Terror from the deep, p.1
Terror From The Deep, page 1
TERROR FROM THE DEEP
Alex Laybourne
Copyright 2016 by Alex Laybourne
Chapter 1
The fist did not break his nose, but caused sufficient damage to produce a thick stream of warm blood. From his position on the floor, Troy Deane could do nothing but shake his head, trying to clear his jarred brain and spur him back to life.
The man on top of him would not stop until he knocked Troy out, or until the referee called a stop to the match. Both options were a direct contradiction to Troy’s own plans.
Troy felt his opponent adjust his position, as he tried to move past his guard and into the full-mount. Experience told Troy he only had one shot, so he waited, lowering his leg just a little, helping his opponent to move towards the mount. With a wild thrust, Troy drove his hips upward, and twisted his upper body.
With his opponent caught momentarily off guard, Troy spun and slid out through the man’s legs. It was a risky move, but the only option Troy had, if he wanted to continue fighting, and stop being used as a punch bag. For a heart-stopping moment, Troy left his body fully exposed, giving up his back in order to escape. If his opponent reacted quickly enough, or predicted his escape attempt, then he would be helpless to a submission move.
Troy scrambled backward, freed himself, and jumped to his feet. The crowd went wild, cheering and hollering their appreciation. Troy pushed the din to the back of his mind. His years competing in the cage taught him that all the majority of the crowd only wanted to see flying fists and feet, and blood, they always wanted blood. Many found the technical aspect of fighting and grappling too boring and slow. They wanted action, and lots of it.
Troy felt the cage against his back, and took a step away. He needed room to work. Mark Hunter turned and moved to engage. With no time to breathe, they came together again. Hunter was a remarkable fighter, and at twenty-four years of age, many regarded him as being the brightest prospect in the game. A naturally light-footed light heavyweight, he moved like a man several weight classes lower, but packed a heavyweight’s punch. Quick and solid in wrestling, he represented the complete MMA package.
Shooting for a takedown, Hunter came in low. He telegraphed the move; one of his favourites. When he smelled blood, Hunter became as predictable as an amateur. He would look to take the fight to the floor and work the ground-and-pound.
Troy moved ever so slightly and caught the man as he ran through. His arm slid around Hunter’s chest. He moved to grab his left arm with his right, but Hunter’s power carried them both through too far. For a moment, Troy found himself fully inverted as he spun over Hunter’s back. Landing on his feet, the rest of his body followed through. Hunter left the floor, twisted in a way that left him defenseless.
Troy gave a roar as he threw his opponent over his hip and onto the floor. Hunter’s head bounced on the hard canvas base, and brought the crowd to their feet.
The upkick flashed toward him. Troy weaved out of the way with ease and dropped his body forward, his large fist swinging towards his opponent’s unguarded chin. The moment the shot landed, the balance of the bout shifted.
His fist caught Hunter on the jaw, and for a moment, his hands dropped away, leaving Troy free to swing with his fists, landing land three clean shots, bloodying up his opponent’s face.
The bell rang, and for a moment, Troy thought the ref had stopped the match.
“You got this in the bag,” Troy’s trainer spoke as he fell onto his stool. His nose burned from the shot he had taken, but the flow of blood could be stemmed, and his vision had returned to normal. “You’ve got one more round, and he’s going to fall. You hurt him at the end. You hurt him bad. Keep working your boxing. Low kicks to the outside; he’s favoring his left leg. I want to see a low kick followed by hard combinations. Punches in bunches, baby, punches in bunches.”
Troy sat on his stool, and listened to the instructions Freddie Barone gave him. He nodded and allowed the strategy to form in his mind. He flinched as Terry, his cut man, worked on his nose, and drank when Joe pushed the water bottle into his mouth. Yet for the whole minute he sat on the stool, he never took his eyes off the opposite corner.
At thirty-six years old, many thought Troy’s best days were behind him, but he had fought his way back to the top, taking out the younger man in one grueling match after another. He had fought more times than could possibly be considered healthy. If not for a two-year break as the result of a career-threatening knee injury, he would have been a champion many years ago and most likely retired by now. Through the years, Troy had learned one key thing about the break in between rounds. What the coach had to say was important. His instructions were to be trusted and followed, allowing a little room for individual creativity. The key thing to do was to watch the opposition corner. Troy could tell a lot about how a fight was going based on what happened during the round break. If the corner was frantic, rubbing and wiping in their attempts to stop the bleeding, then he knew he had the guy on the ropes.
More often than not, he would hold his gaze long enough to make eye contact with his opponent. In those moments, just before the round started and the fighters got back to their feet, that the game faces slipped and the real faces could be seen.
“You got this. Knock this guy out and we are the number one contenders. This is your time, baby. Your fucking time.” Freddie and Troy went way back. They started working together long before the big time promotions came calling. Their relationship went beyond that of coach and student, it went deeper than father and son. They were brothers in arms, bonded and forged in the blood of the battlefield.
The bell rang and the two warriors moved into the middle of the cage. Troy studied his opponent, his eyes locked on his face. There, the moment, the look. He strode forward, his chest puffed out, his aching back straight. He could taste victory. They touched gloves and the final five minutes began.
Hunter feinted for a takedown, hoping to trick Troy into a reaction. Troy stood firm and threw a stiff jab. He followed this with a quick combination. He pushed forward, throwing bombs, backing his opponent up. He ducked and dodged a head kick, but found himself turned around. In an instant, Hunter assumed control and pinned him against the fence. The cold wire of the cage pressed into his back, his opponent pressing into him from the front. Hunter drove his shoulders against Troy’s chest.
Troy couldn’t breathe. He gasped for breath, punching and pushing trying to find a way to free himself. He threw out his knee, connecting with something. He adjusted his grip on his opponent’s shoulders and threw another knee. Hunter buckled from the blow. Another knee and he could shove himself free. Hunter moved back, while Troy pushed himself from the cage. He threw a kick, aiming for the welt that had risen on Hunter’s thigh.
He dropped his left shoulder but came through with a right hook. His fist caught Hunter on the chin and sent him stumbling. He wheeled his arms as he moved backwards, stunned. Troy ran, leaping into the air, cocking his right hand as he rose, and throwing it forward as he came down. The Superman Punch was a weapon Troy loved to use in a fight. He caught Hunter flush and sent the man to the canvas. Troy landed hard and froze for a moment as pain tore through his right knee. Fueled by adrenaline, however, Troy lunged at his downed opponent, throwing a succession of hammer fists to the side of Hunter’s bloodied face.
The crowd went wild, driven on by the sight of blood and the looming upset victory. Troy was lost to the moment, the pain in his knee forgotten. He didn’t hear the ref calling for the bell, and got in one more hammer fist before the big man in the striped shirt threw himself between the pair.
The fight was over. Troy had won. He fell to the floor, hands covering his face as he raised his head to the heavens. His redemption had arrived.
Troy’s corner crew mobbed him, while the medical staff busied themselves with Hunter, who was still lying on the floor. Troy waited, not wanting to celebrate just yet. His opening came, and he moved forward to check on his opponent’s condition. His leaping blow broke Hunter’s jaw, the resultant hammer fists causing all manner of trauma to the nose and mouth area.
Troy refused to celebrate his win until the doctors had told him Hunter was alright. He embraced the man who had pushed him to the limit, and then turned to his corner, ready to party.
Long after the crowd had started to make their way home, Troy still sat in the changing rooms. He was naked, not even wearing a towel to cover his modesty. He had a bag of ice strapped to his knee. He did not hear Freddie come in, or acknowledge his presence until his trainer clapped him on the shoulder.
“You did it, kiddo. I knew you had it in you.” Freddie looked to be just as happy as Troy at the victory. Not surprising, as technically Freddie retired three years earlier when he turned sixty-two, but he kept Troy on the books, and now he too found rejuvenation in his boy’s second wind.
“Yeah, but my knee popped out when I hit that superman. Damn thing just went as I landed.” Troy winced as he tried to stretch his injured leg.
“Well, we ain’t spring chickens anymore. Aches and pains is just part of growing old. The title fight won’t be for a while yet, so we have plenty of time to piece you back together, Humpty Dumpty.” Freddie slapped his hand on Troy’s bare back and leaned in close, so their heads were touching. “I love ya, kiddo.”
“Thanks. I think I need a holiday. A little bit of fun in the sun.” Troy raised his head, his movements slow and sluggish. Everything ached, and in the morning, it would only be worse.
“I don’t b lame you. I tell you what, they just opened this new place down in Mexico, a resort of something. My daughter was just talking about it the other day. It’s some super special island they built or something. You like the water, they got all sorts of diving, and snorkeling shit going on.” Freddie stood in the middle of the locker room. “Take a break, champ. We will be waiting when you come home.” Freddie turned and left, leaving Troy to his thoughts.
He always took his time after a fight. There was a process involved. The fight game was not a pretty one. The man he became inside the cage was a different beast to the man who lived outside of it. Everybody talked about prepping for a fight, about getting into the zone. What they didn’t mention was getting back out again once the fight ended. Troy needed the time after the fight to reflect, to allow his body to calm, transition back into the outside the ring persona.
A single man, with no ex-wives or children he could go and visit, Troy led a simple life. He had amassed enough money to keep himself going after retirement, but not enough to live a life of leisure.
Leaving the stadium, he drove home to his apartment. A nice building with good tenants, the living areas were spacious enough to meet Troy’s minimal needs and tastes. He stopped at a hamburger restaurant on the way home. The visit was one of the older components of his post-fight ritual. So much so that after several years of the same process, the manager was always conveniently placed behind the drive through window just as Troy came in.
Troy’s knee ached by the time he closed his apartment door and placed his greasy dinner on the table. By the time he went to bed, the joint became stiff and tender to the touch. Come morning, the swelling had set in, the joint growing to twice its normal size.
Troy did not have to try hard to find the place Freddie had mentioned. The website painted the resort to be a haven, a safe place of refuge for those looking for a stylish getaway. Fully inclusive, it had everything Troy wanted in a holiday. The holiday would be Troy’s first real break from life since his accident. He had been training every day, trying to claw his way back up the rankings.
He booked the ten-day break before lunch, and spent the afternoon packing. He didn’t leave for two days, but wanted to gauge how much he still needed to buy in order to be ready.
Troy tried his best to ignore his knee, but by the time midday rolled around, the swelling had not gone down, and the pain refused to budge. Limping through his flat, Troy pulled out a lock box and twisted the rollers to the correct combination. He sat down at his dining table, pulling out a syringe and a small vial of fluid.
Troy winced as he jabbed the needle into his swollen joint. The cortisone did not stand any chance of curing his knee, but the jab would buy him some time, and at least let him get to Mexico. Once there, he would rest it, maybe even get a massage or two.
Everybody left Troy alone for the first day after his fight. Another custom that had built up over the years.
Troy understood the concern in Freddie’s voice when he called him early that afternoon.
“Everything okay?” his coach asked.
“Yep, all good at this end. I just wanted to let you know I’ve booked a break at that place you mentioned. I have to say, the place looks good.” Troy sat on his sofa, his leg resting on the coffee table, further elevated by a pile of cushions.
“That’s great, kiddo. You need a rest. When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Perfect. How’s your knee?”
“Still there. I just needed to get some sleep,” Troy lied. “You were right, it’s just age playing tricks on me.”
“I’m glad. Where’s your head at?” Freddie made no attempt to hide his concerns.
“I’m tired, and sore, but I’m the number one contender, baby. I’m ready for Hendricks,” Troy lied.
“That’s my boy! Well, you take your rest, kiddo, and when you’re back, we’re going after the gold.”
Chapter 2
Deep beneath the ocean surface, a shark swam. The light did not penetrate so far into the water, but the shark did not need to see in order to hunt. It could sense the presence of prey all around it. The sea was full of nourishment. Its kingdom had no boundaries.
The shark moved through the water; its senses were on fire, impulses came from everywhere. They moved in a wave, hitting the beast from all sides. They were enough to disorient the creature and leave it close to stationary, something the shark could ill-afford.
The rumble rolled through the water, and while the shark could not see it, the seabed shook. A small crack traced along the ground, running in a jagged line along the edge of the quake. The gap widened as the pressure from beneath the earth’s crust found a release. The rush of bubbles hit the shark, startling the creature.
The shark was big. It knew this. While not the largest thing in the ocean, the shark was larger than most. It did not know fear, even when up against bigger creatures. Yet as the rumble subsided, and the rush of bubbles reduced, something had changed in the water.
The change was subtle; other creatures in the area did not seem to notice. The school of fish that passed above the shark seemed oblivious. The shark was a greater predator than them, able to sense such changes to the environment, and able to understand that it was in a bad place.
The shark turned around, swimming out into deeper waters. The cracks in the ocean floor deepened, widening until the shark could sense the movement coming from beneath.
Hunger kicked in. A need to feed, regardless of whether what it sensed was a source of sustenance or not. The shark angled its body and sank deeper, its belly scratching on the seabed.
The strong impulses came in a rush. The shark pushed its body forward at a faster pace, racing through the water, diving, its mouth poised to snatch anything that came its way.
Powerful jaws opened; long, thick teeth were barred in the darkness. The shark dove, its hunger growing like a rage. Jaws snapped shut, the body thrusting itself forward. The shark felt pain, and then nothing. The fight was over, and two of the three sections of its body fell away from the giant mouth and floated down to the seabed. Blood further clouded the disturbed water, shrouding the giant beast as it pushed its body through the crack in the ground.
The taste of blood and flesh filled its head with sensations long since forgotten. The beast had risen, and the world regained its top predator.
The two remaining sections of the great white hit the seabed and were instantly attacked by the beast’s offspring. Their hunger equal to their mothers, their existence driven by the need to kill and feed. Hunger was all they understood. The remains of the shark were destroyed, even the bones crushed and remaining fragments pulled away by the tide.
The sea settled, the change to their ecosystem not yet recognized, but the creatures were hungry, and could sense where the best food lay. They moved in a group, a gang intent on destroying anything that crossed their path.
Chapter 3
Sonia Marcos was sitting in the kitchen area of the Amity Three research vessel two miles off the Mexican coast. She couldn’t sleep, a strange occurrence for her, especially when out on the water. Normally, the rocking of the boat and the peace she found on the ocean lulled her to sleep in a matter of moments.
Something troubled her, played with her mind and made her restless, but she could not put her finger on what exactly. Their trip was almost over, and so far, they had found nothing in the water to cause alarm. The traces of the rig accident several months earlier were all but gone. After an extensive clean-up operation, the ocean took over and started to heal itself.
Even the calm weather and flat seas did little to soothe the uneasy feeling churned in Sonia’s gut like bad sushi.
Pushing the glass of water away, Sonia rose and walked through the ship up to the deck. She tried to be as quiet as possible. The steps creaked, regardless of how much pressure was applied to them, but she reached the deck without causing any undue commotion.
The night air was warm, stiflingly so. If Sonia had not checked the weather reports seven times that day, she would have put money on a storm rolling through come daybreak. Sonia turned her eyes to stars, their multitude creating just enough light to keep the simmering beauty of the ocean visible. The full moon was also a sight to behold, especially out on the water, away from the hustle and bustle of urban life.
