Breeders by Arno Joubert Read Free Book Online

the sharks would spit out stuff that they didn’t eat. She shivered and shone her flashlight inside the dumpster, holding on to a metal bar to steady herself.  
    At first she struggled to comprehend what she saw. Bumps and ridges were covered by a thin white gauze of some kind. She pressed the torch against the bar, shining the light onto an object against the opening, then pushed it away with her hand. It was soft; it turned slowly and floated back to the opening. A large bubble of air escaped from below. She pointed her flashlight.
    It illuminated a skull, eyeballs in deep sockets. Long dark hair, still attached to the skull, swayed gently in the current. The flesh on the cheeks and lips had started to decay, and the skin was detaching from the bone. Alexa noticed small fish darting in and out of the dumpster, grabbing pieces of tissue as they swam.  
    Neil had drifted off to her side, keeping an eye out for the sharks. Alexa waved him over and pointed at the skull. He swam over, peered inside, and cast Alexa a wide-eyed glance. He raised his shoulders as if to say, “What the hell?”
    Alexa swallowed; her mouth felt parched from sucking on the dry air.
    She swam a couple of feet away then pointed her flashlight over the top of the container, trying to separate the forest from the trees. And then her suspicions were confirmed.  
    The container was filled to the brim with decomposing corpses.

Bruce peered toward the gloomy skies as he heard the distinctive whopping of helicopter blades. A shape appeared; it resembled a tiny wasp on the distant horizon, heading toward them. “You see that?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder.
    Ryan Barnes lifted his binoculars to his eyes. “It’s a Robinson R44, not one of ours.”
    “Shit, I hope it’s not a TV crew,” Moolman said with the familiar, worried frown on his brow.
    They stood watching as the craft flew toward them. It’s small for a chopper; looks a lot like a dragonfly, Bruce thought. The noise of the blades increased, and it flew over the boat, spraying them with a fine mist before circling back.  
    “Look familiar?” Bruce asked.
    Moolman and Barnes shook their heads, cupping their hands over their eyes. The wind from the hovering chopper buffeted the boat, causing it to rock on the water. “It doesn’t have any registration numbers either,” Moolman shouted, puzzled.
    Bruce waved at the aircraft. It was painted white and had no identifying numbers at all. The helicopter floated twenty yards above them; then, a hatch opened and something fell out. It plonked into the water ten yards from their boat. A second later, a large explosion rocked the vessel, water spraying onto the deck.  
    “Shit, that was a grenade!” Moolman shouted, holding on to the railing for balance. “Get us out of here.”
    The skipper slammed the throttle forward and managed to tear away just in time as another explosion hit the water. “What the . . .?”
    “We can’t leave them down there,” Bruce yelled, holding on to his cap.
    The skipper kept quiet, a grim expression on his face, peering straight ahead as the craft rocketed over the water.
    Eben de Vos pulled himself toward Bruce. “Don’t worry, we have the GPS coordinates,” he shouted over the deafening roar of the boat engine.
    Bruce looked back. The chopper was hovering above the water. “Do you have any weapons?” he asked.
    “I have my service pistol,” Moolman said and unbuckled his holster.
    “Give it to me,” Bruce said, motioning with his hand.
    Moolman handed the gun over.  
    Bruce looked at the gun in surprise before he shouted, “Turn around! Stay twenty yards away so they can’t lob any more bombs at us!”
    The man nodded then turned the boat in a sweeping circle, doubling back the way he had come.
    “Slow down,” Bruce shouted, taking aim.
    The engine burbled deeply as they coasted toward the chopper; Bruce fired three shots, and the chopper banked to the side before it lifted up