by Steve Alten
She sniffed, fresh tears pouring down her cheeks. “All that … maybe I could deal with it … only I can’t stop … I can’t stop thinking about the people on board the tanker who died. I knew most of the crew.… Many of them were my friends. Some days I can’t handle being in my own skin. Some nights … some nights I wish you would have just let me die.”
David caught her as she rolled over and wept, stroking her hair as his cursed iPhone went off, chiming “Pop Goes the Weasel.”
Danielle Taylor stared out of the passenger window at the billowy-white cloud formations casting their shadows across the uneven squares of farmland that divided the flatland like a quilt. Dirt roads connected acreage to an occasional dwelling, but for the most part it was just patches of green and brown and isolation. She wondered about what it must be like to live so far from towns and cities—and about the six-year-old who insisted on kicking the back of her seat.
Four hours out of Fort Lauderdale—another hour before they’d land. She imagined herself collecting her suitcase from the baggage carousel and wheeling it out to locate her Uber. They’d hit some rush-hour traffic before exiting to the UC San Francisco campus. The driver would follow the circular drive of her apartment building and she’d exit into the lobby, where she’d flash her student ID before catching the first elevator up to the sixth floor. The hall was always quiet during midterms and finals; otherwise the walls would have been throbbing with music. She’d key into Unit 623 and hug her roommates. She’d shower and change and then they’d hit Union Square for a quick bite before pulling an all-nighter in the library.
Her fellow med students would chastise her for ordering a few glasses of wine with dinner, but Dani needed just enough of a buzz to tuck away the last three weeks of doctor’s visits and endless tests and nightly battles between her parents—her father urging her mother to eat, “Just another sip of Ensure … just one more grape,” her mother moaning, “I can’t, Jonas! Enough!”—Only it was never enough; each ounce her mother took in was two less than the day before … one step forward, two steps back.
Cancer was a cruel game of whack-a-mole, and Parkinson’s had become its bedfellow, draining what little energy her mother had left to the point where her father would simply swoop her up in his arms and carry her from the car to the apartment or the doctor’s office. She’d fuss and roll her eyes, but she knew that he needed to do it—to be her hero again—and so who was she to argue? And at the end of each day they’d cross another box off the wall calendar in the kitchen of their rental apartment—“Twenty-seven more days before your protocol begins.… Twenty-three more X’s before the cancer meets its killer.… Only three more weeks, Mother!”
Maybe the cancer knew its days were numbered; with twenty days to go before her mother would undergo her white cell cancer elixir, Danielle had received a 7 a.m. call from Dr. Maharaj. “Dani, you need to bring your mother to our office right away—her last blood test shows her creatinine level has risen dangerously high.”
From her studies, Dani knew that creatinine was a chemical waste generated by muscle metabolism and transported through the bloodstream to the kidneys. The kidneys then filtered out most of the creatinine and disposed of it in the urine. Mom’s creatinine levels had risen from a normal 1.2 to 2.1 due to her not eating or drinking enough fluids, a condition that could lead to renal failure.
Dr. Maharaj adjusted their game plan to include three hours every morning of IVs until her creatinine levels stabilized.
They had made it through two more days when the next domino fell—her mother’s uric acid levels were too high and had to be reduced for her to qualify for the protocol. That meant daily blood work and more IVs.
Dr. Maharaj’s main concern was that her mother was growing weaker from not eating. Despite their constant coaxing, Mom was still not cooperating, complaining that it hurt too much to swallow. With seventeen days to go, a physical exam revealed the cause—the inside of Terry Taylor’s mouth and throat was covered with thrush.
Thrush is an infection caused by the candida fungus. Often contracted by infants, the yeast spreads quickly in adults with weakened immune systems. The medicated rinse prescribed by Dr. Maharaj burned Mom’s mouth beyond tolerance levels, so it had to be diluted.
Dani had looked at the discovery of thrush as a positive development—if the meds could eliminate the cause of her mother’s reluctance to swallow, then hopefully she could start eating again. And so, a new routine developed—blood tests every morning, followed by four hours of IVs along with thrush rinses three times a day, and every other day, a trip to nearby Lynn University to drain her mother’s left lung of fluid.
With fifteen days to go before the protocol, Dr. Maharaj had good news—a suitable donor had been found. More good news turned out to be a double-edged sword—the medication had removed the thrush, but her mother still couldn’t swallow without pain. An endoscopy was scheduled to determine if there was a blockage.
Dani had midterms scheduled at the end of the week. Her parents insisted she fly back to San Francisco so she wouldn’t fall any further behind on her studies. “Okay, Mom, but only if you promise to drink three cans of Ensure a day.”
“I’ll try.”
With exactly two weeks to go, her father awoke to discover that a red rash had spread over most of her mother’s back, so thick that it looked like she was wearing a vest. Dr. Maharaj felt it was probably a reaction to all the thrush medication and reduced her dosage.
Today was Day Thirteen on the kitchen wall calendar. Dani had a noon flight scheduled; her mother had a 7 a.m. endoscopy. Thankfully, the gastrologist found no blockage, but he was extremely concerned. “Mrs. Taylor’s lack of nourishment is taking a toll. She’ll never last until the protocol unless she takes in at least five hundred to a thousand calories a day.”
Before boarding the plane, Dani had called Dr. Maharaj. “I know it’s against protocol, but my mother’s wasting away to nothing. We need you to move the start day up.”
“When will you be back in South Florida?”
“Friday.”
“All right. We’ll push everything up to Monday. But tell your father she has to eat.”
Dani had wept at the news.
* * *
“We’ll be arriving at Gate C-13. Please wait until the plane has come to a full stop before leaving your seat. Use caution in opening the overhead bins, as your personal items may have shifted during the flight. On behalf of Captain William Fields and our flight crew, we’d like to thank you for flying United. The local time is now four twenty-five p.m.”
Danielle stretched in her seat before taking out her cell phone to check her messages.
“Dani, it’s Dad. Mom’s in West Boca Medical Center. Call me.”
She speed-dialed her father’s number, her heart racing. “Dad, it’s me. What happened?”
“About two hours after you left she had trouble catching her breath. Dr. Maharaj told me to get her to the ER. She has fluid in her right lung; they think she may have aspirated the Ensure from her esophagus muscles being so weak and out of sync. They have her wearing this enormous mask that forcibly blasts pure oxygen into her mouth. It’s torture.”
“What does Maharaj say?”
“He wants them to treat her lung and get her out of here. We’re waiting on a thoracic specialist, but he won’t be here until tomorrow morning, so it looks like we’re spending the night. They’re waiting for a bed to open up in the ICU. Dani, one of the ER doctors wants to speak with me; I need to call you back.”
She hung up, feeling numb. It seemed like yesterday that Dr. Brennan was reciting her mother’s verdict. Dani wished she could go back in time to that day … to redirect her parents to reject the course of chemo offered by the Abramson Center and go with the slight Indian doctor in Boynton Beach offering the miracle they were praying for.
Realizing she was the last passenger on board, she climbed out from her window seat, grabbed her carry-on bag from the open overhead bi
n, and exited the plane, her legs shaking as she made her way up the ramp and into the terminal. She cursed her decision to leave her parents as she scrolled through her messages to locate Dr. Maharaj’s cell phone number.
“Dr. M., it’s Dani Taylor.”
“Danielle, hello. How is your mother?”
“I don’t know. I just spoke to my father; he said they’re going to be admitting her.”
“Yes, it’s very important that they clear her lung with antibiotics along with the oxygen. I told your father to make sure they start her on nutrients as well; hopefully she can regain some strength. What’s important is that they don’t start treating her cancer. Clear her lung; nutrients as soon as possible. Nothing more.”
“Understood.”
She hung up, feeling slightly more hopeful. If the hospital could feed her mother intravenously, then perhaps this new setback would be a blessing in disguise.
She found her way to the baggage claim, feeling mentally and physically exhausted. Her roommates had volunteered to help her cram for midterms, but the thought of studying all night seemed overwhelming. She recalled her father quoting General George S. Patton while training her for track-and-field tryouts back in high school. “Fatigue makes cowards of us all, Dani. Your body is telling you to quit, but it’s really your mind. You’re not just conditioning your muscles; you’re disciplining your thought process to stay positive.”
She recognized her suitcase circling the carousel and ran to it before it disappeared through the exit. Suck it up, soldier. Think of what Mom has to endure; think about Dad and the long night and days ahead for him. Ace your exams, then get back to South Florida in time to witness your mother’s miracle.
She headed outside looking at her iPhone to see where her Uber was located. An old poster of San Francisco’s attractions stared her in the face, one of the photos featuring Angel, taken as the seventy-four-foot, fifty-ton Megalodon rose out of the southern end of the lagoon to eat.
This sucks. Why does David get to pursue his dream while I’m flying from coast to coast, taking care of our parents and pulling all-nighters?
She took out her phone and dialed his number, the call going straight to voice mail.
“Hey, superstar, it’s your sister. You need to forget about your stupid sharks and get your ass to Boca—our parents need you!”
False Bay, San Juan Islands
Nearly encircled by land, False Bay resembled a giant bite mark taken out of the southwestern coastline of San Juan Islands. The shallow waterway might have been a popular tourist destination had it not been for the abundance of shellfish that washed up daily along the mud-laced shoreline, each low tide leaving behind a powerful, intolerable stench.
Shoes in hand, David stood ankle-deep in the bog, watching seabirds feast on oysters and clams. He had been waiting for nearly an hour, the sun having long since dropped behind the mountains that occupied the western horizon, bathing the predusk sky in an orange hue. The screwup was his; he had left the hospital forty minutes late for his rendezvous with the Manta and his iPhone had died on the jog over, severing all communication between his GPS and the missing sub.
Without that signal to home in on, Monty could be anywhere.
David felt his lower back tightening. With no place to sit, he could only shift his weight or continue walking along the shallows—an activity he ceased after stepping on a crab.
The sky had deepened to a scarlet burgundy by the time he saw the ripple appear on the placid surface, the two-foot wave moving steadily in his direction. A quick flicker of underwater lights revealed the Manta. David hurried to intercept the sub before it beached, frantically signaling Monty to kill the engines to prevent the vessel’s twin pump-jet propulsors from getting clogged with mud. Grabbing the vessel by its prow, he slowed its forward inertia, then turned it around one hundred and eighty degrees before pushing it back out into deeper waters.
The hatch popped open, releasing Monty, who stood up in the cockpit, unzipped his shorts, and ceremoniously peed over the side. “I’ve been holding that in for two hours—what the hell happened to you?”
“My phone died.” David stepped onto the portside wing to climb aboard, causing the sub to teeter and Monty to pee down his shorts.
“Hey!”
“Sorry. You know there is a built-in porta-potty connected to your seat.”
“And have to listen to Cyel bitch about using it? No thanks.”
David dried his feet off on the carpet before slipping his shoes on. He then secured his feet to the two foot pedals and buckled the harness across his chest while Monty sealed the hatch. Powering on the engines, he headed across False Bay at 5 knots, approaching the exit to the Salish Sea.
“I take it Mac located the vessel that caught Bela’s pup?”
“She was in the Georgia Strait, just as you predicted. A big ol’ yacht—the Hot & Spicy, registered in Texas.”
“Texas? What’s it doing in the Salish Sea?”
“Hunting Meg pups … duh. The owner is Shelly Shelby-Smallwood. Her father was some corporate bigwig. He died on a fishing trip in the Salish Sea when he was yanked overboard and eaten by the male Meg that impregnated Angel.”
“Geez. Well, that explains his daughter’s motive. Where’s the yacht now?”
Monty pressed a control on the dashboard monitor, causing a GPS satellite image of two islands to appear.
“Denman and Hornby Island?”
“Yeah, but there’s a small island that’s not showing up.… Hold on.” He magnified the image to reveal Flora Islet. “According to Mohammad—our hopper captain, not the prophet—the water’s real deep. He thinks there might be a seal population living on that rock.”
“The Meg nursery … Where’s the McFarland?”
“On the way. Mac said they should arrive around midnight.”
“Then we need to put the pedal to the metal.” They had reached the choppy surf separating the shallow bay from the sea. David switched the cockpit glass to night-vision mode, causing the world to brighten to lime green before he pushed down on the joystick in his right palm.
The submersible plunged at a steep angle to one hundred feet before he leveled out and pressed both feet to the thruster pedals.
The Manta accelerated through the dark green void, its forward speed causing particles in the water to whip at them as if they were traveling in a blizzard.
David locked in their course on the autopilot, adjusting the sub’s speed to 30 knots. “We’ll follow Boundary Pass into the Georgia Strait. Better go active on sonar, Monty. I don’t want to get us sucked into the vortex of a tanker.”
“Yeah, that would suck.” Reaching for the sonar array, he flipped the toggle switch from PASSIVE to ACTIVE. “You know, Junior, if my dad had been eaten by one your sharks—”
“That big male wasn’t one of ours.”
“Duly noted. But if one of my family members had been eaten by Angel, or Bela or Lizzy, one could see why they’d want to kill these sharks.”
“What’s your point?”
“Actually, that was my point.”
“Monty, I’m not advocating allowing the Megs to use the Salish Sea as a breeding ground. The difference is that I don’t want them killed, I want them held in captivity.”
“Right. But you don’t exactly have a great track history of keeping these monsters in their pens. Angel escaped; so did Bela and Lizzy.”
“Bela and Lizzy were released—there’s a big difference.”
“Not to the people who were eaten. Listen, I’m on your side. But if it comes down to us or them, I need to know you’ll choose us.”
David closed his eyes.
“Kinda need an answer to that one.”
“Yeah, yeah … us over them.”
Aboard the Sport Yacht Hot & Spicy
2 Miles Northwest of St. John’s Point, Hornby Island
1 Mile Southeast of Flora Islet
Keith Amato was tired. The Long Island native was on his
second six-hour shift and his eyes were already bleary from staring at the fish finder. As the hour approached 11 p.m., dense gray patches of cumulus clouds quickly moved in from the east to obscure the full moon, deflating the crew’s spirits and casting them into a dense, uncomfortable darkness.
The pilot had no need for the lunar light; his instruments told him exactly where he was. Even had his GPS failed, he could smell Flora Islet as they passed the tiny hunk of rock to port. The pinniped habitat carried a powerful stench, and the approaching storm placed the yacht squarely downwind—a place no one on board wanted to be.
Captain Amato had been waiting for the updated weather forecast before determining their new course. At 11:05 he received the report: Thunderstorms likely before midnight … clearing by 3 a.m. Seas: six to seven feet.
No sense circling back around Flora; best to tuck us in at Tribune Bay until this mess blows over.
He was about to change course when the fish finder alerted him to the presence of the whale shark. The twenty-five-foot fish had crossed into range about a hundred yards off the portside bow. They had crossed paths no less than a dozen times today, the docile creature navigating the deep waters between Flora Islet and St. John’s Point, which was a nature preserve on Hornby Island’s northern coast.
As the pilot watched, the whale shark suddenly rose on a near-vertical ascent, homing in on what appeared to be two seals swimming along the surface.
Seals? Wait a second … whale sharks are filter feeders!
Amato turned the wheel hard to port with his right hand as he reached with his left for his night binoculars where they were hanging from a peg. Stealing a quick glance at the fish finder, he thought he saw the blip split into two—
—as the two Megalodon juveniles exploded out of the sea less than thirty feet off the yacht’s starboard bow.
Through the night glasses he zoomed in on the albino, its upper torso twisting above the surface as its massive head whipped the two-hundred-and-twenty-pound seal in its mouth from side to side, the serrated daggers of its lower jaw clamping down upon its writhing meal microseconds ahead of the thick, wide upper teeth, which tore the shocked pinniped in half.