Megalodon In Paradise

by Hunter Shea

  To make matters worse, he’d been expressly ordered not to frag the fucking thing. That would be too easy and make too much sense.

  The Maximus was to find a way to subdue and contain the asset. For the life of him, Powell couldn’t fathom how exactly they were supposed to do that. His CO was to get back to him shortly with a detailed plan.

  His ass had been rubbed even rawer when he was informed that Grand Isla Tiburon was no longer deserted. Civilians, American civilians, now called the worthless stretch of sand home.

  “Dumb bastards,” he mumbled.

  “Skipper?”

  Gary Leuis, his XO, stared at him as if he were waiting for an order.

  “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

  The new administration didn’t know their assholes from a knothole. They were blinded by their ultra-liberal quest to dismantle the very ideals that had built America. To this president and his cabinet, the military was the enemy. Military spending had been slashed to the extent that Powell worried about his country’s future as a super power.

  They had basically ignored the debriefing that had been given to them, especially when it came to projects that dated back to the 1950s. To them, it was all Cold War nonsense, real Stone Age bullshit.

  Due to the very secret nature of what had been birthed at Grand Isla Tiburon, even presidents were not made fully aware of the details. All were told in no uncertain terms that the island was a no-go zone. Military officials in the know had counted on the specter of possible nuclear contamination being enough to keep prying eyes, even the president’s, away from the island.

  It appears that someone in the administration had sent a team from the EPA down to Grand Isla Tiburon to see if it was indeed as bad as they’d been told. And of course, they’d found it to be perfectly clean.

  Because the real problem was down below.

  And now some dipwad had taken it upon himself to sell the island to some lottery winner who had vowed to improve the lives of the nearby islanders in exchange for a lowball price on the island.

  Very kumbay-fucking-ya.

  It was just the sort of peace and love nonsense those liberal pantywaists lived for.

  Naturally, no one had told Admiral Keyes, the man in charge of keeping watch over this sector, about the reckless and idiotic sale of the island. And because the military had been so weakened over the past three years, it had flown under their radar . . . until now, when it might be too late.

  “You receive a protocol yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “We might want to give it a wider berth until then. Don’t want to get its attention.”

  “Circle the perimeter for now.”

  Leuis was one of only a handful of people aboard Maximus who knew what was down there with them. He had every right to be sweating. There wouldn’t be a need to grit through this if they were able to nuke the damn thing. The civilian casualties would be chalked up to an acceptable loss. Not that the general public would ever be made aware of it. He was told there were possibly ten people on Grand Isla Tiburon, including any laborers from nearby islands.

  Sure, keep the killer shark alive, but eliminate the innocent witnesses.

  It made him sick to his stomach, though the logic was ironclad. Something like this was too big to let slip.

  Oh, but that damn thing had slipped, all right.

  He’d wondered more than once if the Megalodon would have been an asset in the fight against the behemoth ghost sharks off the Miami coast a few years ago. That is, if they’d ever found a way to control the prehistoric shark.

  More than likely, it would have joined the masses of killer fish and turned the tide in their favor.

  “You might want to see this,” Leuis said, handing him his tablet.

  While he read, Powell gripped it so tight, the screen started to crack.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Ollie found a crumbled bit of concrete and threw it at the man on the roof above. He hoped the smuggler was so concerned with loading his gun that he wouldn’t see it coming.

  It didn’t matter. The projectile missed him by a country mile.

  “This is why we didn’t let you pitch when we played Wiffle Ball,” Lenny said.

  The gallows humor was coming in a steady stream. That only stressed the increasing certainty that they were all going to die.

  “Keep moving,” Ollie said. “Keep your heads down and get over there. The angle will be bad for him. He may not be able to see us.”

  Ollie and Tara carried Lenny between them.

  Something sizzled across Ollie’s shoulder. He almost dropped Lenny. Adrenaline kept him moving. They collapsed in a pile, hitting the ledge while bullets peppered the wet roof around them.

  “I think I’m shot,” Ollie said. Even that didn’t stop him from making sure he hadn’t gotten any of the black horridness leaking from parts of Lenny on him. A bullet was a fair tradeoff over getting infected with whatever had caused Lenny and Heidi to rot from the inside out. He felt guilty think that way, but survival instincts didn’t give five farts about guilt.

  The man kept on shooting, but Ollie had been right. They’d managed to find the one spot on the roof that didn’t offer a clean line of sight for the smuggler.

  Tara leaned over Lenny. “Where do you think you were hit?”

  Ollie tilted his shoulder toward her, not anxious to see for himself.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  He cowered as a bullet whooshed just over his head. It hurt to pull his arm out of the sleeve. Tara prodded his shoulder. He looked down and saw the blood.

  “You’re lucky,” Tara said. “I think it just grazed you. Can you move your arm?”

  He moved it just a bit, careful not to give the smuggler something to aim for. Rotating his shoulder hurt like a motherfucker.

  “Good,” she said.

  “Or as good as it gets,” Lenny added. “Any chance this asshole is going to run out of bullets soon?”

  Thunder rumbled.

  For the first time since they’d exited the lab, the rain seemed to be letting up. Ollie no longer felt like he was being pelted with thousands of ping-pong balls.

  “This isn’t a Rambo flick. He can’t have an endless supply,” Ollie said.

  As if the man heard them, the shooting stopped. The thunder sounded as if it were departing, like the ominous footsteps of a retreating giant in a children’s story.

  “We can’t just sit here,” Ollie said.

  “I’m going to disagree with you on that,” Lenny said. His breathing was starting to sound raspy. Not a good sign.

  Ollie grimaced. “I’m tired of running like a chicken with his head cut off.”

  “We’ve kind of had valid reasons to run,” Tara reminded him.

  “Stay right here.”

  Tara snatched his hand when he tried to stand up, dragging him back down. Of course, she had to grab the hand attached to the shoulder that had been shot. Ollie saw a few stars.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

  “I’m going to find out if he’s really out of ammo or not.”

  “How? By offering yourself as a human target?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  Ollie extricated himself and scooted away before she could regain her hold.

  Sure, he’d been Alligator Arms and was shorter than most of the women he met, but there was one thing he’d always been that he wasn’t ashamed of—fast.

  When he played Little League baseball, he couldn’t hit to save his life, but he learned to hang back and let inexperienced pitchers walk him. Once on first, his speed would have him on third base in no time.

  Ollie sprinted to the other side of the roof. He looked back to make sure he got the smuggler’s attention. The man brought his gun hand up, taking aim.

  Making a sudden zig left, the bullet plowed into the roof on his right. Ollie changed direction, the next bullet hammering harmlessly behind him.

  As he do
dged bullets, he started to laugh, recalling the scene in the movie The In-Laws where Peter Faulk and Alan Arkin ran ‘serpentine’ to avoid being shot.

  It’s finally happened, he thought. My life has become a movie!

  Running haphazardly around the roof, it took a while before he realized the shooting had stopped.

  Ollie looked at the man on the neighboring rooftop.

  With the dying rain, the skies had lightened considerably.

  The man stared down at him with murder in his eyes. He had a scraggly, black beard and his shirt was torn, exposing a flat, wiry chest. Ollie thought he saw blood on the man’s neck.

  Fuck you, Ollie seethed. Fuck you and your dead friends.

  He’d gotten into more than his share of tussles over the years, but he’d never wanted to kill someone before.

  Until now.

  There was nothing he could do about that Megalodon or Lotano, the other half responsible for his burning hate.

  But he could satisfy his need for retribution with the smuggler.

  He scanned the distance between them. There was a two-foot gap between the buildings. He saw a connector, but he’d have to climb down to get to it. And that would take time.

  There were, however, irregularities in the crumbling building that would make for perfect hand and footholds. Especially if one had small hands and feet.

  “Ollie, what are you thinking?” Tara said.

  He didn’t realize Tara and Lenny had been staring at him.

  “I’m thinking it’s time to tie up one loose end.”

  The pole he’d used to hook into the palm tree was just a few feet away. But he wouldn’t be able to hold it and scale the building.

  Screw it.

  He didn’t want an implement between him and the bastard. He wanted to tear him apart with his bare hands.

  Ollie ran, leaping over the edge of the roof, ignoring Tara’s shouts for him to stop. He landed hard on the side of the building, frantically scrabbling for a crack to slip his fingers within.

  Sliding down several feet, his foot caught on an exposed section of the building, stopping his descent. A jolt of pain went from his ankle to his jaw.

  He struggled to catch his breath. For a second, he thought he was going to fall into the water. And that would not be good.

  Just climb!

  Channeling his inner Spiderman, he clambered up the side of the central lab. It was actually easier than he thought. Not that he was thinking much. He was on pure animal instinct mode now.

  He couldn’t make out what Tara was saying and didn’t want to. She’d been through and seen enough. She didn’t need to witness what he planned to do.

  Just a few feet from the top, he looked up, expecting to see the smuggler waiting to stomp on him.

  All he saw was gray clouds.

  Ollie’s shoulder crackled with pain as he pulled himself closer. Fresh blood seeped from the wound when he reached up, a few drops spattering his face.

  When his hand curled around the lip of the roof, he cried out, pulling himself up and over, expecting to be attacked.

  He landed with a splash on his side.

  The swarthy smuggler stood ten feet from him. He flicked a butterfly knife opened and closed with his left hand. Ollie sneered, slowly getting to his feet.

  “You think you’re in Tomb Raider or something?” he said to the man. “Lara Croft made butterfly knives look cool, but you’re gonna need something bigger than that.”

  He noticed a jagged cut on the man’s neck. He wondered if shrapnel from the exploding tank had nicked him, the way the door had sliced Marco in half. Judging by the amount of blood leaking from the wound, it had to have weakened him.

  And all he’s got left is a knife that looks menacing in a movie but is only good for carving initials in park benches. All those visits to the knife show in St. Paul had finally paid off. Ollie wasn’t intimidated.

  Ollie’s fury was so vast at the moment, the man could be holding Conan’s sword and he wouldn’t back down.

  “You speak any English?” Ollie said. It was hard for him to tell the man’s nationality. He may have been South American. He was definitely one-hundred percent scumbag.

  The smuggler spat, a glob of crimson phlegm splattering on Ollie’s foot.

  “So much for any witty exchange,” Ollie said, balling his hands into fists and charging.

  The man squared his body, the knife’s blade pointed straight out to stick Ollie somewhere soft and meaty.

  At the last second, Ollie hit the deck, wrapping his arms around the man’s ankles and twisting him onto the ground. The smuggler gave a painful shout when his wounded neck made contact with the soaked yet unyielding surface.

  Ollie scurried from beside the man and leapt onto his torso. The knife flashed upward, catching Ollie’s chest. He felt the butterfly knife slice through his left nipple.

  For the moment, he didn’t feel any pain.

  He punched the man in the face, catching him on the bridge of his nose. The cartilage of his nose gave way with a satisfying crack. Ollie brought his other fist down on the same spot.

  The smuggler squirmed under him, but Ollie pressed his thighs together, keeping him pinned. He rained blows on the man’s face, blood splattering up his arms. He counted each blow, his OCD telling him he couldn’t stop until he’d reached the nice round number of twenty.

  Ollie was beyond speech or coherent thought.

  There was only the orgasmic sensation of his knuckles crunching against the man’s skull.

  And the steady count—four, five, six, seven—his inner mantra that blocked out everything but the need to fulfill the goal he’d set in his mind.

  The building rumbled hard, throwing Ollie off-balance. He slipped sideways, rolling off the smuggler. Spiraling away from the man, a sudden burst of pain flared from Ollie’s thigh.

  He stopped his roll and looked down.

  The butterfly knife was buried up to the hilt in the meat of his thigh. He hadn’t even felt it go in.

  The smuggler, his face a ruined mess, had somehow gotten back on his feet. He wiped a gob of blood and snot away with the back of his hand. He raised his fists, waiting for Ollie to do the same.

  Ollie had to give him credit. The man could take a beating. And now they were even in the seeping wound department. He left the blade in his thigh, recalling numerous movies and TV shows where medics talked about people bleeding out when extracting knives and other projectiles.

  It hurt to put pressure on his leg.

  He went rigid when he saw another man pull himself through a trap door in the roof. This one had a huge scar on his face. The second smuggler staggered onto the roof, his legs as unsteady as a landlubber on the deck of a dinghy in a storm. Rivulets of blood ran down his face. He must have taken a good whack on the head.

  Ollie brought his arms up.

  “I don’t think your friend is going to be much help,” he said.

  The scar-faced smuggler growled, “The shark ate your ugly bitch. She died like a piece of bait.”

  He then said something to the man Ollie had been fighting in a language he couldn’t pin down.

  The smuggler looked at him and laughed, his gaze lingering on Ollie’s arms.

  Ollie saw red.

  And then the building exploded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The creature smelled the ripe scent of more food . . . special food.

  Only it wasn’t in the water.

  The shark swam beneath the place that had been its home, its prison, senses heightened by the nearby presence of sustenance. Not being able to find it was driving it insane with desire.

  If not below, then it had to be above.

  And above meant through that hole in the ocean, the one that led to the other world where it had seen many small beings peering down at it.

  Using every ounce of lust-fueled strength in its muscled body, the creature rocketed toward the hole.

  It would find its food, even
if it had to die trying.

  ***

  Tara called Ollie’s name over and over again but he wouldn’t stop climbing. Once he slipped onto the roof above, it was as if he’d simply disappeared.

  “What the hell is he trying to prove?”

  Lenny shifted his back against the edge of the roof. Each exhalation sounded like it was being blown through a bowl of water.

  “You didn’t call him Raging Bull for nothing,” he said. “He’s beaten guys up just for making wise-ass remarks about his size.” He swept his hands around them. “Someone has to pay for this, and it’s going to be that asshole.”

  “That asshole has a gun.”

  “I think Ollie did a good job making sure he wasted his ammo. At least I hope he did.”

  They sat listening for the sound of gunfire. Drifting thunder made it hard to hear anything, though she was sure she’d be able to hear a gun go off, no matter how loud the departing storm got.

  She looked over the roof and deflated.

  Even though the worst of the rain had come and gone, the water was still rising. It wouldn’t be long before she’d somehow have to get Lenny up onto the other roof. Either that or wade in the water and hope the Megaladon had finally left for good.

  Lenny nudged her with his leg. She could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

  “He’ll be all right,” he said.

  “How can you know that?”

  “Because there has to be a balance. You can’t have all this shit go sideways without a little something going your way.”

  And what’s going to go your way? Tara thought. The whites of Lenny’s eyes were shot through with thick, red lines. Even worse, some of them appeared to be turning black.

  She couldn’t even begin to imagine what he was feeling inside. Heidi had said she was melting. What sick bastard could dream up a poison like that?

  The same one who thought bringing a Megalodon back from extinction would advance both science and military might.

  For all she knew, there was more than one of those men up there waiting for Ollie. He’d been through the ringer. They all had. How much could he have left in the tank to fight them off?