Space Sharks

by Alan Spencer

  Toji erupted into pink mist. Those who would later comb the ocean for remains of the crew would find Toji's hands held together, as if begging for mercy.

  Battle Whale emptied another five hundred rounds of machine gun fire into the ship, targeting the individuals on board, and then channeling the bursts into the engines. Toji's ship was burning bright when the whale made its successful retreat.

  Andreas Askar was the captain of the Nordic ship fifty nautical miles from the first whale attack. He received the report of the attack, and Andreas couldn't believe it. Andreas absorbed the facts, and he still couldn't accept them. One thing was for certain. He was going to pull up the anchor and get the hell back to the mainland.

  The anchor wasn't moving.

  Why wasn't the anchor moving?

  After arguing with his co-pilots, they came to a stark-raving mad conclusion: there was no anchor. So what the hell was keeping them in place, Andreas demanded of his staff. Those words were instantly downgraded to waterlogged-garbled cries of terror. The vessel was pulled underwater, as if someone was tugging on a string connected to the bottom of the ship. Freezing cold water rushed into the cabin. Andreas clutched onto the wheel to brace his body as the ship was jarred by forces coming in at them from all angles.

  The shock of everything was elevated by what was right in front of him. Moving specks of demon red eyes. The high-pitched noises of a wretched song sung in the name of death. Part-whale, part-machine, he was facing off with the monster who had connected the ship's anchor to its own body.

  Andreas stared in increasing fascination of the mega-whale until a series of sensor-guided missiles obliterated his ship, and everything, including his own body, was turned into fodder for the bottom dwellers of the ocean to feed upon.

  Five cargo ships were delivering the slaughtered bodies of Northern Bottlenose whales from the Faroe Islands. Mining the Denmark territory for whale and dolphin meat was easy fat cash. American, John Wright, was the captain of the main vessel. The ocean was a thing of beauty he thought, and a thing of money. John loved the smell of the ocean, and he loved the smell of fresh blood. That meant their time here at sea was successful.

  John walked the open area where whalers were cutting the heads off the whales and spraying them down with water. This was the very beginning of the packaging process. They would later pack them up in ice and deliver them back to the mainland. John's men crafted their blades with precision. He was about to give his men words of encouragement, and that bonuses were in their future if they put out that extra bit of effort.

  Before he got the first word out, something that clanged like a tin can landed between his hips. It had bounced, bounced, bounced, and then stopped between his feet. The can was the size of a diesel truck's gas tank. John was surprised it hadn't punched a hole through his ship. When the giant can turned, he noticed a stamp on the green can.

  Green World.

  Oh God no.

  Where the hell are those bastards?

  John was moments from calling his ships and telling them to watch out for protestors when a giant rushing wall of water obscured the horizon. He couldn't make sense of it until it was over. It was like the ocean was blasting a geyser of water into the air. Steel reflected the sun, as did the whale skin he was used to seeing bleed out on his boat. The gigantic whale flung its steel-covered tail so hard at the ships that, one-by-one, it turned them all into pieces.

  John backed up and tripped over the giant can. Triggered by a flashing sensor light, thick green smoke hissed from the can. Pain soon arrived, and it was only going to increase in intensity up until his final moments of agony.

  The green spread like fog, reaching out to everybody on the ship in under twenty seconds. Reactions were a waste of time. Calling out for help was equally a waste. John had breathed in plenty of the noxious fumes before covering up his mouth. Five seconds later, his throat melted. His lungs fizzled into carbonated blood. John coughed up his tongue and esophagus, and what landed in his hands cut right through them to splatter against the ship.

  Before he could garble out a plea of terror, his intestines leaked out of his ass in a clotted stream, and his steaming brains oozed out of his socket holes. When the local police spotted John's ship drifting aimlessly and boarded the vessel, all they found were human puddles of gore.

  Battle Whale utilized its cloaking device and remained invisible on all naval radar. There was one more task to complete before the mission was complete. Arriving in the Gulf of Mexico, Battle Whale's collection of rocket-guided missiles was armed. Each rocket was charted for a specific course. Rockets blasted from its back, shooting up out of the water, and traveling across the sky to destroy over fifty factories involved in the whaling industry. Once its rockets were used up, Battle Whale lowered down into the ocean, went into hibernation mode, and awaited its next set of orders.

  Battle Whale is available from Amazon here