MEG: Nightstalkers (10 page)

The Chinook touched down with a double
thud
. The bay door opened, venting the hold with a blast of cold air.

Amanda Silvernail, the executive producer, stood watch over Nichole Middelkamp, her petite green-eyed assistant, who passed out manila envelopes to each of the ten female contestants. “You’ll find cabin assignments and a map of the ship inside. The local time is nine-fifteen p.m. Breakfast is in the galley at eight, followed by video bios. Get some sleep, ladies, tomorrow is a big day. If you need anything contact Nichole.”

The women grabbed their suitcases and makeup bags and formed an exit line. As they passed Monty, two Egyptians and a Syrian model ceremoniously slapped the Iraqi War vet across his face—all to the delight of James Gelet, who was filming everything (the cameraman having sent a text moments ago that the man they had seduced aboard the 747 was not in fact David Taylor, but an imposter assigned to the tanker as a short order cook).

David winced as another dark-haired beauty smacked Monty atop his head, cursing at him in Arabic.

“Was it worth it?”

Monty rubbed his skull, his cheeks—swollen and red. “Well, that hellcat wasn’t, but the other three … hell, yes. Did you know ancient Roman priestesses called vestal virgins were required to keep their hymens intact as proof of virginity until they were thirty years old, or they’d be buried alive. That’d be my dream job—hymen inspector.” He nodded to Jackie Buchwald, who was seated four rows back. “What’s with the strawberry-blonde? You’ve been giving her the evil eye for the last hour.”

“Her? Nothing.”

“Studious type, but definitely cute. One of the reality show producers?”

“She’s with the aquarium … a marine biologist who thinks she knows it all.”

“Uh oh. You either like this chick or she makes you
Bushusuru
.”

“What?”

“
Bushusuru
. It’s a new Japanese word for vomiting in public. It was created after George Bush Sr. vomited on the Japanese Prime Minister.”

“She was playing head games with me, Monty.”

“Big head or little head?”

“I gotta get some air.” David grabbed his duffle bag and headed outside. “Amanda, do you have an envelope there for me?”

“Jason Montgomery … let’s see—”

“His name is David Taylor.” Jackie Buchwald pushed him aside, grabbing her envelope from the confused producer. “Wouldn’t want you to get caught up in any head games, David.”

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Jackie jogged across the helipad and entered the tanker’s looming superstructure.

*   *   *

He was struggling to keep his head above water, each incoming swell a five-foot mountain concealing Kaylie. She was up ahead, her long, lean body slicing across a surface slick with oil and blood.

Obliterating the sunset was the
Tonga,
the ship’s starboard flank towering overhead. Suspended from the tanker’s reinforced steel net was Angel, the Megalodon’s eviscerated lower torso gone, her innards a crimson waterfall which splattered into the Philippine Sea.

He was swimming in it; the oil pouring from Angel’s ruptured liver … her hot blood coagulating in the cold Pacific. It was getting in his mouth—he fought the gag reflex, fearful of losing the girl.

He paused to get his bearings, relieved to find her holding on to the buoyant escape pod.

“David, hang on to the other side.”

Barely able to lift his arms, David paddled over to his father’s submersible and held on, pressing his face to the glass.

His father was sitting up in his cockpit, shaking his head.

“Dad?”

“I told you not to join the expedition, son. But you never listen. You’re just like I was—impetuous. Balls-to-the-wall … always thinking you can cheat death. There’s a price to pay, David. Always a price.”

He glanced at Kaylie, who waved at him from the other side of the escape pod. “Good-bye, David. I enjoyed our brief time together.”

“Please don’t go.”

“Baby, don’t be sad. We both knew this was never meant to be. I have my destiny; you have yours.”

As he watched, the
Liopleurodon
rose from the depths, its gargantuan crocodilian jaws widening around Kaylie.

“Kaylie, wait! Will I ever see you again?”

Reaching out, she held onto a curved dagger-like tooth to keep from slipping down the monstrous gullet. “Every night … until you release me.”

The monster’s jaws closed, the beast returning to the depths.

*   *   *

“Ahhh! Ahhhh!”

David shot up in bed, his body trembling, his T-shirt drenched in a cold sweat. He was in the belly of the beast—a swaying, groaning darkness with no perceivable dimensions, and he needed to get out!

Hyperventilating, he fell out of bed onto a cold steel floor and crawled blindly until his forehead smashed into a ledge, the collision blasting stars in his vision.

A passage opened on his right, a figure looming in the gray shadows.

“David?”

“Yes!” He tried to stand and smashed his head even harder.

“Where’s your light switch?”

A dull white florescent bulb flickered on high overhead, illuminating the eight by ten foot cabin. Steel bulkhead, no portal, bed frame bolted to the floor, small dorm-style refrigerator, metal toilet and matching sink.

Embarrassed, he crawled out from beneath the bowl of the sink, rubbing his head.

Jacqueline Buchwald helped him up. David’s eyes lingered over her bare feet and smooth tan legs, the loose-fitting gray sleeping shirt offering tantalizing hints of her naked breasts pressing beneath the thin cotton fabric.

“What are you doing here?”

“My cabin’s next door; you were screaming.”

“Bad dream.” He sat on the edge of the bed, shivering.

She searched through a pile of clothing, pulling out a clean shirt. “Put this on.”

He pulled off the wet T-shirt, revealing an athlete’s muscular upper torso … and the thick three-inch red scars embedded along the palm-side of each wrist.

He redressed quickly, covering the evidence of his attempted suicide with the wet T-shirt.

“David, there’s no need to be embarrassed. It’s just a scar.”

“It’s a little more than a scar, don’t you think?”

“Only if you continue to dwell upon it. Give yourself a break.”

“You sound like my shrink.”

“Been there, done that. Antidepressants … alcohol therapy. You’d be amazed how normal you are compared to the rest of us. Back at Brown, all I cared about was filling out my resume—scared to death I wouldn’t be able to find a job after graduating. I spent three years as a professional dancer while I was an undergrad, just in case the whole marine biology deal fell through. I think the Crown Prince chose me more for my legs than my grade point average.” She stood on her toes, her leg muscles flexing as she assumed a ballet pose, her raised arms causing her shirt to ride up her hips, revealing a flash of her shaved vagina.

David’s heart pounded in his chest, the blood rushing to his groin.

“So, what was it about?”

“What was what about?”

“The nightmare. Do you get them often?”

“Yeah.”

“I know a cure; guaranteed to get you seven hours of sleep a night.”

“I don’t like sleeping pills, they make me feel weird.”

“Who said anything about a pill? I was talking about sex.” In one motion, she pulled the gray shirt over her head, revealing her naked body.

“We work in a stress-filled environment, David, filled with very real scary monsters. At the end of a long day I need to let loose. I’m not interested in love; this is purely about preventing nightmares.”

“By having sex?”

“No. By fucking each other’s brains out before we go to sleep. Think you can handle that? Or would you rather take an Ambien?”

“Screw that.” David stood, stripping out of his T-shirt and boxers—Jackie’s hands groping his body as she slipped her tongue inside his mouth.

*   *   *

The supertanker’s galley had been upgraded by the Crown Prince to accommodate the reality show cast and crew. Cafeteria-style seating and buffet lines replaced the vessel’s third world “slop-stop” décor; while the usual breakfast selections of oatmeal and powdered eggs were upgraded with fresh produce and an omelet station manned by Monty.

David entered the galley with a spring in his step. He and Jackie had gone at it until two in the morning. Finally spent, the two of them had curled up like spoons and fallen asleep.

For the rest of the night there were no more bad dreams. When he awoke seven hours later, she was gone.

David headed over to the omelet station where Rana, an Iranian actress, was yammering in Farsi at Monty. She ended the exchange by grinding a tomato wedge into his friend’s face.

“Hey!” David grabbed her arm. “Don’t do that; he’s my friend.”

She turned to slap him, only to realize it was the
real
David Taylor. “Mister David, I am so sorry. What can I get for your breakfast, please?”

“It’s okay, I can handle it.”

“No, no, I insist.”

“Okay. How about an egg white omelet with ham and cheese.”

She turned to Monty. “Idiot, you will make him the best egg white omelet ever or I will slice open your ball sack and fry your testicles in that skillet. David, please go and sit, I will serve you your food when it is ready.”

Monty winked behind the raven-haired beauty’s back.

David glanced over his shoulder, realizing everything was being filmed. Spotting Jackie, he squeezed his way past three more contestants offering to serve him breakfast and hurried over to her table.

“Good morning.”

She looked up at him from behind her laptop. “Can I help you?”

“No. I just thought I’d join you.”

“These seats are taken. Why don’t you sit with the members of your harem.” She pointed to a table where Jihan, a Dubai brunette, and Saba, a Jordanian actress were waving him over.

“I’d rather eat here.”

“David, you’re interrupting my work. You’re also late for the captain’s nine a.m. briefing.”

David sat down. Whispered, “Jackie, did I do something wrong?”

Rana joined them, carrying a plate with his omelet in one hand, a tray of muffins in the other.

Zeina set down two glasses of orange juice, the dark-haired Egyptian actress squeezing into the chair next to him. “Rana has failed to please you; your eggs are too hot to eat. Give them to me, I shall blow on them.”

Shutting her laptop, Jackie stowed it inside her backpack and left.

“Jackie, wait—”

Rana wrestled the omelet back from Zeina. “Do not let this Egyptian dog contaminate your breakfast with her rancid breath. If you knew where her mouth has been—”

“Enough!” David stood on his chair. “Ladies, can I have your attention, please. Everyone see the egg man over there? His name is Jason Montgomery and he’ll be the one deciding which three of you will be finalists on the show, not me. Say something, Monty.”

“I am the egg man, goo goo g’joob.”

*   *   *

David climbed the five flights of stairs to the supertanker’s bridge—a wide expanse of steel surrounded by large bay windows. Computerized instrument panels set on evergreen counter tops framed the command center.

Captain Steven Beltzer looked up from his chart table. “You’re late, Mr. Taylor. Our meeting was scheduled for nine. Nick, tell Mr. Taylor what we do with members of the crew who don’t show up to meetings on time.”

“We feed them to the sharks.” The command chair swung around, revealing a blue-eyed nineteen-year-old male with a mop of dirty-blond hair and an infectious grin. He was balancing on two stumps where his legs should have been, his arms extending just beyond his elbows.

“David Taylor, this is my son, Nick Porter. Nick’s a big Megalodon fan; we took him to the institute when he was eight.”

Nick smiled. “I used to tell everyone at school Angel ate my arms and legs.”

David fist-bumped at the offered appendage. “I saw Angel take out a guy your age last summer; it wasn’t a pretty sight.”

The captain passed his son his prosthetic arms and legs. “Nick’s been training with the Manta crews as a co-pilot. His sonar scores are tops on the team. We were hoping you might give him a tryout.”

David tried to hide his discomfort. “I’m not sure that’s my decision—”

His aluminum alloy legs attached, Nick slid off the chair—standing chest to chest with David. “If you’re worried about my ability to operate the foot pedals, I can reach them fine with my prosthetics. I’ve been operating Xbox, Wii, and Playstation controllers since I was a kid and wrestled in middle school until my weight left me behind. As far as the decision goes, it’s yours to make.”

David stepped back, not wanting to commit. “It’s only fair I meet the rest of the team before I choose my co-pilot, but I promise I’ll keep you in mind. Captain Beltzer, about our briefing—”

Beltzer handed him a computerized map of the Philippine Sea Plate. “We’ve been tracking the three
Shonisaurus
on and off for months. The white dot marks the extraction point out of the Panthalassa Sea; the numbers correspond to our four confirmed satellite sightings. As you can see, the creatures were following the eastern boundary of the Philippine Sea Plate. Two nights ago a fishing trawler was sunk two hundred and sixteen miles south of the Japanese mainland, two crewmen lost. The boat’s captain told the coast guard that his deckhands were bringing up the nets with a big haul when two enormous whales with dolphin-shaped heads attacked the catch. One of the creatures struck the keel and split open the trawler’s hull. Satellite thermal images confirmed the sighting and picked up the trio at four this morning as they continued north, closing on the Japanese mainland. This may be our best opportunity to capture the shonisaurs. My orders are to get you aboard the
Dubai Land-II
at thirteen hundred hours for a briefing on tonight’s mission.”