Shark Beast 2: Paranormal Sharkitivity Read online

  The woods stretched out in both directions, seeming to crowd the little dirt road, squash it almost out of existence. Quinn looked into the woods, all tangled with shadows; dripping moss; laden with a bit of foot fog, even. Moldy fog, if such a thing was possible --all green looking. Gee, how romantic.

  He snorted. Where is this place, anyway?

  After a bored moment, he pulled out a cigarette and ... damn, no light. Patting down all his pockets -- no luck -- so, with a reluctant yawn, he stepped over to the van, opened the passenger side door, and reached over for the glove box.

  It took a moment to get it open, but -- pop -- open it did, and Quinn reached through the mess, looking for some matches.

  Papers, papers, papers, then ...

  He stopped for a moment. Then pulled out an elaborate-looking necklace. A kind of sad recognition creased his expression. He turned it over, slowly.

  On the back of the necklace, glinting even in the setting sunlight, an inscription, that read: "To Ramsey, with all my love and heart ... forever Bishop"

  Quinn stood there, as the shadows from the woods crept toward him. Quiet, for a very long time.

  Then, with a sigh, disgusted for even thinking of it, let alone doing it--he slipped the necklace into one of his many coat pockets, closed the glove box, and stepped out of the van.

  ~ ~ ~

  The sun was slipping somewhere deep in the woods when Ramsey finally returned.

  A very decisive look on her face, as she saw the van--but no Quinn. "Where are you?" Her impatience flared. "YO! PAIN IN THE BUTT!"

  From somewhere, out in the woods: "Have a guess--"

  "Well, zip it and get out here. We got a problem."

  Quinn stumbled his way out of the woods, annoyed, caught in mid-zip. "What is it, now?"

  "He needs a doctor."

  "What?" He looked up from his pants.

  "Something's wrong with him. He needs a doctor."

  "Who needs a doctor?"

  "Nick."

  "Who's Nick?"

  "Who do you think!"

  "Oh, here we go."

  "Look, he's ... something's wrong. Something..." She shrugged, puckered. "He needs a doctor."

  "And you need a psychiatrist, but what's that got to do with me?"

  "You're a doctor, dummy."

  "Oh, Ramsey, I'm not ... I'm definitely not in the mood for this. I had a bad morning, okay -- We're leaving. Just tell him we're leaving, and let's leave." He headed toward the van.

  Ramsey, arms stubbornly crossed, said, "I'm telling you --"

  "And I told you, if you tried pulling some of your usual tricks, that was it. Enough with this, let's go."

  "I'm not pulling anything. Something's wrong! I think he's sick. Real something's-wrong sick."

  "Ramsey -- I don't care!"

  "How can you say that? You're a doctor!"

  "I'm not a doctor, I'm a forensic pathologist. Call me when he's dead."

  "Please, Bishop. I promise you, it's not a trick. Something's going bad with him! Serious bad!"

  "Tough, Ramsey. Couldn't be less interested. This is a whole soap opera I couldn't care less about. At all." He pulled on the passenger side door. Locked. "Ramsey. I need the key."

  "You're not even going to look? What about your hypothetical oath? Or whatever it's called."

  "Seriously, do the clicky thing, let me in."

  "Something's wrong! I told you! We can't just leave him like that!"

  "We can if you unlock the doors."

  "Just check him!"

  "No! Understand me? Absolutely not!"

  "Just make sure he's not going to die, okay! Can you do that? Can you do that much for me! I know it means nothing to you, but it means a little something to me! I'm doing all what you want, cancelling the weekend, listening to your 'plan,' do me this little thing! Just give me some indication he's not going to die out here, okay!"

  "Okay, how's this," Quinn said, affecting a deep doctor voice, "He's not going to die, Ramsey."

  "Please. Just take a look."

  "No, no, no, no and no." With a curt nod, Quinn added, "No. See? It's unanimous."

  He tugged on the still-locked door, looked over at Ramsey, who stubbornly slipped the key chain down the front of her blouse.

  "Oh, don't tempt me, girlie."

  Ramsey stood there, stubbornly crossing her arms across her treasure-bearing chest.

  Which caused Quinn to laugh. "Ramsey, your chest is not exactly untraversed territory. If you think it's going to embarrass me to go diving for those keys, you and your shirt are in for a very big surprise."

  She gave him an I-dare-you look.

  He gave her an I'm-warning-you look.

  She gave him a don't-even-think-about-it look.

  He gave her an okay-you-win-I-give-up look.

  Then bolted toward her.

  "AHHHHHHH! Pervert!" Ramsey yowled, running around the back of the van.

  She made a sharp turn, changed her mind with another even sharper turn, and trampled over the makeshift bridge into the woods, with Bishop Quinn in hot pursuit.

  ~ ~ ~

  Deep in the darkening woods.

  Ramsey, running madly, fumbled with her blouse front, trying to get the keys out of her chest. Quinn stumbled and tripped after her.

  And: deeper in the woods.

  Ramsey darted behind some trees, tilting her head, listening for Quinn's approach. Nothing. Still trying to get the keys out of her blouse. She took a tentative step from behind the tree. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Quinn pounced and grabbed her from behind, sticking his hand down her shirt.

  "Hey! You pervert freak! Lemme go!"

  They tangled, tussled, and then -- POP! She backhanded him right in the nose.

  "DOW! My dose!" he coughed.

  "Serves you right, you dirty creep!" she howled, adjusting her blouse. Jingling the keys in front of his throbbing nose, she took off with a wild cackle.

  "Ohhh, Rabsey!" Quinn sniffed, checking for blood. "I can't breed!"

  He wiped his nose on his sleeve, then took off after her.

  ~ ~ ~

  And into the woods: deeper still.

  4

  The Boyfriend

  Somehow, even in the shadows, they made it to the campsite.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  - CHAPTER ONE -

  The Volleyball Star

  With The Metal Leg Brace

  A terrified young woman stumbled into a nightstand, then--grabbing the first thing she saw--fell to the floor, and crawled under the brass bed to hide.

  And she began typing.

  A few miles away, a girl she'd never met was sleeping in a big comfy chair.

  ~ ~ ~

  HELP ME

  Phoebe didn't notice it at first. And she also didn't notice, a minute or so later, when this little bit appeared in that same little window.

  I BEG YOU

  But give her credit--even in her drowsy holiday slumber, she sensed something. Enough to stir a bit, lift her head. Her vision shifted and wandered. Even in her groggy state, something seemed... off. Still, she didn't notice the messages that kept appearing on the computer.

  OH PLEAS

  PLEASE HELP>ME

  AM TRAPPED

  She paused...but nothing registered. Phoebe leaned back in her sister's plush office chair, gave her leg-brace a slight comfort-adjustment, then slowly drifted... back... to sleep...

  THEYRE SCEAMING THEY"RE SCREM

  HELP ME

  HELP NME

  HELP ME>

  IM TRAPPED

  Midnight arrived, and Phoebe slept right through it, on into the first few moments of the new year -- while, again, less than three feet away...

  O NO

  PLESE HELP IT"S SOAWFUL

  Ten minutes passed. Phoebe was having a dream, but something intruded --Johnny Depp started to fade -- no, wait, Johnny--

  Phoebe blinked, gazed blearily around the room, then down to find her sister's cat in deep battle with he
r loose leg-brace strap. Phoebe tilted her oversized new year's novelty glasses--

  "Hey, you, fuzzo. You have any idea what you just interrupted--?"

  That's when she finally noticed the messages on the screen.

  A pinky to the big novelty glasses as Phoebe so-very-very-reluctantly sat up. A yawn; a stretch; she leaned in for a grouchy squint.

  OH HELP ME SOPLEASEH ELP

  "Hmmm." She sipped her luker-than-lukewarm beer.

  The cat made another chubby-awkward pounce. Phoebe grunted, giving the cat a very unwanted splash. A fuzzy sneeze, then -- out -- into the hall. A new message popped up, adding to the already long one-sided chat.

  DANGER DOWN THERE

  THEYRE SCEAMING THEY"RE SCREM

  HELP ME

  HELP ME

  HELPP

  IHELP MEE

  HEELP MEEEE

  Without really thinking, Phoebe yawned as she leaned forward and lazily typed a reply.

  you're rather repetitive

  Are you 'faced?

  Waited a second, then typed:

  Because

  you sound 'faced

  Sat back, slyly adjusting her visor. A moment; then, popping on the screen:

  I MISS THE CLOUDS

  Phoebe glanced over her shoulder. "'Faced," she nodded, decisively. Chewie, still deeply offended, patted thin-eyed into the room. Stared at Phoebe. Phoebe stared back. Chewie gave nothing back; just wandered over to his Star Wars-themed Ewok cat-scratch cat bed (sister Hannah was a movie nut, what do you want) over in the corner.

  Suddenly:

  O YES!

  O THANKFUL THANKTHANKUY

  PLEAS DON"T LEAVEME

  I NEED U HELP

  "Yikes. What have I done?" Phoebe muttered, watching the messages pour in.

  BEG ME OP{LEASE

  IBEGBEGBEG YU

  PLEASETALK ARE U

  OUTTHERE>?

  U THERE?

  U THEREE?

  "Double yikes." She sneezed; shook her tousled head. "I am waaay too drunk for this."

  Typing quickly:

  You have reached a wrong number.

  She clicked the window closed. Leaned back; took a sip.

  "And that, my sad nerd friend, is the end of that." Phoebe slumped back with a bouncy creak in the chair, scrunched up into her sweet and sleepy arms-and-legs-every-which-a-way passing out position, and then, rocked a secret smile and a pleasant whisper. "Oh, Mr. Depp, now where were we...?"

  And, for the moment anyway, that was indeed the end of that.

  Oh, by the way, did we mention Phoebe's sister has a thing about rules?

  - CHAPTER TWO -

  H A N N A H 'S R U L E S

  Phoebe's sister -- 30-year-old Hannah Quinn -- was more than happy to let her little sister, in her time of need, and personal disgrace, get away from her self-created troubles and do a little house-and-cat-sitting.

  She did, however, have a few rules.

  - 1 -

  You May Use The DVD Player -- but not the stereo. I know you like to play it loud, but I'm having a war with my neighbor as it is, and I feel it's best not to take chances. I've called the police on them, twice, for their noise -- that dog of theirs! -- and don't want them to have any excuse to do the same to me, just to spite.

  - 2 -

  No SMOKING (of ANY Kind). Especially the "any" kind.

  - 3 -

  No Alcohol. (Only the pre-measured champagne pitcher in the fridge = New Year's ONLY.)

  - 4 -

  No BOYFRIENDS -- girls only. (Pre-approved; no more than 2 guests; no sleepovers)

  - 5 -

  NO PARTIES !!! (See above !!!)

  - 6 -

  When you use the microwave, please clean it. All supplies are in the corner cabinet. When you are finished, return the supplies to their assigned, labeled shelves. And, this is important: tighten all caps. Repeat: TIGHTEN ALL CAPS.

  - 7 -

  DO NOT USE: the hibachi, the wok, the fondue set, or the George Foreman grill. MICROWAVE ONLY. (And clean after every use, please-thank-you)

  - 8 -

  The BMW, as you can imagine, is off-limits. The emergency keys are hidden. Do not try to find or "bogart" them. I'll know.

  - 9 -

  And whatever you do, do not use my new computer.

  - CHAPTER THREE -

  P H O E B E Q U I N N 'S

  T O P T E N

  N E W Y E A R 'S R E S O L U T I O N S

  10) No more boyfriends

  9) No more boyfriends

  8) No more boyfriends

  7) No more boyfriends

  6) No more boyfriends

  5) No more boyfriends

  4) No more boyfriends

  3) No more boyfriends

  2) No more boyfriends

  (except Johnny Depp)

  1) Look Out For Yourself, Everyone Else Is On Their Own

  - CHAPTER FOUR -

  A D E S P E R A T E

  E - R E Q U E S T

  DOWNLOAD INTERRUPTED

  Phoebe blinked, jolted forward -- "Huhh, whaa--" cold out of just-getting-there dream slumber. The chair twisted one way; her leg brace twisted the other. Nearby, over in tacky Ewok Cat-scratching Land, a very startled and ever-increasingly annoyed Chewie gave a little flip, and darted out of the room.

  DOWNLOAD INTERRUPTED

  DOWNLOAD INTERRUPTED

  DOWNLOAD INTERRUPTED

  ... as Dean Martin gently disappeared, one illegal download at a time.

  Realization came slowly, but gloomily:

  "My downloads."

  More realization:

  "My music."

  Worse yet:

  "My Dino!"

  She chucked an unwrapped chocolate Kiss at the screen -- thunk -- it bounced to the ground. Outside, the sounds of pudgy paw-steps, bounding up the steps rapid-crazy, skidding into the room. A breathless Chewie, wide-eyed and antennae-eared, scanned the room for -- there! He arched; butt-wriggled; then pounced on the hapless chocolate prey. The battle was on. Phoebe, who normally would have splashed him with beer, was busy simmering at the computer.

  Something popped up in the middle of the screen. There, blinking: a digital banner cartoon mailbox, complete with tongue, winking eyes, and animated red flag. A word balloon puffed out of the mailbox's flapping "mouth" ...

  It read:

  YOU HAVE A

  GROOVYMOVIEFAN.COM PRIVATE E-MAIL!

  WOULD YOU LIKE TO

  READ IT NOW?

  Phoebe answered by giving the screen the finger. Then she noticed a new message in the corner of the monitor.

  PLEASE READ THE E_MAIL

  Phoebe sighed. "Dude, nerd, I ..."

  PLESEIF YOU DONT BELEVE THEN I"LLGO

  "Dude -- " Phoebe bunched her lips; sighed, turned to Chewie, sitting there, with the Kiss hanging out of his mouth by the little ribbon, conquered and ready for the trophy case.

  IF YOU DONT BELEVE

  I PROMISE

  I"LL GO

  IBEGIIBEG

  Chewie stared into Phoebe's big toy sunglasses. Then instantly lost interest, taking his defeated chocolate to the hall. Phoebe frowned, quite sourly. Inched her finger to the DELETE button.

  IBEG

  "This is going to go on all night, isn't it, oh persistent nerd?" she sighed wearily. "Going to keep bugging me, and messing up my music pilferin', all through the new year, huh."

  JUSTREAD

  THENI"LL GO NEVER

  .. READ THE E-MAIL ...

  READ IT PLESE ...

  PLEAS HURRRY

  "Guess that's a big fat 'yes,'" Phoebe sighed; pinky-adjusted her glasses; scratched her brace leg; sighed again. Looked longingly at the sweet DELETE button.

  "Man, this better be good," she mumbled finally, cooling the bottle against her cheek. "And I mean, Johnny Depp good."

  She gave the screen a rueful look, even as her finger still dangled over the DELETE button. Then, moved it begrudgingly.

  And clicked o
pen the e-mail.

  - CHAPTER FIVE -

  M r s. M a r g u e r i t e

  Exactly one hour later -- 1:59 a.m. -- a wide-eyed Phoebe Quinn stumbled down the steps (almost fell, twice), hobbled across the bright red above-and-beyond-tacky supershag carpet (shin-bumping sis's Japanese "The Teahouse of the August Moon" table, ouch) --

  -- and out the front door.

  thump-CLANK-thump --

  Her sister's house steepled the creamy-green peak of a tall minutely-manicured hill -- Phoebe almost fell down that, too, but again managed (barely) to keep to her feet and crutches, hobbling across the plush yard, past the small rock garden, the gang of freak-eyed yard gnomes, the beyond waxed cleaner than clean utterly germ free don't touch don't smudge and DEFINITELY DO NOT SCRATCH BMW, the ornate, insanely-elaborate sculptured bird fountain (that sparkled like diamonds in the moonglow) ...