“Look at this,” Sayid said, snatching one of the fish out of the air as it leaped at him. He held the wildly thrashing animal in two hands. There was no way anyone could miss the wide, silver-coated eye.
“As if there was any doubt,” Langridge said wryly.
The boat’s engines suddenly made a strange screeching sound. Sidney could feel a shudder through the hull, and they were definitely slowing down.
“Shit,” Langridge said as she made her way aft.
Sidney followed, dragging Snowy with her. She motioned for Snowy to stay near the door to the cabin, then joined Langridge. They peered cautiously over the side of the boat, and Sidney gasped at the sight of the water, stained crimson with blood. Chunks of fish torn apart by the sputtering propellers floated on the surface, as more schools of fish rushed the spinning blades.
“The fish are jamming up the props!” she screamed over her shoulder to Cody just as the propellers stopped moving.
She could see him on the flybridge, struggling with the throttle, trying to get the propellers moving again, but she knew if they weren’t cleared, he would only succeed in burning out the motors. Without thinking, she leaned over to pull the flesh and internal workings of the fish away from the propellers.
Langridge grabbed her and pulled her back. “What the hell are you thinking?” she shouted.
But Sidney wasn’t thinking; she’d panicked. The idea of being still out there . . .
They had to come up with another way to free the propellers. Frantically Sidney looked around the small aft deck, her eyes falling on a gaff lying half under a deck seat. She grabbed it and leaned over the side, stabbing it into the bodies of fish that jammed the propellers.
But it was no use—for every fish she tugged away, a hundred more surged forward to take its place.
“It’s not working,” she cried, dropping the gaff to the deck. “We need something else.” She and Langridge began pulling the deck apart, trying to find something, anything that might help.
“That!” Sidney yelled, catching sight of a red gas canister strapped into a corner of the deck.
Langridge grabbed the canister and brought it to Sidney, who took the heavy plastic container and unscrewed the cap.
“Can I ask what you’re doing?” Langridge asked.
“Poison the water, kill the fish,” Sidney responded as she dumped the gasoline into the water, nearly choking on the thick fumes that filled the air.
“Okay,” Langridge said with uncertainty.
An oily rainbow sheen immediately appeared upon the surface of the water, and a few moments later the bodies of barely twitching fish began to float to the surface.
“I think it’s working,” Langridge then said excitedly.
Sayid appeared next to them at the edge of the deck with the gaff in his hand. “The gasoline is choking their gills,” he said as he poked at the dying fish around the propellers.
Sidney looked up at the flybridge to see Cody watching them. “Try it now!” she yelled up to him.
He gave her a thumbs-up, then ran back to the controls. A strained whine sounded from the motors, but then the propellers began to turn, slowly at first but picking up speed until the boat began to move once again.
“Gun it!” Sidney screamed.
And Cody did, opening the throttle wide, sending the craft lurching forward with a roar.
From the corner of her eye, Sidney saw Sayid fall against the side of the craft, dropping the long wooden gaff. At the same time an almost painful electric tingle ran from the base of her brain down her spine. Something was going to happen; she knew it—could feel it.
“Watch out!” she cried, not really understanding why.
The enormous shark surged out of the water, straight up into the air. The massive fish angled its body as it started to fall, flopping heavily onto the deck, its weighty mass knocking Dr. Sayid to the deck, where he lay, dazed.
Langridge pulled her gun, aiming at the creature’s pointed face, at the silver right eye that resembled a large ball bearing stuck in its rubbery head. It spun with incredible speed, lashing out with its tail and swatting the woman and her weapon away.
Snowy ran toward the great white’s snapping jaws, barking crazily.
“Sid!” Sidney heard Cody scream. “Sid, what’s happening!”
“Just keep going!” she yelled back.
Sayid’s legs were now pinned beneath the thrashing behemoth. Its jaws were wide, eager to snap, to take something into its mouth, and Sidney knew it was only a matter of time before it found it. She dove across the slick deck and grabbed the gaff that Sayid had dropped. The shark caught her movement and directed its attention to her as she stood and stepped toward it. The shark opened its mouth wide, ready to claim her, but instead Sidney drove the gaff up behind its razor-sharp teeth, wedging its mouth open.
The great white thrashed wildly from side to side, its powerful tail catching Snowy and sweeping her four legs out from beneath her. The shepherd yelped as she went down hard on her side. The cry froze Sidney’s blood, but Snowy was already scrambling to her feet on the water-covered deck, darting away.
The angry shark’s silvery eye appeared to grow larger, bulging from its rubbery socket. Sidney saw an opportunity and went for it, sliding across the deck on her knees, reaching out to Dr. Sayid.
“Grab my hands!” she screamed.
The man was terrified, his eyes wide as he tried to squirm out from beneath the sea beast.
“Do it!” she screamed, leaning in closer. She seemed to get through this time, and she saw his eyes focus with realization. He raised his arms toward her.
Sidney grabbed him at the elbows and pulled, using all her strength. The shark’s movements were frantic now, shaking its head from side to side in an attempt to dislodge the piece of wood jammed vertically in its jaws.
Sayid had just slid free when Sidney heard the snap.
It was like the crack of a whip, and she saw the gaff had broken and the shark’s mouth was free. She watched as it turned its gaze to Sayid’s legs, swiftly angling its head in such a way to scoop both of the dangling appendages into its yawning mouth.
There was nothing that she could do.
Nothing at all but watch the horrible event occur.
For a moment time was frozen, the event locked solid as if to say, Here it is—get a good look.
But then it happened. It was like something broke inside her brain. She felt something pulled so very, very taut . . . give way.
And then the rush of . . . what exactly? It felt like fluid . . . blood? No, she didn’t think so. Brian fluid, then? Maybe. Was there such a thing?
But then she realized that this fluid . . . it was so much more than that.
For in this strange, watery substance . . . there were images . . . memory . . .
Consciousness.
Sidney was no longer in her body. Her awareness had transferred to the alien organism growing inside the shark’s skull, an organism that allowed an unearthly force from beyond to take control of so many primitive life-forms and turn them into instruments of violence.
And at that moment she was the force controlling this organism.
She was the shark—
About to bite into the two flailing appendages of the human lying on the deck in front of her.
Or not.
Sidney suspected then that she had the power, the ability, to counter the commands of the alien intelligence that had been controlling the shark through the organism that had grown inside its simple brain.
She could feel the power of the animal she now inhabited, experiencing that it was unable to breathe, drowning in the oxygen-rich air, knowing that the bite it was about to inflict would likely kill its prey.
This was what the organism wanted. What the organism was created for.
But it wasn’t what she wanted.
Looking out through the single, modified eye of the shark, she saw as the jaws were about to close—
Stopping them before they did.
She could see the human through the organism’s right eye, watching as he reacted, realizing that there had been some kind of reprieve.
That his legs weren’t going to be eaten—at that time.
She could feel the struggle as the alien organism attempted to regain control, but she fought back, denying the growth within the sea animal’s brain its true, murderous purpose.
She fought but found herself weakening by the second. She could not hold the control of the shark for much longer. The human was safe, for now, but that did not mean that he—or the others on board the boat—would remain that way.
The threat would need to be removed.
She moved the great white, its powerful muscles flexing and thrashing its mass, sliding the beast across the deck of the boat until . . .
* * *
Sidney came back to her body in time to see the shark flip over the side, taking a piece of the railing with it as it fell back into the sea.
Dr. Sayid was staring out over the ocean, as if waiting—expecting—the next wave of attack.
But she knew that it would not come and that she was somehow responsible.
Langridge retrieved her weapon, moving across the rocking boat toward them.
Sayid looked back at her, and she saw his expression change.
“What’s wrong with her?” Langridge asked him.
“I don’t know,” the doctor said. “Sidney? Are you all right?”
She wanted to tell him that she was fine, but the words would not come, and then she felt the warm stream running down from her nose and brought her hand up to wipe the snot away.
But it wasn’t snot.
Her hand came away spotted with blood.
And something in her brain twitched and writhed, and she thought she heard it laughing at her.
Just before the lights went out.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Isaac remembered the Terrible Day.
That was what his mother had called it, the day that he’d almost been taken from her.
It had been raining, but he’d wanted to go outside to play. He remembered demanding that his mother take him, remembered her angrily hushing him—she hated to be interrupted when she was watching her shows.
Isaac had stood at the screen door, looking out at the soaking wet world. It had practically called to him, hollering for him to c’mon out—it wasn’t raining all that hard.
But his mother had forbidden him to go outside alone. He wasn’t big enough yet, she’d said. He needed to be at least six years old she had told him.
And he was only five.
He was still one birthday away.
But even so the outside had called to him. As he’d looked out through the screen door, he’d thought of all the things he could do, the trucks he could play with, the ball he could bounce. There was even a swing set in the backyard.
And his bicycle.
He could see it leaning against the tree in the front yard where he had left it the last time his mother had taken him out to ride. He’d tried to remember when that had been, but to his young mind it had seemed like a hundred years had passed.
He really wanted to ride his bike.
He had turned away from the door, considering bothering his mother again, but he hadn’t wanted to make her mad—she wasn’t very nice when she was mad. He could still hear the noise of her shows, the ringing of bells and the clapping of hands as people won fabulous prizes. She loved it when they won prizes.
Isaac remembered looking out the door again and wished he could freeze the flow of his memories there. It would be a good place to wake up, to pull himself from the dream state he seemed to find himself in.
But the dream . . . no, it was a nightmare . . . the nightmare of the Terrible Day continued to play out. It felt different this time, more real than his past nightmares.
And he felt as though he was being watched—his memories scrutinized.
The five-year-old Isaac had convinced himself it would be okay to go out onto the porch. He could still be a good boy if he went no farther than that . . . just to be out of the house for a while after days of rain.
How could his mother be mad at that?
He’d pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. The outside felt wonderful, the air fresh and damp and clean. And for a few minutes he’d been happy to be on the porch.
Until he’d caught sight of his bike again, leaning against the tree. Waiting for him.
As he had many times before, Isaac tried to stop his nightmare there, and as he had every time before, he failed. The memory of the Terrible Day was strong and was not to be altered in any way . . . or forgotten.
Isaac saw his young self carefully descending the four steps from the porch to the front yard. He’d looked back, half expecting his mother to appear at the screen door and scream his name.
But her programs had been on, and she had told him to stay inside.
He remembered briefly considering going back. That’s what a good boy would have done.
But that day, Isaac hadn’t been a good boy.
Just one ride around the house, he’d told himself, then he’d go right back inside, and his mother would never know how bad he’d been.
It was a good plan, for a five-year-old.
Isaac could still feel the bike pedals through the soles of his Keds, the muscles in his young legs straining to pedal the bike across the grass to the sidewalk in front of his house.
His mother had always warned him about the street and the cars that went too fast. But he wasn’t going to go into the street. He was only going to follow the sidewalk to the driveway, then ride once around the house and back to the tree where he’d left his bike before.
He’d hit the sidewalk, and the bike had picked up speed. He remembered how wonderful it had felt—the greatest sensation in the world to be riding his bike after being cooped up inside for so long.
Isaac had never been exactly sure what had happened—maybe he’d hit a patch of dirt at the end of the driveway, maybe it had been a crack in the sidewalk. But the whys really didn’t matter because the end result would always be the same.
He’d lost control of the bicycle. It tipped over on its side, spilling him into the street—
And into the path of an oncoming car.
And that was when his own memories stopped. The rest of the nightmare came from his mother’s stories about the Terrible Day.
She’d heard the screeching of brakes, and it must have been during a commercial, because she came to the door.
She liked to tell him that she’d thought he was dead . . . how she couldn’t have imagined how anyone hurt that badly could survive.
But he had.
He had been in a coma for nearly a month, and when he finally woke up, he was different. A metal plate had replaced part of his damaged skull. His hearing was bad, and his thoughts just didn’t come together the way they used to.
His mother told him over and over again that he was lucky to be alive.
Isaac had always imagined there was some sort of truth to that.
And the voice inside his head, speaking over the hum and crackle of the bad radio, agreed.
* * *
Isaac awoke on the path in the woods where he had fallen, exhausted by his journey and the struggle inside his head.
The bad radio was so very loud, but the other sound—the voice—was slowly growing louder, more forceful.
It was that voice that commanded him, that was bringing him through the woods, that had made him rest.
It was that voice that had forced him to remember the Terrible Day and what had made him the way he was.
Showing him why he could hear the bad radio.
Showing him why he was so special.
The voice was pleased, and Isaac could feel it buzzing around inside his brain, near the metal plates. He wasn’t sure he liked that . . . first it had been the bad radio trying to get him to do
terrible things, and now . . .
Somehow the voice calmed him, turning off his escalating emotion as if throwing a switch. He was on the verge of something great . . . of something truly wondrous. No longer would he be locked away, hidden from the world because of his mental infirmities or his mother’s fear that he might be hurt again.
The voice said, No more . . . he was destined for greatness.
Isaac stood and brushed the dirt and leaves from his clothing. They were wet, but he felt no discomfort.
The voice had seen to that.
At first it had scared him, echoing strangely inside his head, fighting to be heard over the static of the bad radio, but now . . .
Isaac began walking, a certain spring in his step, an excitement that hadn’t been there before. He was reminded of the feeling he’d had when he’d looked out that screen door at the bicycle leaning against the tree, and he was eager to see what was in store for him.
Where the voice might take him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Sidney could hear them calling to her.
Trying to bring her back from . . .
Where am I exactly?
The sky was gray, filled with storm clouds. She could see dark buildings—skyscrapers, some burning.
Is this Boston? New York? Tokyo?
Perhaps it was all of them.
Perhaps she was seeing what was happening all across the planet—
Or would be happening?
And that terrified her.
She wanted to break the connection but feared that there might be something there that she could use—that they could use—and continued to allow the images to pound her relentlessly. She saw swarms of insects, packs of animals patrolling the body-strewn streets seeking out humans.
To kill.
Homes and businesses under siege . . . people falling beneath the onslaught of claws, fangs, beaks, and pincers.
Again she tried to look away . . .
And found something else.
Visions of a world before the animal attacks. Before the storms. Scenes of daily life . . . people going about their lives, their business.