White Death by Matthew A. Hamilton

He flipped his legs over the side of the boat, put on his fins. His friend, Jason, checked the spear gun.

“Good to go,” Jason said. “You good?”

Tom was an experienced free diver and hunter. “No problem. Let’s get something big this time.”

“This is where John caught that jack mackerel last year,” Jason said, “so I don’t think there’ll be a problem.”

Tom jumped into a dark cloud of blood and guts from the chum bucket. Bubbles rocketed up his sides, popped when they hit the surface. Small fish swam nearby, easy kills, but he waited. He was patient. He could hold his breath for a long time. He wanted the big kill.

Then he saw them, where the coral reef dropped off. A small school of dogtooth tuna swam 10 meters below him, oblivious to the danger. He bent his legs forward and pushed down, forced his body into a vertical motion, aimed his spear gun.

Suddenly, a sharp pain assaulted his leg. He looked up, saw a cloud of blood above his knee and the white underbelly of a great white shark. He stayed focused, didn’t panic, twisted his body around, surfaced.

“Jason! Shark!” he yelled. “Get me in the boat!”

Then he was gone.

Jason rushed forward with the boat. He poked with the safety hook inside the patch of crimson-blue. Nothing. Jellied foam mingled with the starboard side. White death surrounded his friend. There was nothing he could do to save him.

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