Read Online Peter Benchley's Creature by Peter Benchley - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Benchley
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Max asked.
"Feeding," Chase said. "On fry . . . tiny fish. Something's attacking the fry from underneath, driving them to the surface." He looked up at Tall Man. "Let's go have a look."
Tall Man swung the boat to the south, leaving the distant gray hump of Block Island to the north and the closer, but smaller and lower, profile of Osprey Island to the east.
As the boat drew near the turmoil in the water, Tall Man said, "Bluefish."
"You're sure?" said Chase. He hoped Tall Man was right: a big school of hungry bluefish would be a good sign, a sign that the blues were making a recovery. Recently, their numbers had been dwindling—they were victims of overfishing and pollution from PCBs, pesticides and phosphates from agricultural runoff— and many of the survivors were manifesting tumors, ulcers and even bizarre genetic mutations. Some were being born with stomachs that ceased functioning after about a year, so the fish starved to death. The Institute and various environmental groups had helped clean up the rivers that fed the bays that led to the ocean, and the amount of pollutants had been reduced significantly though by no means completely.
If the bluefish were breeding successfully again . . . well, it was a tiny step, but it was a step forward, at least, and not back.
"Gotta be blues," Tall Man said. "What else kicks up a shower of blood like that?"
A bird veered away from the flock and soared over the boat, and Chase saw the telltale signs of bluefish carnage: the white feathers of the bird's belly were stained red from fish blood. The blues were running amok in a vast school of panicked bait, chopping and slashing with blind fury, dyeing the water crimson.
Tall Man throttled back, letting the boat drift in relative silence so as not to drive the school away. "Big bastards, too," he said. "Five-, six-pounders."
The bluefish rolled and leaped and lunged, their gunmetal bodies flashing in the sunlight, and the birds dove recklessly among them, plucking fry from the bloody water.
"Gross!" Max said, mesmerized. "Can we go have a look?"
"You're having a look."
"No, I mean, can we put on masks and go down there?"
"Are you crazy?" said Chase. "No way. Those fish would cut you to ribbons. You didn't want to bring me home in a box . . . how'd you like me to send you home to your mother in a doggie bag?"
"Bluefish attack people?"
"In a frenzy like this, they attack any thing. A few years ago, a lifeguard in Florida was sitting on a surfboard when a feeding school came by. He lost four toes. They've got little triangular teeth as sharp as razors, and when they're feeding—"
Tall Man interrupted, "—they're one mean-tempered son of a bitch."
"Cool," Max said.
As if on cue, a large gull swooped down, reached for a baitfish, missed, braked with its wings and landed on the water. It snatched up the fish and began its takeoff run, when suddenly a blue body rolled beside it. The gull stopped, jerked backward and shrieked—a blue-fish had it by its legs. The bird flapped its wings futilely and arched its neck forward, trying to peck at the tormentor.
Another bluefish must have grabbed it then, for the bird lurched to the side, submerged and popped back to the surface. It shrieked again, and beat with its wings, but now other fish sensed savory new prey, and they flung themselves out of the water, onto the blood-soaked feathers.
The bird's body was pulled below the surface tail-first. A final tug snapped its head back, and the last they saw of it was the yellow beak pointing at the sky.
Chase looked at Max. The boy's eyes still stared at the spot on the water where, the bird had been, and his color had faded to a greenish gray.
They continued toward the island, Max and Chase on the foredeck, Tall Man driving from the flying bridge. Now and then, Chase would signal Tall Man to slow down, and he would take a net and dip it into the water and bring up something to show Max: a clump of seaweed in which tiny
"Feeding," Chase said. "On fry . . . tiny fish. Something's attacking the fry from underneath, driving them to the surface." He looked up at Tall Man. "Let's go have a look."
Tall Man swung the boat to the south, leaving the distant gray hump of Block Island to the north and the closer, but smaller and lower, profile of Osprey Island to the east.
As the boat drew near the turmoil in the water, Tall Man said, "Bluefish."
"You're sure?" said Chase. He hoped Tall Man was right: a big school of hungry bluefish would be a good sign, a sign that the blues were making a recovery. Recently, their numbers had been dwindling—they were victims of overfishing and pollution from PCBs, pesticides and phosphates from agricultural runoff— and many of the survivors were manifesting tumors, ulcers and even bizarre genetic mutations. Some were being born with stomachs that ceased functioning after about a year, so the fish starved to death. The Institute and various environmental groups had helped clean up the rivers that fed the bays that led to the ocean, and the amount of pollutants had been reduced significantly though by no means completely.
If the bluefish were breeding successfully again . . . well, it was a tiny step, but it was a step forward, at least, and not back.
"Gotta be blues," Tall Man said. "What else kicks up a shower of blood like that?"
A bird veered away from the flock and soared over the boat, and Chase saw the telltale signs of bluefish carnage: the white feathers of the bird's belly were stained red from fish blood. The blues were running amok in a vast school of panicked bait, chopping and slashing with blind fury, dyeing the water crimson.
Tall Man throttled back, letting the boat drift in relative silence so as not to drive the school away. "Big bastards, too," he said. "Five-, six-pounders."
The bluefish rolled and leaped and lunged, their gunmetal bodies flashing in the sunlight, and the birds dove recklessly among them, plucking fry from the bloody water.
"Gross!" Max said, mesmerized. "Can we go have a look?"
"You're having a look."
"No, I mean, can we put on masks and go down there?"
"Are you crazy?" said Chase. "No way. Those fish would cut you to ribbons. You didn't want to bring me home in a box . . . how'd you like me to send you home to your mother in a doggie bag?"
"Bluefish attack people?"
"In a frenzy like this, they attack any thing. A few years ago, a lifeguard in Florida was sitting on a surfboard when a feeding school came by. He lost four toes. They've got little triangular teeth as sharp as razors, and when they're feeding—"
Tall Man interrupted, "—they're one mean-tempered son of a bitch."
"Cool," Max said.
As if on cue, a large gull swooped down, reached for a baitfish, missed, braked with its wings and landed on the water. It snatched up the fish and began its takeoff run, when suddenly a blue body rolled beside it. The gull stopped, jerked backward and shrieked—a blue-fish had it by its legs. The bird flapped its wings futilely and arched its neck forward, trying to peck at the tormentor.
Another bluefish must have grabbed it then, for the bird lurched to the side, submerged and popped back to the surface. It shrieked again, and beat with its wings, but now other fish sensed savory new prey, and they flung themselves out of the water, onto the blood-soaked feathers.
The bird's body was pulled below the surface tail-first. A final tug snapped its head back, and the last they saw of it was the yellow beak pointing at the sky.
Chase looked at Max. The boy's eyes still stared at the spot on the water where, the bird had been, and his color had faded to a greenish gray.
They continued toward the island, Max and Chase on the foredeck, Tall Man driving from the flying bridge. Now and then, Chase would signal Tall Man to slow down, and he would take a net and dip it into the water and bring up something to show Max: a clump of seaweed in which tiny
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