Dave Freedman - Natural Selection

Jason eyed the spoke dubiously. “ If they actually use it. No one knows this ‘conduit’ theory actually played out, right, Monique? And even if it did, who’s to say it will happen here ?”

“Agreed, this is guesswork, but it’s extremely educated guesswork. And common sense, too. Jason, if these animals actually want to explore the land, they’ll want to be as physically comfortable as possible. What better place than an inland river?”

“Wouldn’t the freshwater bother them?”

“It might, but nothing’s perfect.”

Jason paused, his eyes drifting farther north on the map. “Are there other ‘conduits’ we should consider?… Like these mountains further north.”

“Maybe.” Monique eyed the spoke. “But I think this creek’s a great start.”

“What do you want to do exactly?”

Monique paused, thinking it out. “Wire it. Sonar buoys in the water, radar guns on land. Get prepared in case they actually do go there.”

Jason nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Seconds later, they were on deck, about to head to the creek, when Lisa leaned into Jason and whispered, “See what happens when you trust people.”

Jason just smiled as the boat lurched forward.

“JASON, YOU got a second?!”

The Expedition was really moving now, violent wind rushing past even faster than the redwoods onshore.

Jason turned. “Sure, Phil, what’s up!”

“Can we go below deck?!”

They did, and it was much quieter. “I just wanted to see if the additional work I’ve been doing has been helpful.”

“Oh, very much so, Phil. I really appreciate it and think everyone else does too.”

“Excellent. Because I was wondering if I might become an official researcher like they are. On your reports and all that.”

“Oh.” Coincidentally, Jason had just written a cover page for his Species Council report, listing everyone except Phil as core researchers. “Mind if I ask you something, then?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you actually doing any research?”

“Well, I’m typing and analyzing everybody els—”

“But are you actually doing any research yourself?”

“Well… no.”

Jason nodded. “Phil, you are doing a fantastic job, believe me….”

“But…”

“But… you don’t have an ichthyology degree. Unfortunately, education makes a difference in this field, and all of us need that degree to make more… meaningful contributions. You know how hard I worked to get my degree, and believe me, Darryl, Monique, Craig, and Lisa worked hard as hell to get theirs, too. Would it be fair to them to just give you, or anyone, the same credit without having done all that work?”

Phil looked up at the ceiling. “I take your point.”

“Do you think it’s reasonable?”

“I guess so.”

“Phil, the last thing I want is for you to think I don’t appreciate everything you’re doing. I do. Your work is going to be invaluable in preparing my final report on this.”

Phil nodded sadly. “Thanks, Jason. I appreciate that. Maybe I was getting a little ahead of myself.”

“We OK, then?”

“Yeah. Thanks, buddy.”

Jason patted him on the back, and they joined the others on deck.

They continued for miles, passing evergreens, evergreens, and more evergreens. Then, rounding a bend in the coastline, they saw it under the moon’s white gaze: a perfectly flat, quarter-mile-wide creek flowing right into the sea. They slowed down and Jason turned.

“Turn on the spotlight, will you, Craig?”

A big headlight went on, and Jason immediately noticed a wood sign staked into some tall, drooping grass. Painted yellow letters said REDWOOD INLET. He stared at it for a moment and noticed Darryl, arms crossed and eyeing the creek suspiciously. “You buy this conduit theory, Darryl? You actually think they’d swim inland?”

Darryl didn’t answer at first. He simply studied the landscape. The flat moonlit water, the trees, how isolated it all was… This place felt right. “Yeah, Jason. I think they might.”

“Craig, let’s anchor.” Jason didn’t even want to wait till morning. “I want to wire this thing right now.”

LATER THAT night, they finished. Two yellow sonar buoys were bobbing in the ocean near the creek and two white radar guns were staked into its grassy banks.

They awoke at seven the next morning. With the others up on deck, Jason and Lisa bumped into each other in the galley, and he quickly kissed her on the cheek. He seemed embarrassed by it; she thought it was adorable. When they arrived on deck, Craig immediately looked up from his monitors.

“Still aren’t any readings here, Jason. What do you want to do?”

Jason turned to Monique. “Did you say there are other creeks we should also wire?”

“A little further south.”

“There’s your answer, Craig.”

Summers rose from the equipment. “I’ll turn us around, then.”

As the Expedition began moving, they motored away with confidence. If anything entered Redwood Inlet, they’d know it—and right away.

THOUGH NO one considered one additional possibility: What if something had entered Redwood Inlet already ?

AS THE boat’s vibrations disappeared, the four dozen predators didn’t move. They were perfectly still at the bottom of the muddy creek. Several hundred yards from the ocean, they hadn’t moved for two full days. They were physically uncomfortable here. The seafloor felt different. So did the water itself.

They were strategically positioned behind a bend in the creek. Here, they couldn’t detect the two floating devices with their sonars, just as the devices couldn’t detect them. Their ampullae of Lorenzini had no such problems, however.

The predators weren’t focused on the unseen equipment at the moment. They couldn’t focus on anything other than the smell. The smell was from the ocean, farther south and very deep, but potent nevertheless. It was the smell of blood. Far away, there was a fantastic amount of it, so much that every single animal here was salivating.

THE SLAUGHTER of the great whites was complete. There was still enough blood to fill several Olympic-size swimming pools, but the meat was long since gone. The sharks, like the rays themselves, had been very hungry, and that hunger had been used against them. A school of more than eight hundred had been lured here, nearly four miles below the surface. Then they were ripped to pieces and devoured. Three dozen of the sharks had actually escaped, but then the smell of their very own blood had lured them back. Then they, too, had been eaten alive.

Thousands of predators rested on the ocean floor, unseen. Most were of the younger generation. Their experiences at the surface were only a memory now, as was their migration. They had no plans to move. They’d found the place they’d been searching for.

IN THE creek, one predator rose up and flapped toward the ocean. Then a second animal followed. Then a third and fourth. Then all except one. The smell of blood was too much to take. Against the leader, which didn’t budge, they moved en masse, their winged bodies flapping slowly in the darkened water, heading toward the bend and the two hanging devices beyond it.

But then they stopped. The leader had just made a sound. A strange sound not designed to be heard in water. They all had the larynxes to produce the sound, but only the leader had learned how to do so while airborne. In the air, the sound would have been described as a roar, a rather terrifying one, but here, submerged and far less menacing, it was closer to a waterlogged truck horn. The others had blinked anyway.