The Mayan Resurrection

23

Sunday Afternoon

The palatial south Florida mansion of billionaire Lucien J. Mabus and his wife Lilith, stretches eight hundred feet along a private pristine coastline in Manalapan, a small island town just north of Boynton Beach. The thirty-one-room, three-storey home, originally built for $21.3 million back in 1997, features a seaside swimming pool complete with waterfall and swim-up bar, two tennis courts, a fitness center, a twelve-hundred-square-foot grand salon illuminated by a six-thousand-pound crystal chandelier imported from a nineteenth-century French chateau, an observatory dome, and an eight-car garage, its floors paved in Saturnia marble. Each of the six bedroom suites has its own balcony facing the Atlantic. All of the home’s windows are self-cleaning, made with a thin metal oxide coating electrified to help rainwater to wash away loose particles.

The mansion’s staff includes two housekeepers, a chef, a licensed pilot who doubles as a chauffeur, six heavily armed security guards, and a mechanic. Robotic mowers and trimmers perpetually manicure the lawns and shrubs to incessant perfection. Every computer and control station in the home is wired to a backup fuel-cell power station located on the northern side of the property. There are three satellite dishes on the roof.

All this-for only two adults and the occasional visiting business associate.

Twenty-six-year-old Lucien Mabus, son of the late Peter Mabus, opens his mouse brown, red-rimmed eyes and gazes at himself in the ceiling mirror. His face is ashen gray, his lips-alabaster white. His eyes are sunken, surrounded by dark circles.

‘It’s just the flu,’ his personal physician has assured him. ‘You’re far too young and rich to leave us now, Lucien.’

That was sixteen days and thirty pounds ago. His personal physician had wanted him to undergo tests in a hospital, but Lilith refused. ‘Those hospitals will kill you, darling. I’m sure it’s just a bad case of food poisoning. I keep warning you about eating so much shellfish. I’ve sent the cooks home. From now on, I’ll personally be bringing you your meals, at least until you feel better.’

Lucien glances to the nightstand on his right. Prescription medicines, tissues, and a plastic beach bucket, in case he has to vomit again. A half-eaten bowl of chicken soup sits on a tray. The sight of it makes him queasy. Chicken soup… can’t she cook anything but chicken soup?

The billionaire rolls over, pulling the blanket over his shoulder. What’s all the money in the world if I’m too sick to enjoy it?

Chills fade into a hot flash, bringing with it the dreaded queasiness.

Lucien grabs the bucket and retches.

His pulse throbs in his head. His throat burns, his stomach convulsing in spasms. Flopping onto the floor, he holds his head in his hands, praying for the pain to stop.

God… what is it you want from me? Charity work? Another wing at some third-world hospital? Just tell me and end this misery.

Gathering his strength, he drags himself to his feet, the vertigo causing the bedroom to spin. Staggering forward, he heads to the bathroom-then stops, staring at his bare feet.

His toes are numb.

‘Oh, God… what’s happening to me? Lilith? Lilith!’

He stumbles out of the master bedroom and into the hallway.

‘Lilith?’

No wife. No servants. Where the hell is everyone?

He fumbles his way down the hall, the numbness spreading to his feet and ankles. He pauses at the open door to one of the guest suites, hearing voices. ‘Lilith? Lilith… you in here?’

Lucien staggers into the bedroom.

Stretched out across the king-size water bed, staring at her reflection in the ceiling mirror, is his young bride.

‘Lilith, help-’ Lucien falls to his knees, the sharp pain in his gut overwhelming. Numbness rises past his ankles to his hips. ‘Call Gill. Get me to a hospital, I think it’s my heart!’

‘No need to worry, sweetie, it’s not your heart.’

‘How… how do you know?’

‘Darling, it’s just the poison I’ve been feeding you.’

Lucien’s blood runs cold.

‘Now die like a good little rich boy, and don’t stain the carpet.’

Lucien collapses facefirst onto the plush beige rug, the numbness rising past his chest, the ringing in his ears insufficient to mute the cackle of laughter coming from his murderous wife’s voluptuous lips.

University of Miami

The Jerome Brown Memorial Athletic Center is located on the north side of the University of Miami campus, adjacent to the MTI basketball arena. In addition to its indoor track, pool, weight room, and conditioning equipment, the JBC is equipped with a press room and media center, complete with global uplink capabilities. At the heart of the facility is a circular broadcast chamber, its tinted smart-glass walls designed to conceal a myriad of cameras and lights, microphones, special effects boards, and technicians.

Diane Tanner enters the interview chamber, wearing her standard skintight designer ESPN body leotard. The voluptuous blonde takes her place opposite Samuel in an identical crushed velvet chair and adjusts her cleavage. ‘Nervous?’

‘Should I be?’

‘This is a live interview.’

‘Won’t be my first.’

‘I make you nervous, don’t I?’

‘Do you always come on to the athletes you interview?’

She smiles. ‘Only the cute ones.’

‘Stand by, Diane.’ The voice, coming from a hidden microphone. ‘Five… four… three-’

Diane switches to a more professional smile. ‘Welcome to This Week in Sports. I’m your host, Diane Tanner, and with me today is University of Miami’s star tailback, Samuel “the Mule” Agler. Sam, thanks for taking time to be with me.’ She winks.

‘My, uh… pleasure.’

‘Sam, pro scouts have already anointed you the most prolific running back ever to play in the professional collegiate ranks. Before we talk about your accomplishments on the field, I thought we’d take a quick peek into your private life. You were born in Chads Ford, Pennsylvania, is that right?’

‘According to the birth certificate.’

‘Your mother died when you were three. What happened?’

‘Drunk driver. This was before the new safety protocols.’

‘Of course. So your father, Gene, moved the two of you to Hollywood Beach, Florida, to start life over. Why Florida?’

‘Job transfer. He took over as principal at Pompano High.’

‘How old were you when you started playing football?’

‘Five or six.’

‘And the rest, as they say, is history. Star tailback your freshman year in high school. Led the nation in scoring and total yardage for four straight years. The most recruited PCAA athlete in history. Scored a perfect sixteen hundred on your entrance exams. With your scores and grades, you could have accepted an academic scholarship at Harvard.’

‘I suppose. But I wanted to stay close to home.’

‘Because you fell in love with your high-school sweetheart. How romantic.’ Diane allows the sarcasm to drip.

‘She keeps me in line.’

‘I bet she does. You don’t drink or Bliss. You donate your time to anti-drug messages. Jesus, Mule, you’re every American mother’s wet dream.’

‘Some of us were raised the right way.’

‘Hmm, now how does that old song go… “ only the good die young?” Anyway, let’s talk football. Tell us what it’s like to step out on the playing field and have 120,000 crazed fans screaming your nickname? How does it feel?’

Sam offers a half grin. ‘Feels kind of good.’

‘Good? I’d think it must feel incredible, unbelievable. When you scored that touchdown against FSU-what a rush, huh?’

‘Yeah. That one felt great.’

‘Did it?’ Diane sits back, the fly now snug in her web. ‘Let’s take a look.’

The lights dim, the smart glass becoming a circular hall of projection screens, Sam’s image on every panel.

Sam takes the pitch from his quarterback Cuts to his right Pivots back toward the line, evading tacklers… punching his way to daylight The cameras zoom in from a dozen different angles – focusing on his facial expression as he sprints down the sideline.

The image freezes. The lights come back on.

‘Sam, that certainly doesn’t look like delight on your face to me. It looks like, well… like fear. Were you afraid of something?’

‘I, uh…’

‘You seem kind of worried, like you might have just screwed up royally. How could you have screwed up by scoring a touchdown?’

‘I was just winded-’

‘You must’ve had trouble regaining your wind, you only gained sixty-two yards on the ground the rest of the game.’

‘It happens. FSU had nine defenders in the box. There were no holes.’

She smiles coyly. ‘Since when does the Mule need a hole?’

‘What’s your point?’

‘This was the biggest game of the year. Billions of dollars had been wagered in the federal government’s weekly football pool. The ’Canes were a six-point favorite. The final score was FSU 16, Miami 10. The game was a “push,” generating a cool 2.3 billion for our friends in Washington, DC.’

‘Are you accusing me of throwing the game?’

‘Of course not, not you, Mr. Perfect. But hypothetically speaking, how much would someone, say, Florida’s governor Ryan Wismer, have to pay you to pull up lame?’

‘You lousy fushcubitch! ’ Samuel stands.

The cameras keep rolling, Tanner far from finished. ‘Any truth to the rumors the PCAA is launching its own investigation?’

‘That’s it, we’re done. Shut it down.’ He searches in vain for an exit.

‘Sammy, darling, before you dash off, explain to my viewers why you ran out of bounds in that third quarter drive. Samuel “the Mule” Agler never runs out of bounds.’

Sam targets a mirrored panel. He jumps off the stage, pivots in midair, and executes a devastating side kick, his right heel striking the smart-glass like a sledgehammer, shattering it into a thousand smoking shards.

Diane ducks, unable to avoid the shrapnel. ‘I’m, uh, Diane Tanner, and that’s This Week in Sports!’

Sam hurtles past the stunned technicians and out the door.

UNIVERSITY OF MIAMI MAIN CAMPUS, CORAL GABLES, FLORIDA

November 21, 2033 7:18 a.m.

Lauren Beckmeyer stands at the dais, rechecking her notes and display disks for the third time. Seated before her are four of the five committee members assigned to the university’s research grant council. English Lit., Asian Studies, Physics, and History… everyone here but my Geology guy…

Professor Christopher Laubin, the fifth member of the council, hurries down the aisle.

‘Sorry I’m late.’ The Chair of the Geology Department nods to the other members of the committee, situates himself in one of the gold-cushioned high-backed chairs, then turns his attention to Lauren. ‘Are you ready to proceed, Ms. Beckmeyer?’

Been ready, you old… ‘Yes, sir.’

She inserts a disk, activating the first series of images-a sequence of moving photos of the Mount St. Helens eruption.

‘On May 18, 1980, at 8:32 A.M., a magnitude 5.1 earthquake shook Mount St. Helens. Within fifteen to twenty seconds, the volcano’s bulge and summit slid away in a huge landslide. This landslide depressurized the volcano’s magma system, triggering powerful explosions that ripped through the sliding debris. Rocks, volcanic gas, ash, and steam were blasted upward at speeds exceeding 300 miles per hour. The blast cloud traveled 17 miles north, its lateral blast producing a column of ash and gas that rose more than 15 miles into the atmosphere in less than fifteen minutes. Over the course of the day, prevailing winds blew 520 million tons of ash eastward across the United States and caused complete darkness in Spokane, Washington, 250 miles from the site.’

A slide of the devastation appears.

‘Volcanic eruptions are not unusual. Even fifty years ago, scientists were able to predict Mount St. Helens eruption in plenty of time to warn the population.’ She pauses to make eye contact with the committee. ‘Now imagine a volcano whose eruption is not predictable, packing ten thousand times the force of Mount St. Helens. Imagine a blast spewing enough ash to cover half the United States in a few frightening minutes. In short, imagine an explosion comparable to an asteroid strike, one that could plunge Earth into millions of years of unending winter.’

The image changes, the committee now looking at a satellite view of a crater, its surface boiling azure greens and blues.

‘The nightmare I’ve just described is called a super volcano. Unlike a volcano, it possesses no cone. Essentially, it exists as a massive subterranean magma pocket, or caldera. A caldera is a depression, formed by the collapse of the ground following a volcanic explosion of a large body of stored magma. What you’re looking at is a thermal photograph of Yellowstone National Park’s youngest of three calderas. This monster lurks five miles below the surface. It is 112 miles across and 48 miles wide, encompassing nearly the entire park.’

Lauren glances up, pleased to see shocked expressions on four of the committee members. They should be shocked, we’re only talking the end of civilization…

Lauren changes the photo to an overhead shot of an island situated in a large crater lake.

‘Modern man has never witnessed the eruption of a super volcano, but we know of their devastation. This is Lake Toba, located in North Sumatra, Indonesia. The lake was formed by a super volcano that erupted 74,000 years ago. Keep in mind Lake Toba’s caldera is smaller in comparison to Yellowstone’s magma pocket, but evidence from its last explosion should give you an idea of the kind of devastation we’re talking about.’

The lake shot is replaced by a slide of microscopic organisms.

‘To understand how the history of Lake Toba affected humanity, we turn to Homo sapiens DNA. While most of our species’ DNA is stored in the nuclei of our cells, a small portion can also be found in the mitochondria-the rod-shaped cells responsible for energy production. What’s unique about the mitochondria is that its DNA is passed only from mother to child. This feature allows geneticists to trace the natural lineage and diversity of our population by focusing on mutations present in our genome. By analyzing the rate and distributions of these mutations, scientists are able to detect patterns in the history of humanity’s population growth.

‘With 7 billion people on the planet, scientists expected to find a wide range of genetic diversity. Instead, what they found was something totally unexpected-a bottleneck, or sudden drop in population.’

The African-American Chair of the Physics Department raises a hand. ‘You’re referring to a major catastrophe?’

‘Yes, sir. Something in the history of Homo sapiens decimated our entire species, reducing the number of human beings left on our entire planet to, incredible as it seems, a mere few thousand. The simple and frightening fact is, the DNA of every man, woman, and child living today can be traced back to these few thousand survivors. Now, because mutations in human DNA take place with clock-like regularity, scientists were able to approximate a date when this sudden change occurred.’ She pauses for effect. ‘The bottleneck occurred 74,000 years ago, right after the explosion that formed Lake Toba.’

The representative of English Literature looks pale. ‘Are you saying this… this super volcano wiped out nearly every human being on the planet?’

‘Yes, ma’am. And keep in mind, Lake Toba’s caldera was nowhere near as large as Yellowstone’s monster.’

‘Is Yellowstone dormant? Has it ever erupted before?’

Lauren clicks over to the next image-a fossil embedded in soil and ash.

‘The geological record shows that Yellowstone’s hot spot has been responsible for three major eruptions. The first happened 2.1 million years ago, the second 1.3 million years ago, the most recent 630,000 years ago. Scientists agree that this periodicity of eruptions is likely to continue, meaning the next explosion could occur 100,000 years from now… or, as some geologists fear’-she ignores Professor Laubin’s roll of the eyes-‘very soon.’

The photo disappears, replaced by a synthesized depiction of an underground cross section of Yellowstone’s terrain. Situated above ground along the north section, directly beneath the pocket of magma-is a mammoth, hill-sized bulge.

‘This bulge has been rising above Yellowstone’s caldera since the first geological survey of the park was taken in the late 1920s. Scientists first became alarmed about thirty years ago when the bulge actually began lifting the northern end of Yellowstone Lake, causing its waters to spill into the forest located along its southern shoreline. As you can see, the forest is now completely flooded.

‘This telltale bulge indicates that pressure is increasing within the magma pocket. At some point it’s going to explode. When it happens, the devastation will be felt across the entire planet. Since words don’t begin to tell the story, I thought you might be interested in a little animation.’

The computer image changes to a satellite view of the United States. A dark cloud suddenly belches over Wyoming.

‘When Yellowstone’s caldera erupts, the pyroclastic blast will instantly kill tens of thousands of people living in the area. The resultant ash cloud that rises into the stratosphere will cover most of the United States, primarily affecting the Great Plains-America’s breadbasket. Harvests will be obliterated overnight. The ash plume will eventually span the entire globe, blotting out the sun’s rays, leading to a super volcanic winter.’

Professor Laubin glances at the digital display on the dais. ‘Ninety seconds, Ms. Beckmeyer. I suggest you use what remains of your allotted time to explain GOPHER.’

‘Yes, sir.’ A final image appears-a schematic of what appears to be a UAV robot.

‘One way to potentially cool the magma flow and stave off a major eruption is to flood the caldera just prior to its blast with the waters of Yellowstone Lake. My father, Mark Beckmeyer, is an engineer at Broward Robotics. The two of us designed GOPHER, an acronym for Geothermal Observatory for Pyrolysis and Heat Exchange Release. Pyrolysis is a chemical change caused by the action of heat. Using GOPHER, we intend to create a series of canals running from Yellowstone Lake to key sections of the Yellowstone caldera, creating an early-warning ventilation system. I’ve already met with park officials, who agree the system could significantly reduce magma temperatures, potentially preventing or lessening the effects of a major eruption.’

The history professor is making rapid calculations on his pocket computer. ‘Seven hundred thousand dollars is a sizable grant, Ms Beckmeyer.’

‘Yes, sir, but a small price to pay to save civilization. And the university would share all proprietary rights.’

‘Time’s up,’ Professor Laubin announces.

The Asian professor looks anxious. ‘Ms. Beckmeyer, perhaps you could wait outside, please.’

Lauren grabs her belongings and exits the chamber. She finds an empty bench in the corridor. Seven hundred thousand dollars… they spend that much on resurfacing their damn faculty parking lots. Maybe I can convince Sam to turn pro. His bonus check alone could buy a hundred GOPHERs…

Professor Laubin joins her in the corridor. ‘Ms. Beckmeyer, did you really think those scare tactics would work?’

‘I can’t help it if the facts are scary.’

‘Yes, well you certainly have a flair for the dramatic.’ He grins, extending his hand. ‘You also have yourself a research grant. Congratulations.’

Lauren leaps off the bench and hugs him around the neck.

‘Okay, okay. Now go save the world.’

Belle Glade, Florida

Virgil Robinson tucks his new white dress shirt into his new khaki pants and slips his bare feet into the secondhand brown suede loafers.

‘Ready, Virge?’

‘Been ready for twenty damn years.’

Virgil follows the armed guard past the seemingly endless corridor of cells. He nods to a few well-wishers, avoids eye contact with others.

His heart beats faster as they exit the cellblock.

‘You are required to contact your probation officer within twenty-four hours.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Open up.’

The cellblock door rolls open, and a second guard joins them on their walk.

‘You may not leave Florida while on probation, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You will be required to submit and pass a random urine test every month while on probation.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They approach a solid steel door. ‘Open up.’

Virgil squints at the afternoon sun as it peeks between the razor wire and perimeter fencing. A supervisor hands him two envelopes, one containing a three-hundred-dollar credit, the other a plastic bag holding his personal belongings.

Virgil follows the two guards and supervisor outside, the men leading him down fifty yards of fenced-in sidewalk, dead-ending at another gate.

‘One for release. Open the gate.’

The steel door slides open.

‘Prisoner F-344278-B, you have been granted parole by the State of Florida Correctional Systems. Will there be someone meeting you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. Stay on the straight and narrow.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Asshole… Virgil walks out of the shadow of the penitentiary and into the light.

The white limousine is parked along the side of the road. The back door opens.

Out steps a paunchy Caucasian man in rose-colored glasses, dressed in a tropical silk shirt and cream-colored slacks. ‘Virgil Robinson?’ The man’s voice-a heavy Louisiana drawl.

‘Yeah?’

‘The name’s Ben Merchant. I work for your daughter. You did receive her letter?’

‘Got it right here.’ Virgil pats his pocket, his shirt already spotting with perspiration.

‘Come on, partner, let’s get you out of the heat.’

*

The limousine turns south on Smart Highway 95.

‘So, uh-’

‘Call me Ben.’

‘Right. So Ben, you say this Mabus fella died yesterday?’

‘And so young. Doctor says it was a heart attack.’

‘And my Lilith-’

‘-inherited everything. Exciting, huh? Just think-your little girl, the child you abandoned as a baby, is a billionaire.’ Ben offers his Cheshire cat smile. ‘Like hittin’ the lottery without even playing.’

Virgil looks out the tinted window and stifles a grin.

The limo turns south on scenic A-1-A, driving through a wooded area heavy in pine. On the right are million-dollar neighborhoods, on the left-incredible estates featuring private twenty-million-dollar views of the Atlantic.

They pass a WELCOME TO MANALAPAN sign. Moments later, the limo turns into a gated driveway leading up to the Mabus mansion.

Virgil steps out of the car. ‘All this one house?’

‘Yes, sir. Let’s go ’round back and meet your daughter.’

Ben Merchant leads him along a stone path beneath a canopy of palm trees until the aqua-blue hues of the ocean come into view.

The rear of the Mabus property is a private resort. Tennis courts, wet bar, sauna, whirlpool, cabana, a covered patio overlooking an undisturbed stretch of pristine beach… even a helipad.

Virgil’s jaw drops. My little girl got money to burn…

A winding stone stairwell leads up to the main deck. Stretched out before them is a pond-shaped pool, each end adorned with waterfalls and tropical foliage.

Lying in a lounge chair, sunbathing completely in the nude, is Lilith Robinson-Mabus.

For a long moment, Virgil simply stares, his emotions teetering between lust and greed.

‘Lilith, darlin’, this is Virgil Robinson… your biological father.’

Lilith stands and hugs him, smearing baby oil all over his clean white shirt. ‘Well, I’ve only waited my entire life to meet you. Should I call you Virgil or Daddy?’

‘Uh, Daddy’s good. Damn, girl… ya’ll always prance around wit’ no clothes on?’

‘I wanted our first meeting to be memorable. I know you haven’t seen a woman in twenty years.’

Virgil bites his lip. ‘Uh, yeah. Hey, uh, sorry to hear about your husband.’

Lilith giggles as she returns to her lounge chair. ‘Sit, Daddy. Come and sit in front of me where I can see you.’

Merchant positions a lounge chair. ‘Tell you what, how ’bout I get ya’ll something cold to drink? I think Lucille just made some of her famous fresh lemonade. Virgil?’

‘Yeah… sure.’ Virgil sits on the hot vinyl, not sure where to look.

‘So tell me, Daddy, did anyone rape you while you were in prison?’

‘Say what?’

‘You know, hide their sausage in your asshole?’

‘Hell, no. I’d kill any muthafucker try messin’ wit’ me.’

‘Sort of like you killed my mother, huh?’

‘Now girl, I know that was wrong, and I done my time. But see, I’m a changed man. I found Jesus.’

‘Really? Does Jesus spend much time in prison?’

‘Don’t sass your daddy, now. I’m here ’cause I wanna make up for lost time.’

‘How very noble of you. I’m so sorry, I misjudged you completely.’

‘S’all right.’

‘Hey, Daddy, do you prefer your women shaved?’

‘Huh?’

Lilith spreads her legs. ‘My late husband used to insist I shave my pubes. He’d say, “Lilith, I hate that nappy nigger hair.” What do you think?’

‘Lemonade time,’ sings Merchant, shattering the tension. He hands a glass of ice-cold lemonade to Virgil, the heavy condensation dripping.

Virgil drains it in one continuous gulp.

‘So, Daddy, now that you’ve paid your debt to society, where will you live?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘You can’t go back to Belle Glade, I torched that place to the ground.’

‘He could stay here,’ Ben suggests. ‘We’ve got plenty of room.’

Virgil rubs sweat from his eyes, feeling a bit light-headed. ‘I’d love to stay, you know, but only if ya’ll wanted me.’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Lilith says, toying with him. ‘What could you do around here? Could you garden?’

‘Uh, I suppose.’

‘We have a gardener,’ reminds Ben.

‘Ben’s right. And we have a cook and a chauffeur, even a helojet pilot. But you know what we don’t have? We don’t have a man.’

‘A man?’

‘You know, someone who I can use for sex when I get bored with my vibrator. Think you could satisfy me, Daddy?’

Virgil’s heart pounds in his ears.

Ben nods. ‘Whenever possible, your daughter always prefers to keep things in the family.’

‘So what do you say, Daddy? Are you, excuse the pun, up for the job?’

A guttural reply squeezes out his throat. ‘Yes.’

‘Hear that, Ben? My father just got out of prison for killing my mother, but he’s ready to step up and bang his little girl for free room and board. And you said this wouldn’t work out.’

Merchant bellows a laugh, the sound echoing strangely in Virgil’s head.

The deck spins sideways. A dull pain fills Virgil’s left eye. The empty lemonade glass falls from his hand, shattering on impact.

Virgil Robinson falls sideways over the lounge chair, unconscious.

‘Wake up, Daddy…’

Virgil opens his eyes… and pukes.

He is on a boat-no, not exactly on the boat, he is dangling over the transom of a boat, his arms and legs tightly bound to a cross-shaped object pressing into his spine and shoulders.

Looking up, he sees a heavy nylon rope attached to the cross, part of a large winch used to raise and lower the yacht’s skiff.

He moans, the nausea rising again.

Three-foot seas lap at his ankles. His bare feet, now underwater, feel numb, as if they’ve been submerged for quite some time.

Lilith, dressed in a black bikini, leans out over the rail and licks the back of his neck. ‘Mmm… I taste fear. Don’t be afraid, Daddy.’

‘What… what are you-’

‘Putting you out of my misery.’

‘Huh? You insane, girl!’

‘A passion I inherited from my mother. Remember her? Pretty Mesoamerican thing, with bright blue eyes. I believe you cut them out of her head the night I was born.’

Virgil struggles to move, the damp rope cutting into his forearms. A six-foot swell washes over his chest, and he swallows seawater. ‘I… I can’t swim.’ He gags.

‘Don’t worry, Daddy, I would never let you drown.’

‘My feet hurt. What’s wrong wit’ my feet?’

Ben lights a joint, then leans out over the rail. ‘Your feet are fine, partner, it’s your toes that are the problem.’

Virgil looks down. As the boat rises above another swell, his bare feet are drawn out of the water-exposing bleeding stumps where his toes had been.

‘Oh, Jesus-help me!’

‘Now why would Jesus waste His time helping a murdering sonuva bitch like you?’

‘I paid my price… I did my time-’

‘And I suppose that makes everything hunky-dory, huh? Read a Bible verse, call yourself saved… poof, you’re born again, a clean slate.’

Desperate, Virgil searches the horizon for another boat. ‘I… I have to report to my probation officer.’

Lilith and Ben laugh.

‘Oh look, Daddy, is this him?’

Virgil’s eyes widen as a half dozen lead gray fins circle below his ankles. ‘Oh, God, please-’

‘God is dead to you, Daddy.’

The boat dips. The sea froths crimson.

‘God is dead to both of us.’

Virgil screams like a banshee.

The boat rises, revealing a seven-foot mako shark tearing at the remains of Virgil’s gushing left knee.

‘Fu… bitch! Hope you… burn in Hell!’

‘I’ve been to Hell, Daddy. You sent me there the night I was born.’

A large brown fin cuts the surface, a second dorsal trailing along the creature’s broad back. ‘Uh-oh. See that shark, Daddy? Now that bad boy’s a bull shark. Once they bite, they don’t like to let go.’

‘Sort of like you, Lilith, darlin’,’ Ben says, drawing another lungful of smoke.

The bull shark circles twice, darts toward the boat, then turns at the last second.

Virgil’s eyes widen, snot running down both nostrils.

‘Why won’t he attack?’ Ben asks.

‘He will,’ Lilith answers, spellbound in the moment. ‘He just wants to be sure. It’s always best to be sure before you strike.’

‘We can learn so much from sharks. Such fine predators.’

‘Yes, nature is the perfect teacher.’

The boat rises and dips, submerging Virgil to his neck.

A serene Lilith watches the nine-foot bull shark bury its snout into its screeching meal, the animal’s serrated teeth tearing apart flesh and intestines within a shroud of scarlet foam – eviscerating the life from her father.