White Shark (21 page)
Authors: Peter Benchley
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Mystery, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Horror
Finally, nobody had told Bobby that Tony
Madeiras was a sadistic bully, one of those people who inflate themselves by
belittling others.
He was also an
alcoholic, and though he claimed he never drank on the job, ‘the job’ seemed to
be ending earlier and earlier every day.
A month ago, he wouldn't touch a drop till the boat was tied to the
dock; now he was drinking from a flask stowed on the flying bridge as soon as
he started in from the fishing grounds.
Most of the customers didn't know or
didn't care — like today's two, firemen from
in the morning and segued into Bloody Marys at nine.
Bobby cared, though, because he took the
brunt of
could swing from obscene vitriol to lachrymose affection but which tended to
linger more on the former than the latter.
He could quit, of course, but he wouldn't
because he knew what would happen.
He
would tell his side of the story to his father, who would pretend to believe
him but really wouldn't.
His father
would call
code that adults used) that Bobby was a whining spineless, lazy crybaby.
His father would never actually
say
that he believed
but there would be allusions to disappointment and regret that would go on for
at least a year.
Quitting would be too expensive.
Better to stick it out for another six weeks.
Bobby was gutting another fish when the
glass door to the air-conditioned cabin slid open and a voice said, "Hey,
kid, we're outta ice."
"Yes, sir," Bobby said, and he
dipped the bucket overboard again and washed his hands and went inside.
His hand still stank of fish, but these two
would never notice.
*
*
*
*
*
It swam back and forth in the froth just
below the surface, frenzied by a strong, pervasive scent of prey, and confused
at finding nothing of substance.
There
had been a few bits of food, and it had closed on them, only to have them
plucked from its grasp by things from above.
Tantalized, it swam onward, absorbing the
oily, blood-laced water through its fluttering gills.
*
*
*
*
*
Fillet the last couple and put ‘em in
baggies for me,"
"I'll take ‘em home to the missus."
"Yes, sir," Bobby said.
There were three fish left in the box, the
first three of the day, and the biggest — eight-pounders at least, maybe
ten.
He grabbed the biggest by the tail
and slapped it on the deck.
It had been
caught hours ago, and its body had already rigored stiff.
Its glassy eyes stared in blank menace, and
its mouth was frozen open, revealing rows of perfect tiny triangles.
"I'm glad you don't' grow to a
hundred pounds," Bobby said to the fish as he felt for its backbone and
slipped the knife in beside and drew it backward.
He didn't scale this fish or gut it.
Instead, with swift slashes of the knife he
removed all the meat from one side of the fish, cutting along the backbone,
around the tail, up the belly and across the gills.
Then he turned the fish over and repeated the
procedure on the other side.
He shoved
the carcass overboard — head, tail, bones, guts and all.
He watched the gulls swarm on the carcass
as it bobbed in the wake of the boat.
One gull tried to lift it by the head, but it was too heavy, and the
bird couldn't get airborne.
Another
grabbed the tail, and for a moment it seemed that the two birds might cooperate
in carrying the carcass away to a safe feeding place.
But then a third bird struck the carcass, and
it fell away and splashed into the water.
The birds swooped down upon it again.
Before they could reach it there was a sudden
flurry in the water, a flash of something shiny; when the flurry subsided, the
carcass was gone.
*
*
*
*
*
Its long, curved steel claws tore the dead
thing to pieces.
It sucked the viscera
from the body cavity, and the eyes from the head.
Its teeth crushed the bones of the jaw; it
ate the tongue.
It consumed everything,
as it drifted to the bottom.
The large thing from which the food had
come moved away and became a fading pulse on the creature's tympanic membranes.
It wanted more.
Not purely from hunger, for it had fed on
many things recently — had fed until it regurgitated and then fed some more —
but from programmed reflex.
Prey was irresistible;
killing and eating were its only functions.
Though its body was fully fueled, its gastric juices continued to be
stimulated.
It pushed off the bottom, its webbed feet
thrusting up and down synchronously,
its
talons
gleaming.
It flew through the water
toward the pulsing sound.
*
*
*
*
*
Bobby finished filleting the last two
fish, tossed the carcasses overboard and wrapped the fillets.
He dipped the bucket and washed his hands,
and was about to swab the deck, when he heard the engine subside and felt the
boat slow, stop and wallow broadside to the little waves.
"Birds up ahead,"
"Looks like a school of blues kickin' shit out of a bed of
fry.
Ask them two if they want to toss a
couple casts."
"Yes, sir," Bobby said.
He opened the door to the cabin and felt a
rush of icy air.
The men had been
playing gin rummy on the couch.
One had
fallen asleep, and the other was fumbling with the cards.
An empty vodka bottle was upended in the
wastebasket.
Let them say no, Bobby prayed.
He didn't want to rig any more lines, clean
any more fish.
Besides, now that these
anglers were plastered, they'd be bound to make mistakes, and he'd be bound to
be blamed for them.
"Captain wants to know if you'd like
to cast some," Bobby said.
The man looked at Bobby and frowned as if
he didn't recognize him.
"For
what?" he said.
"Bluefish."
The man thought for a moment, then shook
his friend's knee, but his friend didn't waken.
"Fuck it," he said.
"Yes, sir."
Bobby shut the
door and called up to
"They said no thanks."
"They'll be sorry," said
terns.
"Those could be real
monsters."
Bobby sloshed the bucket of water on the
deck, tossed the bucket behind him and scrubbed the blood and scales into the
scuppers.
A few spots of dried blood remained, and
Bobby picked up the bucket, wrapped the rope around his hand and walked aft.
"Hey, asshole,"
"Yes, sir," Bobby replied
tightly.
"That's why I'm getting
more water."
"Soon's you're finished, fetch me my
spinning rod.
I think I'll try a couple
casts from up here."
Go ahead, Bobby thought angrily.
Maybe you're so wasted you'll trip and fall
overboard and the bluefish'll tear you apart.
The exhaust from the idling engine
billowed over the stern, stinging Bobby's eyes and clouding his vision.
The gulls hovered high overhead, away from
the noxious fumes.
There was no wake now, the boat wasn't
moving, so Bobby didn't grip the transom as he flung the bucket.
The bucket hit the water on its bottom and
bobbed upright; Bobby jiggled the rope, trying to tip it over so it would fill.
*
*
*
*
*
It approached a dozen feet below the
surface.
The large thing had stopped
moving.
It hovered; its receptors sought signs of
prey, but found nothing.
It rose a few feet, and through the still
water it could see a refracted image of something moving.
There was a disturbance on the surface, a
little sound and a few ripples; it saw something floating.
Prey.
It thrust itself upward, grasping with its
claws.
Its mouth was agape, its lower
jaw rolled forward and a row of triangular teeth sprang erect, into bite
position.
*
*
*
*
*
The bucket filled, Bobby pulled on the
rope, but even without the drag of motion, the bucket was heavy — two gallons
of water weighed sixteen pounds.
Bobby
pulled the rope hand-over-hand.
Suddenly the rope went taut, as if the
bucket had snagged on something.
Then it
jerked away from him, as if a huge fish had grabbed hold of it.
Bobby lost his balance, turned to grab at
the transom, but he was too far away, his fingers found only air and he tumbled
overboard.
As he hit the water, he
thought, I hope it wasn't a bluefish that grabbed the bucket.
*
*
*
*
*
It spiraled downward, clutching its prey
in its claws, gnawing with its teeth at the soft white flesh.
It sucked and drank and chewed and swallowed.
By the time it reached the bottom, it
could eat no more, so it squatted on the sand and, with claws and
teeth,
tore the prey to pieces.
One tooth caught in a mass of gristle and
broke off.
Another tooth, from the row
behind it, rolled forward and took its place.
*
*
*
*
*
Tony Madeiras hung the binoculars on their
hook, put the boat in gear and pushed the throttle forward.
The engine growled, the bow rose and the
stern settled.
"Where the hell's my rod?" he
shouted without looking down.
There was
no response.
Part Four
Predators
20
When Chase nosed the Whaler into its slip,
just after noon, he saw Mrs. Bixler walking down the path to the dock.
She was carrying an ancient wicker picnic
hamper, and Chase knew what was in it:
a
sandwich, a thermos of iced tea, a spool of fishing line and some bacon rind or
beef fat or stale bread.
Mrs. Bixler
loved to spend her lunch hour hand-lining off the dock for little fish to feed
to the heron.
The heron saw her coming
and took a couple of spindly steps toward the dock.
As soon as he had turned off the motor,
Chase heard barking from the inlet beyond the hill.
"It sounds like Dr. Macy and her sea
lions made it safe and sound," he said to Mrs. Bixler.
"Yep, her and her
whole menagerie."
"Are those the sea lions barking?
"
Max asked excitedly.
"Can I go see them?"
