Fury Of The Orcas

by Hunter Shea

  Jamel had been right. The military had taken out Russia’s version of HAARP. Had they counted on other similar installations in Russia and their allies to counter attack? Who was to say that they could control the monstrous storms once they had been created? What they were witnessing looked far more terrifying and destructive than any nuclear blast. Mother Nature was an amoral, ruthless bitch, and they had just set her loose.

  Chet watched a lingering orca, swimming amongst the remains of its fallen brethren, oblivious to the cataclysm occurring around them. It may have been looking for its mate or child. A vital part of it had been lost. He wondered how long orcas carried their grief. He hoped it wasn’t forever.

  They had somehow managed to save the orcas.

  But at what cost?

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  THANK YOU!

  This one is for my very special Hellions! So big props to the trio of Audra Stinson/Michael Fowler/Kimberly Yerina for being kick ass beta readers, Tim Feely (best horror fan any author can ask for), John Kilagon, Joachim Oliveira, Steven Gibson (I can always count on you, brother!), Steve Barnard (sorry, no zombie hookers in this one), Seth Crisp, Angela Lemieux (Ano!!!), William Drown, Pam Parish (high priestess of all things spooky), Jon Gauthier, Daniel Jervelius, Sean Stiff, Michael Patrick Hicks (that rare blend of awesome writer and reviewer), Chuck Buda (cuddle bear), Nick Zinn, Steve Tyndall, Frank Errington, Brian James Freeman and Tim Meyer (the man with horrible taste in horror movies).

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  About the Author

  Hunter Shea is the product of a misspent childhood watching scary movies, reading forbidden books and wishing Bigfoot would walk past his house. He doesn’t just write about the paranormal – he actively seeks out the things that scare the hell out of people and experiences them for himself. Hunter’s novels The Montauk Monster and The Dover Demon can even be found on display at the International Cryptozoology Museum. His video podcast, Monster Men, is one of the most watched horror podcasts in the world. He’s a bestselling author of over 16 books, all of them written with the express desire to quicken heartbeats and make spines tingle. Living with his crazy and supportive family and two cats, he’s happy to be close enough to New York City to see the skyline without having to pay New York rent. You can follow his travails at www.huntershea.com.

  Look for these Severed Press titles from Hunter Shea

  They Rise

  Loch Ness Revenge

  Savage Jungle : Lair of the Orang Pendek

  Swamp Monster Massacre

  Megalodon in Paradise

  Coming in 2018:

  The Dover Demon

  Deep Crab Marina and Sports Bar

  Seaside, Washington

  Cheap lamps flickered at either end of a dim drinking establishment. A few patrons slumped against the bar, all of them wearing flannels and ball caps. A lone television flickered above the far end of the bar, reflected in the array of whiskey bottles and glasses. A patron named Paul Woody looked up at the TV and grimaced.

  “You see that?” Paul asked the man sitting next to him.

  “See what?” the man next to him said.

  “Eh, another dumb shark movie,” Paul said.

  On the TV, a series of boats floated around an oil rig as divers submerged despite the danger of a freakish shark.

  “Your point?” the other man asked.

  Paul gestured lazily at the TV. “Why don’t they just steer the damn boats away from the shark?” Paul asked.

  The other man shrugged. “I suppose. The motor might have puttered out on ‘em, though.”

  “Yeah, it’s been done a million times. Motors don’t just go like that, and there are backup systems. It’s not an either-or situation,” Paul said. “Why do all these dumbasses stick around when these monster sharks are out and about? Just motor the damn boat away,” Paul said. “I don’t care if yer’ doing research, or have to fix a damn oil rig, or whatever the reason may be. Just motor away.”

  The other man laughed. “I suppose.”

  Paul gulped his shot of tequila. “I mean, problem solved, right? Leave the area and you’ll never see the fucking shark again.”

  The other man nodded. “Nothin’s really keeping them there. They can just motor away.”

  “Exactly,” Paul said. “Just fucking leave, eh? I mean yeah, a giant shark would make you curious, but then you’d get the hell out of there. It just doesn’t make any sense. Something would have to keep you with the shark, almost force you to be there. The ocean is just too damn big.”

  The other man took a swig of his beer. “Well, for the first time, Paul, you make sense,” he said. “Congratulations.”

  Paul raised his hand as if he was going to backslap the other man, and laughed. Then Paul looked back up at the TV and waved his hand. “Just motor away,” he muttered. “Ain’t nothing keeping you there.”

  The First

  “Great,” the stranded fisherman said. He clung to the last evidence of his boat, a jagged piece of hull keeping him from the floor of the Pacific. Thirty-foot swells surrounded him, nuzzling him in their watery bosom. The Pacific was cold, too cold, but luckily, he had worn his emergency gear, a waterproof thermal shell similar to a snowmobile suit.

  Lightning had struck the mast of his ship The Morgan, frying the alternator and all onboard electronics. That was when the fire started, igniting the fuel tanks. He’d been sent flying into the mess of rain and swells, lucky to keep consciousness.

  Or maybe not.

  As lightning spidered the horizon, the brief light illuminated a shape in the water, one he’d definitely seen before while fishing for halibut near the Falcon Islands. The Falcons were a tiny island chain fifty miles off Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, and well known for an overpopulation of sea lions and their ultimate predator, the great white shark. And wasn’t it his luck to blow up his boat in shark-infested waters.

  Great.

  Lightning dissipated in the sky.

  The shark disappeared.

  For the first time in his life, Eric Harper began to hyperventilate. He immediately performed an ab crunch, bringing his knees as close as he could to his chest. He wanted to ball up, make himself disappear, but he needed to grasp what remained of the hull, too. He shut his eyes tight as water dripped down his brow. He blew away the moisture in spastic breaths.

  “Mother,” he said weakly.

  Huh, he thought. Another first.

  When he opened his eyes and blinked away the rain, a shark fin sliced the electric water, then disappeared.

  A swell gently carried him higher, until he could see Mount Kraken rising above the Falcon Islands. For a brief moment, the mountain tip resembled a shark fin, then disappeared in the gloom.

  The swell brought him back down into the maw, and he clung to the hull piece, knees drawn up as far into his body as he could. Of course, this made him weaker, as did the storm. He had a feeling that was going to be the theme of tonight. Weak, weak, going, getting…weaker.

  Or maybe not.

  Below him, a nudge, then nothing at all.

  “Just a fish,” he thought. “A goofy halibut up at the surface.” Eric Harper looked up at the sky and laughed. “Bring it on,” he said between spits of water. “Bring it the fuck on.”

  Below him, a swell of water pushed against his legs. The jagged hull piece bobbed higher in the water along with it. Lightning divided the horizon, illuminating the water beneath him.

  He so wished it hadn’t.

  The great white surged vertically below, it’s mouth wide open, the scarred gums connected to rows and rows of prehistoric looking teeth.

  Eric let go of his pathetic life raft and reached for his ankles, pulling them tight to his ass so only his knees pointed down. But the great white was
too fast and caught him right at his knees, popping them like firecrackers wrapped in paper towels.

  He screamed.

  The jaws opened wider, and Eric was sucked further into the shark’s mouth. Now only his torso and arms were clear. He pummeled its eyes with his fists, but soon gave up as his spine began to crack, forcing complete non-function of his motor skills.

  As the shark prepared to dive, a shadow loomed beneath it, a shadow that dwarfed its own. A much larger set of jaws opened, taking in the great white entirely, and Eric along with it.

  Then there was nothing but the storm.

  Ron Combs (The Second Victim?)

  Ron Combs didn’t care. At least that’s what all his ex-girlfriends said. But the truth was he cared too much, he just never let it show. Megan had walked out of his life last night, citing the same thing all the others had: emotionally distant and “not enough love.”

  Each relationship lasted 3-6 months, tops. And at age 40, he wasn’t exactly in his prime, although he stuck to a strict weight-lifting regimen. He’d never been married, and no kids, either. His family was now a random string of beautiful 20-somethings, most now gone, others to come. And speaking of coming, that was his best, and perhaps only skill. They loved him for it, and perhaps always would. But cumming your brains out wasn’t the kind of thing that kept a woman around long term. You needed an emotional component, too.

  Ron sat on the bow of The Searcher, his 60-foot Titan Marine sport fishing craft. He stared out into the dark Pacific, watching a distant storm fleck the horizon with lightning tongues. The tiny little ocean town of Sandy Point lay behind him, nothing more than few sea-battered shacks and piers. But it was his home.

  Emotion, he thought.

  Distant, he thought.

  The Pacific was his true love, and this was where he tucked his emotions, deep under her waves for no person to see.

  Ron checked his watch, in an age when less and less men were wearing them thanks to smart phones. It was a rugged silver piece, a gift from his father.

  He’d started up the fishing guide business five years ago after winning a court settlement. A drunk doctor had T-boned Ron at an intersection, damaging half the nerves in his left leg. He was cool with the minor limp, and of course, the 2.3 million settlement.

  But the fishing business was as erratic as old glory in a windstorm, and he had to make due. He’d converted the boat into a party cruiser, complete with three small rooms and bunks, and a main galley. The Searcher was also blessed with twin 2/1,550-hp MAN diesel, ZF Marine gears w/ 2.71:1 ratio, and 5-blade Veem Interceptor props. Fuel capacity was a fat 2100 gallons, with 350 gallons of water capabilities. She was capable of cruising at 37 mph with a 67% load, and that was just dandy.

  Ron grumbled again, the damaged nerves in his leg sizzling like stir-fry. The college kids were supposed to be here by now. The plan was to take them fifty miles offshore to the southern chain of the unpopulated Falcon Islands. There, he and a business partner had set up several small cottages, each equipped with fireplaces and bunks. When the fishing was down, they leased out the area as “Party Island.” Party Island sat at the very southern tip of the Falcons, a good four miles from the main core. Ron had first learned of the place from his father, who’d taken him on fishing expeditions and wilderness survival courses many years ago. This was scenic country, the stuff of big living room paintings and sailor lore. The islands were also volcanic, and there had been hints of recent activity from some Washington volcanologists, although nothing substantial confirmed. After all, the state had a pretty nasty history of such events, and there were seismometers and seismographs and seismorgasms to everything. Washington was a damn wild place, with tsunamis, torrential downpours, rainforests, and the occasional mountain blowing its top for all the world to see.

  The sound of a jacked stereo rattling a piece of shit car reverberated off the buildings. A red Buick LePrix tore around the corner, the hands of two women hanging out the tinted windows, one with silver nail polish, the other with lime green.

  Shit, Ron said.

  The Buick nearly missed his Toyota pickup as it parked. After the ridiculous stereo died, a man emerged from the driver’s side, a waft of pot smoke following him out the door. Well, man was a loose definition. The boy wore a Rastafarian knit hat, and his eyes were puffy and red from weed. Soon four others emerged from what was now appearing to be a clown car. The group smiled and used relaxed vocal inflections.

  Too relaxed.

  They were stoned as shit. Wasted. Purple Haze, baby.

  His clients gathered up their luggage, then walked single file along the pier to The Searcher. Four women and three men, all in their early 20s.

  Well, here we go, Ron thought. It was just going to be one of those days.

  The Last Colossus is available from Amazon here!