Prologue
Jack Newstar harbors a deep-seated terror of beaches. Every time he trains for a triathlon—off the coast of Santa Barbara—a memory floods back: a 90-foot shark emerges from beneath his surfboard, dragging him into the depths and claiming his arm. The subsequent rescue attempt intensifies the horror, with all eight lifeguards losing their lives, and six of his teammates falling victim to the sea. Four die and two sustain severe wounds.
However, Jack’s personal ordeal isn’t an isolated incident. A series of disturbing seaside tragedies grips the California coastline. In just two weeks, sixty-four people drown along a stretch of coast from Bodega Bay to Santa Cruz. Twenty-five more suffer grave injuries in confirmed, unprovoked shark attacks. The lack of bodies from the drowning victims and the uniformity of eye witness descriptions—a 90-foot shark—hint at a solitary perpetrator. Despite concerted efforts, the shark remains elusive.
In response to the surge in attacks, authorities enforce stringent regulations for beachgoers, rules which Jack meticulously follows: never venture out more than five meters from shore, avoid swimming at dawn or dusk, and shed all jewelry.
As he lies on a deserted beach at midday, a sense of looming insecurity is palpable. His concerns are valid. On this sunny weekend, his family enjoys the water a few meters offshore. His six-month pregnant wife, Melinda, crouches in the shallow surf while his two kids—Diane, 8, and Paul, 6—dabble a little further out, under his watchful eye. Their Uncle Chucks is notably absent. Despite the absence of jewelry and a good six hours until dusk, Jack feels a gnawing unease. He knows disaster can strike unannounced, and when it does, all the people on the beach stand helpless. He can’t forget the six who drowned at the Malibu triathlon just three days ago.
Suddenly, a piercing scream rents the air.
“Help!”
He recognizes Melinda’s voice instantly. He turns towards the sea to see her crouched in the surf, but Paul is missing.
“Help me!” Melinda shrieks. “Paul is drowning! Jack!”
Leaping from the lounger, Jack sprints towards the water, but Chucks outpaces him, diving into the surf with two lifeguards hot on his heels.
Reaching Melinda, he steadies her with his right hand. His severed left stump hangs useless by his side.
“Where was he last?”
She points frantically towards the open water. Jack follows her gesture just in time to see Chucks disappear beneath the surface, his breath hitching in his chest.
But Chucks doesn’t bring Paul out. He can’t. The ripples radiate from the spot where he dove and then, nothing. The two lifeguards also disappear. The few other beach occupants rush towards the grieving Newstars, offering words of comfort and encouragement. Two of them, unable to bear the waiting, resolve to brave the waters in search of Chucks and the missing lifeguards.
“Call 911,” a woman commands as she sprints along the beach. Jack guides Melinda and Diane back to the shore. The tension is palpable.
A steady breeze rolls in from the west. Melinda frantically searches her tote bag for her cell phone. Upon finding it, she quickly realizes the battery is dead.
“Oh, shit!” she curses. “Where is your phone, Jack?”
Jack, meanwhile, is changing into a swimsuit and a snorkel.
“Take it,” he throws his phone to her, then strides into the water.
“Where are you going?”
“To rescue them.”
“No! You can’t make it with one arm. It’s not like before.”
“Chucks and Paul are down there. The lifeguards too. None of them are resurfacing. Something is wrong.”
Jack knows he has to act. Of the seven people left on the beach, he is the only male.
“Let’s wait for the ambulance!” Melinda pleads, grabbing his hand.
“That’d be the most senseless thing to do.”
“Look!” Diane interrupts. The small girl is pointing out to sea. They follow her finger and what they see sends chills down their spines. It’s blood.
Far out, a massive spot in the sea turns crimson, spreading ripples as wide as a football pitch’s center circle. The scene is so shocking that even the women on the beach notice. A blonde woman vomits. Another faints. Someone screams.
Undeterred, Jack pulls down his goggles, grabs a diver’s flashlight, and charges into the surf.
Deep under the water, he scans for any sign of Paul, Chucks, or the lifeguards. But there is nothing. Not even the two volunteers. He can’t locate the source of the blood either. Guiding himself with his flashlight, he swims further in, plunging about fifty meters below sea level. Still, there’s no sign of them. He changes course, heading towards a cluster of broken rocks, suspecting the predator might be hiding there. But luck isn’t on his side. A swarm of small fish scatter around him, but nothing more.
Confusion grips him. What on earth happened?
Then, he senses it. It’s almost like a potent magnetic field under the water, followed by a bone-chilling droning sound. Jack whirls around, desperate to locate the source of the noise. Then, he sees it! The colossal predator, the shark from Santa Barbara.
It is closing in on him.
** ** **
The moment the emergency beeper rings, Shakira, a young black nurse at Ruby Hospital, immediately knows it signals another beachside casualty. Minutes later, she watches through her office window as a helicopter lands on the pad and disgorges its tragic cargo.
First, a stretcher bearing a wounded man exits the chopper. Next, they carry off Chucks, blood seeping from a deep gash on his forehead. When a third stretcher emerges from the craft, Shakira can’t bear to watch any longer. She draws the shade and flees into an adjacent cubicle.
“Shakira,” Dr. Rest calls from the main exit. “We need you in the emergency room.”
“I’ll be right there.” Instead of heading to the emergency room, she makes for the car park. She gets into her car, turns the key in the ignition, and leaves. This situation has spiraled out of control. She needs to see the only person who can stop it, even if she has to force him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Dr. Rest calls from the second floor window, but she doesn’t care. Shakira heads for H Street via Interstate 5 and, upon reaching her destination—a house on the outskirts of Carlsbad—she parks the car and honks twice.
She strides into the house without knocking, heading straight for the dining room. She finds her two sisters sampling wine and her father enjoying a cheese sandwich.
“Where’s Nino?” she asks, her question directed at no one in particular.
Her father chokes on his sandwich in his attempt to respond. Her sister, Sasha, rushes to his aid.
“In his bedroom,” she answers. “Do you have to barge in like that?”
“Sorry.”
Shakira finds Nino huddled on his bed, watching news footage of the rescue helicopter landing on the helipad.
“People are dying, Nino. You have to go.”
Nino turns sharply to face her. “People are dying because it’s time for them to die.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Nino. You know as well as I do that these people are being killed.”
“Is that what the autopsy reports say? How can you be certain they’re dead, anyway? The drowned victims were never found. That’s what the news says.”
“No one can vanish in an ocean that deep and survive it. Consider this, some victims stayed underwater for two weeks or less. And what about the wounded?”
“Listen, Shakira. We’ve had this conversation before. The drowning victims were enjoying themselves when it happened. Who am I to tell them to stop doing what they enjoy? Besides, I’m no fortune teller. I can’t predict their fate. Those who got injured… well, it’s unfortunate. They crossed paths with a giant shark. That’s it.”
Shakira walks over, mutes the television, and sits on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around Nino’s neck.
“You are the one who needs to listen, Nino.” Her tone softens. “You and I both know that these people drowned because of your defiance. You’re meant to be back with our brothers in Africa to perform the coronation rites, but you refused. They are touched.”
Nino looks at his sister, a sense of remorse in his gaze. This is the part of the argument he dreads most. Yet, a part of him wants to believe she’s mistaken.
“I know you don’t want to be an African king after all the years you’ve spent in the U.S.” She continues, “But you need to understand that this is real. This has been our tradition for generations and it can’t be dismissed just because of you. You have to go, Nino.”
“You’re saying our people are using some kind of black magic, reaching all the way to the Pacific, to drown Californians because of me?”
“As proof? More than half of the drowned victims are families and friends, people we know. The latest casualty is Jack Newstar’s family. They’re our next-door neighbors.”
“Newstar? What happened?”
“They drowned, of course. The man and his kid. A rescue team is searching for any trace of them, but I’ll wager they’ll never find them.”
Nino sighs heavily, and Shakira knows she’s making an impact.
“Only three people survived the latest incident, and they’re all badly in need of stitches.”
Nino flinches.
“This has to stop,” she continues after giving him a moment to reflect. “All you have to do is go there, perform the rites, and come back home. It’s as simple as that. Think about it.”
They sit in silence for a while. Then, Shakira pats him on the back and walks to the door. Before she leaves, she turns to look at him.
“You have to go,” she says one final time. “You just have to go.”
She shuts the door gently behind her.
Once she’s gone, Nino wishes she stayed. He wishes she hadn’t left his room. He wishes she were there to help him endure the impending attack.
The phenomenon is unlike anything he’s experienced before. The last time he encountered it was the first time he saw it. It happened during the wee hours, when everyone was fast asleep. He thought it was a dream. Now, he knows it’s real.
It begins as a steady breeze that teases the blinds, escalating into a wind strong enough to rattle the windows. The curios in his room fall off their shelves and the papers on his desk scatter across the room. The room itself begins to shake, as if in the grip of an earthquake, causing the furniture to tremble.
Nino opens his mouth to scream but can’t. An overwhelming force seizes him and renders him mute. He throws himself onto the bed, trying to shield himself with a blanket and a pillow.
Then, he hears the booming voice. It comes from nowhere, and it’s loud enough to make him cover his ears. It doesn’t belong to anyone he recognizes.
“Nino,” the voice demands, “you have to go.”
“You just have to go,” a different, feminine voice echoes.
“Go home, Nino. Go home.”
More and more voices join in, forming a thunderous cacophony that petrifies him.
“Who are you people?” he finally explodes.
“Just go home,” the different voices intertwine. “Just go home. Just go home. Just go home …”
