“Of course I did. Why do you think I sent you down there? If anyone could figure out a way to capture it, it was you.” He looks away, shakes his head. “I haven’t been so wrong since Bracken and that leviathan debacle.”
“You knew how big it was. You set us up to fail.”
“Wrong,” Murdock says, moving toward the bed. “I gave you every opportunity to succeed and you failed. All you had to do was capture it and bring it to me. That’s it. Instead you wanted to set it free, or kill it? Come now…what good would come from any of that? I would have retired you with the amount of money I was willing to pay you and your partner.”
“It was a prehistoric fish,” Ash says, managing to sit. “A couple of blood samples then sending it to live in the oceans would have been sufficient.”
Murdock chuckles. “Samples? We needed everything. Imagine what that thing could have taught us. Imagine how many lives it could have saved…” Murdock sighs. “All lost. Thanks to you.”
“So,” Ash says, “I guess you’re going to kill me now.”
Murdock blinks, then full out laughs. As the laughter eases, he says, “K-Kill you? No. I have plans for you. Huge plans.”
“What kind of plans?”
The man, with his slicked back black hair and black mustache, winks. “You’ll know soon enough, Ash. Very soon.”
Ash starts to jump out of bed when his arms snag. He frowns, gaze dropping to his right arm. A padded leather cuff holds his arm to the bed. Same with his left. Another strap rests along his lap.
Ash yanks on the restraints. “The fuck is this?”
Murdock grins. “Like I said, Ash. I have big plans for you.”
“You can’t do this!”
Turning toward the door and opening it, Murdock glances over his shoulder. “I already have.” He opens the door fully, and steps out.
The door shuts, leaving Ash alone in the stark, white room.
He pulls on the cuffs, tries to wiggle out of them. For a second or two, he thinks he might just slip out of the cuffs, but that doesn’t happen. They’re too tight. Not only this, there’s faint pain in his wrists every time he pulls.
Small drops of blood stain the white sheet under his right cuff.
“You son of a bitch,” Ash says.
The insides of the cuffs aren’t just padding but embedded with what seems to be razors. The more he pulls and struggles, the deeper the razors cut. And if he struggles too hard…
Fighting to control the rage, Ash lies back down on the bed.
Across the room is a slim TV. It’s blank, though a nice contrast to all the damn white.
It’s this Ash focuses on. This black rectangle mounted to the wall.
This small TV, representing his sanity, one might say.
But to Ash, it’s a grounding point amongst all the white. If his gaze strays too long, perhaps madness will take over.
So, he stares at the blank TV.
He stares, and he waits.
Because, sooner or later, that door will open again.
And when it does…he wants to be ready…
THE END
Read on for a free sample of Thresher: A Deep Sea Thriller
CHAPTER 1
Cracks of thunder pounded the chaotic night sky, scrambled with the endless howling of the hundred-thirty-seven mile per hour wind. The sky was a dark black, and the Atlantic Ocean was an ugly reflective grey. The sea rose, forming monstrous mountains of water, which fell upon themselves and rose again. Lightning zigzagged in every direction, illuminating the black clouds above. Each bolt was in perfect form, as if Zeus himself had crafted each one and angrily hurled them towards the abyss. It was as if the sea and the heavens had declared war on each other.
Hurricane Deckard was inaccurately forecasted to be a Category 2 storm that would lose strength as it neared North America. After forming off the coast of Mauritania near Cape Verde, it moved westward toward Puerto Rico, where it upgraded to a Category 3. Meteorologists forecasted that it would lose strength in that area after making landfall over Cuba, and possibly fall down to a Category 1 by the time it would make landfall into the Gulf of Mexico. However, when the strengthening storm reached the Caribbean, strong winds from the south collided with Deckard. This resulted in the storm hooking north, where it would graze the Florida and Georgia coastline before it would finally make landfall in New England.
From high above, the orange and white U.S. Coast Guard rescue helicopter resembled a tiny dragonfly struggling to hover over a vast pot of boiling water. Beneath it was a white speck of equal size, bobbing in the frantic waves. That white speck was the Abigail Twain, a twenty-three-foot sailing yacht bound to Georgia from the Bahamas. The owner and the crew hoped to get out of Marsh Harbor and be close enough to St. Simon’s Island off the Georgia Coast, and hopefully only catch the rough edges of the storm. However, like everyone else, they didn’t expect the storm to sweep northward. They initially tried to drive through the storm to port, but the current was more than they could handle. To make matters worse, a massive wave caused the Captain to fall and hit his head on the foot of the sail. Unable to manage the rough seas, and still over forty miles from the coast, the remaining crew called out a mayday signal.
Lieutenant Ron Park had successfully landed on the deck of the Abigail Twain, despite the intense winds attempting to carry him away like a kite as he descended down the parachute line. His orange rescue jumpsuit stood out heavily against the dark atmosphere. The illumination cast upon him from the chopper’s spotlight gave him an angelic appearance as he was lowered. At thirty-five years of age, fifteen of which spent in the Coast Guard, he had done over two hundred rescues at sea, with a total of one hundred-thirty-three rescue drops. High wind descents were always the worst. Usually he would instruct the sailors to put on life vests and jump into the water, that way he could avoid getting tangled in the mast. However, he was uncertain of the severity of the captain’s condition, and determined the best course of action would be an attempt to land on deck. Park had successfully strapped the injured captain to a harness, and the rescue team winched him aboard the chopper. After the rescue harness was returned, he had strapped it onto the female crewmember. The last remaining crewmember, Steven, had insisted she go ahead of him.
Park motioned to his spotter on the chopper to begin the hoist by raising his clenched hand and pointing his thumb up. The winch reeled, and the crewmember lifted off the deck. She and her cable were viciously tugged by the wind as she was elevated thirty feet above the yacht. The pilot struggled to keep the chopper steady, but the high winds made that nearly impossible. Park could see the chopper rocking in the air, as if teetering on an invisible fulcrum. His radio unit installed in his helmet squealed with static for a moment.
“Lieutenant! The turbulence is increasing. I can’t hold position much longer!” the pilot informed him. His voice was calm and didn’t show alarm, but Park had been in the U.S.C.G long enough to know that hidden behind that calm was a man eager to get out of this storm. It was a warranted feeling, and he needed a plan to speed up the process. He looked at Steven, who stood soaking wet and eager for his turn. He was a short man, maybe five-foot-six, and fairly skinny. He was wearing a yellow shirt and cargo shorts, which wouldn’t add much weight. Park himself was an average size man, so he knew the hoist should have no problem holding the weight of both of them.
“Listen!” Park had to yell to get his voice heard over the intense howl of the wind. “We’re having trouble maintaining position! We don’t have a lot of time, so here’s what we’re gonna have to do…” he paused to make sure Steven could understand him. “We’re gonna go up at the same time. I’m gonna clip your harness to mine, and we’ll be lifted at once.” Steven listened as he struggled against the wind to stay on his feet.
“Okay!” he answered. Park looked back up and saw the passenger safely loaded into the helicopter. He waited for a count of ten, ample time for them to free her of the rescue harness, and signaled for th
em to lower it back down—holding his closed hand up and pointing his thumb down. The cable began its descent, and already the wind took hold of it. The cable reached out at a forty-five-degree angle, and the pilot had the task of positioning the helicopter to allow the attached harness to be within Park’s reach. It took several attempts, but he finally managed to grab hold of it. Immediately he clipped the cable to a ring on his own harness. He looked to Steven.
“Alright, let’s go!” The chopper repositioned and shone its bright spotlight upon the lieutenant. With the pilot struggling to keep it steady, the light often would zigzag on and off of them, shining into the rough sea for moments at a time.
********
The enormous beast struggled against the current that carried its massive bulk to a destination unknown to it. Rapid currents assaulted its senses as it attempted to idle its body, only to be pushed along by the chaotic direction of the water it lived in. The fish survived every challenge nature threw its way, and this involved previous storms. But this time it was caught further out from its normal hunting grounds, and now it was stuck in a current that was even mightier than itself. In addition, the shark had no choice but to continue moving, or else suffer the consequence of sinking to its death. Sharks’ livers provided aide, but they could not float like bony fish. Fighting to continue keeping water flowing through its five gills required it to spend a lot of energy. Its enormous mass added to the ordeal. The creature didn’t care about the hurricane, nor did it care about the destination it would end up. It needed one thing: it needed to feed.
The crashing waves around it played havoc on the sensory organs that made up its lateral line. There was much vibration in the water, but hardly any of it could be perceived as struggling prey. Its sense of smell had trouble picking up anything. Plenty of water made its way through its nostrils, but even the fragment of a scent that could indicate prey was untraceable. Ironically, it was the sense used the least that gave the shark a possible target. Its eyes caught the glimpse of lights flickering in the water above. These lights were unlike the other lights created by the storm, which were random and dim. These lights were much brighter and focused, in a steady stream, and concentrated on one basic area. The shark moved its enormous caudal fin and arched its body upward to point its large black eyes toward the point of interest. The lights brought form to a shape that floated on the surface. The shark was uncertain if the object above was living prey, due to the fact that its other senses were compromised at the moment. It was close enough to see that it was a large object, though a bit smaller than itself. The movements were rigid, as if it was in distress.
Hunger dictated the massive shark’s actions. It believed that the object above was food. With several thrusts of its enormous tail, it moved like a homing missile towards the target. Its eyes rolled back, resembling white marbles against its dark green skin. Its jaw opened, bearing three-inch jagged teeth. In a straight line, it struck from beneath.
********
Park had just gotten the harness around Steven’s arms and legs, and was about to clip it onto the cable when suddenly a tremendous impact shook the yacht from beneath. Both men fell to their hands and knees, unsure of what just happened. They didn’t have time to regain their posture, as a tremendous wave immediately slammed into the portside. Already unstable from the impact from below, the Abigail Twain gave in to the rolling mountain of water that rolled it starboard.
Park didn’t have time to warn Steven of what was happening, and the action they needed to take. Truthfully, even he was caught off guard by the current predicament. The vessel groaned as it rolled, and finally water filled the deck. Steven wanted to scream but didn’t have time. He and Park were quickly under water, being sucked downward by the pressure caused by the vessel as its mast crashed nearby. Water filled the cabin, and remaining sections below deck, causing the boat to sink. Park opened his eyes, and through the sting of the salty water he found Steven sinking a few feet to his left. He grabbed down for him, and grabbed fists full of his shirt to pull him closer. As he did so, their heads banged together, creating a nosebleed from Steven.
Onboard the rescue chopper, Ensign Wells witnessed his superior officer plunge beneath the thrashing water, followed by the mast of the boat coming down on top of them. He grabbed the side of the door to keep from falling out, as the chopper dipped due to the wind pressure. The two passengers were secured by straps in their seats behind him. The captain was still unconscious, but the other passenger helplessly yelled as they dropped uncontrollably. An alarm sounded from the pilot’s controls, and the operator gritted his teeth as he struggled to maintain control. The chopper dropped a dozen feet before he regained full control. He quickly put his hand to his microphone.
“Lieutenant, we can’t hold position! We have to go!” There was no immediate response, and there was no time to wait. He looked back to Ensign Wells. “Reel him up! We’ve got to go!”
********
The shark determined that the mysterious object was not nutritious, and quickly regurgitated the substance. However, its Ampullae of Lorenzini suddenly picked up electromagnetic signals of two struggling life forms nearby. The signals were strong enough for the shark to discern from motions caused by the large object it had bitten into. It circled around to create some distance, and positioned itself to face the direction of the target. Its sense of smell picked up a very particular scent. The smell of blood. To the massive shark, it was confirmation that these were fleshy targets. The light shone upon them from above, allowing the shark to see what it was approaching. For it, these were two bite sized prey, but it would be enough to satisfy its bodily needs. It swam forward until it was within range. It would follow its instinctual procedure of stunning before moving in for the kill.
The shark tilted its head slightly upward and tucked its pectoral fins below its stomach. It moved under the thrashing targets, and at lightning speed it whipped the scythe shaped upper lobe of its caudal fin, striking both targets at once.
********
Park didn’t know what hit him. He struggled to reach the cable clip to Steven’s harness, and nearly made the connection when a horrific streak of pain flooded his nervous system, and almost all physical control was taken away from him. He was still alive, but could not move. He looked at Steven, who also appeared immobile. The flashlight from Park’s uniform shone onto the paralyzed sailor, who drifted away from him. His eyes were bulged, and his arms were reached out as if the need to survive still persisted. But the current pulled him out of reach. Park then could feel the tug of his own harness, and recognized the sensation as being hoisted up by the chopper.
His eyes were still fixed on Steven. Park could still see him, but the view dimmed as he lifted toward the surface. There was something else there, something moving in behind Steven like a monstrous shadow. Torpedo shaped, the form covered all of the background behind him. The next thing Park witnessed was Steven, still alive, disappearing into a dark abyss lined with monstrous teeth that reflected his flashlight. And then he was gone.
Park couldn’t speak as he was hauled aboard the chopper. He hung on his strap, barely able to move his arms. He couldn’t feel his legs. He knew they were there, but it was as if they weren’t. Ensign Wells frantically pulled him into the body of the aircraft, and slammed the sliding doors home. The pilot heard that familiar sound, and operated the aircraft to move to the nearby cutter. The passengers protested about leaving Steven behind, but Wells ignored their cries as he tended to Park. Blood seeped out of an enormous laceration along the small of his back. He rolled the lieutenant to his side, and pulled away at the clothing to assess the wound. It ran straight across, inches deep. A wave of anxiety struck Wells, inducing a mild sensation of nausea. The injury was undeniably severe, and it was clear that Park was immobilized.
“He must have been hit by the mast!” Wells yelled to the pilot. “Get us back quick!” He quickly broke out the emergency kit to control the bleeding. Park laid motionless on the ste
el floor. His mind was not on his critical injury, the likely end of his career in the Coast Guard, or even the chopper’s struggle to make it back through the intense storm. His mind was fixated on the image of Steven disappearing into those enormous jaws.
“Shark!” he whispered. Wells didn’t pay any attention as he rushed to stop the bleeding.
“Shh, don’t talk,” he said.
Thresher: A Deep Sea Thriller is available from Amazon here!
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