrashed violently, its high pitched cry renting the night as the Megalodon’s five-inch serrated teeth sunk deeper into its thick blubber.

  Exhausted from the effort to complete the bite, Bela took advantage of the mammal’s buoyant carcass to rest.

  Jonas stared at the surreal scene through his binoculars, his body trembling. He wondered if the rest of the pack would attack—Bela was clearly vulnerable—then he saw the ghostly-white dorsal fin.

  Lizzy’s circling the kill, preventing any interference.

  He expanded his field of vision and saw the black dorsal fins organizing along the perimeter into two distinct groups—adults and females with calves.

  They’re going to attack; they’re making a stand.

  The adults went deep.

  Bela released the dying orca and submerged.

  * * *

  Lizzy joined her sibling as both Megs went deep to confront their challengers.

  There were two mature bulls leading the charge, followed by an adult female and two twenty-foot juvenile males. The big males raced in at the Megs, then abruptly broke to either side, attempting to separate the siblings.

  The sisters refused to take the bait. Remaining in formation, with Lizzy on top and Bela below, the Megs chased after the bull breaking to the west. Lizzy ended the conflict with one gargantuan bite, severing the orca’s fluke from its tail, rendering it helpless.

  Bela circled back to confront the three charging adults.

  When a pack of orca attack a larger whale, they use their superior speed and numbers to distract and disorient their prey, inflicting bite wounds on the cetacean’s baleen and pectoral fins while avoiding devastating blows from its tail.

  With the Megalodon, the orca had to avoid both tail and head in order to attack the shark’s pectoral fins … only first they had to slow the predator down.

  Like its modern-day cousin, the great white, Megs preferred an assault from below. Descending to the sea floor, Bela rose after the orca trio, targeting one of the juvenile males—missing her prey as the three killer whales broke formation and separated.

  Bela turned and chased after the fleeing juvenile bull—joined by Lizzy. Faster
than the orca and more than twice the young male’s size, the hunt quickly turned into a tug-o-war between the two Meg siblings.

  The surviving pair of killer whales joined up with the other bull. The battle was lost, the safety of the pod at stake. Clicking and squealing, the trio signaled to the rest of the pack—only the sisters were far from done.

  * * *

  Twelve minutes had passed since the battle had gone deep. Jonas, Presley, and Rod had returned to the bridge but were able to follow very little on the fish finder as the Megs chased the orca to the west and out of range.

  Paul Agricola was angry; the appearance of the killer whales having chased off the remaining Meg pups, ruining his plans. Refusing to accept defeat, he circled back around to the nursery, hoping to lure one of the sisters’ offspring to the surface.

  Jonas had had enough. Stepping out on deck, he debated his next move.

  This guy’s dangerous. Insist he drop you off at Orcas Island or there’s no deal. Then leave in the morning for home.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Taylor, but I think I saw another fin.” Matthew Dunn was leaning over the transom, pointing to the west.

  Jonas pressed the night-vision binoculars to his eyes, scanning the sea.

  The tall black dorsal fin identified the orca as a mature bull. It was streaking just below the surface a hundred yards behind the trawler. Was it after the bait? Another pup?

  Then Jonas saw the two dorsal fins chasing after it.

  For the killer whale there was no escape, no shallows offering refuge, no land on which to beach.

  Why was it following the trawler?

  “Oh no … no!” Jonas hurried back inside the bridge. “Paul, get us out of here—full speed!”

  “Listen to this guy. Who died and made you captain?”

  “The sisters are after another orca; they’re right behind us!”

  * * *

  Matthew Dunn leaned against the transom, watching the orca race after the trawler at twenty knots.

  When it passed the bait, he stood up, his pulse racing.

  When it closed within twenty feet of the outboard, he started backing away.

  When it leaped out of the water, he screamed.

  Thirty-two feet and ten tons of cetacean landed on the aft end of the trawler with the impact of a sledgehammer, crushing the stern deck.

  Sprawled on his back, his feet only inches from the orca’s mouth, Matthew crab-walked as far away as he could, taking cover behind the winch as a chorus of creaks and splintering fiberglass reached a crescendo—the deck and the orca collapsing ten feet into the fish hold below.

  Rod lifted the shocked teen by his armpits. “You okay? Holy Jesus, Pres, look what that orca done to your boat.”

  Jonas exited the bridge, followed by Paul. “Like I said, asshole, we need to get out of here.”

  Presley Gibbons moved to the edge of the twenty-foot hole. The orca squealed in pain below deck, the hold taking on water. “We’re sinking, fellas. Paul, get on the radio to the Marieke. Tell the captain he needs to get here pronto, shallows be damned.”

  The boat shifted as the bow rose, the stern sinking three feet, the sea only inches from washing over the transom.

  Jonas climbed atop the bridge, scanning the surface. Bela circled to port, her freakish albino head leading her five-foot black dorsal fin.

  He found Lizzy spy-hopping thirty feet off the starboard bow. The Meg was staring at him with her remaining good eye, the left having been reduced to an infected hole by buckshot from the late Steven Lebowitz’s shotgun blast.

  Looking down, he saw small waves lapping over the transom.

  This is a nightmare.

  A horn blasted in the distance. The hopper-dredge was approaching, announcing its presence.

  Six minutes … ten tops. Not good.

  * * *

  Bela could smell, taste, and feel the trapped orca bleeding and thrashing about in the flooding vented hold. Unable to reach her prey, the Megalodon descended thirty feet, banked away from the bottom, and rose to strike the keel.

  The impact opened the floodgates.

  Within thirty seconds the hold was underwater, sinking the boat while sending Matthew, Rod, Paul, and Presley rushing up the ladder to join Jonas atop the bridge. By the time they reached higher ground the main deck was two feet underwater.

  The five men looked at one another, wide-eyed with fear.

  Matt turned to face the hopper-dredge, still a mile away. Waving frantically, he yelled, “Come on! Move your ass!”

  Rod and Presley joined him.

  Paul Agricola looked at Jonas, then below. Four feet of water covered the main deck, but the sinking trawler seemed to have found its equilibrium. “We’ll make it, no worries.”

  “Right. Because you have a plan.”

  “Uncle Rod, look at the size of her!”

  All eyes followed Bela, everyone struggling to deal with their fear. As long and as wide as an eighteen wheeler, the Meg was swimming slowly along the surface, making her way aft along the port flank.

  Below deck, the trapped orca panicked. Flipping over inside the flooding fish hold, it slapped its tail in an attempt to escape.

  With a double slap of her caudal fin, Bela propelled herself over the sunken main deck and headfirst into the hold.

  The Megalodon ravaged the orca like a hungry pit bull tossed inside a rabbit’s cage. The keel split apart, buckling the main deck, taking the bridge with it.

  Five terrified humans fell into the sea to meet their fate.

  Jonas was the first to surface, his life vest keeping him buoyant. He remained as still in the water as he could, his eyes locked on the bow of the Marieke. A football field away, the hopper-dredge had reversed its engines in order to slow its forward momentum.

  Jonas jumped as a something massive grabbed him from behind.

  It was Rod. The big man was hyperventilating. Struggling to stay afloat, he lunged at Jonas, using his body as a floatation device, his powerful grip pinning him underwater!

  Naval training took over. Ducking his chin, Jonas used his arms to sink himself deeper, taking Rod underwater with him.

  The big man let go, allowing Jonas to escape. He surfaced two body lengths away, then stripped off the vest and tossed it to the fisherman.

  The ship was less than fifty yards away. A rope ladder unraveled along the dredge’s port side, illuminated by a spotlight.

  Presley and Paul Agricola reached the ladder first, beginning their climb to safety.

  “Come on.” Jonas grabbed onto Rod’s life vest and dragged the big man with him.

  Matthew Dunn swam past them, his churning legs a beacon of vibration. Reaching the ladder, the teen suddenly found himself levitating. He laughed at the bizarre sensation, until he looked down and realized where he was.

  The scream never made it past his vocal cords. Rising beneath him, the teen’s feet on her tongue, Lizzy’s jaws snapped shut, puncturing his chest as the vice-grip squeezed the air from his lungs. Blood poured out the teen’s throat a second before his cervical vertebrae snapped, his detached head falling backward into the sea.

  Rod screamed and didn’t stop until the medics sedated him.

  For a surreal moment Lizzy’s triangular head remained upright in the water, her cold blue-gray eye trained on Jonas as Matthew Dunn’s blood dribbled down the corner of her mouth. The night had cost her an offspring—now they were even.

  Message delivered.

  Message received.

  17

  Aboard the Tonga

  16 Miles Off the Coastline of Brisbane, Australia

  At 3:12 a.m., the Manta’s escape pod breached the surface, its batteries shot, its life support unit running on emergency power. David estimated the Tonga to be three miles to the northwest, the trawler too low in the water to see. Having been forcibly separated from its chassis, the Lexan sphere lacked any means of propulsion. When their air ran out David knew he and Tina would be forced to pop open the hatch. Waves
would sink the unstable pod and they’d have to swim for the ships—an eventuality he hoped to avoid.

  Fortunately, every Manta sub was equipped with a homing signal. Fifteen minutes after they surfaced, the trawler’s lights appeared on the dark horizon.

  It was nearly dawn by the time the two Manta crews had finished briefing bin Rashidi and Commander Molony. Having captured the Liopleurodon, the trawler’s crew had failed to keep tension on the net; the tanker was too late to the scene. Bin Rashidi vowed that changes would be made to insure these mistakes would not happen again—his rant done as much for the reality show cameras as for the Crown Prince.

  Exhausted, David disappeared immediately after the meeting ended. Unable to sleep, Tina Chester, Rick Frazier, and Gregg Hendley reconvened in the rec room. They were joined by Kevin Pulaski, who brought two bottles of Jack Daniels.

  The chamber that served as the private domain of the Tonga’s submersible pilots was more of a counselor’s hangout at an overnight camp than a modern-day entertainment center. There were two antiquated pool tables with scuffed felt surfaces, a ping-pong table but no ping-pong balls, a kitchenette that looked like something out of a two-star motel, and a broken video poker machine. The only modern upgrades had been arranged by Liam Molony during the ship’s last port of call, when he insisted Fiesal bin Rashidi purchase a horseshoe-shaped leather sofa, a seventy-inch flat screen television, a blu-ray player, and a small library of English-language movies.

  The four pilots splayed themselves across the couch and passed around the first bottle of vodka.

  Kevin Pulaski took a small gulp before handing it off to Tina. “Be honest—were you really inside the Lio’s mouth?”

  “Not only were we inside its mouth, we slid down its throat. Another thirty seconds and we’d have been on our way to the intestines.” She took a long drink, draining a third of the bottle. “I was so scared I peed my pants.”