Big Ass Shark

by Briar Lee Mitchell

  “Take it easy, Myron,” Melissa said to him softly. “Nothing down there for you to worry about.”

  Brent took the covering from off of the engine and grabbed a flashlight to shine into the innards. He poked around for a bit, then, snapped the cover back on.

  Myron, his head still jammed between the ropes that provided a barrier, started barking in earnest and pushed hard against the restraints. Brent handed the flashlight to Melissa. “I think the engine is fine. Here, go see what he’s barking at.”

  Melissa padded back along the deck to where Myron was fussing. She straddled him and leaned over the railing, shining the light down on the water. Myron woofed a few times as he looked up at her, then looked back down at the water and barked again.

  “What do you see Mr. Myron? Hmmmm? Your own reflection, perhaps? Or a cute little dogfish?”

  She held tightly to the railing and leaned a bit further over, scanning the waves with the flashlight.

  “Huh . . . that’s odd,” she said.

  “Anything down there?” Brent asked.

  “I can’t tell for sure. Looks like a sandbar maybe or something kind of . . . white.”

  “White?”

  Brent reached for the ignition and started the engine while Myron barked more frantically. The engine coughed briefly and belched a thick cloud of blue smoke as it turned over. Brent was startled by a large cracking sound, then, fell to his knees as the Molly G lurched sideways.

  He grabbed for the wheel housing to steady himself and was able to look up in time to see Melissa pitch over the rope railing. Her scream trailed her descent down, followed by a splash as she hit the water below.

  The boat listed badly to starboard, and Myron scrambled, trying to stay at the railing where his mistress had plummeted over, but instead he slid all the way across the deck to the far side, futilely running in place as he skidded along.

  Brent stayed down, reaching for handholds near the deck as he made his way to the railing where Melissa fell. The Molly G shuddered badly. This was followed by horrendous sounds of wood shattering.

  “Melissa!” Brent screamed as he neared the railing.

  About a hundred yards away, down closer to the water, a small catamaran had been cruising parallel to the shore, manned by two teens, a boy and a girl, who were out for a moonlight cruise. Their heads snapped around when they heard Melissa’s scream. They weren’t able to see much of what was happening because it was now too dark to make out much detail, but they did hear Melissa splash as she hit the water.

  The running lights from the wounded boat flickered several times, then, went out.

  They heard the Molly G’s wooden hull shattering, and watched in horror as the single mast whipped forward and flipped into the water near them with tremendous force. Whatever was happening to the schooner was stirring the water up something fierce. The two teens got as low as they could on their smaller craft and held on for dear life as the highly buoyant, lighter boat bounced madly about on the waves.

  The boy managed to get the engine of the cat into reverse and fought to back their little craft away from the dying Molly G. The schooner had completely caved in on the port side and was going down fast. They could hear the man yelling, along with more intense shattering sounds. It was startling how rapidly the boat was going under. It appeared to them as if something was actually pulling it below the waves.

  Just before the wreck disappeared, they saw a small red light fall to the water.

  “What was that?” the boy yelled.

  The girl, still stretched out low on the boat and holding tightly to the craft, could just make out Myron’s shape before he pierced the surface of the water. The boy, sensing something was horribly wrong, did not care why the ship went down. He was only aware that something bizarre and dangerous had happened, and kept backing the cat away from the sinking wreck.

  Pieces of the Molly G popped back up to the surface—life preservers, sections of rope, lanterns, and a lit flashlight. Large planks with ragged ends actually fired up and out of the water, slamming around and onto the small cat. The boat was right in the middle of the forming debris field, and the boy fought frantically to back them out of harm’s way.

  “No! What are you doing?” the girl yelled at him. “There’s a little dog out there. I can see it in the water.”

  The girl rose up on her knees and edged closer to the front of the cat.

  “Get back! Don’t go near the water!”

  “But the little dog! We can’t just leave it.”

  She could see that the bulldog had popped up to the surface, assisted by the life vest that he was wearing. Myron spotted her on the cat, and paddled frantically towards her.

  The girl slid into the water and swam towards him. Furious and terrified at the same time, the boy reversed the engine and began edging carefully into the debris field. Other people aboard their boats in the marina also witnessed the horrific death of the Molly G, and one of them fired off a safety flare. The flickering bright light threw the debris into an intense undulating contrast, making depth and distance tough to gauge.

  “Mayday! Mayday!” the boy screamed into his radio.

  The water started swirling again, buffeting the small craft about. It nearly flipped over, but instead it skated up and over much of the debris, and brought him closer to the girl, who had now reached the little dog and clutched him tightly. He killed the engine as he got close to her, making sure that she would not get hit by the rotor.

  She sensed something in the water with them and screamed.

  The boy grabbed her, and, fueled by a surge of adrenaline, managed to pull her and the dog up, one-handed, onto the cat. He didn’t waste any time and fired the engine up, struggling to drive the boat out of the debris field.

  Flashing lights from the marina caught his eye, and he looked to see a Coast Guard cutter steaming its way towards them. He fired off a safety flare and the girl, who had finally stopped screaming when she had come close to fainting from lack of oxygen, looked at the water. Aided by the intense light of the flare, she saw the ivory back of Ghostie and her enormous dorsal fin slide downward, out of sight.

  Myron stared frantically at the water, but did not bark.

  Chapter 12

  Peter and his crew parked illegally in front of Misty’s apartment complex. They gathered their equipment and loped up the steps to her front door.

  He double-checked his notes against the number on the door, then, knocked loudly on it. Jethro readied his camera and Hobart monitored the recording. After a few moments, Peter knocked again.

  No one answered the door.

  “Appears she ain’t home, boss,” Jethro observed as he lowered the camera.

  Peter peered through the peephole, then through a gap in the curtains at one of the windows. He saw her cat, Dave, sitting on the kitchen table staring back at him, but not much else.

  “Dammit!”

  Across the street, Barry pulled over to the curb and pointed out the news crew to Misty.

  “What the hell is this, now?” she lamented.

  “It would appear that you are about to experience your fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “Oh, please. Not tonight! I’m so not up to this. Do you think they will just go away?”

  “Eventually. Could be in two minutes. They might wait it out ’til morning. Can never tell with these guys.”

  “Crap! I’m not going up there, then.”

  “You want me to swing you by a motel or something?”

  “Oh, I wish. My credit cards are kinda maxed out right now.”

  Peter knocked on her door again.

  Misty rubbed her weary eyes with her hand and sighed.

  “I got a spare room at my place. Ten minutes from here. You could almost walk it. You’re welcome to stay there if you like.”

  “Are you sure?” Misty asked hopefully.

  “Yup.”

  Barry wheeled away from her apartment.

  Unaware that Barry and Mi
sty had just passed them on the street, Peter pulled one of his business cards from inside his jacket. He jotted a quick note on the back, then, slid it under her door.

  “The lady ain’t home,” Peter said. “But I got a feeling she’s close by. Let’s just call it a night.”

  With practiced ease, Jethro and Hobart had the equipment back on board the van in seconds flat. The two of them sat up front while Peter parked himself in the armchair in the back, surrounded by all of the monitors the van carried. He turned one on and watched the video, again, of the moment of panic on the beach that morning. He saw the terrified beachgoers running away from the water, then the look of disgust on the faces of the lifeguards, talking about how they had been pranked by Ms. Witlow.

  If only they knew.

  They would soon enough, and Peter was going to make sure he, and he alone, was going to bring proof of the shark’s existence to the world.

  He closed his eyes and envisioned the fame and wealth that was heading his way.

  Chapter 13

  At the Riker Institute, many of the workers had gone home for the day. The massive, glittery building grew quiet and appeared more like a monument to wealth, rather than a place where people worked, as the interior lights went out and the exterior lights came on, painting elaborate streaks of gold, white, and red across the glass and steel architecture.

  Inside, Delbert sat at the desk in his lab. An open bottle of scotch, half full, sat on his desktop. All of the lights were off except for some of the aquariums, their lamps illuminating the exotic and deadly creatures that swam back and forth.

  The room was lit primarily by the projected image of the beach scene that he had grabbed from the flash drive brought to him by Peter and his strange little crew earlier that evening. Through a large window on the western side of the room, Delbert had a clear view of the Institute’s private marina and the largest of the Riker Institute research vessels that was moored snugly to the dock.

  Delbert took another drink of the scotch, letting the ice clink against his teeth. He sucked one of the cubes into his mouth and chewed it to pieces, enjoying the coolness of the ice juxtaposed with the heat of the well-aged scotch that he had drunk way too much of.

  He played around with a few more filters, affecting the image of the beach scene and the large fin slicing through the waves. He hit one more key and another filter clicked on which finally revealed the silhouette of the shark’s back below the surface. Startled, Delbert coughed out the ice and scotch in his mouth, then, he quickly took another hit from his glass and drained the whole thing.

  He stared in amazement at the surreal image of high contrast, inverted colors. He had what he needed now. Quickly he worked on his computer, placing numbers and markers over the newly revealed portions of the shark. He typed in a bit more information, then hit ‘enter’.

  Fifty-five-point-six feet.

  Trembling now, Delbert picked up the phone and dialed in a number. His hands were shaking so badly he was afraid he might drop the phone, so he slipped on a headset and waited while the phone rang. Quickly he poured himself another drink as he heard the line being picked up on the other end.

  “Hello, Arata. It’s me, Delbert. Yeah, it’s getting late here . . . ” he said, slightly slurring his speech. “What? No! Haven’t had a drop in months!”

  Delbert pushed the glass away across his desk.

  “Arata,” he continued, “I think I’ve found what you are looking for.”

  Delbert opened up an email program on his computer.

  “Here, I’m sending you something.”

  On the other end of the call, over five thousand miles away, Arata Enomo sat ramrod straight at his large black and pristine granite desk. His enormous office boasted a four story high ceiling, skylights, sculptures, exquisite framed paintings, and white marble shot through with green and gold veins as far as the eye could see.

  One whole wall of his office housed a massive neon version of his logo—the entwined dragon and shark. The four story high window behind him looked out over a theme park which was a buzz of activity as tourists and employees moved about. On a small hill at the back of the park an enormous aquarium was under construction.

  The theme park was a huge attraction, and people travelled from great distances to this remote area of Japan to view the strange and dangerous creatures Arata had gathered from all over the world. He was always on the lookout for new exhibits, the deadlier and stranger, the better.

  Arata, at sixty-three years of age, was distinguished looking and fit, but with weathered skin that he had developed spending years out on his own ships, hunting and trapping his exhibits. He tapped his fingers on the desktop as he waited for the email to make it through the firewall.

  Finally, the email from Delbert arrived, and Arata opened it up. The large image opened in sections from the top down. As the fin appeared, Arata took interest in what he was seeing. When the silhouette and numbers appeared, with the 55.6 feet blinking, he leapt forward.

  “Delbert,” he called into the phone, and then shouted. “DELBERT!”

  Across the Pacific, Delbert’s head slid back which caused the headset to drop off onto the floor. His eyes fluttered for a moment, then, he was gone, passed out cold from the massive quantities of scotch he had downed. Arata’s voice could be heard screaming for him through the headset, and then there was a loud bang as he slammed the receiver down on his end.

  Arata yanked a drawer open from his desk and pulled a walkie-talkie out. He rose and walked to the four-story-tall window and looked out over the theme park. He keyed the button on the radio.

  “Riggs, can you hear me?”

  After a few moments, a voice came back to him.

  “Riggs here.”

  “How soon can you get back here?”

  “I can be there in ten.”

  “Make it eight. Delbert may have found our guest of honor.”

  Arata shut the radio off and replaced it in the top drawer, then sat at his desk and drummed his fingers on the black granite as he stared at the freakish image that Delbert had just sent to him. The man was a fool and a drunk, but knew his business when it came to sharks, and this was some shark.

  Chapter 14

  Barry and Misty arrived at the marina, where he parked his vehicle in a secluded part of the parking lot, next to a small silver Porsche that was being rebuilt.

  “Whose is that?” Misty asked.

  “Mine. Pet project I got going.”

  “Yeah? Cool. Figured you for the old pickup truck with the gun rack in the back kind of guy. Not a set of silver wheels like that kind.”

  They exited his car and walked together towards the waterfront. Misty let her small cooler swing by her side.

  “Really? A gun rack?”

  “Monogrammed.”

  “Huh, interesting. I’ll have to keep that in mind if I get tired of the Porsche.”

  “I figured all you cops were kind of rednecks at heart.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m not a cop. Park Services. Big ole’ Boy Scout. Remember?”

  As they walked along the pier towards Barry’s home, he fished his cigarettes from his jacket pocket. The small cellophane pouch containing the bit of joint belonging to Misty flipped out and hit the deck. She grabbed it up.

  “Hey, gimme that,” Barry said as he tried to grab for it. Misty easily evaded his grasp.

  “Why? You want to smoke it?”

  She tore the cellophane open and quickly tossed the joint into the water before he could grab it from her. Seeing a trash can nearby, she threw the crumpled cellophane wrapper into it.

  “That was evidence . . . ”

  “Evidence of what? I thought you just said you weren’t a cop.”

  “What are you doing smoking that crap for, anyway? It’s bad for you.”

  Barry slipped a cigarette between his lips, and just as he went to light it, Misty grabbed it, along with the full pack from his hands, smashing the lone cigarette up with the pack be
fore she tossed them into the same trash can.

  “That’s worse,” She said matter-of-factly.

  “You’re kinda bossy, you know that?”

  She walked ahead of him, almost out of earshot.

  “Got a boyfriend?”

  “What?” she called back to him over her shoulder.

  “Nothing. Just saying you should wait up, ’cause we’re almost there.”

  Misty allowed a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth. This big Boy Scout she had hooked up with was actually making her feel at ease and enjoy herself in spite of the odd events which had brought them together.

  Barry ran ahead of her to his house, which sat right on the edge of the pier. The front porch began where the pier ended. The small building was two stories tall and constructed of wood, very creative and clever-looking, with a spiral staircase leading to the second story.

  “Oh, wow! This is your place?” Misty asked, clearly impressed with the little house, and becoming more aware of the interesting layers that this Boy Scout had to his personality.

  “Yup.”

  Barry unlocked the door and flipped a switch, turning on dozens of tiny colored lights in the porch area. Colorful paper birds and wooden wind chimes hung from a trellis that supported several vines covered with exotic, fragrant flowers.

  “So pretty!” Misty exclaimed.

  “Thanks. Make yourself at home. You can sleep right up there.”

  Barry pointed up the staircase to a small loft with a single futon on it.

  She walked past him, through the open door and then up the stairs. Barry looked out over the water and noticed several rescue boats a mile or so down the shore. Helicopters, some equipped with ‘night sun’ searchlights, hovered over the black, oily water. Barry didn’t know it yet, but these were rescuers looking for survivors of the doomed Molly G.

  “Just make yourself at home, Misty. I gotta make a call.”

  Barry pulled his cell phone out of his jacket, walked out the front door, and stood on the pier. He dialed the Coast Guard, where officer Mike Dancy picked up the call.