Generations Page 19

  A three-foot swell rolled over his ankles.

  “Damn it.” He walked himself higher—

  —the soles of his shoes slipping, causing his legs to slide out from under him.

  Paul dangled from the rope, knee-deep in water. Pissed off, he fought to regain a foothold while he turned to his right, searching for Robert Gibbons.

  The tide was out, revealing the underside of Brutus’s head. A twelve-foot great white was gnawing on it, the bloodshot white of its eye showing as it fed. As he watched, another shark attacked the banquet of blubber farther down the carcass, exposing the whale’s spine.

  There was no sign of the captain.

  And then he saw it—an antennae-shaped device protruding two feet behind the Livyatan melvillei’s blowhole.

  “Fiesal, I located the tracker.”

  “Excellent. Bring it to me!”

  “There are sharks everywhere, including some really nasty great whites. If I risk my life to get this for you, I want twenty-five thousand dollars for me and another twenty-five thousand for Gibbons’s fiancée.”

  “The captain is dead?”

  “One of the sharks bit off his foot. I can’t see him.”

  A long moment passed. “Twenty-five thousand for you; fifteen thousand for the captain’s fiancée.”

  “Agreed.”

  Paul stared at the white three-foot-diameter craters of shark bites lining Brutus’s dorsal surface. In order to retrieve the tracking device, he’d have to let go of the rope and swim over, then yank the four-foot pole free and swim back, climbing out of the water before he was attacked.

  Fast or slow? Slow and deliberate might work best. Gibbons probably startled one of them when he fell in.

  He released the rope and eased himself into an incoming swell. Sculling forward, he waited for the twelve-foot male great white to swim off before replacing it at the feeding trough.

  Paul’s heart raced as he felt for the tracking device in the darkness.

  Come on … where the hell is it?

  Got you!

  The former marine biologist tugged the aluminum shaft as hard as he could, but it was in good, having pierced the Livyatan melvillei’s skull.

  And suddenly Paul Agricola was being dragged underwater, his ribcage crushed in a vise-like grip as the air was forcibly expelled from his lungs. He struggled to remain conscious while a dozen stiletto-sharp teeth punctured his internal organs, his primordial scream choked off by a geyser of warm blood rising up his esophagus.

  The Liopleurodon shook its crocodilian head from side to side and then released its prey to die.

  The pressure eased. Paul willed himself to the surface. He spit out a mouthful of blood and quickly inhaled a gurgling breath, the pain driving him insane, the need to remove himself from the sea flooding his muscles with adrenaline. He kicked until he reached the rope and then gripped it in both hands and dragged himself out of the water, blood draining from a dozen or more puncture wounds.

  The Liopleurodon was circling eight feet beneath its wounded prey when its vibrations suddenly ceased.

  Hand over hand, Paul pulled himself up the slippery rock face. Each breath was a wheeze, his punctured right lung all but collapsed. Somehow he reached the top of the escarpment without losing his footing and collapsed to his knees, his lower extremities having gone numb from the loss of blood. Only the excruciating pain prevented him from losing consciousness.

  Fiesal could not see the extent of his bounty hunter’s injuries in the darkness, only that both his hands were gripping the rope instead of holding his tracking device. “Where is the bio-implant? You were instructed to bring it to me. Are you listening? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Paul Agricola’s eyes rolled up as his heart stopped and he fell forward, his body tumbling down the opposite side of the rock.

  Fiesal knelt by the twisted pile of limbs. He checked for a pulse and confirmed the man was dead.

  Sensing a presence, the marine engineer looked up.

  The Liopleurodon was staring down at him from atop the escarpment, its jaundice-yellow eyes reflective in the cloud-veiled moonlight, its gill slits hissing as its tongue squeezed the sea from its gullet.

  In that instant of clarity, Fiesal knew what had happened, just as he knew the creature would interpret his proximity to the dead man as an attempt to steal its kill.

  He took three steps backward and then turned and ran.

  The thirty-foot-long pliosaur launched its eight-ton girth down the escarpment, its fore flippers absorbing the two-story drop, its jaws snapping at air.

  Fiesal scrambled through, over, and between a labyrinth of beach, rocks, and boulders, refusing to stop until he felt the moss-covered flatland beneath his feet.

  Pausing to catch his breath, he turned, and was shocked to see the enraged beast still in pursuit, its jaws snapping wildly with each forward thrust of its crocodilian head, its hind flippers fighting to maintain balance. Despite being on land, the alpha predator refused to cease its attack, its self-preservation overruled by its desire to kill its challenger.

  Fiesal forced himself into an awkward jog. His throat burned, his muscles—drenched in lactic acid—felt like liquid lead. Desperately out of shape, he knew it was just a matter of time—thirty seconds at the most—before he’d collapse in a sacrificial heap and be eaten.

  The insanity of his predicament made him furious, giving him the release of adrenaline he needed to make it to the maintenance shack. He pushed open the side entrance and slammed the door behind him, but the bolt was jammed inside the lock, allowing it to swing freely on its hinges. He tried once more to force it shut—

  —only to be knocked sideways as the Lio’s snout bashed open the metal door, sending Fiesal scampering blindly on all fours in the darkness, knocking over unseen objects as he searched for a place to hide.

  Ducking beneath a worktable, he watched in horror as the creature attempted to squeeze the shoulder girdles of its forelimbs through the narrow opening … its movements noticeably labored.

  Its blood oxygen levels are dropping … it needs to get back to the water.

  Unable to enter through the door frame, the pliosaur retreated and then circled the one-story building to find another access point.

  Fiesal’s eyes locked on to the pair of sealed garage doors, quickly evaluating their construction. He surmised that two direct charges from the Lio would flatten either aluminum barrier. When that happened, he could always slip out the side door and continue to avert being eaten—at least until the crazed beast collapsed the entire prefabricated structure.

  Unless …

  He stared at the emergency lights mounted above each door and remembered the creature’s sensitivity to bright lights.

  If there was power, I could open the garage doors remotely and allow her inside, then confine her with the emergency lights. How long would it take the crew to get here … ten minutes? We could shoot her with tranquilizers and load her into the hopper, then cover the top of the tank with the cargo net so she couldn’t climb out.

  He climbed out from beneath the worktable and tried turning on the desk lamp—

  —nothing.

  Find the fuse box!

  Fiesal located it on the wall separating the two roll-up garage doors. He heard the animal snorting as he pried it open and scanned the panel. Locating the main switch, he flipped it on—

  —causing the generator to double-click and power up. Searching the double row of circuit breakers, he located the one labeled GARAGE DOOR and flipped the switch. Then he searched the interior walls for anything that resembled a garage door opener.

  Finding nothing, he returned to the side entrance and closed the door, revealing three light switches and a pair of vertical buttons that he knew had to be the automated garage openers. He pressed one of the buttons—

  —causing the garage door’s chain to raise the immense panel on the left.

  The creature entered, baring its fangs, saliva drippi
ng from its lower jaw.

  Fiesal’s heart raced as he waited for the juvenile pliosaur to clear the garage door frame before pressing the button again, causing it to reverse directions and lower to the cement floor.

  The sixteen-thousand-pound goliath was about to strike the moving object when Fiesal turned on the warehouse lights, the twin beams chasing the beast away from the garage doors and into the center of the warehouse.

  “Ha! Not so tough in the light, are you? Now you are my dog.”

  The Lio moved toward Fiesal, who backed his way quickly to the side entrance in order to escape—

  —only to find the metal door locked.

  Son of a bitch! The bolt was electronic—that is why it wouldn’t remain closed.

  Abandoning his plan, he pressed both garage door controls, reopening the panels. “Go on … get out of here!”

  Instead of escaping, the Liopleurodon advanced. It paused six feet in front of him, its nostrils snorting mucus as it struggled to breathe.

  “Look at you … you’re dying. Stupid animal—”

  The Lio leaped forward, its hellish jaws snatching him around the chest.

  Fiesal screamed as the needle-sharp fangs in the creature’s upper jaw punctured his lungs and rib cage, the lower teeth shredding his calf muscles. The beast raised him off the ground and violently shook him, the pain causing him to momentarily black out—

  —the lava-like acids of the pliosaur’s digestive enzymes burning through his flesh as he regained consciousness in a pit of darkness. He lashed out at the stomach lining, clawing at it with his melting fingers—

  —and suddenly he was being propelled back into the light, the Lio regurgitating him onto the cement floor.

  He thrashed about in agony, blind and gagging, begging Allah to take his soul.

  As if it comprehended his prayer, the crocodilian jaws snatched Fiesal bin Rashidi off the ground, its teeth grinding flesh, bone, and sinew into a bloody pulp with every crushing chew until its prey ceased all resistance.

  A half a dozen more smacks of its jowls determined that the human was an insufficient energy source, and the Lio spewed what was left in its mouth onto the cement floor.

  Exiting through one of the open garage doors, it headed back to the water.

  * * *

  The man dragged himself out of the sea and squeezed himself between two boulders, seeking shelter from the breaking waves. The heavens spun in his head, the pain driving him toward delirium, yet he refused to stop—not now … not when he was so close.

  Moaning in agony, he stood on his left foot, moving from rock to rock until he reached the motorized raft. He rolled over its starboard side, careful not to bang his right leg.

  The world was still spinning in his vision, so he closed his eyes and felt for the emergency kit. Removing the gun from the plastic container, he loaded it.

  Lying on his back, Robert Gibbons fired the flare into the night sky, signaling to his crew that he needed help. He contemplated adjusting the belt strapped around the remains of his right calf muscle, only the wave of pain pulled him under and he blacked out—

  —never seeing the Liopleurodon. Hobbling on its four finned appendages, the creature entered the dark surf and disappeared.

  Fort Lauderdale International Airport

  Fort Lauderdale, Florida

  It was 8:18 p.m. on the East Coast when David Taylor stepped out of the air-conditioned terminal and into the South Florida humidity. He sat on a concrete bench and waited while his sister finished circling the airport for the fourth time—the uniformed police officers refusing to allow any cars to linger more than sixty seconds in the passenger pickup lanes.

  He stood as the rental car approached the curb. Opening the rear passenger door, he tossed his bag in back and then climbed up front with Dani.

  “You look tired,” she said, leaning over to give him a quick hug.

  “You look worried. How bad is she?”

  “They don’t think she’ll last the night. Of course, they said that yesterday too, and she hung on.”

  “Geez…” David laid his head back, tears welling in his eyes. “What happened to that whole white cell thing?”

  “We waited too long. I called the doctor yesterday and I told him to bring in the donor to initiate the protocol. As of two hours ago there’s an IV bag at his clinic filled with cancer-killing granulocytes waiting to save mom’s life.”

  “That’s great!”

  “No, it’s not. Dr. Maharaj doesn’t feel Mom’s strong enough to handle it. He’s probably right, but if we don’t give it to her, she’s going to die anyway.”

  “Then give it to her.”

  “It’s complicated,” Dani said, turning onto the ramp leading to the Florida Turnpike. “Dr. Maharaj isn’t affiliated with the hospital, so he can’t just walk in and hook up an IV.”

  “So we’ll bring her to him.”

  “She’s not strong enough to travel.”

  “Ugh! So what are we supposed to do?”

  “If we can get the granulocytes, I can hook the bag up to her IV.”

  “Maharaj will give it to you?”

  “No. But I know where it is; I saw them place it in a refrigerator while I was filling out releases. There’s no lock and—”

  “Hold it, Dani. You want to break into this guy’s office and steal an IV bag?”

  “I never said break in, and technically it’s not stealing since Dad paid for it. I called the clinic an hour ago and said I needed to stop by tonight and pick up some info about the protocol to show the hospital administrator. There’s only one nurse on duty at night. While you ask a million questions about the treatment, I’ll excuse myself to use the bathroom—all I’ll need is two minutes, tops.”

  David shook his head. “This is crazy.”

  “No, little brother—crazy is what you did when you tried to save Bela and Lizzy. This is an attempt to save our mother’s life. Maybe it’s a long shot, but it’s the only shot she has.”

  “Take it easy … I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”

  West Boca Medical Center

  Boca Raton, Florida

  Jonas stared at the latest CT scan of his wife’s right lung while Dr. Calvert pointed out several large masses. “What we had hoped was merely pneumonia is the spreading cancer. I’m so sorry.”

  She powered off the screen and removed a sheet of paper from a manila folder. “This is an order instructing our staff to either resuscitate or to not resuscitate.”

  “Resuscitate her.” Jonas reached for the pen to sign.

  “Mr. Taylor, before you sign, it’s important you understand what you are committing us to. When your wife’s heart stops, we’ll be jump-starting it with paddles or using CPR. When she stops breathing, we’ll be intubating her.”

  “Intubate? You mean you’ll shove one of those tubes down her throat?”

  “To keep her breathing, yes, sir.”

  Jonas peeked in at Terry. She was in a morphine-induced, semiconscious state, lying in bed at a forty-five-degree angle, her breathing made possible by a mask.

  He recalled how his wife had fought against a less invasive breathing apparatus the night they had arrived. “No, I can’t do that to her … it’s not what she would want.”

  Taking the pen, he signed the DNR order. Then he entered Terry’s room and closed the door, wiping the tears from his eyes.

  She was restless, fighting death in a semiconscious state.

  Jonas held her hand, whispering, “It’s all right, baby. You don’t have to hold on any longer. Everything will be okay—we’ll do this together.”

  She squeezed his hand so tightly he felt pain, then watched as she kicked and spasmed, her blood pressure rising from 73/40 up to 102/53 on the digital board behind her bed.

  Her almond eyes opened, releasing a tear.

  * * *

  Dani introduced David to the nurse on duty at the South Florida Bone Marrow/Stem Cell Transplant Institute. “Roseanne Serrone, t
his is my brother—”

  “David Taylor, oh my God!” She removed her iPhone from her pocket, her fingers dancing across the screen until the desired YouTube video began playing—a night scene taken from the Tanaka Lagoon’s east bleachers.

  “See! I was there the night that Lio-whatever-you-call-it killed Bela and Lizzy.” She held up the device—the crowd on their feet as a dark dorsal fin cut across the lagoon, the juvenile Meg chased by a massive creature more than twice its size.

  Dani nudged her brother. “Watch it with her, David, while I use the bathroom.”

  He took the iPhone from Nurse Serrone, feigning interest. “That was scary, huh?”

  “Oh my God, you have no idea.” She laughed. “What am I saying—of course, it was much scarier for you. Would you mind if I took a photo?”

  Without waiting for a reply, she held up the iPhone and leaned in next to him, snapping several pictures.

  They turned as Dani came running down the hall. “Dad called; we have to go.”

  David waved to the nurse and then hurried out the front entrance after his sister to the deserted parking lot. “That was quick. Did you get it?”

  “I got it. You drive.” She climbed in the passenger seat.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  David started the car and slammed it into gear, racing through the deserted complex.

  * * *

  David followed his sister off the elevator, the two siblings jogging down an empty white corridor to the double doors of the ICU.

  Their father was waiting outside of the first room on the left. Unshaven, with dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes, he looked visibly shaken. A blue light was flashing above the closed door, the curtains drawn as an emergency team worked furiously inside.

  “Dad … what happened?”

  “She stopped breathing. I signed a Do Not Resuscitate order about two hours ago, but…”

  “You changed your mind.” Dani hugged him.

  “She’s fighting it. Let’s give her one final round.” He looked up to see his son. “That’s what we Taylors do, right, kid?”