Sharkman

by Steve Alten

  Sharks . . . I was in the shark paddock. I could sense them and they could sense me, and yet none of the predators took much interest. It was as if we were strangers sharing a crowded sidewalk.

  The real threat was unchaining the back doors to come after me.

  I climbed out of the canal and looked around. Biscayne Bay was a mere stone’s throw away, its glistening moonlit waters guarded by a steel perimeter fence. I ran to it, and with a grunt, tore the chain link from the nearest support post.

  Then I heard Li-ling . . .

  “Hey genius—we ordered two pizzas and three salads. You forgot one of the salads. And I asked for a two-liter bottle of Coke. This is Diet Coke.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that. My manager said he’ll send another driver out with it. He’s not charging you for the salad.”

  “Whoopee, we saved six bucks. Hey, on the drive back, make sure you use your seatbelt. That’s your tip. I’m sure it’s not what you expected either.”

  She slammed the front door of the lab, sending the pizza delivery man back to his car, grumbling to himself. “Bustin’ my hump on a Saturday night . . . for this? Dwayne can kiss my ass . . . I quit.”

  Climbing inside the 1997 Toyota Tacoma pickup truck, he blasted the night air with Metallica’s “Bleeding Me” as he accelerated out of the ANGEL complex—yours truly hidden in the flatbed.

  I huddled in back, shivering in my wet bathing suit. What did the Admiral want from me? Where could I hide? And what good would it do to run anyway? Becker had the cure to my freakish condition, and Jeff Elrod had stopped her from administering it. At some point, I’d have to return or face the consequences.

  Unless I could control it. Maybe I could. As much as my body changed in the water, once out of it, I seemed to be able to resume my human form without any lingering side effects. It was only when the gills randomly struck without rhyme or reason that I found myself in serious trouble.

  Was it a random response, or had I done something to cause it?

  I tried to recall what had happened back in the conference room before the last attack had sent me jumping in the aquarium. Everything seemed fine—until Jeff Elrod had pushed my buttons.

  Anger . . . I was angry.

  And what about the first time . . . in the lab? I had been looking at all the dead rats. I wasn’t angry that time; I was scared. Filled with fear.

  What had Rachel Solomon told me about fear?

  “Kwan, the more you dwell on the negative outcome, the more you’ll attract that outcome. That’s how fear works. It manifests a negative energy field that brings the actual situation to life.”

  What did fear and anger have in common? What was it about these two emotions that caused my DNA to circumvent my respiratory system?

  Both emotions engaged the body’s “fight or flight” response. Heart rate, blood pressure, and respiration all increased, while the adrenal glands flooded the body with stress hormones.

  Stress hormones? Which ones were being secreted?

  I had studied this back in tenth grade health class. What was the mnemonic device I had used to study for the final?

  Adrenal glands. Adrenaline and gambling. Gambling in Vegas—no, no, not Vegas. Atlantic City. AC. A was for adrenaline, what did the C stand for?

  I closed my eyes to think . . . and then suddenly it came to me, and it all made sense!

  Cortisol.

  During fight or flight, the adrenal glands released cortisol to suppress the immune system. Conversely, the shark stem cells were designed to supercharge the immune system.

  When I had been afraid and angry, my adrenal glands had flooded my system with cortisol, weakening my human immune system, creating a void for the shark stem cells to take control of my respiratory system.

  Rachel Solomon was right. If I could control my emotions, I could control the mutation.

  It really was mind over matter.

  The pickup truck had driven west over the Rickenbacher Causeway to Interstate 95. The signs passing overhead indicated we were heading east on the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach.

  After twenty minutes of driving in traffic, the driver parked the truck. I remained in back while he changed his shirt inside the cab. With a whiff of cologne, he exited the vehicle, slamming the door shut.

  I waited another minute before sitting up to gauge my new surroundings.

  Crowds, music, neon lights . . . flavored by a thousand scents carried on a warm ocean breeze.

  I was in South Beach.

  29

  Located on the southernmost tip of Miami Beach, South Beach is a mecca of seaside hotels and brightly painted stucco buildings, street cafés, and nightclubs. Stroll down Collins Avenue and you may spot a pop star or an actor sharing the scene with local artists and European tourists, scantily clad women and men flashing their six-pack abs. Hit the beach, lunch at a café, dine at a five-star restaurant or hit a pizza joint or sushi bar . . . then party until dawn at dance clubs where the women dress to possess. Tattooed flesh, wild hair, no inhibitions . . . and it’s all fabulous.

  South Beach may also have been the only populated area east of San Francisco where I wouldn’t stand out.

  The pizza guy had left his passenger door unlocked. I found his grease-stained T-shirt in the cab and put it on, only my shoulder and arm muscles tore the fabric at the seams. Still barefoot, I walked out of the 10th Street parking lot onto Collins Avenue.

  I was in survival mode, my needs simple. I was beyond hungry—my last meal thirty hours ago. I needed shoes and a change of clothing, and I needed sleep.

  I continued walking east another block to Ocean Drive. It was after two in the morning, the night was still young, and I was flying way above the radar. Beyond the lights and cafés and bumper-to-bumper traffic was a wide stretch of pristine beach and the Atlantic—a dark void that seemed safer than the crowded streets of SoBe.

  “It has to be him, Spencer; look at his body. How many Asians are built like that?”

  I turned to face the woman with the British accent and found myself face to face with a family of three. The husband, whose hairless scalp resembled mine, apologized for his wife’s comments. “Forgive Gail, you’re her first celebrity since we arrived on Thursday. Really, we’re big fans. Especially my daughter, Zoey.”

  “Dad!” The teen rolled her eyes at her father.

  I looked down at the man’s sandals. “Want a picture—me and your daughter?”

  “Would you mind? That would be incredible.”

  “A photo for your shoes.”

  “My shoes?”

  “Spencer, give him your sandals.”

  “I just bought these sandals.”

  “Dad, you’re embarrassing me. If Kwan Wilson wants your sandals, then you give Kwan Wilson your sandals.”

  “They probably smell,” said Gail, nudging me. “He’s been wearing them the entire trip.”

  “That’s because you forgot to pack my kicks. Where’s your shoes, Kwan?”

  “I lost them on the beach.”

  “Really, Dad? Like it’s any of your business.”

  “Fine. You want my shoes, take them, only I’m getting in the photo, too.” The Englishman freed his feet from the Velcro straps and handed me his sandals. “Hope you didn’t lose your underwear on the beach.”

  Gail took a photo of Zoey and me with her iPhone; then we had a passerby take one of the four of us, and I had my shoes . . . and a growing crowd.

  Seeking anonymity, I headed south where a line of people had gathered beneath turquoise-blue awnings.

  * * *

  Mark Coney was twenty-eight, his wife, Shaina, twenty-three. While I was bartering for shoes, the couple from North Carolina was waiting in line a block away outside Mango’s Tropical Café, one of the most popular destinations in South Beach.

 
Mark Coney felt uneasy. There was a certain vulnerability with having a hot wife, and Shaina was hot. Her wavy, thick brown hair fell down to her tight waistline; her scantily clad athletic figure attracted looks from every guy and gal who passed by.

  None of that bothered Mark. It was the three Cuban men waiting in line behind them that made him feel uneasy.

  The big man whom the others called Jorge was buzzed and physically imposing. His mate, Paco, had cocaine eyes and a handgun tucked into his waistband. But it was Raul, the vocal ringleader, who Mark feared the most.

  “Hey, mamí. Why you hangin’ with this págaro?”

  Mark positioned himself behind his wife. “Ignore them. We’ll be inside in five minutes.”

  “Hey, white boy. You gonna let us buy the chica a drink? Hey, chica—Oye asere, que bola?”

  The three men laughed.

  “Mark, maybe we should go?”

  “It’s okay,” he said, searching Ocean Drive for a cop.

  Mark Coney would have left with his wife long ago, only he knew the three men would follow them to his car, which was parked half a mile away on a far less populated block. With their leader growing bolder, he was no longer sure the crowded bar offered sanctuary.

  And that’s when he saw me.

  “Shaina, wait here a second, I’ll be right back.”

  “You’re Kwan, right?”

  I looked up to find an Italian-looking man with jet-black hair and a desperate look blocking my way.

  “Mark Coney, big fan.” He pointed to an attractive woman standing in line. “My wife and I wanted to know if we could treat you to dinner at Mango’s.”

  “Sorry, man. I’m not really into that.”

  “No, no, it’s just dinner. See, there are these three Cuban guys harassing us, and I just thought if you joined us, you know . . . maybe they’d back off. I’ll even buy you a new shirt.”

  I glanced down at the filthy cloth pinning my biceps. “Okay.”

  “Really? That’s great.”

  He led me over to his wife, who was being bumped from behind by a Hispanic man with a pencil-thin mustache.

  “Shaina, this is Kwan Wilson . . . you know, that basketball player who was paralyzed. Kwan’s going to be joining us for dinner. That’s okay, right?”

  “Sure.” She held out her hand, relieved. “Shaina.”

  The man behind her leered. “Shaina. I got Shaina on the braina, eh, Paco.”

  I wedged myself behind Mark’s wife so that I was standing eyeball to eyeball with the drunk.

  What to do? What to say? There were so many options to choose from. I could have growled at him while I gave him the Clint Eastwood squint. I could have grabbed a handful of his testicles like Tony Soprano, or smashed his skull against his bigger friend’s head and knocked the two of them out like Moe Howard from the Three Stooges. I could have pulled a Mike Tyson and bitten his ear off, or crushed his shoulder muscle clear down to his clavicle like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator 2.

  And after I “Hulked out,” then what? The anger would cause my adrenal glands to release a wave of cortisol, and I’d end up sprinting across the street to make it to the ocean in time before my emerging gills would suffocate me.

  So instead of losing it, instead of proving to the world how tough I was, I looked into the Cuban’s psychotic eyes, pursed my lips, and lisped, “You fellas come here often?”

  “Huh?”

  “When we get inside, you can buy me a drink. Something sweet . . . like you.” I pinched his oily cheek, causing him to stumble backward.

  “Coney, party of two?”

  Mark turned to the hostess. “Right here, only we’re three now.”

  I blew the three men a kiss, and followed the couple inside.

  Mango’s was loud salsa music, strobe lights, wall-to-wall people, and bikini-clad girls dancing on bars in their knee-high boots. We were seated upstairs and handed menus. A waitress came by and Mark ordered a pitcher of mojitos and a plate of barbequed rib appetizers for the table; then he excused himself and left me sitting with his wife.

  “It must be amazing to be able to walk again.”

  “Yes,” I said, my eyes searching the crowd for Elrod’s thugs. “So, what does your husband do?”

  “He manages a Hampton Inn. Kwan, are you looking for someone?”

  “Huh? No. I mean, just those guys who were harassing you.”

  She pointed. The three men were drinking at the bar, their attention focused on the bikini-clad dancers. “I think we’re safe now. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t mind. Actually, I’m hungry. Plus my wardrobe can use an upgrade.”

  Mark returned, handing me a Mango’s tropical print Tommy Bahama shirt. “Hope this fits. It’s the biggest size they had.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go try it on.” Targeting a restroom sign, I squeezed through the crowd, the dance music’s heavy bass pounding in my ears. I entered the men’s room and an empty stall, then tore off the frayed remains of the T-shirt and slipped my arms through the short sleeves of the shirt.

  The fit was still tight, but at least I didn’t stick out in the crowd as much.

  I expelled what seemed like a gallon of pee that smelled like seawater mixed with sewage. Then I washed my hands and gave a quick biceps flex in the mirror—which was stupid because my muscles tore the fabric.

  Chiding my ego, I left the bathroom, exiting to the pulsating music.

  The food had arrived, but Mark and Shaina had left. Dancing, I assumed. I searched the dance floor, but it was wall-to-wall people. And so I ate.

  Twenty minutes, a plate of ribs, and a cheeseburger later and they had still not returned. I stood and searched the dance floor again; then I scanned the bar.

  That’s when I noticed the three Cuban men had left.

  I pushed my way down the stairwell and crossed the dance floor to the exit, emerging outside. There were still people waiting to get in, but no sign of Mark and Shaina.

  Nothing I can do now. Besides, I completed my end of the deal; it’s not my fault they cut out early. Forget about them and find a place to sleep.

  Crossing Ocean Drive, I headed for the sand dunes.

  Maybe it was a gnawing sense of guilt, I don’t know, but suddenly I didn’t feel so good. It wasn’t my respiratory system—I could breathe just fine . . . it was my belly. Seeking privacy, I ran toward a dark stretch of beach, bent over, and puked.

  Everything I had consumed—ribs, cheeseburger, fries, mojitos—erupted out of my mouth, followed by something else . . . my stomach! It was as if I had blown a bubble gum balloon and sucked it back inside my mouth, only this balloon was the size of a grapefruit and it was rubbery and flexible, and it happened so fast I didn’t realize what it was until I inhaled it back down my throat.

  I staggered away from my regurgitated dinner, then dropped to my knees in the cool sand and rolled over on my back, staring at the night sky. I had read that sharks could remove indigestible items from their stomach, things like license plates and human limbs, through an act known as stomach eversion that literally sent the lining of the belly out of the body. If that’s what had just happened, then the shark stem cells had succeeded in mutating my digestive organs as well as my respiratory system, and God only knew what else.

  What could I eat that would stay down?

  Asshole. You should have ordered the fish.

  And then I heard a scream.

  * * *

  They had walked Mark and Shaina out of the club by gunpoint. Crossed the street to the beach and disappeared behind the dark stretch of dunes.

  Mark was lying on his back, bleeding from a head wound. The big Cuban was standing over him, his booted right foot on top of his wrist, preventing him from moving. The addict was removing Mark’s watch from his other wrist—both attac
kers watching Raul, their pulses racing with cocaine and lust.

  Raul was on his knees in the sand, hovering over Shaina. One hand held a gun to her head; the other was fighting with the woman to remove her skirt. “This is going to happen, chica. Now you be a good girl or I’ll have Jorge shoot your honey.”

  Shaina’s cries quieted to whimpers as Raul turned and aimed his gun at her husband. Mark tried to fight the bigger man, only to be stomped in the gut.

  Standing in the shadows, an eyewitness to evil—I felt a wave of adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream like hot magma . . . only this time I refused to flee; this time I needed to stand and fight—not by ceasing my transformation, but by channeling it.

  Gurgling softly in my throat, I traced the insertion of the muscular membrane in my esophagus and forcibly flexed it open, preventing my gills from taking over my respiratory system. Harnessing my rage, I willed my denticle skin to manifest . . . my flesh thickening as quickly as a chameleon changed colors.

  I blinked my eyes . . . and I could see in the darkness.

  I inhaled the night . . . and smelled Mark’s blood in the air.

  My lips receded and my tongue ran across the sharp tips of my triangular teeth.

  The muscles of my upper back arched . . . and I attacked.

  An athlete tapes his ankles to secure a weak joint; he wears an elastic sleeve for strength and speed. Multiply these shared effects by a factor of a hundred and you might begin to imagine the torque a human muscle can generate when enveloped in denticle-encased shark flesh. To describe the feeling . . . it was as if each muscle had its own miniature set of pistons.

  One stride and suddenly I found myself airborne, forced to reach back to grab the gunman on top of Shaina as I hurdled the two of them. I landed on Raul and rolled off him and onto my feet, the startled Cuban’s gun flying from his hand as I used his body like a gymnastics mat.

  The other two men never moved—they knew something was wrong, only they couldn’t see me, so well did my gray-brown skin blend in with the night.