Peter Benchley's Creature (16 page)

He didn't scale this fish or gut it. Instead, with swift slashes of the knife he removed all the meat from one side of the fish, cutting along the backbone, around the tail, up the belly and across the gills. Then he turned the fish over and repeated the procedure on the other side. He shoved the carcass overboard—head, tail, bones, guts and all.

He watched the gulls swarm on the carcass as it bobbed in the wake of the boat. One gull tried to lift it by the head, but it was too heavy, and the bird couldn't get airborne. Another grabbed the tail, and for a moment it seemed that the two birds might cooperate in carrying the carcass away to a safe feeding place. But then a third bird struck the carcass, and it fell away and splashed into the water.

The birds swooped down upon it again. Before they could reach it there was a sudden flurry in the water, a flash of something shiny; when the flurry subsided, the carcass was gone.

*   *   *

Its long, curved steel claws tore the dead thing to pieces. It sucked the viscera from the body cavity, and the eyes from the head. Its teeth crushed the bones of the jaw; it ate the tongue. It consumed everything, as it drifted to the bottom.

The large thing from which the food had come moved away and became a fading pulse on the creature's tympanic membranes.

It wanted more. Not purely from hunger, for it had fed on many things recently—had fed until it regurgitated and then fed some more—but from programmed reflex. Prey was irresistible; killing and eating were its only functions. Though its body was fully fueled, its gastric juices continued to be stimulated.

It pushed off the bottom, its webbed feet thrusting up and down synchronously, its talons gleaming. It flew through the water toward the pulsing sound.

Bobby finished filleting the last two fish, tossed the carcasses overboard and wrapped the fillets. He dipped the bucket and washed his hands, and was about to swab the deck, when he heard the engine subside and felt the boat slow, stop and wallow broadside to the little waves.

"Birds up ahead," Madeiras called down. "Looks like a school of blues kickin' shit out of a bed of fry. Ask them two if they want to toss a couple casts."

"Yes, sir," Bobby said. He opened the door to the cabin and felt a rush of icy air. The men had been playing gin rummy on the couch. One had fallen asleep, and the other was fumbling with the cards. An empty vodka bottle was upended in the wastebasket.

Let them say no, Bobby prayed. He didn't want to rig any more lines, clean any more fish. Besides, now that these anglers were plastered, they'd be bound to make mistakes, and he'd be bound to be blamed for them.

"Captain wants to know if you'd like to cast some," Bobby said.

The man looked at Bobby and frowned as if he didn't recognize him. "For what?" he said.

"Bluefish."

The man thought for a moment, then shook his friend's knee, but his friend didn't waken.

"Fuck it," he said.

"Yes, sir." Bobby shut the door and called up to Madeiras, "They said no thanks."

"They'll be sorry," said Madeiras, looking through binoculars at the diving terns. "Those could be real monsters."

Bobby sloshed the bucket of water on the deck, tossed the bucket behind him and scrubbed the blood and scales into the scuppers.

A few spots of dried blood remained, and Bobby picked up the bucket, wrapped the rope around his hand and walked aft.

"Hey, asshole," Madeiras said, "you missed some."

"Yes, sir," Bobby replied tightly. "That's why I'm getting more water."

Madeiras returned to his binoculars. "Soon's you're finished, fetch me my spinning rod. I think I'll try a couple casts from up here."

Go ahead, Bobby thought angrily. Maybe you're so wasted you'll trip and fall overboard and the bluefish'll tear you apart.

The exhaust from the idling engine billowed over the stern, stinging Bobby's eyes and clouding his vision. The gulls hovered high overhead, away from the noxious fumes.

There was no wake now, the boat wasn't moving, so Bobby didn't grip the transom as he flung the bucket. The bucket hit the water on its bottom and bobbed upright; Bobby jiggled the rope, trying to tip it over so it would fill.

It approached a dozen feet below the surface. The large thing had stopped moving.

It hovered; its receptors sought signs of prey, but found nothing.

It rose a few feet, and through the still water it could see a refracted image of something moving.

There was a disturbance on the surface, a little sound and a few ripples; it saw something floating.

Prey.

It thrust itself upward, grasping with its claws. Its mouth was agape, its lower jaw rolled forward and a row of triangular teeth sprang erect, into bite position.

The bucket filled, Bobby pulled on the rope, but even without the drag of motion, the bucket was heavy— two gallons of water weighed sixteen pounds. Bobby pulled the rope hand-over-hand.

Suddenly the rope went taut, as if the bucket had snagged on something. Then it jerked away from him, as if a huge fish had grabbed hold of it.

Bobby lost his balance, turned to grab at the transom, but he was too far away, his fingers found only air and he tumbled overboard. As he hit the water, he thought, I hope it wasn't a big bluefish that grabbed the bucket.

*   *   *

It spiraled downward, clutching its prey in its claws, gnawing with its teeth at the soft white flesh. It sucked and drank and chewed and swallowed.

By the time it reached the bottom, it could eat no more, so it squatted on the sand and, with claws and teeth, tore the prey to pieces. One tooth caught in a mass of gristle and broke off. Another tooth, from the row behind it, rolled forward and took its place.

Tony Madeiras hung the binoculars on their hook, put the boat in gear and pushed the throttle forward. The engine growled, the bow rose and the stern settled.

"Where the hell's my rod?" he shouted without looking down. There was no response.

PART FOUR

PREDATORS

20

WHEN Chase nosed the Whaler into its slip, just after noon, he saw Mrs. Bixler walking down the path to the dock. She was carrying an ancient wicker picnic hamper, and Chase knew what was in it: a sandwich, a thermos of iced tea, a spool of fishing line and some bacon rind or beef fat or stale bread. Mrs. Bixler loved to spend her lunch hour hand-lining off the dock for little fish to feed to the heron. The heron saw her coming and took a couple of spindly steps toward the dock.

As soon as he had turned off the motor, Chase heard barking from the inlet beyond the hill.

"It sounds like Dr. Macy and her sea lions made it safe and sound," he said to Mrs. Bixler.

"Yep, her and her whole menagerie."

"Are those the sea lions barking?" Max asked excitedly. "Can I go see them?"

"Sure," Chase said. "But mind your manners, introduce yourself. We've never met Dr. Macy."

Max nodded, hopped out of the Whaler and ran up the path.

Mrs. Bixler glanced down into the boat. "Somebody been on a killing spree?" she said, gesturing at the dead animals: two gulls and a juvenile bottlenose dolphin.

"Or
something
." Chase picked up the little dolphin. It was less than three feet long; its slick skin, which in life had been a lustrous steel gray, was now dull and flat, like charcoal ash. There were deep slash marks on its back; its belly had been torn open. "I brought it back for Dr. Macy to have a look at. She knows more about mammals than I do."

"What can she tell you that anyone can't? Something slaughtered it."

"Yeah, but what?" Chase returned the dolphin to the bottom of the boat. "I'll pack it in ice till we can do a proper autopsy." He stepped out of the boat, tied it fore and aft and climbed the steps to the dock. "Did you get Macy settled in?" he asked.

"I showed her around; Tall stowed her stuff."

"What's she like?"

Mrs. Bixler shrugged. "Seems to be full of enthusiasm, dresses like she's going on safari. But at least she doesn't parade her degrees like most of them do."

Chase started up the hill, and when he reached the crest, he heard Max's voice—screaming, he thought at first, but then he realized that what he was hearing wasn't screams but laughter.

He looked down and saw Max splashing in the shoulder-deep water in the tank Chase had had built for the sea lions. Four dark shapes zoomed around him, streaking by him underwater, paddling behind him on the surface, deftly avoiding him as he lunged at them.

A woman stood on the lip of the tank, gesturing to
the sea lions and laughing with Max.

Because neither she nor Max had noticed him, Chase was able to study her as he walked down the hill.

Tall and sturdily built, Amanda Macy looked like either a model for the Lands' End catalog or the ambassador from the court of L.L. Bean. She was wearing Top-Sider moccasins, knee-length hiking shorts, a khaki shirt with epaulets, a Croakie to secure the sunglasses that hung around her neck, and a stainless-steel diver's watch. Her legs were tan and muscular, her hair sun-bleached and short.

She looked younger than he had imagined, though why he had assumed she would be his age or older he didn't know. He tried to see her face, but her back was to him. Suddenly an alarm sounded in his head, an alarm he had not anticipated. Oh Lord, he thought as he drew near, don't let her have a pretty face.

Some men were fixated on women's breasts, some on their buttocks or their hands or legs or feet. Chase had always been a sucker for a pretty face. All his life he had fallen for faces, irrationally—and fully knowing it was irrational—ignoring the neuroses, personality disorders, stupidity, greed and vanity that often lay beneath the skin of those faces.

He would have to work with this woman for three months. The last thing he needed was the added complication of being smitten.

Then Max saw Chase and shouted, "Dad!" and waved, and Dr. Macy turned around.

Chase blew out a breath of relief. Her face was nice, and well proportioned, handsome, even, but not a heart-stopper. He held out his hand and said, "Simon Chase."

"Amanda Macy," she said, taking his hand with a firm, confident grip, and smiling with lips that wore no lipstick.

"I see Max wasn't exactly shy."

"Oh, he was very polite," Amanda said. "It was me that cut off the small talk. I told him that if he wanted to get to know the sea lions, the best way was to jump right into the water with them. He's a natural in the water, by the way, and seems more gifted with animals than a lot of kids. They took to him right away."

"Dad!" Max shouted. "Watch!"

Chase looked into the tank. Two of the sea lions were facing Max, their heads out of water. Max splashed one of them, and suddenly both sea lions exploded in a blur of flippers, splashing Max like playground bullies. He shrieked with laughter and ducked underwater, and the sea lions dashed after him, brushing him with their silky bodies, spinning him in circles.

"Amazing," Amanda said. "They usually take a long time to trust someone. They must sense a benevolence, a kind of innocence, in children ... or in
this
child, anyway."

"They never bite?"

Amanda laughed. "That's a parent asking, right, not a scientist?"

"Right," Chase said.

"The only reasons an intelligent mammal like this will bite anything or anybody are food, fear and aggression. These four are all females, so there's no problem with sexual aggression. They're well fed. And they don't have anything to fear." She paused. "They're not at all like sharks."

Chase's eyes followed Max as he frolicked with the sea lions. "So I see," he said.

"To me, these animals are a lot closer to people than to sharks. They need attention and affection, from each other and from me. They like to have their teeth brushed and their coats stroked. I've raised them since they were pups."

Max popped to the surface, laughing, and Chase waved him to the side of the tank.. "Come on out of there," he said. "You're turning blue."

"But Dad . . ."

Amanda said, "The sea lions need a rest, Max, same as you. You've given them quite a workout."

Max hauled himself out of the tank, and Chase rubbed his shoulders and back. "You feel like a Popsicle," he said.

Max pointed at the sea lions, which, as soon as he had left the tank, had scrambled up onto the rocks and were sunning themselves.

"They're called Harpo, Chico, Groucho and Zeppo," Max said. "I don't know which is which, but Dr. Macy told me that when I get to know them better, I can pick one to be my special friend."

Chase felt Max shivering under his hands, and he said, "Go take a shower and put on some warm clothes."

Max started away, then turned back and said to Amanda, "Later can I play with them some more?"

"Sure," Amanda said with a little laugh, "but only when I'm here with them. You have to learn the signals, just like they did."

Chase had constructed a shed against the rocks behind the tank, and Amanda ducked inside and came back with a bucket of fish. "Lunchtime, ladies!" she called as she approached the edge of the tank. The sea lions slid off the rocks and into the water and, barking
impatiently, swam over to her, lined up in a row and waited.

She fed them each a fish, then another and another, and when they had all had their allotted five, she rubbed each on the head and behind the ears.

She replaced the bucket in the shed, then said to Chase, "This is a wonderful place. Were you brought up around here?"

"Not on the island ... in Waterboro."

"Where did you go to school?"

"All over the place," Chase replied, thinking, Here it comes. Briefly, he debated planting a lie, but because in his experience lies tended to grow until they became unsustainable, he told the truth. "The last place was URI—Rhode Island."