Shark Bait - Kayla Lynch

Kyle walked down to the end of the dock, his fishing pole all fixed up and his bait ready, as the boat pulled over next to it. The boat was what should have started the alarm bells on this venture. It was much bigger than a deep sea fishing boat should be, and slightly rusted around the bottom. Kyle's high school friend, Frank, called out for him to come on board, and he climbed onto the ship with experienced grace. Just the previous morning, Kyle had been sitting on the porch of the his house, his folks had left early that morning for their every day jobs. The salty sea air that entered his nose calmed him down a little. It felt like decades since he had smelt that familiar scent of the sound, or heard the constant roll of the waves on the sand. It felt like it had been centuries since he heard the old fishermen spouting clever lies, or the tourists hogging the beaches during summer time. His eyes were closed, enjoying the sounds and the smells far more than the view of the LIE that the porch offered.

“'Ey! Winchesta, dat you?” The familiar South Bronx accent shattered Kyle's moment of peace. The man in front of him was shorter than Kyle, but stockier, wrapped in leather clothing. Kyle chuckled as the man stumbled off of his motorcycle.

“And what are you doing on this side of the Throggs Neck, Franky?”

“I 'eard a ruma dat you was back in town, so I got my ass over 'ere.” He sat down next to the returning veteran and shook his hand. “So, been back long?”

“Two days,” Kyle said. He moved the chair so that he could see Frank better. He had gained some weight, but other than that, he seemed the exact same as he was during high school, before he got kicked out anyway. “How's the folks?”

“Been betta, been worse – ya know,” Frank said with a shrug. “Yoa's?”

“They're...happy.” He couldn't find another word for it. There was a nervous tension when he was alone with them, but they were as genuinely gleeful that he was home as he was.

“Well...dat's good. 'Ey, wha' was it like overseas? Fightin' off dose damned terrorists?” The first and the worst question asked. The words might change slightly, but everyone had to ask it. Kyle's eyes darkened as he lowered his gaze. Most people waited for a response, even after this, but anyone who knew him well enough, knew that if Kyle avoided eye contact, the topic should probably be avoided. So Frank changed topics to his new job at the Daily News and how he was following the latest politician's scandal.

After about an hour of conversation, Frank said he had to go. The photographer was probably done “developing” the photos, and he needed to get back to the building. Before he left, he turned around and said,

“'Ey, a few pals o' mine and I are goin' on a boat ta go deep sea fishin' this Saturday. Wanna come along?” All he had to say was 'fishing'.

“You bet! When and where?”

So it was that Kyle went to the marina at six o'clock that Saturday morning ready to catch a few fish. Since the others on board were all strangers to Kyle, Frank began the introductions.

“Kyle, dis is Julio, Dan and 'is brotha Joe, and Tony. Dey'll be alongside us dis time 'round. Everyone, dis 'ere's Kyle – be nice now.” Kyle nodded his head in greeting. Julio was even shorter than Frank, with a black goatee that was barely grown in. Dan, on the other hand, was the tallest man there with a thick beard with multiple colors in it that sort of fascinated the veteran. His brother was shorter by an inch at the maximum, with gray hair already taken over the top of his skull. Tony was the shortest and the most round, with eyes that popped out of his sockets like balloons.

“Let's 'ead out!” Julio took the helm and started out towards the ocean. Towards the island, the water was a little murky thanks to the Hudson and East Rivers dumping out whatever toxic waste it bore. Yet, out in the Atlantic it was a little bluer, and smelled fresher than over by the marina. The sky was beginning to darken, promising rain.

“Hey, Franky – you think this is all right?”

“Yeah, we should be good out here. Don't be a worrier, Kyle!” The veteran took another look at the sky, and felt the wind pick up. They know what they're doing, he thought, leaving the subject be.

It was a few miles before their destination that Dan came over to Kyle, who was doing a last minute check of his pole. Kyle looked up and saw the long case, and recognized what it was. How couldn't he?

“Your the one from overseas, right?”

“I'm not from overseas,” Kyle said, standing up and placing his rod aside. “But I just got back from my tour. Why?”

“Then I'm going to guess you know how to use this better than anyone else here.” He pushed the case into the veteran's hands before going below deck. Kyle's eyes narrowed as he opened the case. He had been right – it was a Remington long rifle. Simple enough to use – an ancestor to the sniper rifle he used in Afghanistan. Yet the question running through his mind wasn't 'how do I use it' it was why do I need it? He was about to ask one of the others, when the boat stopped, and both Dan and Joe were coming up with a gargantuan sized bucket filled with what smelled like rotting flesh. It was about then that the thunder started to roll in the distance.

“What the hell is going on?” Kyle asked, approaching Frank. The man had an impish glow in his eye that the veteran did not like. “What – the – hell – is – going – on?” He repeated.

“I told ya,” the impish eyed man said. “We are fishin'.”

“For what?”

“De top fish. Dump it!” Joe and Dan dumped out the bucket, revealing that the insides consisted of fish heads, blood that Kyle hoped belonged to fish, and various internal organs.

As the storm approached, the bloodied water had summoned the beastly fish. Twenty fins circled the boat as Frank and Tony got the net ready.

“Get ready for de chaos!” Frank shouted. Suddenly, the thunder released a loud clap of its fury, and the lightning danced across the sky. The net was released and it summoned with its return, a big Great White. Men avoided getting pelted by hailstones as the storm grew in ferocity, and the shark wriggled, twisting its body to get out of the situation. To live.“Kill it, Kyle! Shoot de damn monster!” That was the end of it.

Kyle was in Afghanistan, between Kandahar and Helmand. His unit had been ambushed, and he was cut off from the rest of them. He raised his rifle and backed off initially – after all he was a sniper, not used to fighting in close quarters - however the four that had him cornered weren't about to let him go alive. He fired twice, one dropped dead on the spot. The other was also a dead man, but he was still walking. Before his final breath, he shot back at Kyle, who managed to get away with only a bruise thanks to the Kevlar. The other two began firing at him, but he had another two shots out of his rifle, and the third attacker dropped. The fourth had gotten away from his bullet, and pulled back the trigger – the barrel aimed at Kyle's chest. The soldier had never been so thankful to hear the click of an empty chamber. The last shot hit his opponent between the eyes, and just like that the battle was over.

The leader of his unit, Sergeant Major Eric Beretta and he were the only ones who made it out of the skirmish.

“Easy there, sharp shot,” the Sergeant Major had said. Kyle's gaze had fallen on one of the enemies he had shot down – the boy couldn't have been more that sixteen. He was absorbed in this fact, staring into the blank gaze. “Come on back to us, boy! Come on back! It was you or him, so get up and come back to the present time.”

He did come back, to an equally gruesome scene. The storm had passed The shark limply laid on the deck, no longer able to retaliate. In his gills there were two bullet holes. Frank, and Dan moaned in pain, each grazed by the one of the five bullets he had sent out of the gun. Frank's wound was to the arm, but Dan was bleeding from his leg. He probably wouldn't be able to walk any time soon. The other three were cowering below deck, perfectly content to stink to high heaven as long as they were alive.

“Wha' de 'ell?!” Frank snapped as he stood up. “Wha' de 'ell was dat?!”

“Sorry - “ Kyle started, putting down the rifle.

“Sorry?! Ya nearly killed us all ya sick bastard!” The veteran felt his blood begin to come to a boil.

“Get us back to port,” Kyle snarled. “You have your damned prize, hope it was worth it.”

“Is dat what dat was about?!”

“Hell no! Use your goddamn head for once, it's not there as an ornament! We need to get back, and we need to make sure you get help.”

“Looks like I ain't de one dat needs de 'elp.” Kyle had Frank cornered in the front of the boat, his fists clenching around the man's shirt.

“I'm done!” He snarled. “And unless you want to continue with gun wounds, I'd get our asses back to shore!” He let Frank go. Julio had listened to Kyle's order and already had begun for home. Frank shoved passed the veteran, and helped the others below deck. Kyle's blood cooled slightly as he leaned against the railing.

“They do not...comprenden, your...eh...what is word?” Julio struggled.

“Situation?”

“Sí, eso. (Yes, that.) It could have been...worse!” He said the last word with triumph, happy that he remembered it. Perhaps it was this vocal contradiction that returned his blood to its normal temperature and caused him to laugh.

“Yeah, five of us could be corpses next to the shark...” He trailed off. His eyes twitched a little. What if the wounds were worse than simple grazes? What if someone had gotten killed because his brain made him think he was in the war zone? What if it had been his folks? He finished his thought quietly, so no one on deck could hear him, “We could have been the shark bait.”