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long, billowy cotton shirt, his long shorts, his shoulder-length graying hair. Something about all those birds flying en masse inland didn’t sit right with him. It felt wrong. Felt…unnatural.
    Augustus glanced up the beach. It was relatively empty this morning save for a couple of pre-teen kids chasing each other around. A group of surfers rode waves or waited for the next set. On the other end of the beach heading south was more of the same. This stretch of beach was marked private, about a mile stretch, for the residents who lived along the rocky outcrops that lined the shore. Augustus’s home was fifty yards behind him. Marion was probably on the back deck facing the ocean, enjoying a cup of coffee while reading the morning paper.
    Now on his feet, Augustus turned around and trudged back up the beach, heading toward the walkway that led to his secured private gate. He couldn’t explain the feeling he had, but he’d never been wrong before regarding his instinct. And this morning his instinct was telling him that something bad was heading in from the ocean.
     

TWO
     
     
     
    South Pacific Ocean
     
    They were a hundred miles off the coast of South Africa, on a shoot for Discovery Channel’s upcoming Shark Week event when Dave Thomas noticed something peculiar going on in the ocean.
    He frowned and pointed to an area about twenty yards away, opposite of where Doug Chambers and the camera crew had gone down in the shark cage to capture stock footage. “Check that out,” he said to Todd Perry, the ship’s first mate.
    “What?” Todd was a beanpole thin white South African who owned the fifty-foot yacht they’d commissioned for the shoot. He shielded the glare of the sun from his eyes and looked to where Dave was pointing. “Oh, that? That’s your basic flounder and tuna going ape-shit in these waters.”
    “That’s not flounder and tuna,” Dave said, trying hard not to sound annoyed. This was his second trip to these waters as Producer of Shark Week. Each time, he’d had the misfortune of being paired up with Todd and his yacht. Dave liked the yacht, but its owner was an arrogant prick. Todd didn’t seem to care for Dave either, so Dave made sure he annoyed the man every chance he had when they were on shore. “It isn’t their migration season. In fact, whatever’s making those splashes is a lot bigger—”
    Jack Becker leaned forward, squinting in the water. He was Dave’s assistant. “Those are lobsters.”
    “Lobsters?”
    “Yeah.” Jack pointed at a spot to Dave’s left. “See that claw. Jesus, that’s a big one! Those are probably North Atlantic Lobsters.”
    “What’s a North Atlantic Lobster doing in the South Atlantic ocean off the Cape Horn?” Dave asked.
    “Your guess is as good as mine, mate,” Todd said. He kept his gaze at the water, trying to follow the splashing sounds. “But they’re chasing the fish. Take a look at that!”
    Dave saw. Sure enough, he could see fish of all shapes and sizes zooming through the water as if in a blind panic to escape. The giant lobsters, or whatever they were, seemed to be chasing them. “This is weird.”
    “You said it, mate,” Todd said. “Gotta wonder if your crew is getting this action on film down below.”
    “I hope so,” Dave said, watching with amazement. “I can’t wait to take a look at this footage later tonight.”
    As much as Dave loved his job as a Discovery Channel producer—his specialty was producing original programming on sharks, large carnivorous lizards, giant pythons, bats, and giant spiders—he hated this part of the Atlantic. South Africa was fine. He’d once produced a still-unaired documentary about a rumored thirty foot African Rock Python that had killed and eaten seven full-grown human beings. The footage he and his director had shot were still unassembled, and the powers-that-be at Discovery Channel wanted him to complete it by venturing into the South African veldt with a team of poachers to kill