Sharkman (15 page)

I had been paralyzed a virgin and a virgin I remained. Standing before me was a goddess who was offering to guide my journey from innocent adolescence into manhood . . . and boy was I ready!

I was down to my bathing suit in two seconds flat, my heart pounding in sync with hers, my hands gliding across her milky soft flesh, her scent of beer and perfume intoxicating. When she slid her hands between my legs it was as if I was jolted with electricity. She took an incredible five second inventory of my groin that rolled my eyes in ecstasy and rocketed way past Anya’s kiss as the highlight of my seventeen year existence . . . then she broke away and walked toward the ocean, teasing me to follow.

I ran in after her.

The sea was calm, the temperature more refreshing than cool. Tracy waited for me in chest-deep water and we embraced again, our hands exploring one another beneath the incoming four-foot swells.

Our mouths locked in lust, our legs followed, our groins grinding beneath our bathing suits, my fingers exploring her breasts as she slipped her hand inside my swim trunks.

“Oh my God, Kwan! Oh my God, I’ve never felt anything like this before.”

I smiled proudly.

Kwan Wilson—porn star.

She groped me again, intent on doing it right there in the water—and then her expression changed. “Oh . . . God.”

My heart stopped. “What’s wrong?”

She backed away. “What’s wrong? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“Notice what?”

“Stay away from me, you . . . you freak!” She turned and stumbled to shore, while my hands frantically touched my privates—the blood rushing from my face as I felt something protruding from between my legs that wasn’t what I expected—

—
and there were two of them!

24

M
ale sharks don’t have penises. What they have are claspers—grooved sexual organs located between their pelvic fins that resemble the long legs of a ballerina pressed together while she’s standing on her tippy toes. When the act of mating occurs, the male shark positions itself belly-to-belly atop the female, securing its distressed mate in place by biting her pectoral fin. One clasper then pirouettes away from its twin and inserts itself into the lucky female’s oviduct. The clasper is held in place by gruesome barbed spurs located near the tip of the organ—which may account for the female’s reluctance to mate.

Kneeling in the wet sand, I stared at the freakish twelve-inch paired organ now hanging between my legs, fighting the urge to pass out. The clasper felt like my penis, it moved like my penis—it just wasn’t
my
penis.

Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic. If saltwater caused the mutation, then get the saltwater out!

Hearing voices, I turned. Advancing toward me a hundred yards down the beach was a horde of students, led by Tracy. They were carrying flashlights and tiki torches, and for all I knew pitchforks.

Fear caused my bladder to tingle. Standing up, I peed like a racehorse—make that a seahorse, since the urine was seawater. Miraculously, the more I peed, the smaller the claspers became, until gradually the divided organ shriveled back into my human penis.

“Oh, God, thank you!”

“Kwan, you all right?”

It was Rusty, the crowd gathering behind him.

“Yeah, man. Just drank a little too much.”

A dozen flashlights caught my penis as I tucked it back into my boxer shorts like a redeemed gunslinger.

All heads turned to Tracy.

“You think I’m lying? There were two of them!”

I laughed. “That’s the last time I wear a ribbed condom in the ocean. Sucker filled with water . . . geez.”

I breathed a sigh of relief as people teased Tracy. Jesse handed me my clothes, then left with the dispersing mob—leaving me alone with Li-ling.

“So . . . how’s it hanging, champ?”

“Funny. Very funny.”

“Was it a clasper?” Anya stepped out of the shadows, her tone more analytical than endearing.

“It’s fine.”

“If you don’t tell us what happened, we can’t help you.”

I stared into her eyes—radiant pools in the moonlight. “It mutated while I was in the water with Tracy. It was my first time . . . I guess I got overstimulated. It reverted when I, uh, peed.”

The ladies turned to one another, arguing. “Seawater enters the syphon sac—it’s what propels the shark’s sperm.”

“How’d it get inside his bladder?”

“Who said it did?”

“Hello? I’m standing right here.”

Li-ling took charge. “Anya, walk Kwan back to the party—act like you guys just made up. I’m going to get my car; I’ll meet you in the Marriott parking lot. I’ll call ahead to Dr. Becker—let her know we’re on the way.”

“We’re going to the lab? Now?”

“You’re right,” said Anya, sarcastically. “Let’s wait to see what else pops out of you. Maybe next time you’ll give your little cheerleader bimbo a ride on your dorsal fin . . . idiot.”

I could have argued, but I was still in shock. Instead, I dropped to my hands and knees in the wet sand and puked.

The three of us arrived at the lab around one in the morning. I had texted my grandmother’s cell phone during the drive, letting her know I’d be sleeping at a friend’s house. The girls did the same with their parents.

Dr. Becker let us in through the front entrance of the lab. She greeted me by shoving a light in my eyes as she examined my pupil. “Bring him downstairs to BSL-4. I want a full blood workup, hair and urine samples . . . what happened to your hair?”

“I shaved it off.”

“He was losing it,” Anya snitched.

“Fine. Get an EKG and tissue samples, too. And start a pot of coffee in the break room. It’s going to be long night.”

“Did you say anything to my father?”

“Hell, no. But you’re all over the news, and the Admiral’s no fool. I’m sure he’ll be in touch.”

Space and Naval Warfare Systems Command, San Diego, California

Before he had been promoted to assistant deputy general counsel of the US Navy, Jim Miller had spent thirteen years in the major leagues as a relief pitcher. Miller’s last appearance had been a memorable one, pitching the ninth inning for the New York Yankees in game seven of the World Series.

Baseball closers and lawyers are like predators—cold-blooded and full of bite. Miller had visualized himself in this manner whenever he took the mound, growling beneath his breath before each pitch like a wolf hunting Bambi. Now, as he approached Admiral Douglas Wilson’s office door, he clenched his jaw to steel himself once more for battle, lest the predator become the prey.

He reached out to knock. Changed his mind and entered, unannounced.

My father looked up from his laptop, his right index finger casually shutting down the com-link he had been using to contact the
Malchut
. “Jim? What brings you by on a Friday night?”

“We need to talk about your son. Helluva thing.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you know he had been interning at ANGEL?”

“Becker told me weeks ago while I was in DC. She let him go that morning.”

“Obviously not soon enough. Did you know he’s interviewing with Oprah on Tuesday? Her producer called to arrange an interview with you.”

“Christ. What’d you tell them?”

“I told them you were involved in other pressing matters and could they wait a few weeks. I figure they’ll give us one pass before they air this thing, and you know Kwan’s internship will come up.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know, but you’re flying way above the radar on this thing. How’s your relationship with Kwan? Think you can muzzle him until a new news cycle knocks him off prime time?”

“Kwan never listened to me while we were living under the same roof; I seriously doubt he’d even take my call.”

“Then that only leaves us with one option.” Miller turned his attention to a series of framed photographs hanging from a wall. He took his time admiring a few, then straightened a picture of my father standing on the deck of a US destroyer. “We need to shut down ANGEL. Consider it a temporary solution to prevent some nosey investigative journalist from—”

“No! I mean, no—we can’t do that. Becker’s getting close to a breakthrough; I don’t want her to lose any momentum. As for the investigative journalism—that threat died out with the Internet. Besides, you of all people should know there are legal ramifications in play; technically ANGEL’s listed as an independent contractor, not a military lab. Even if you closed the doors they have animals on the site, requiring—”

“Fine. ANGEL stays open for now. But you need to monitor the situation; make sure there’s no trail of breadcrumbs. I don’t want any blowback on this thing . . . or anything else you may or may not be working on. You reading me, Admiral?”

My father gritted his teeth. “Loud and clear, Mr. Miller.”

ANGEL Lab, Miami, Florida

In retrospect, they probably shouldn’t have shown me anything. Not the blood test results. Not the video images of my white cells, magnified a thousand times. And they could have kept me away from Joe Botchin, who was checking the medical tank for leaks while the observation aquarium was being drained for cleaning. “Doc says we’re expecting a new species coming in on Monday. Must be something exotic for me to be collecting time and a half. When she called, I was in the middle of a technicolor yawn. Shoulda never gotten rotten on that cheap Milwaukee beer. Then again, it coulda been the oysters and cream.”

Or maybe all those things wouldn’t have added up to a hill of beans had I not seen the rats.

Racks of cages, all encoded with numbers that began with BS-MGH.

Bull Shark—Mouse Growth Hormone. These were my peeps—the little rodents that had given me the courage to inject myself . . . to venture alone down a road less traveled.

They were dead. Every last one of them.

And from the look of their mutated carcasses, they had died painfully.

Rachel Solomon had told me to use my mind to control the fear . . . mind over matter. My mind was in free fall, manifesting negative energy so palpable that I could taste its acidic breath in my throat.

Oh, no . . .

Exiting the lab, I sprinted down the empty corridor and entered the closest bathroom I could find. Standing before a mirror, I turned my head from side to side, my body shaking uncontrollably.

Appearing along either side of my neck were five gill slits. They were sealed shut, but they were there—six-inch long, vein-thin purple-colored folds of death.

I opened my mouth—and it got worse. A membrane, covered in a gook-like saliva was lodged in my throat—cutting off my airway.

And suddenly I couldn’t breathe!

Fleeing the bathroom, I ran down the corridor for help . . . unable to speak, unable to gasp. I felt my lungs collapsing. I felt like I was drowning in air . . . literally like a fish out of water!

My muscles were lead by the time I found my way into the observation area. The room was spinning as I dragged myself up the circular stairwell to the catwalk bordering the open top of the five-thousand-gallon shark aquarium—an aquarium Joe had not yet begun to refill.

Staggering forward, I blacked out . . . flopping face-first into the medical tank.

25

A
speck of consciousness, I drifted beneath a surface awash in moonlight and became one with the sea. It flowed through my mouth and I could breathe. It filled my nostrils and I tasted its soul. Down my throat and out my neck and the burn of my near asphyxiation became a distant memory.

Open wide and breathe.

Open wide and breathe.

So soothing. So simple. The sea cooed in my brain and reverberated in my bones, and Kwan Wilson disappeared.

Ahhhhhh . . .

And then the moonlight became lights and the oasis of calm was shattered with an avalanche of sound as I was violently dragged from my womb back into the world of chaos.

“His gills appear to be functioning.”

“Mr. Roig, use the dental wedge to pry open his mouth. Anya, shine your light down his throat. Li-ling, get a shot of the esophageal membrane.”

“Hurry up, he’s getting cranky!”

“Got it.”

“Li-ling, put the hose in his mouth so he can breathe.”

“He’s fighting it.”

“Mr. Wilson, I need you to remain calm. Mr. Wilson—”

“I can’t hold him up much longer, Doc!”

“Anya, you try.”

“Kwan, it’s Anya. Look at me, Kwan. Let the hose drain down your throat so you can breathe. Breathe, Kwan. Breathe and stay calm; we’re going to help you.”

Blue eyes . . . so familiar. Pulling me out of the void and into her azure sea.

“Good, that’s good. Now listen carefully, but stay calm. You can’t speak because there’s a membrane sealing off your esophagus. Your lungs are intact, but they’ve collapsed. To inflate them, you need to collapse the membrane located deep inside your throat. I want you to focus on that membrane—you can feel it below your Adam’s apple. When you’re ready, we’re going to remove the hose. I’m going to count to three to allow your gills to flush your throat; then you’re going to collapse that membrane by inhaling a deep, lung-inflating breath. Nod if you can understand.”

I must have nodded, because she smiled.

“Good, Kwan, very good. Are you ready to breathe air again? Okay, I’m removing the hose . . . nice and easy, and we count one . . . two . . . three and breathe! Big deep breath!”

I opened my mouth and sucked in a massive gulp of air which lodged in my throat and sent me into a state of panic.

Anya grabbed my face in both her hands and her eyes held mine. “Kwan, the membrane acts like a muscle. Take another short breath and swallow it open.”

There was a part of me ready to fight the two men anchoring my arms in theirs—to submerge back into that container of sea, but I knew Anya couldn’t follow. And so I gulped another bite of air and imagined my throat yawning open—and the air passed through my esophagus into my chest.

And now I was suffocating.

“Breathe again! Deep breaths! You need to inflate your lungs enough to be able to engage your intercostal muscles and diaphragm.”

My mouth became a bellows, inflating my chest with short bursts of air until I could inhale and exhale. . . inhale and exhale.

The blue eyes teared up. “Good, Kwan. Very good. Can you speak?”

I cleared my throat and collected a load of phlegm, which I turned and spit into Joe Botchin’s face. “Let . . . me . . . go, asshole.”

The vice grips on my arms eased.

We were standing in the medical pool, waist-deep in water. Anya put her arm around me and we climbed out onto the catwalk.

Dr. Becker sat me down, then peered into each of my eyes using a retinoscope. “Get him downstairs to BSL-2, I need to check his corneas. Joe, I want the main tank cleaned and filled in an hour or I’ll feed you and Mr. Roig to Taurus.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The dead rats I had seen in Lab 4 were the first test subjects that had been administered mouse growth hormone as part of stem cell protocol. The MGH injections had established a temporary equilibrium between the shark mutations and the rodent’s DNA, but the patients had still died when their respiratory systems had evolved gills, collapsing their lungs in the process.

Dr. Becker explained that, like human lungs, gills consist of a dense network of thin-walled blood vessels that are conducive for gas exchange. As water flows through the gills, oxygen is extracted from the water molecule and enters the bloodstream while carbon dioxide is expelled from the bloodstream back into the water.

Becker told me that evolution had endowed mammals with an epiglottis—a flap that seals the trachea in order to prevent food and liquids from entering our lungs when we eat. In the same way the shark mutation had generated an esophageal membrane to prevent seawater from entering the rat’s esophagus and drowning the host. Composed of an elastic cartilage, the membrane moved into place when the gills were engaged.

Dr. Becker explained to me that the rats in Lab 4 had suffocated because they weren’t in water when their metamorphosis had occurred. Once she realized this, she had the next group of rodents placed in five-foot-long glass tanks that offered a dry island habitat surrounded by water.

Of course, it would have been nice if she had mentioned her findings to me
before
I had nearly suffocated.

I followed Dr. Becker and Anya inside Lab 3, my expression no doubt incredulous as I gazed at racks of these multihabitat aquariums. Hairless rats were swimming underwater like rodent-fish, breathing through their gills and paddling with webbed paws. Occasionally a rat would climb out of the water to eat, at which time it would regurgitate a mouthful of mucus—an act that reopened its esophagus and inflated its lungs.

“This is sick. Look at that one—it’s swimming like an otter.”

“Yes, Mr. Wilson. They adapt quickly.”

Anya seemed distracted, but I didn’t care. I needed to know what my own limitations were. “Dr. Becker, are these saltwater or freshwater tanks?”

“Both. Bull sharks can live in freshwater and saltwater, so can rat-fish . . . shark-rats—whatever we eventually call them.”

“What do you call me?”

Anya turned to me, squeezing my hand. “There are things you need to know . . . things I need to tell you.”

“Tell him later,” said Dr. Becker. “Right now I need to look at his eyes before they revert. Put him on the keratometer.”

Anya led me to a small desk situated between two stools. Mounted to the tabletop was an instrument that resembled a large microscope, except its lens was pointed at eye level. Anya had me sit down and place my chin onto a guide cup while Dr. Becker adjusted the machine to my face, peering through her end of the scope into my right eye.

“What I’m doing, Mr. Wilson, is checking your cornea. Shark and human corneas are surprisingly compatible, which is why we use them in cornea transplants. The difference is the presence of a membrane that protects the shark’s cornea . . . which I can’t see in your eye.”

“Is that good?”

“It’s inconclusive. If you had it during your metamorphic episode and you already reverted, it means your ability to use your amphibious features is hyperkinetic. If your cornea failed to generate the membrane, it may mean you’re hypokinetic—slow to adapt. The only way we’ll know for sure is to let you spend some time in the observation tank.”

“No!” The suddenness of Anya’s objection ruffled my already shot nerves. “Kwan needs to know everything before you use him as your guinea pig . . . fish.”

“What’s she talking about, Doc?”

“What Anya is saying is that, among rats, the mutation isn’t limited to their respiratory system. The longer the test subject remains in the water, the greater their metamorphosis. Turns out our injected rodents seem to prefer their new environment.”

“Good for them. As long as my lungs inflate when I need them to I don’t mind being able to breathe underwater using my neck.”

Anya turned to Dr. Becker, her turquoise eyes insistent.

The scientist sighed. “Show him.”

They were in BSL-2, which was on night habitat. Anya handed me a pair of night vision goggles, then led me to the rows of tanks.

The rats in these aquariums had been the first test subjects exposed to water—their mutations, therefore, the most advanced. In place of their hairless skin was a thick, grayish-brown shark hide. Their arms and legs were still in place, but the limbs were weak and atrophied. Compensation came from the rodents’ tails, which had thickened and were being used to propel the creatures through the water like a crocodile. On some of the rats, a calcium deposit had formed midspine—perhaps a precursor for some kind of dorsal fin.

There were other more subtle anatomical changes, but overall nothing startling . . . yet.

Anya reached into a large terrarium filled with white mice and extracted one of the squirming little guys by its tail. “The rats used to eat a specially formulated diet of rodent chow. The shark-rats prefer their meals with a pulse.”

Selecting an aquarium, she unceremoniously tossed the mouse in the water.

The mouse doggy-paddled its way toward the floating plastic island located at the far end of the tank.

The shark-rat immediately homed in on its prey, circling below its churning legs. Just as it was about to strike, Anya scooped the little guy up in a goldfish net and deposited him on the island.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Keep watching,” Anya said. “The mutations have developed shark-like senses that allow them to feel vibrations in the water. The rat can hear the mouse’s heart beating through the plastic island.”

As I watched in horror, the shark-rat circled twice, then propelled itself out of the water onto the island and grabbed the mouse along the scruff of the neck in one sickening, blood-squirting bite.

It did not feed on dry land. Instead, the mutant slid backward into the water, dragging its twitching meal underwater where it shook it until it mercifully drowned.

“A little depraved, but impressive.”

Anya turned on me like I had been the one who fed the creature its meal. “Don’t you get it? The mutated species’ physiology is determined by its environment, but the rats clearly prefer the water—directly defying their instincts as land mammals. This new behavioral pattern indicates the shark DNA is far more dominant. Behavioral patterns are also directly linked to one’s personality. These once docile, warm-blooded lab rats have become cold-blooded predators—and the same thing may happen to you.”