A Sneak Preview of Gang of Sharks

     In humankind and in nature gangs often exist as a tool for survival. For Angel Garcia, he experiences first hand a human gang and then his life comes full circle as he studies gang activity within the realm of nature, more specifically within the realm of sharks. Part one of Gang of Sharks introduces Angel as a studious introvert trying to cope in a rough East Los Angeles neighborhood. Angel, sixteen, joins the L.A. Warlords street gang for protection, but his new gang “brothers” Armando Reyes and Rivera Caron pull Angel into a deadly path of destruction as Angel must kill Milo Hernandez, a member of a rival gang, the Southside Locos, as initiation to the Warlords. Angel learns the hard way as to the “blood in, blood out” membership into the Warlords hierarchy. Rivera threatens to kill Angel should he attempt to leave the gang.     

     The story shifts to the following week as Angel is hiding out with his Uncle Lorenzo. And Lorenzo has his own compelling story to tell about his past involvement with the Warlords. Lorenzo invites Angel to join him on a fishing excursion off the California coast. The crew spots a gang of mutated tiger sharks off the stern of the boat. (The story will later reveal the source of the mutations – a nuclear spill from the San Onofre power plant.) An explosion onboard the boat results in the fishing vessel sinking into the murky depths of the sea. The entire crew is devoured by the mutant sharks, except Angel, who manages to make it to shore. His leg has been mauled, but he is alive…and he is given the inspiration as how to leave the gang and educate troubled teens from traveling down the same dark and troubling road.

     Part two of Gang of Sharks shifts to fourteen years later. The story introduces Kyle and Alexis Lane living in the coastal city of San Clemente. The twin teenagers help apprehend a graffiti vandal named Josh Hansen and are invited by the police department to attend a revolutionary young-adult rehabilitation center called Shark Bay. And yes, you guessed right, the facility is run by Angel Garcia, along with a unique and original cast of counselors who aid and supervise a diverse group of juvenile delinquents. Skyler and I will say no more about our blockbuster novel. But we will give you a sneak peek preview. Chapter thirteen is below! You will be introduced to the Shark Bay facility; the Shark Bay staff…and the Shark Bay sharks!

Thanks for reviewing or website!

Scott & Skyler Scheffer

Follow us on Twitter @JScottScheffer1

                                                         XIII –  Day One at Shark Bay

          Shark Bay was a magnificent three-story building located on oceanfront property, situated a mile north of the San Onofre nuclear power plant. Composed of glass on all sides, the building glinted and glimmered like the sea which pulled at its feet, casting blinding rays of light in all directions.

In front of the facility stood a looming mural, nearly as tall as the building itself, spray painted in graffiti style and surrounded by welcoming palms that leaned in with anticipation. The mural depicted a man in a white robe treading across the seascape with open palms raised to the sky. In the distance, dolphins leapt from the water, and down below in the clearness of the depths circled a gaggle of tiger sharks with bright, menacing eyes. One of the sharks in the painting, larger than the rest, was resting at ground-level, facing the parking lot as visitors walked up, its mouth wide open in a grimacing snarl. Its teeth circled around its mouth, and at its center was the door by which all visitors must enter to gain access to the facility. Beside the mural, just before the entrance was a sign with a golden background and bright blue letters reading Shark Bay.

Kyle and Alex pulled up in the pickup and stepped out, instantly set in awe by the magnificent building stood before them. In front of the building, before the mural, was a group of people; a row of men and women in bright blue shirts standing facing out from the building over a huddled group of teens chattering idly. Parked off to the side of the facility was a white bus marked “Juvenile Detention” along its side, presumably from which the awaiting teenagers had come.

The four men and one woman in shirts marked “Shark Bay Staff” stood perfectly in line before the entrance, staring straight ahead. The group had been recruited to Shark Bay by its founder, former gang member Angel Garcia. Their blue shirts blended in with the expansive mural behind them, and they stood so perfectly still and statuesque that they might themselves have been a part of the artwork. They were all lean and fit, with bulging muscles rippling down their arms, magnified in their significance by strings of black and red tattoos and scars. As Kyle and Alex approached, they struggled to determine what stood out more formidably: the glassy-eyed shark graphics with gaping mouths behind, or the deadly-tough crew of men and women at attention before them.

What was certain as they drew closer was that the frazzled group of teens before them were least of all to be feared; most had dull, pale skin, and of those that faced outwardly from the building, it could be seen that their eyes were gray and tired, with dark bags spotted around. They were dressed in gray prison uniforms, unappealing one-piece baglike garments with zippers running all the way up along the front. They recognized Josh Hansen amongst the crowd, looking at home amidst the grogginess of his party. Nothing dangerous about them, the group of ruffians seemed to have no fight inside, having every bit of confidence and pride stripped away instantly upon having been apprehended for their petty crimes.

The staff waiting before the building was a diverse group. Two of the four men were Hispanic: one was chubbier, with a round face like a laughing Buddha who, on second glance, was neither laughing nor smiling at all; the other stocky and compact, appearing slightly older than the others, with a firmly pressed scowl on his lips, furrowed brow and thick, muscular arms folded across his barrel chest, with the words “Maria 4 Ever” tattooed in fading black ink along the right side of his neck.

The third man was a tall, broad-shouldered African American with a lithe wrestler’s body. He stood in the center-left of the line of five, with his hands clasped over his abdomen as though peacefully digesting a meal. His hair was braided back in cornrows tied in a top knot, which seemed to pull his face open such that his eyes were forever alert, panning over the group of troubled teenagers. Down the right side of his face ran a chasmic purple scar.

The only woman in the group stood scar-side of the man in the center, also African American, tall, striking, thin and strong. Her hair was cut short and sharp around her head, framing her high cheeks and glittering, intense eyes. A diamond stud shone from the left side of her fierce flared nostrils, and her full red lips were pressed together with unspoken ferocity.

The last man in the line of staff was a hulking Caucasian with a Viking build, his long red beard and a bristling mohawk dancing in the early morning glow of the day like flames. His eyes were glassy, glaring over his hawk-like nose at the empty space directly ahead like a soldier standing at attention.

“Yikes,” Alex whispered to Kyle, her eyes flashing widely with surprise as she shot him a glance.

The group of teenagers gathered in a loose huddle holding duffel bags. There were twelve boys and three girls, looking to be between fourteen and eighteen years old. Alex watched Josh amongst the crowd, his sleek hairless head gleaming white in the sun, standing out against a sea of color. His face was sulking, frail and thin, thinner than it seemed the week before, and defeated.

As Kyle and Alex walked up, the female staff member glanced at her watch. It was 8:00 sharp, and she gave a nod to one of the officers standing idly by the juvenile detention bus. The officer, who at closer glance was Officer Kehoe, stepped forward, motioning in waves for the kids to form a line parallel to and facing the group of staffers. Kyle and Alex cautiously stepped into place at the end of the line, unsure whether they were to behave like members of the delinquent group or a part of the staff. The full-lipped woman with the snaking eyes watched, though her face did not turn, with an emotionless gaze as Kyle and Alex took their places.

Alex met eyes with the woman, became anxious and averted her stare. Instead she then met the volcanic eyes of the man beside her, fiery and sharp. It was the beefy Hispanic staff member with “Maria 4 Ever” on his neck. He stared right at her; it felt like they all did, but then he did something unexpected. His glassy eyes darted left and right, and he shot her a wink. His sullen scowl flittered into a familial smile, only briefly, before returning to its grim poker face, with his eyes on the line of teens again.

“Huh,” Alex mumbled to herself.

The African American man with the scar took one step forward from the line of Shark Bay staff, and it was his step alone that shot down any scattered mumbling and movement from the teens in a row before him.

“Thank you, officer. We’ll take it from here,” he nodded at Officer Kehoe. His voice was deep and trembling, a low baritone.

“You bet, chief,” Kehoe nodded respectfully. The chain of command on the turf of Shark Bay was clear as the officer brought two fingers to the top of his head and waved a little salute, before stepping back inside the detention bus and driving off the premises.

“Ladies and gentlemen, grab your bags and follow us inside in an orderly fashion,” the man who apparently was chief said as he turned around. As he stepped toward the facility, he cocked his head back once more, raising both eyebrows, “And I do mean orderly.”

The group of teenagers, seventeen in all, did not make a sound. The crashing of the waves against the rocky exterior of the building on its other side and the spattered cackling of gulls in the gales above were the only things to be heard as the intimidated youths picked up their duffel bags. Some tried to maintain their air of bravado, their shoulders held back with false pride, but it was unconvincing. None of them, not even the biggest, baddest looking kid of the bunch, dared to look any of the staff members in the eye.

The five turned, relaxed but with military precision, and stepped through the sliding glass doors of the shark’s mouth. Not one even bothered looking back to see if they were being followed; they knew they were to be obeyed. The teens scuffled behind them in complete submission, obedient and, although none would care to admit, terrified.

The room they entered had an expansive, spacious interior like the lobby of a grand hotel, or a mall from which all shops and signs of structure had been removed. Misty rays of sun shone down through a glass ceiling three stories above, dotting the walls with splashes of goodness. Soothing music echoed through the vastness, a celestial melody embodied by voices and instruments, punctuated by unearthly, chilling sound effects. The eclectic composure intermingled with sounds of birds and whales, ocean waves and gently rumbling thunder, as though they were stepping into a jungle beneath the sea. A kind aroma, like fresh air after a storm, with hints of freshly cut grass, and the essence of flowers and herbs, perfumed the space, and the totality of the environment produced an effect that, for those who worried they were stepping through the gates of hell itself, was profoundly soothing. Something about it seemed to draw out relaxation, and within seconds of entering, the tension amongst the group was gone.

The design of the place was equally affecting. It immediately made one feel small, insignificant, eliciting a sense of awe and surprise. Eight black marble plant beds were scattered throughout the open space, containing clusters of giant bamboo reaching up, higher and higher into the air toward the sunny panes of glass. The floor was made of clear glass revealing flowing water below, illuminated by a light source embedded far beneath, and spattered amongst the flowing water were red and brown seashells and polished stones.

The teens followed the staff across the mecca of natural beauty to the far end of the indoor pavilion, reaching a wide hallway with a twelve-foot ceiling. The right wall of the hallway was another profound mural; exotic fish in brilliant Easter egg designs and translucent dark-green jellyfish hovered over an undersea Atlantis modeled after an East Los Angeles neighborhood. Mermaids of every ethnicity and design radiated light as they darted amongst the city’s waters, mingling in small groups, strolling and leaning, peering joyously from the doors and windows of dilapidated tenements and storefronts. The homey scene mirrored the feeling in the room; it depicted a world of people at peace with themselves.

On the opposite wall was something yet more remarkable. Six sheets of massive plexiglass formed borders ten feet tall and twenty feet across, set deep into the wall, a foot thick and embedded in reinforced steel to form an aquarium. The tank stretched further back than the murkiness of the water could reveal, and in its darkness, shadowy gray forms glided longingly.

“Man, that’s one big fish tank,” one of the teens commented “What kind of fish are they?”

The staff led the teens further down the hallway, which grew darker as they went, lit only by the flowing water running in the floor underneath. The water, by comparison, seemed to grow brighter and brighter, and the distant gray forms gliding to and fro slowly made their way nearer the glass. The entire group appeared to have their stare fixed at the tank as they walked until one of the strange fish came clearly into view. There was a gasp from one, and a murmur from a few others as they came to the realization they were not fish at all, but a whole gang of tiger sharks with smooth gray skin and glossy obsidian eyes. The sharks seemed to grin at the passers by as they swam closer and closer, their jagged ivory teeth long as daggers.

Oblivious to the plexiglass wall, some of the creatures came so close it seemed they were heading for a collision. One by one, the first four sharks approaching swerved right, left, or upward, scarcely avoiding slamming into the glass before returning to the shadows at the far end of the tank. The fifth and largest of the pack, as long itself as the entire group of teens stretched out on the floor of the hall, came last. Its eyes were hungry and strong, and it smashed fearlessly into the plexiglass with an echoing thud. A chorus of involuntary shrieks rose from the startled groups, and even those who might say they had no fear couldn’t quickly forget the resounding thud of the beast as it lunged for them.

With primordial intelligence, the shark’s vacant eyes hovered in the water, staring at the teens through the glass so ominously and so persistently that another murmur of concern swelled from the group. Then it whipped back its large tailfin and, with a powerful wave rippling through the current, turned to the left side, racing to join its fellows at the back of the tank. The murmuring continued, many of the teenagers feeling more humbled than when they first stepped in, when they were again interrupted.

“Remember!” shouted the female staff member with as much menace in her voice as the shark in its eyes. “There’s always somebody badder than you!”

Nobody said a word. The teenagers were pooled together like a school of fish, each pressing to be closer toward the center and further from the fearful things in their surround. Wide eyes glanced from the woman to the tank, around at one another, and across the line of staffers who each by their own right could have been a shark had they not come out as people instead.

“Let’s go!” the chief barked, sparking a jolt of heads anxious and filled with fright.

As they walked, the sharks darted back and forth in the water on the other side of the tank, sometimes keeping pace, sometimes appearing wanting - a little too wanting. This produced an eerie and exhilarating effect, and it seemed as though the huddled mass of fearful teens moved faster, rotating, spinning in a vortex of concern and will for self-preservation. At the end of the hall, they turned left, marching yet along the periphery of the tank. Through another door they found themselves in a room with antique white walls, soft green carpet, and several rows of wooden pews. The room was tall and arched, and their shallow voices echoed around the room off the vaulted ceiling. Near one wall sat a youthful Hispanic man, thirty years old, leaning back in a chair facing outward with a book in his hand.