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.
I need money
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