Behemoth 2

by Michael Cole

  “So, lady! Did killing fish get old for you guys? Figure you’d get around to killing whales too, aye?” He shouted down to her. She felt her temper already starting to let loose, despite being caught off guard by the situation. Marco shouted again.

  “Old timer, you better shut that trap before I do it for ya!” he said. He held onto the stern rail. He looked poised and ready to spring over it and the police boat, and strangle the fisherman. Nelson looked back at him again.

  “Marco, I told you to knock it off!” he commanded.

  “Then get this old hack out of here!” Marco shouted back at him. Forster quickly swam to the boat and climbed up the ladder.

  “What the hell’s going on?” she asked while grabbing a towel.

  “Same old shit we’ve been dealing with,” he said. “This duck fucker decided to pull up and accuse us of killing the whale.” Overhearing them, Hal lit up like a fire cracker.

  “What’s that, boy? I’ll give you a lesson!” Nelson, having had enough, put his hand near his cuffs.

  “Alright, Hal,” he said, “I’ve already told you; you’re trespassing on a police barrier. Leave this instant, or we’ll arrest you and confiscate your boat. Which is it?” Hal stared him in the eye with disdain, ultimately deciding to comply. His gaze passed over Forster and Marco, the former had taken the opportunity to flip him the finger. He sneered like a crazed animal before returning to his wheelhouse. The boat engine groaned as it moved off.

  Nelson took some deep breaths, worried for a moment that Hal wouldn’t have complied.

  “Good lord!” he exclaimed. “You guys alright?”

  “Nothing we’re not used to,” Forster said. It was just another reminder of the island’s disdain for the resort and all its employees.

  “Well, Hal’s always been a piece of work,” Nelson said. It was a way of putting it mildly. Hal had been locked up in the past, usually for starting drunken bar brawls. Other times, he would be picked up after wandering the streets intoxicated, and sleep it off at the jail until morning. Forster was already over the ordeal.

  “Where do you want us to tow the whale?” she inquired. “Or, where would the lovely fishermen prefer?” Nelson ignored the remark.

  “We’ll escort you to the atoll,” he said. “It’s shallow enough over there. We can beach the thing on the rock, and the Guard will have an easier time getting their own tow cable on it.”

  “No need for an escort,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah there is,” Nelson said. He moved on, while the other officer moved the patrol boat out of the way. Still dripping wet, Forster moved into the wheelhouse, while Marco winched in the anchor. The engine reverberated as it kicked on. With a nudge of the throttle, the boat moved forward. She kept it slow as the tow line gradually tightened.

  For a moment, the engine groaned as it struggled to tug the massive weight behind it. Eventually, it was able to gain forward momentum, and drag the massive whale by the tail. It could only move up to half-speed without stressing the engine too much. Luckily the atoll wasn’t too far away.

  The three patrol boats moved back toward the island, along with the speedboat. Nelson’s vessel traveled parallel to them, obviously as a deterrent for any other fishermen desiring to start a confrontation. Forster kept her eyes on the horizon, focusing on the beauty of the ocean. As always, it was soothing, a real diversion from the misery she was almost constantly feeling.

  Marco stepped through the open doorway. In his hand was a cell phone, and on his face was a puckered brow. Forster instantly knew what was in store.

  “Felt?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Marco nodded. She took the phone. “This is Dr. Forster.”

  “Hey Julie, I need you to come in,” Felt said. “Someone found another sick dolphin. We’re gonna move it into the aquarium, and we need your help.” Forster felt her grip tightening around the phone.

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can,” she said, faking an upbeat pitch.

  “I appreciate it,” he said. Without saying goodbye, he hung up. To Forster it was no loss. She let the phone fall to the dashboard.

  Story of my life.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The engine coughed smoke from its exhaust pipes, as the Brisk Cold proceeded further west. The boat reverberated with the quaking of the engine. It had been too long since its last oil change, and the engine likely needed to have its filter and plugs changed. Additionally, there was something wrong with the prop, which added to the vibrations. Inside the small wheelhouse, Old Hal hardly seemed to notice his vessel’s dire need of maintenance. It wasn’t a lack of awareness as much as it was general laziness. When going to his usual hangouts at night, his fellow fishermen and drinking buddies would tell him, “Listen bud, if you don’t take care of that boat it won’t take care of you.”

  Hal often blamed his failure to fix his boat on the current economic problem, although it was a blatant lie. Even if he was doing well, more likely than not he would ignore the problem. Much of his money went to cigarettes and booze, and occasionally a hooker if he went to the mainland…as long as they weren’t repulsed enough by him.

  He pulled his whiskey bottle, half-full, from his shirt pocket. He angled his jaw so his remaining front teeth would align, and bit down on the cork. It came out with a typical popping sound. He spit the cork and chugged a mouthful before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Over the next couple of minutes, he downed the rest of the bottle, all while groaning about his recent encounter.

  “Damned newcomers, think they own the damn place,” he mumbled. A few incoherent slurs followed, full of foul language. Any voice of conscience that would’ve considered the fact that he caused the little bout was silenced by the flood of alcohol that coursed his veins. He downed the last of his whiskey and simply dropped it to the floor where it joined the rest of the garbage. The wheelhouse was rank with trash, from burnt cigarette butts to empty whiskey bottles, even crumbled balls of tinfoil used to package sandwiches. Belching, he looked back to look at his trawl net. It dragged behind the boat, down about thirty feet. He knew it probably wasn’t catching much.

  It wasn’t meant to, as it was purely for show. Hal just wanted to be sure if anyone saw him, that they would think he was just trawling. The reality was that he was making way for a buoy a few miles west. This buoy marked the location of two large traps. They had been lawful up until a few years ago after the reveal of negative environmental effects. Many of the less sturdy traps would break apart, eventually riddling the ocean floor with broken wire, wooden planks, nails, and other hardware. All that was now allowed was lobster pots, and solely for that use. To Hal, laws didn’t fill his wallet or subsequently his flask.

  Finally, he saw his buoy, round and black like a bowling ball, jiggling in the small ripples. It was a specific area that ran especially deep. With fish becoming harder to come by in his usual places, he decided to move further out past the jurisdiction of the island police. Of course, he would have to look out for the Coast Guard.

  Hal stepped out on deck and anchored the boat. Hal scanned the surrounding water. So far, not a boat in sight. Still, he knew it was best to keep an eye out. He grabbed a long wooden pole and stepped to the transom at stern, where the buoy floated about ten feet out. He reached out with the pole, trying to hook the line attached under the buoy. After a few tries, he finally got it, and he pulled it up on deck. Attached to the line were the two cables. He hooked the first one up to the winch, then pressed the lever to reel it in. The machine groaned as it slowly rotated. A bit of thin grey smoke puffed from the joints, in need of grease. Hal spat on it, growing impatient.

  “Come on, you little bastard,” he said, as if the machine was listening. It quickly built up speed and reeled up the cable. As it did, Hal scanned the surrounding water. So far, not a boat in sight. Still, he knew it was best to keep an eye out. When his eyes returned to the line, the trap was just emerging. He opened his jaw in stunned silence, revealing the tips of his jagged te
eth. The trap was completely destroyed.

  “The hell?” Hal mumbled to himself. He pulled it on deck to examine it. The sides were crushed, with broken wires frizzing in every direction. The small wood planks that made up the frames were busted up, splintered at the middle. The metal frames were bent entirely into tight ‘v’ shapes. In contrast, the entire top side was ripped outward, with the torn wiring creating a jagged funnel shape, as if someone had been tugging on it with a huge pair of pliers. The rest of the trap was crushed inward, like a crushed pop can.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said. “Nothing down there can do this; rip through metal wiring and crush these frames. I bet it was some bastard from that asshole resort.” Of course, his drunken mind didn’t conceive the fact that any of the people he suspected would simply report him, which would cause him further trouble. He hooked up the other cable to the winch and reeled it in.

  The second trap was in similar shape. The sides were all busted inward, while ironically, the top appeared torn out. Hal kicked the side of the boat. After a foul-mouth tantrum, he unhooked the traps. They fell into the water, disappearing behind a huge splash as they sank to waste at the bottom. Hal had no use for them in that condition, and he had nowhere to store them.

  He brought the anchor in and started up his boat. The engine spat, and nearly died, before finally catching a spark. Hal stood at the helm and throttled, while steering the boat back toward the island. He reached in a cabinet and pulled out a fresh bottle of whiskey. After taking a slug, he pulled a phone out of his pocket and pressed a contact name. The call was answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey, Bob! Meet me at the shed,” Hal said. “I’m gonna need some parts to build some new traps.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah, tonight! Something happened to mine, so I want to get new ones out before the night is over.”

  “Get someone else, Hal. I might have a date tonight!”

  “Gimme a break, Bob! She’ll turn tail at the first sight of ya,” Hal said. “Just bring me the parts, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Like you have room to talk. Alright, let me see what I can do,” his friend answered.

  “Works for me,” Hal said, and flipped his phone shut. He tucked it in his pocket and drank another mouthful of whiskey, ignoring the thickening exhaust fumes trailing behind him.

  CHAPTER

  7

  The one small bit of good luck in responding to Chief Nelson’s call was that Julie Forster had already geared up in her wetsuit. She walked in the large circular pool, with water up to her chest, holding the sick dolphin by the pectoral fins. Its head hugged her side, relying on her to stay afloat as it took shallow breaths through its blowhole. The dolphin, found washed ashore on one of the island beaches, was suffering from severe dehydration and malnutrition, likely the result of toxic poisoning. For the past hour, she had been walking it in the twenty-foot diameter pool, located in a restricted room in the aquarium’s top floor.

  As much as Forster loved the water, she had grown plenty sick of it today. The chill temperature was starting to wear on her, despite the internal sublimation inside the wetsuit. Being busy nonstop for sixteen hours with hardly any sleep was wearing on her, as it had steadily been doing for months now. Her eyes felt foggy, and the lightweight sensation from the water did not help.

  She completed another lap. She felt the dolphin take some deeper breaths. The Dimercaprol that she had administered seemed to be having a mild effect, enough to make a visible difference.

  “You finally ready to try your cubes, huh?” she asked it. Interestingly, the dolphin wiggled its flipper. She smiled, envisioning the dolphin to be answering yes. “Alright, let’s give it a try.” She led it over to the side, where one of her aids stood by a table.

  Though Marcus was her main assistant, the aquarium aides also served as helping hands in caring for the biological attractions. Most of them were young and eager to learn. However, they contained no training nor licensing, possibly exactly what Felt was looking to hire in order to save a buck. Forster did what she could to give each of the aides a crash course in the care of marine life. Essentially, these aids were the CNAs of the aquarium.

  The aide opened a cooler. Inside was full of ice, and on top was an ice cube tray, full of frozen meaty squares. Forster referred to these as protein cubes, designed to give an emergency supply of iron, calcium, protein, along with various other nutrients. The dolphin had been refusing them in favor of being walked.

  The aide handed her a cube. Forster held it over the dolphin’s beak. It didn’t open, and the dolphin tilted its head away, like a child refusing to take its dinner.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Forster said. She held the cube in front of its eye. “Come on, it’s not broccoli. Don’t make me stay in here all night.” She moved the cube back to the crease in its mouth. It opened ever so slightly, just enough for Forster to slip the cube in. It disappeared into the back of its throat. “That’s a good boy.” She gave it another cube, which it accepted with increased interest.

  After several minutes, the whole cooler was cleared out. Forster turned to the aide, who was dressed up in thermal clothing for the evening shift.

  “I think we’ll start to see improvements by morning,” she said. The aide nodded and climbed into the pool.

  “If its condition worsens?” he asked.

  “There’s no good answer,” Forster said. “We’ll have to contact the Clearwater Marine Aquarium in Florida. They have a better suited staff.” The aide took the dolphin and started walking it.

  “If I may ask; why don’t we just take it there?” he asked. Forster climbed out of the pool, feeling much lighter. She grabbed a towel, while shaking her head with displeasure for the answer.

  “It’s one of Mr. Felt’s publicity stunts,” she said. “Attendance is dropping because people think he’s partly responsible for what’s been happening to the water. The EPA couldn’t find anything to prosecute him on, but they’re pretty sure he was aware of what Wan Industry was doing. This, what we’re doing, is just an effort to win the public’s heart back.” She wiped her face with the towel. The warm air in the room embraced her, worsening her drowsiness. She collected her wallet and watch and went into a nearby locker room. After changing back into her regular clothes, she stepped out and headed for the door. “I’m done in for today. Have a good night.” The aide waved goodbye and continued walking the dolphin.

  Forster took the elevator down to the first floor, watching the numbers count down in the upper left monitor. As the doors opened up, she could hear the commotion of what seemed to be a large crowd outside. She stepped out of the elevator and looked to the entry to the right, where the noise was coming from. Through the glass double doors, she noticed workers moving about, appearing to be setting something up near the Great White Exhibit. She glanced back at the back doors, which led to the employee parking lot. An imaginary voice in her mind yelled at her to just go home. However, curiosity got the better of her.

  Stepping out the front entrance, she saw a crowd of guests taking seats on a multi-level set of metal bleachers. The bleachers were facing the great white’s aquarium. The sight of them caught Forster by surprise, as they weren’t there a couple of hours prior. With the pool being ground level, the bleachers were able to provide a clear view inside. Stray pieces of popcorn and cotton candy already littered the cement as people piled on. Young children hugged their prized stuffed animals as their parents guided them up the steps. Standing around the bleachers were staff workers. Forster could see the sweat, exhaustion, and frustration in their faces.

  It suddenly became apparent where the bleachers came from. Forster realized they were taken from the concert stage. Forster waved to one of the workers, who approached. His white uniform shirt and khaki pants were smothered in grease and dirt, while beads of sweat dripped from his brow.

  “What’s all this?” she asked him.

  “Orders from the boss,�
� he said. “The stage event for tonight got cancelled. I guess U2 knew they were better off not to waste their time here. Or rather, they wanted to avoid the bad press. So, Mr. Felt had us move the bleachers over here for some impromptu event he has in mind.” Forster looked at the bleachers again. They were at least thirty feet across, and ten rows high.

  “Wait…” she said… “so you had to move these…how were you able to…?”

  “We had to disassemble them, drive them over, and put them back together,” he said. Now the dirt, grease, and sweat made sense. He pulled a ragged handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it over his face. It didn’t do much good; the rag was also covered with dried dirt and grease. A frustrated sigh breezed from his lips. “Now, we’re just waiting for this thing to be done so we can do it all over again, to return them to the stage.”

  Forster understood his misery. He and his fellow workers were visibly exhausted. With how impressively fast they assembled the bleachers, they had to have been hustling. The ninety-five-degree heat certainly didn’t help their situation. She looked at the crowd, and then looked back at the pool. Along the starboard side, she saw Marco standing on a hydraulic lift attached to the adjacent dock. She noticed a long wooden pole, and a four-by-three-foot plastic tub on the metal table. A few feet off to the side stood William Felt. Six-foot-two with balding hair, dressed in his normal grey suit jacket and trousers with a white shirt underneath, he supervised the set-up. That suit used to fit him perfectly, when the forty-two-year-old businessman was much rounder around the mid-section. Over the past couple of months, he had slimmed down significantly, undoubtedly from the constant stress he was facing. Now, the jacket looked too big on him.