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From Scottish writer William Meikle comes a novel in the traditionof James Herbert’s
The Rats
and Guy N. Smith’s
 Night of the Crabs.
Copyright © William Meikle 2010Ghostwriter Publications, Dorset, Great BritainISBN 978-1-907190-19-3All rights reserved. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
 
 
1The whale farted.The noise was like a cotton sheet being slowly ripped intwo. The body shuddered along its whole length in a long slowripple. The three men standing beside it giggled nervously, thenhad to stand back as the odour tickled their nostrils.“Are you
 sure
it’s dead?” Toms asked, pinching fingers tohis nose and breathing as lightly as he could through his mouth.“Just intestinal gases finding their way out,” McGuire said.“Nothing to worry about.”“That smell isn’t
 just 
anything,” Toms replied. “It’s sothick I can chew it.”He sniffed at his clothes. “And it’s sinking into my jacket. Ido believe it’s toxic.”McGuire nodded.“Sure is ripe. And that’s just the first of many.”As if to accentuate his point the whale farted again.McGuire had to turn his head away, and it was several seconds before he could speak.“Let’s get the blood and tissue samples. Then we’ll call it anight. This big boy isn’t going anywhere. Maybe in the morningthe gases will have worked their way out.”“Or maybe the wind will get up and keep it from hangingaround too long,” Toms said. “But whatever you say boss. Onetissue sample, coming up.”The dead sperm whale was laid out along the beach justabove the water line. It had been found that same morning by adog walker. McGuire took the call just after lunch, and they wereon site less than an hour later. The whale was already dead, andfrom the looks of it, it had been for a few days at least. Earlier there had been a large crowd of gawpers, and even a crew from alocal television station, but a dead whale doesn’t do much exceptlie there and rot. The crowd grew bored and dissipated as dusk 
 
started to fall. Not so the small group of researchers. For them thiswas a big deal.The stretch of sea around Nantucket is full of whales, butnormally they are the people-pleasers… lively playful humpbacksand bottlenose dolphins that can be guaranteed to put on a showfor the tourists. Sperm whales are much more sedate. They dolittle more than lie on the surface like huge inflated inner tubes,occasionally sending out a huge blow, and are usually only seen indeep water. Every year they trawl up and down the EasternSeaboard, but many miles offshore. To get this close, even if itwas dead, was a big thrill for the members of the team.“What do you think is the cause of death?” Kaminski said.He was the youngest of the three, and by far the most excited. Hecouldn’t keep his hands off the whale, and kept running his palmacross the broad belly, as if it was a sleeping pet.McGuire shrugged.“We won’t know that until we get the lab results back. Andwe won’t get them unless we take the samples. Come on guys,focus here. Let’s get the job done and head off for a few beers.”“Sounds good to me boss,” Toms replied. He took a long bore from the field kit and placed it against the whale’s belly.“I’d stand well back,” he said. “The last one of these I didwas messy.”He started to turn the bore, twisting the overlargecorkscrew into the whale. The skin started to split in a wound thatrapidly widened showing a pink layer of blubber beneath. Tomsmade one more turn. The belly burst open, covering the men in aflood of blood and gore.“Shit,” Toms said, and spat out a solid chunk. “It tasteseven worse than it smells.”Kaminski laughed out loud.“I guess we’ll be doing the laundry before going for a beer guys.”
Clickety-click.
McGuire heard the sound, but had been blinded by thespray of blood in his eyes. He reached up with his right hand towipe it away.
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