Ways to Kill Fish
“Do you know what I hate more than just about anything in the world? Six-year-olds with fishing rods.”
Warning: this story contains some graphic language.
“Do you know what I hate more than just about anything in the world?” Ned Shorter asked as he wrung his hands together dryly. “Six-year-olds with fishing rods.”
“That’s not what caused this,” Giles said, grimacing. He was working a thin line through the eye of the fishhook embedded in his left arm, and Lennard was standing next to him, ready to give it a good yank when he was ready. “I wasn’t looking where I was going an’ my arm jumped out when the boat hit a swell. These things happen, is all.”
“Yes, but think about it,” Ned persisted. “Surely you’ve been in a scenario where there’s some kid swinging his line around his head with no idea what he’s doing, just waiting for it to catch on some unsuspecting passerby behind. What sort of parent lets their kids handle fishing rods if they don’t know how to use them?”
“You gotta learn somehow,” Lennard said. “Accidents are how you learn.”
“Not accidents to other people!” Ned cried. “That’s like saying — ”
“If you’re squeamish, I’d recommend turning around.”
Ned swallowed and quickly obliged, staring out the filth-plated window at the grimly rainy harbor outside. The gray sky, obscuring a sun that was now supposed to be high in the air, seemed to echo the mood in the tackle shop, and the soothing waves gently lapping the sides of the docked boats only helped Ned’s countenance a little.
“All right, ready?” he heard Lennard say behind him, and momentarily there was a loud grunt followed by the sound of a bit of metal clanking against the countertop. Realizing it was over, Ned turned back around, and tried not to look at the bloodied patch on Giles’ arm.
“Could have done better, but it’s fine,” Giles said, patting Lennard on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
Ned frowned. “Listen, can we get back to the matter at hand? I came here to ask you a question and you still haven’t answered.”
“What is it you want, anyway?” Giles asked, turning to face him. He had missed the first part of the conversation.
“Mister… Giles, I am here representing the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, and it has come to my attention that the local fisheries in this district are collectively producing an unauthorized multitude of stock which could endanger certain species of wildlife in the future. Not only are the populations of fish cultures dwindling, but the populations which hunt these fish are frequently having to migrate to more abundant areas. Since all attempts to coordinate with the leadership of this district have hitherto proven unsuccessful, I was sent to speak with the mangers of the fisheries themselves and inform them of their illicit practices and the federal penalty for overfishing. I think you will find the tax we’ve imposed to be quite unaffordable.”
“What are you talking about?” Giles asked dryly, smoothing a small bandage over his wound. “We’re fishing for just enough to provide the community and make ourselves a profit. We never overfished in our lives.”
“Well, that claim is at odds with official reports we’ve gathered. I have all the data right here in my bag, if you would only let me show — ”
“That’s absurd!” Giles cried, exploding suddenly. “We’re fishermen! We need to fish. You can’t just come in here representing some bureaucrat an’ tell us we can’t fish!”
“That is not was I’m saying, sir. I’m trying to tell you that from now on you must agree to adhere to limits, unless you want all this,” he waved his hands, “taken away.”
“That’s ridiculous! Lennard, are you listening to this guy?”
“I’ve been listening to him.”
“You can’t just threaten to destroy our way of life by — ”
“Right, listen, sir. I’ll tell you the facts. Your way of life is downright cruel. You coax fish onto your lines with bait, embed metal spikes in their throats, pull them out of the water by yanking on those spikes, and let them gasp writhing on the floor until they die of oxygen-deprivation or their own wounds. It’s cruel. Can you imagine if someone did something like that to you?”
Both of the men were silent for a moment, then they burst out laughing.
“No, I’m serious!” Ned sputtered. “Think about how painful that is. Think about how many fish you do that to a year. What you do makes hunting pheasants seem merciful. At least the birds just die when they get shot.”
“They’re fish!” Giles cried, still chuckling. “Fish ain’t people! It’s the way of the world, mister, for people to hunt animals an’ for animals to hunt animals. No need to be squeamish about it.”
Ned took a deep breath and rested a hand on the counter-top. “I’m not asking you to stop fishing. I think fishing is wrong — even fishing with nets, the way you often do it — but that’s just me. What I am asking you to do, sir, is to significantly decrease the number of fish you kill per annum.”
“So what do you expect us to do, find a new job?” Lennard asked, throwing up his hands. “A new life? If we fish any less than we do now, we won’t have a life left! We need to fish to survive!”
“That’s not my problem,” Ned replied, straightening. “My concern is for the endangered species, nothing else. Now, if you’ll just take a look at these papers…” He reached up and set his briefcase on the counter, unclasping it to peer at the documents inside. But something caught his eye, and he frowned, pulling out what looked and felt like a sandwich wrapped in white paper. “Suppose I did pack lunch after all,” he murmured, setting it aside.
“I’m not signing anything,” Lennard said. “Not until you convince me that I should.”
“I don’t have time to convince you of anything,” Ned scoffed, pulling several documents out of a tan folder. “Just please read through these reports, and then we can have an educated discussion about this. Not that you really have any choice in what course of action you take.” Handing the papers to Lennard, he took a step back and leaned against the counter, unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite. Interesting flavor. It tasted something like peanut butter, or maybe it was hummus. Wait… Was that…fish?
Ned looked down at the sandwich in horror, then ripped it open. Inside was a wet, pasty concoction that glowed a dull yellow, smothered on bread that could have been made of cardboard. What was this horrible thing? He hadn’t made it. Swallowing, his eyes bulging in shock, he didn’t even notice Giles and Lennard peering up to look at him.
“You okay?” Lennard asked.
“Yes, fine,” Ned answered, reaching down to clench his gut. Why had it started hurting all of a sudden? Yet as he bent over, pressing a fist against his aching stomach, something lodged itself in his throat and he couldn’t breathe. Panicked, Ned stood up and knocked his elbow against the counter, eyes popping. He tried to cough, but nothing would come out.
“He’s choking!” Giles said, and dropped the papers, running forward to help. “Quick, grab him from the back!”
Then Ned’s face exploded.
The first metal barb burst out from the skin of his left cheek in a spray of blood, ripping off half his mouth and exposing white bones underneath. Less than a second later, another appeared, slanted diagonally across his throat, skewering his esophagus like a kebab. Two more followed, one from the middle of his chest, ripping through his ribcage like a pair of wet sticks, the other from just above his right eye, ripping it apart and flinging the top side of his face to go crashing onto a nearby shelf. The barbs themselves, black and smooth as silk, so sharp it was impossible to tell where the blade ended and the air began, quivered violently, shaking his body — what was left of it — back and forth.
Ned stood there, somehow still conscious, unable to so much a twitch a finger, let alone collapse to the floor. His one remaining eye was too panicked to focus on anything, but had it looked ahead, it would have seen Lennard and Giles frantically backing into the wall, their hearts beating wildly, trying not to retch.
Ned felt the first tug from inside his body, twined around one of the intact bones of his chest. But it wasn’t pulling him up, or down, or sideways, or forward, or backward. It was pulling him…out. Some direction he had never known existed. The tugging grew stronger, then he felt it in his head too, and his legs. With a final tug, his shuddering, mutilated figure was yanked out of the world. To the eyes of Lennard and Giles, it looked as if he disappeared from the inside out, his chest caving into itself, pulling the rest of the body with it, until, for a millisecond, all that was left of him was a layer of skin floating in midair. Then he was gone forever, leaving nothing but a heavy puddle of blood and a few body parts.
To Ned’s last remaining eye, it looked as if the universe suddenly vanished around him and he was floating in a field of shifting bright colors, greens and reds and browns on a meaningless, splashed canvas. Shapes seemed to move in ways that seemed impossible, things flashed in and out of existence, and the whole time he felt something uncomfortable pushing out from inside him, from all around him, heinous vibrations rattling his senses.
He could never know it, of course, but those vibrations were in fact the voices of creatures — children, really, only a few days old — and they were talking about him:
“Wow, look at the size of that one!”
“Where did you put the bait?”
“In its bag. They fall for that every time.”
“Should we keep it or throw it back in?”
“Why would we throw it back? It’s already dead anyway.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know how to cook him right, and besides, three-dimensionals never satisfy me.”
“Okay, fine, take him off and put him back in. Seems a waste, though.”
To Ned’s eye, there was another whiz of colors just before his vision blanked and he died, but all Lennard and Giles saw was a bloodied corpse suddenly appearing in the room again, knocking against the counter and falling limp on the floor. This time they did retch.
Nathaniel Beardsley is a lifelong writer, college freshman, and soon-to-be-self-published author. He’s also an avid hobbyist, and a lover of all things sci-fi. Check out his new book Translucent, available soon!
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