by Michael Cole
Forster took a single running step and leapt from the edge of the lift. While she was momentarily in midair, she kicked both her feet down toward the fish. The heels of her boots struck the middle of the gill line as she came crashing down.
Nerves lit up like an electric shock that zipped through the shark, and it swiftly jerked to the side. Its crescent shaped caudal fin brushed over Forster, missing her by inches. She twisted underwater in the powerful current it created, which lasted for only a second. She kicked to the surface and drew a breath. Turning back, she saw Marco and swam towards him. She swam to his side and tucked her left arm under his. She kept an eye on the dorsal fin as she paddled back, with the two-hundred-forty-pound assistant in tow.
“Who’d ever think I’d be the one saving your ass,” she remarked, spitting out water with each word. Each paddle was a strain, but with each one they closed the distance. Security officers in blue uniform shirts ducked under the guardrail and reached out. Forster and Marco were successfully pulled from the water. Forster rested on her knees for a moment, while Security checked Marco’s vitals. The distant echo of an ambulance gradually drew closer. Dripping wet, Forster stood to her feet. At that same moment, Marco weakly lifted his hand and gave a thumbs up.
A sense of relief brushed over the crowd, who complimented all those involved with an applause in recognition of the successful rescue. Forster stepped through the gathering of security and workers and looked down at Marco.
“You’ll be alright, bud,” she said.
“Oh, I’ve been through worse scraps than this,” he jokingly muttered, although painfully. He was lying of course in a humorous attempt to sound manly. Forster smiled at him then started walking away. Marco called back to her, “Hey Julie?” She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Thanks,” he said. She smiled again.
“Don’t mention it,” she said. As she started walking away, the flashing red ambulance lights came into view. It parked near the crowd, and EMTs stepped out of the box with a stretcher.
As she walked away, Forster looked down at her dripping clothes and wished she had stayed in the wetsuit. All the contents in her pockets were now soaked. Luckily, she kept her phone in her car. At this point, she didn’t care. All she wanted was to go home and lay on her couch. And that was exactly her plan.
As the crowd gradually dispersed, William Felt stood with his microphone, simultaneously shocked and grateful. However, the feeling that overshadowed both was a sense of dread. As people went about their way, he could see many visitors uploading images and videos onto their social media accounts. Curious, he turned on his own iPhone and brought up Twitter on his screen. Almost immediately, he started getting hits for headlines such as Shark nearly eats handler at Felt’s Paradise.
Felt’s hopes for promotion through social media backfired. Now, he had yet another controversy on his hands. His mind raced for new solutions, but came up short. The resort was coming up short in revenue, and the dread of foreclosure was starting to seem more like a horrible reality. With the millions invested in it, his career in business would come to a halt.
He felt his stomach tighten, and beads of sweat run down his temple…and it wasn’t because of the heat. He felt every desire to leave, but knew the public eye was still on him. Thinking quickly, he hurriedly walked to Marco, who was being tended to by the EMTs. He stood on the toes of his shoes to look at him.
“Hey, Marco. You doing alright?” he asked. Marco tried to smile, but the pain in his chest was setting in even worse. The EMTs had removed his shirt, revealing the early signs of bruising on his chest.
“Yeah,” he said with a weak voice. “It’s just that my chest really…”
“Oh, that’s great that you’re feeling better!” Felt said. He swiftly turned and walked toward the aquarium
His heart raced in his chest, coupled with an overwhelming anxiety. He angled for the nearest restroom, but changed direction seeing a small crowd of visitors. He located an employee-only stairway to the second floor, and walked toward it, pretending to be casual. Hopefully, nobody would notice that his face and neck were now soaked in nervous sweat. As soon as the door shut behind him, he sprinted up the stairs. Luckily, the second floor had private unisex bathrooms. Again acting casual, he locked himself in one. As soon as the latch slammed home, he yanked off his expensive suit jacket and threw himself onto the toilet and vomited.
********
After a loud fit of laughter, Scott and Ben pulled themselves together. It was a sick sense of enjoyment watching the near-tragedy from the safety of the bay. Scott wiped the tears of laughter from his face and shoved a pinch of chewing tobacco into his mouth. Ben cracked open a beer.
“Stupid bastards,” he cackled. He swallowed a mouthful of suds. “So, what should we do?”
“We wait,” Scott said. He spat a stream of brown residue into the water. “I think I have an idea. Who knows, knowing the moron who owns this place, we’ll probably be saving lives.”
“I’m not catching on,” Ben said. Scott pointed out toward the pool.
“You see the far side, there,” he said. Ben lifted his binoculars. “See, that wall facing out has a set of mechanical double doors. That pool was originally built as a rehabilitation tank for small whales.”
“Oh,” Ben said. He thought for a moment until he realized Scott’s idea. “OH! You mean you want to…”
“Oh yes,” Scott said, sporting a wicked smile. He then spat another wad of tobacco juice. “If they want to mess with our property, we’ll mess with theirs.”
“When do we do it?” Ben asked, while draining the rest of his beer.
“When it gets dark,” Scott answered. “By then, there’ll only be a few night time employees. There’s a control console for the pool. I’m sure I’ll be able to figure it out.” He chuckled to himself, like the villain in a spy picture. He went onto the main deck and reeled in the anchor. “In the meantime, let’s get out of here.” After the anchor was winched aboard, he went into the wheelhouse and started the engine.
CHAPTER
8
As night fell over Pariso Marino, maritime activity came to its usual end for the day. The fishing boats had returned to their ports, and the evening police shifts normally kept to the island interior. The crystal blue quality of the water ceased with the daylight, and it now reflected the black night air with some silver streaks of moonlight.
It provided the perfect cover for Hal, who had just set out west in his fishing vessel. He kept his lights down to a dim. There was no curfew for fishing vessels to be out; however, he did not want to be seen with the two large metal traps he had recently constructed. He and his neighbor, Bob, had spent the last few hours constructing the crates. They had to be handmade, as there was nothing suitable that could be purchased legally on the island.
As Hal predicted, Bob’s date did not go well, so he had spent the wasted evening in Hal’s garage. Several hours, and three whiskey bottles later, they managed to construct eight crates. In his impaired mindset, he was completely convinced somebody from the resort was responsible. Hal wanted to spread them out, and not make it too easy for his assumed adversaries to locate them all and sabotage his unlawful livelihood. With only enough room on his deck for four crates, Bob reluctantly agreed to go out on his own boat, The Thrice, and deliver the rest.
Two crates splashed down in the first location, attached to a fresh cable and buoy. Standing at the transom, Hal watched the water fizzing from the splash, barely visible in the moonlight. The black buoy bounced a couple of times until the water settled. After that, the only noise to be heard was the coughing of the Brisk Cold. The black fumes were invisible in the night air, and Hal ignored the odor.
He stepped back to the helm and started throttling to his next location, where he would meet up with Bob. Despite having hardly any visibility, he knew exactly where he was. Being on these waters all of his life, he could travel with his eyes shut.
Hal pulled a crumpled cigarette fro
m his shirt pocket and stuffed it into his mouth. In the same hand, he held a lighter and a whiskey bottle. He fumbled to ignite his cigarette, eventually succeeding, and washed the first draw with a mouthful of booze. He stuffed the bottle back in his pocket and grabbed his cellphone. He dialed Bob’s number, with intent to let him know he was on his way to the red buoy. He figured Bob would have a hard time finding it, even with the installed GPS.
The phone rang, but there was no answer. At first, Hal thought there just wasn’t any signal. However, that theory went to dust when his phone started vibrating from an incoming call. The contact name was Scott, his other favorite drinking buddy.
“I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” Hal answered the call.
“Hello to you too, dickhead,” Scott replied. “You have the traps unloaded yet?”
“On my way to meet up with Bob,” Hal said. “Won’t take long. These traps are sturdier. Any jackass from that aquarium will have a hell of a time busting them up. I bet it was that chick. Probably did it to protect the fish. She seems the real ‘love animals’ type.”
“How do you figure that? She works for Felt. Still does, after everything’s been turning up dead,” Scott said. Hal tried to think for a moment. His booze-flooded brain had trouble comprehending his friend’s logic, as well as his own. With everything he was doing, he was acting on impulse. The crates, which he claimed were sturdier, were actually built very sloppily. Screws were fixed in at inept angles, and in many cases the wrong size was used. One of the traps was uneven in its shape, with the top grate screwed to the planks at a slight angle. For the other, the flap door where the fish would enter required a bit of force to get inside.
“I uh, uh…”
“Speaking of fish, did you hear about that thing with their great white?”
“I did. Hilarious.”
“Well, I’ll be heading over there again with Ben. We have a plan for their little fish.” Hal thought for a second, once again unable to figure out what Scott was getting at. “We’re gonna let it loose!” Scott finally said, realizing Hal wasn’t catching on.
Hal’s cigarette burst from his mouth as he laughed.
“That’ll piss them off,” he said.
“Better yet, after we do, I plan on catching the thing. I know a guy on the mainland that specializes in shark meat! I’ll make a killing…so to speak.” He broke into laughter.
“Make sure I get a cut of that!” Hal said.
“Uh, yeah…try no!” Scott said. “I’m doing you a favor as it is.”
“You sound like my ex-wife,” Hal said. This led to an awkward pause.
“As long as I don’t look like her…” he shuddered in disgust. “Anyhow, you’ll be even with them. Who knows, we might be heroes in the animal rights world.”
“Except you’re planning on catching the shark afterwards…” Hal said.
“Yeah, but they don’t know that. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“I’ll hear about it somehow or another. Anyhow, I’d better go. I should be coming up on the next buoy in a few minutes. Have fun with the fish.”
Before Scott could say his farewell, Hal hung up the phone. He had a habit of ending his phone calls abruptly. He traveled for several more minutes until finally turning on his small GPS monitor. The screen showed that the buoy was less than a quarter mile south. He adjusted the Brisk Cold’s direction.
He had already activated the night blinker, more for Bob’s benefit than his own. Watching through the windshield, he kept an eye out for the blinking red light. He quickly spotted it, nearly three hundred yards ahead. In the dark, it was impossible to miss.
He squinted as he scanned the water around the buoy. Even in the dim moonlight, he knew he should have been able to see Bob’s boat. He tried calling once again. He pressed the contact button, only to have a dead dial tone beep in his face. This time, the call wasn’t even getting through.
“Where the hell is he?” Hal said to himself. He went to use the radio, only to remember it wasn’t functional. Just another repair he had failed to complete. Not that he cared; hardly anyone ever addressed him on the radio.
The flashing red light grew brighter as Hal brought his boat to a stop alongside the buoy. He stepped onto the deck and anchored, then reached out to the buoy with a pole.
A few more minutes passed and he hooked the new traps to the cable. He splashed them down and reeled the anchor back in. Another scan of the water revealed no obvious sign of Bob’s boat. Knowing Bob, he’d likely be traveling with his interior lights on at least, which would stand out in the night. But there was nothing.
“Whatever,” he said to himself. He returned to the wheelhouse to begin his return trip. He turned the wheel and leaned in on the throttle. The engine groaned heavily as the propellers pushed it along. Hal stuffed another cigarette in his mouth and fumbled in his pocket for his lighter. He held the flame to the tip.
Hal flinched as the entire boat shuttered. The cigarette fell from his mouth, and he stuffed the lighter back into his pocket. The engine kicked a few more times, coupled with the sound of grinding metal. It all silenced as the engine died.
Hal took a quick slug of his whiskey to relax his nerves. He tried starting the engine again. The gears twisted a few times, but to no avail. He went to a hatch at the rear of the cabin. He opened it, revealing a cloud of grey smoke. He coughed and brushed the air with his hand. He fumbled around for a flashlight, finally locating one in the mess of a wheelhouse, and shined it into the engine.
The smoke was too thick for him to identify the specific problem. He crawled inside for a closer look. He felt a rush of heat from the warm engine room, which instantly drew sweat from his brow. Holding his breath, he inspected the engine. There appeared to be a crack in the cylinder, as well as some damage to the camshaft. The spark plugs were blistered from overheating.
Hal didn’t consider his lack of maintenance to be a factor. Boozed up and self-entitled, he cursed at the engine, believing that luck was down on him.
“You little piece of shit, useless machinery!” he yelled. His voice amplified in the tight space. He kicked the engine, causing small rusted pieces of metal to sprinkle the floor.
Almost immediately, more rusted pieces fell after something bumped the hull. Something tapped against the boat from the outside.
“Oh, what now?” Hal groaned and hurried to the deck. He leaned over the portside gunwale to look into the water. His flashlight illuminated a jagged object, which appeared to be a piece of wood. It bumped against the side of his boat as it bobbed in the water.
Just a piece of wood. Who cares? He started turning away to return to the engine, but stopped after he caught the glimpse of something further out. He shined his flashlight back down. As he aimed it further out, he saw a couple more objects floating about. He suddenly realized they were pieces of decking. He aimed the light further.
The ocean was covered with floating pieces of wreckage. Bits of hull, rubber, decking, gradually drifted apart from each other. Hal shined his light on a large piece of rounded steel that floated about twenty feet from the stern. It was about twelve feet long and had enough buoyancy to keep it on the surface. He noticed a few white letters printed on it: he Thr.
The letters went from one side to the other, clearly the middle of a word. Hal’s took a heavy swig of his whiskey upon the realization he was looking at the wreckage of The Thrice. Anxiety seized control of him. He didn’t bother comprehending what happened to the boat. It didn’t require any imagination to realize something horrific had recently taken place. He just wanted to get out of the area. He rushed to the wheelhouse and tried starting the engine.
As before, it turned a few times before quitting. He took another drink and set the bottle down on the countertop. With a shaking hand, he turned the key again, only to produce the same result.
“Start, you piece of shit!” he cursed it, while hammering his fist on the helm. He twisted the key in the ignition again. This time, the
starter didn’t even initiate. All he heard was a faint click, like a car with a dead battery.
He grabbed a small toolbox and hurried down into the engine room. He shined the flashlight to inspect it. The smoke had cleared, giving him better visibility. It wouldn’t make any difference, however, as he was by no means a skilled mechanic. While he had learned much about fishing over the years, he retained nothing about maintaining a boat.
He looked at the crack in the cylinder, then fumbled in his toolbox. In doing so, he dropped his flashlight, which switched off upon hitting the floor. In complete darkness, he got on his hands and knees and started tapping the floor in search of it. Finding nothing but floor, he swept his hands around to cover a wider area. He felt his fingertips bump the handle, knocking it to the side. He quickly reached over to the sound of the rolling tool.
“Ah, fuck!” he yelled after smacking his forehead against the engine. He rolled backwards, knocking his toolbox over. Tools scattered across the room, nearly invisible in the dark. Anger now joined the anxiety and desperation. “Son…of…a…bitch!” He pounded the floor with each curse. It was as if the boat was directly punishing him for not repairing it.
As he clambered about inside the boat, Hal was left completely unaware of the creature circling the Brisk Cold. Twenty-four feet in length, it searched desperately for sustenance. Prey was becoming difficult to come by, and its previous encounter had resulted in only a meager meal. It had searched the wreckage it had created, hoping to scavenge anything edible. But the material was all inorganic.
Now it had a fresh new target. It was like the one it had encountered previously. This one was motionless, however. It circled the boat, deciding on whether or not to attack. Hammering sounds from within it echoed throughout the water, spiking the creature’s curiosity. The vibrations seemed to originate from inside the ‘underbelly’. It was like detecting the heartbeat of a wounded animal.
Memory of its recent attack on the other vessel reminded it that these inorganic floating objects carried edible prey. The beast made distance and lined up with the side of the vessel. In less than a second, it burst into a speed of a hundred miles per hour. Its eyes and jaws clamped shut, keeping its cone shaped nose pointed forward, like the head of a spear.
