Michael Bray - Feed

Fear.

Scott couldn’t see the shark and thought they might just make it. He broke the surface, the hull of the boat appearing as an impassable white tower of carbon fibre. He swam to the steel rungs of the ladder and started to pull himself out just as Scott broke the surface and tore his regulator out of his mouth.

‘Hurry up, Scotty, climb quicker. Get the hell out,’ he shrieked. Distracted, Scott slipped on the rung and fell back into the water. He started to climb again but Paul was too terrified to be rational. He pulled his brother aside and started to climb up himself, scrabbling to get out of the water. Scott dipped his head beneath the waves, unable to resist looking and wishing he hadn’t. That bus-sized head was beneath them, ascending at speed, mouth open to reveal the abyss beyond and the death it would bring. He knew he could never climb out in time. He was tired, the terror compelling him to kick in place and watch it come for him. He wondered how it would feel when those jaws closed around him. He wondered if he would feel his bones splinter or his guts eject themselves from his body as he was devoured. Something grabbed him, but it wasn’t the shark. Strong hands from the surface pulling him clear out of the water. His brother, his blessed brother, who after spending all of his jail time bulking up in the gym, could easily lift a hundred and seventy pounds of dead weight sibling out of the water. Paul grunted as he lifted Scott free of the water, both of them collapsing onto the deck. Scott spat out his regulator, wanting to say so much. He was angry, scared, elated, and grateful. He turned to his brother, unsure if he wanted to thank him or hit him for pulling him off the ladder when the forty foot vessel exploded from beneath as the seventy-seven-foot shark smashed into the bottom of the hull, shattering the boat and throwing both Scott and Paul back into the water. Scott breathed in, taking sea water into his lungs. He coughed and spluttered, trying not to panic. The boat looked as if it had been hit by a missile and was already sinking beneath the waves, a fine carpet of debris bobbing on the surface. Scott knew it was bad. They were miles from land, and apart from the small scattering of uninhabited islands, there was nobody close who could help. He looked around for Paul but couldn’t see him. He saw the fin break the surface out of his peripheral vision. He turned to face it, watching as it came towards him, a six-foot-tall triangle of death as it cut through the water. In the movies, people always escaped situations like this. But he knew it was over. There was no help. No way to escape the grim reaper as it breathed its cold breath on his neck. The shark broke the surface, mouth opening ready to take him, its teeth covered in chunks of bloody meat.

‘So that’s where Paul went.’

It was the last thought he had before his body was pulverised, taken in one bite by the mammoth creature which knew only its instinct to feed. Silence fell over the debris field, the splintered boat remains bobbing on the surface. Ten feet away, the red flotation balloon broke the surface and waited to be retrieved.

Tyler had learned during the course of his travels to avoid the tourist spots. Although he was technically in that category himself, he had found that not only were the spots the locals drank in cheaper, they were also less rowdy and without the drunk holidaymakers who didn’t care about those who had serious drinking to do. He was certain that the current watering hole he was in, aptly named Roaches, wouldn’t be troubled by tourists. It was dark, the shadows heavy against the baking Australian heat which was kept at bay by the air conditioning. This was a spot for the people who lived in the area. The ones who worked nights and might have come in for a quick post-work drink before slipping away to get some sleep, or those who were without work and had nothing to do. It was also a place for people like him — professional drinkers with a habit to feed — something which he had learned people in every country he had visited had learned to spot. He wondered if he really looked that shitty and his ex-wife’s words echoed in his brain. He was aware of the consequences of heavy drinking. His father had died from alcoholism as had his father before him. Tyler supposed it was a family trait, something he had inherited along with the hooked nose and dry sense of humour. It wasn’t even that he was depressed and was trying to drink himself to death, he was just weak when it came to addiction and didn’t have the ability to say no.

He sat at the end of the bar, reading the previous day’s newspaper and working on his third beer with a Jack Daniels chaser and wondering if it was time to move on to a new area. Funds were starting to deplete, the money he had got for the house, his car and his possessions starting to dwindle. The idea of going back to society seemed alien to him, especially after seeing all that life had to offer outside of the grind. He wondered how it would be, to go back to his old life. To see Amy again. He supposed it would be awkward. She would be angry and remind him she was right about his inability to kick the booze.

Fuck her.

He swallowed his JD in one, closing his eyes as its warmth radiated through his body.

Screw you, Amy.

He stopped himself before his thoughts turned nasty. When that happened, the alcohol demon he carried around inside him would wake and get out of control. When that happened, he would black out and have no idea what happened next. Those incidents scared him. He would often wake up asleep in the street or in a jail cell. He knew it was only a matter of time before he did something he couldn’t shy away from when nursing a hangover. Even though he tried not to think about her, Amy was right. He needed to keep control of his habit and make sure he kept it in check. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he ordered another drink, nodding to the bartender to bring him another and making the whole notion he had any control over his addiction irrelevant. As he waited for his drink to arrive, he looked around the bar at the few drinkers scattered around the room who Tyler assumed were pro drinkers like him. Around the curve of the bar just a few feet away, two men were deep in conversation. One of them was horrifically scarred, and even with the Panama hat pulled low on his head, Tyler could see something severe had happened to him. The man next to him was in his twenties, skin tanned, black hair and blue eyes, the kind of guy women always threw themselves at. The scarred man was clearly frustrated, his hands gesticulating as he spoke to the younger man. Tyler had no intent to listen in on their conversation, it just happened as he waited for his drink. The old man kept mentioning gold, and how they could be rich to which the younger man was telling him it was likely a hoax and he shouldn’t get his hopes up. The younger of the two men caught Tyler watching them.

‘Can I help you?’ he snapped.

Tyler stammered, stumbling over his words. ‘No, sorry, I wasn’t trying to be nosy, I was just waiting for my drink and couldn’t help but overhear.’

‘See, Dad?’ the younger man said. ‘Everyone can hear you making a fool out of yourself.’

The scarred man looked at his son, then across at Tyler. ‘You’re a regular in here, aren’t you?’

Tyler nodded.

‘Thought so. I’ve seen you in here before.’

Tyler didn’t reply. He had never seen the scarred man before. He would have recognised him. The man with the scars grinned as if reading his thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not surprised you haven’t seen me. I usually sit in the corner where it’s dark and my son here, Liam, gets me my drinks. I don’t want to scare off the customers.’ He tried to smile, but with his lack of lips and facial muscle structure, it came off as a grimace. The man held his good hand out to Tyler. ‘Names Nash. Robert Nash.’