TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy)

by Timothy James Dean

  “Here.” He handed the paper and pen back to Blair. “Put this in the pouch. Write Willman’s name on the outside.”

  Karsh and Chip returned to the tarp. Gunny saw them coming and brought the list. Karsh personally double-checked the items as they were read off.

  “Should we add guns and ammo, Sir?” Chip asked the Captain when that was done.

  “No son,” Karsh responded. “We hope it’s our men who find this, but that’s doubtful. We don’t want to arm any hostiles—Japs or natives.”

  The Captain had the men hold up the corners of the tarp and they lashed it to make a big waterproof sack. He had them tie a rope to it and sent a man up the tree. The marine climbed thirty feet and threw the rope over a branch. Other men hauled the sack high, wrapped the rope around the trunk and tied it off.

  “The pouch,” Karsh said. Blair handed it over and the Captain wedged it through the coils.

  “That’s that,” Karsh said. “Gather the men, Gunny. Pass out a beer to each one, but tell them to wait for my word.”

  There were two wooden crates stamped “Anheuser-Busch, St. Louis,” heaped with ice chips in the shade. The men had heard the bottles clink when they brought them ashore. Budweiser from home!

  When the marines were ranged before him, a cool bottle in each hand, the Captain accepted one himself and spoke.

  “Men, it’s official. Japan has surrendered! We’ve beaten the bastards!” An enthusiastic cheer went up. The marines had heard rumors of this. You couldn’t keep such momentous news under wraps, but it hadn’t been official until now. Karsh held up a hand for silence.

  “I’ve been told that yesterday, the Japanese Emperor himself went on radio to tell his subjects the news. That was a first, they say. The Japs had never even heard his voice before.

  “Now every one of our available ships is steaming for Tokyo. The greatest armada of the war will assemble to accept the official surrender. There’ll be a grand ceremony where the Nips will sign the documents. Unconditional surrender, men! And we’re going to the party!” Another cheer broke out.

  “Here’s to the United States of America!” Karsh called, raising his Bud. “Here’s to victory!” They lifted their bottles high, the Captain took a long swallow, and everyone did the same. There was laughter and marines clapped one another on the back. Some put thumbs over the necks, shook, and sprayed their buddies. It might not be champagne, but it was sweet!

  Grinning broadly, Karsh told Gunny to set four men with Tommy guns as sentries, and the others could relax until further notice.

  Captain Karsh ducked into his tent and emerged a few minutes later dressed in his bathing costume. It was a conservative affair that covered the chest. It had been a gift from Lois, his wife of twenty-one years. She pointed out that the blue color matched his dress uniform. It was not the trunks the younger fellows favored these days, but it showed the Captain’s manly physique to advantage. At forty-two, Cleveland Karsh worked diligently to maintain his musculature. He had a set of weights in the basement at home and swam three times a week at the Y, fast laps an hour at a time. In the field, unless in battle, he did a hundred push-ups and two hundred sit-ups before breakfast.

  The marines watched as their Captain marched to the sea, strode into the crashing surf and dove into a wave. He came up beyond it, swimming strongly. When he was in deeper water, he began to parallel the shore, arms rising and falling in a fast crawl. After fifty strokes, he reversed and swam the other way. His aides sat and watched and Chip shook his head in admiration.

  “He’s something, the Old Man,” he said. “The South Pacific’s loaded with sharks. You wouldn’t catch me out there for a million bucks.”

  “Our fearless Captain,” Blair smiled. They shaded their eyes against the reflection. A breaker went over Karsh, then the watchers saw the gleam of his head again.

  Chip had been given instructions and he went to the tent. He checked that everything was in order with the Captain’s uniform on its hanger, then knelt by the wooden trunk and fished out a set of keys. He selected one and turned it in the lock, opened the lid and noted the personal papers and photos of Karsh, his wife and three children. Chip had seen these before and he was looking for something else.

  He found the velvet sack and brought it out, loosened the drawstring and extracted a bottle. It had a coating of fine dust and he wiped it away and read the label: Glenmorangie—Highland Single Malt Scotch Whisky.

  Chip was twenty-two years old and did not know single malt from bar bourbon, but he knew this was something special. He relocked the case and returned to the beach. Blair had prepared three glasses on the table and an ice bucket.

  Cleveland Karsh swam hard, eyes closed against the salt. Unseen by him, forty-five feet below, the reef was a riot of colors. It was a wonderland of hard and soft corals, thronged with thousands of species of fish. When the aquatic creatures looked up, they saw a dark spot on the ceiling of the world.

  For millions of years, any creature churning the surface was a dying fish or an animal in trouble. In either case, it was food. The vibrations made by the swimmer radiated through this atmosphere and in deep water, they attracted a colossal predator. Instantly it was speeding to the source.

  The Tiger Shark soared in, sunlight rippling over its stripes. It moved its head slightly from side to side, searching for the meal with its eyes, and the electrical sensors in its skin known as “Ampules of Lorenzini.” The hunter flashed along, scattering clouds of reef fish.

  It saw something slapping the surface and honed in. But then, just ahead of it, a long length of the reef itself detached and floated up, casting a shadow.

  Suddenly, the Tiger Shark realized what it was looking at. It saw huge eyes staring back, and a row of teeth as long as its body. The fish turned violently, voided its bowels, and rocketed back to the depths.

  Unaware of the activity below, the Captain swam on. The clock in his head told him it was time to get out and he ventured a glance at the beach, then struck out that way. He bodysurfed the last roller in and burst out on his feet. He took some running steps and, aware of the eyes of the men, marched up, smiling broadly.

  Karsh accepted the towel Chip handed him and glanced with approval at the bottle of Glenmorangie. As he’d instructed, a bucket of fresh water stood on the sand. The Captain held it over his head with a muscled arm and sluiced off the seawater. Toweling his chest, Karsh walked to his tent. He stepped out of his bathing suit, dried himself and donned khaki slacks and shirt, but kept the jacket with its decorations aside. He would put it on just before they went back on board.

  He added socks and shoes and buckled on the belt with the holstered pistol. It was an M1911 .45 automatic in nickel finish with a wooden grip. He had cleaned it the previous evening and knew the clip was full. Karsh was already sweating and he ran the towel over his shaved head once more. Then, cap in hand, jacket over the forearm, he stepped back into the sun. Marines were stretched out on the sand. Some shot the breeze with their buddies, some slept, and there was a card game going. He called over.

  “Gunny, give the men their second beer.”

  “Yes sir!” the Sarg responded. He had no shortage of volunteers to hand around the bottles.

  Karsh joined his aides. The Lieutenants stood from their chairs as he approached. He told them to sit, then walked to the ocean side of the table, hung the jacket over the back of the chair, put down his cap and faced the younger men. He picked up the bottle of scotch.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “our work together is almost done.” He held the amber liquid to the sun.

  “This is a special bottle for a special day. This is twenty-one year old single malt scotch. It was aged by the distiller for almost the length of time you’ve been alive, young man,” he said to Chip. “And—well, since before you were a twinkle in your daddy’s eye,” he told Blair.

  “It was a gift from my own father some years ago. He told me I’d know when to open it. He was right.”

  He crac
ked the seal with a nail, twisted the cork and it came out with a musical pop. He put his nose to the neck and sniffed. He smiled, and poured two fingers of scotch into each tumbler, pushed the glasses toward the young men, and picked up his own. His aides added ice, while the Captain did not.

  “Chip, Blair,” he said, “as you know, the war is over, but I propose a personal toast. To the end of our war! Semper Fi!” He held up his glass.

  “To the end of our war! Semper Fi!” the aides responded and clinked their glasses against the Captain’s. Each took a swallow. Karsh closed his eyes and savored the buttery burn. It was a moment of bliss, suddenly broken.

  Karsh heard shouts and turned sharply. Marines were on their feet, pointing at the ocean. The Captain spun and could hardly believe his eyes. A gigantic crocodile charged out of the waves and it seemed to be looking at him. Karsh took in the curved scar across the head, and the malformed front leg that made the animal’s shoulder dip as it ran. It loomed larger with every step and he stared at the prehistoric-looking head and all the teeth.

  Cleveland Karsh got an adrenaline rush. Still, his hand set his glass smoothly on the table, then unsnapped his holster and drew the .45, and racked the slide with the other hand. It had only been seconds, but the brute was almost to him and he fired. He saw a divot of scales fly off the head but the crocodile did not slow.

  He shot again, and the beast was on him.

  CHAPTER 28

  Captain Karsh dove away at the last minute but the crocodile turned with him and caught his leg in the air. Karsh felt his bones shatter. Then the Father turned and ran for the ocean.

  Karsh felt the implacable strength and as he fell, he fired into the head again before his back struck sand. His left leg was entirely in the reptile’s mouth and the other dragged as the crocodile plowed him down the beach. He felt no pain but he knew his leg was crushed. The crocodile ran as though his own two hundred and thirty pounds were nothing. Karsh reached with his left hand, grabbed the jaw and raised his body. Jolted as he was, he shot the side of the head.

  Karsh went backwards into the ocean as he heard the stutter of automatic fire. He saw bullets shudder along the flank. A wave rushed around him and another line of slugs kicked sand and pounded the crocodile’s body.

  The Father staggered under the onslaught and fell onto its misshapen foreleg. Karsh heard something pop as the Father thumped onto its belly and slid into the ocean. The man was thrust into a roller that loomed overhead. He kept his eyes open underwater, staring into the crocodile’s scarred eye. As the wave drew back he gasped air, aimed his soaked .45 and pulled the trigger. It fired, and he got off three shots before he went under again. The wave boiled over and the crocodile dove into it and swam. The man’s arms scraped along the sand and the pistol was torn from his grip. In the sudden silence, the crocodile undulated down fifty feet.

  The Captain held his breath and felt the pressure mount in his head. He moved his jaw and his ears popped. The crocodile let go of his leg and Karsh had an irrational burst of hope that he might yet escape, but it only was repositioning him. Karsh felt the teeth scrape across his chest and back, and the horrific penetration.

  He knew then his personal war over.

  Still, he tried to hurt his attacker. He ran his hand along the jaw until his thumb found the eye and he gouged in. At once, the reptile rolled. The Captain was flung around, salt burned up his nose and he breathed water. He had a moment of terrible panic and then it faded away.

  The crocodile felt the prey go still. It came out of its roll and swam deeper.

  For an eternity of heartbeats, Cleveland stared up at reversed waves passing far overhead, and the sun beyond. He had never seen anything so electric blue and sublime in his life.

  The Father had escaped the explosions, but its head and side burned. The pain in its foreleg, however, had suddenly eased.

  It had the smooth-headed man in its teeth and it knew the savage satisfaction of having killed the one-prey.

  Chip was facing it when the crocodile erupted from the waves and came at them. It ran fast, with a rolling gait. He saw the Old Man shoot the monster and then it was on them.

  Chip found he was moving, leaping through the air. He glimpsed the monster bite the Captain, then he hit sand and rolled. When he looked again, the crocodile was racing back down the beach, tail raised. He heard shouts and the clatter of Tommy guns. He saw the animal get hit as it entered the water. It fell on its weird leg, the foot buckled back, and something squirted out. The croc rolled on is belly and slid into the surf.

  Chip saw a wave crash over and fall away. Captain Karsh rose up in the jaws and fired into the head. It sounded like a cap gun, but he saw the pistol jump. Another breaker surged over, and when it was gone, so were man and beast. Chip felt he was in a waking nightmare.

  The predator was gone, but so was his Captain. Gone, gone! Yet the ocean sparkled merrily and the sun beamed down.

  Chip saw marines run to the water. He heard a sob and there was Blair sprawled out, lower lip bleeding, an empty glass in his fingers. His own was nearby, half filled with sand.

  He stood up and on the table was the Captain’s special bottle, beside the glass the Old Man’s own hand had set down only a minute before. The liquor still trembled. Chip lurched to the table, grabbed the bottle and drank deeply. His gullet and eyes seemed to catch fire. Still clutching the neck, he stumbled down the sand, gaze fixed on the thing that had burst out of the creature.

  He got close and saw a gelatinous mass laced with yellow and red, black at the core. It looked like a dead jellyfish, but it had come from the leg and he prodded it with his toe. It was hard. A wave swirled around his boot and when it retreated, some of the goo was gone. He was looking at a shaft of black wood. One end was a sharp point, the other in splinters.

  Again Chip tipped up the bottle and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Heat spilled from his eyes and the world melted. His arm fell and his fingers went slack. He heard the thud of boots and the surf sizzled like hot grease.

  Strong hands grabbed the young officer just as his knees gave out. His eyes rolled back in his head as the marines dragged him up the beach.

  Ten minutes before, it had been an idyllic scene out of some South Pacific movie. Now it was pandemonium. Men ran waving firearms. Some leapt into the tenders and yanked the motors to life. They roared back and forth, staring helplessly into the water.

  Eventually, the thirty-seven year old Gunnery Sergeant took charge. The young lieutenants were no help. He saw no option but to return with the men to the ship, and there report the bizarre death of the Captain.

  Once more, the beach was deserted. At the surf line, a clear object tumbled. Each time it moved, some of its amber contents glugged out. Another breaker rushed over it, and fine single malt scotch mixed with a far more ancient vintage. A big breaker caught the thing and hurled up, then sucked it back again. As it rolled, picking up speed, it struck something hard in the sand.

  Cleveland Karsh’s victory bottle and the business end of Chief Bumay’s war spear clinked together in the surf.

  Johnny was terrified, running through putrid mud that crawled with maggots. The stench of death was thick in his nostrils. His legs pumped furiously, but he only sank deeper.

  The Father was coming.

  It slid at him across the mud and Johnny redoubled his efforts but he could not move and the crocodile knew it. Its jaws curved in a tooth-studded smile. Johnny stared at the crescent scar that was livid red and oozed blood. The yellow eye in the center of it stared back with hostile intelligence.

  Johnny raised his rifle and shot the Father in the eye, but it only clicked. He heard the scorekeeper’s cheery voice:

  “No bullets left!”

  The Father came and it spread jaws strung with saliva that gaped and kept going. The red moon filled the sky and the maw was wide enough to swallow the entire stinking swamp. The teeth grew like mountain ranges.

  Johnny heard agonized cries and saw living human
heads wedged between the teeth. The faces were stacked on each other and the cries came from them.

  Chief Bumay was there. His eyes were white and terrified in his black face, his black teeth exposed, and his death scream went on endlessly.

  Then Johnny heard a voice he knew far better. In dread, he searched for the source and found it. There was Footy’s face with the others. The eyes were wide and he was urgently trying to tell Johnny something, but the words were lost in the howl of the damned.

  And then the Father’s jaws came slamming down. It was like the sky falling. It crashed onto Johnny and the long teeth shot through him.

  Johnny woke and smelled the dead crocodile. He saw the Japanese in the firelight, staring at him, and realized he’d been making noise. I put him on watch, he remembered. He saw Footy, asleep. Johnny took deep breaths and waited for this new nightmare to dissipate.

  Fingers trembling, he found a cigarette. He did not even try to use the Zippo. It had taken a lot of shaking, flicking and coaxing to get the fire going. He touched the cigarette to a coal. He smoked it half down and handed it to the Japanese, who nodded and puffed.

  Johnny got up and told the man to sleep on his bed. He sat on the dirt and stared into the ominous darkness of the swamp. The fire gave a glimmer that outlined the head of the hulking saltwater crocodile.

  As night had fallen, he and the Japanese had worked the machete and Bowie knife through the tough scales on the back. Johnny asked the prisoner to use his sword—it was sharper—but the man refused. Johnny asked why, and was told it was not right to use the katana for that purpose. He had not forced the issue.

  They got a flap of tough hide peeled back and they carved steaks. They skewered these on sticks and roasted them over the fire. Then the men had a meat-fest, eating until they were gorged, and cooked more for the trail ahead.

  Johnny pulled the boots off Footy’s feet and tended to the cut. He removed the bandage and was pleased to see the site was relatively clean. The ball was swollen and purple, the lips of the cut red between the stitches, but it did not look infected. Johnny doused it with disinfectant and taped it.