Monstrous waves battered the shoreline, launching plumes of spray into the moody sky. The sand was dark, the scene barren. The vibe? Post-apocalyptic!

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Gideon.

  “That’s why I had it,” said Greg. “Because I’m a genius strategist and master of making plans!”

  “Doesn’t take a genius to know you’re lying,” said Gorbachev with a smile.

  Gary’s plan was simple: harvest a truckload of fish from the ocean. Just one truckload—nothing greedy. A manageable haul for their first official fishing trip.

  The wind wailed, flinging salt and grit into the eyes of the intruders. Gary stood waist-deep in water, while the Kariotahi surf pounded away.

  “Come on, bros!” he cried to the fishmen. “Are we catching these fish or what?”

  “This isn’t going be a catastrophe, is it?” asked a surprisingly prescient Gideon.

  “Plenty of fish in the sea, mate,” said Gary. “Let’s not go crazy, though—we’ve only got the one truck.”

  “And what if we can’t do it?”

  “Quit your accursed whinging and let’s summon these fish!” yelled Greg.

  He began to sway with ritualistic fervour, his eyes wild, his mouth humming with unearthly resonance.

  “Greg,” said Gideon, his voice tight. “We’re supposed to be doing this together!”

  “Fine,” Greg muttered, placing a barnacled hand on Gideon’s shoulder.

  On the beach, a ramshackle truck was waiting, its engine idling. Inside, driver Jock McGinty huffed on his trusty vape, wondering what kind of madness he’d got himself into. He’d been promised $200 and a box of Waikato Draught for the job—transporting fish, apparently. So far, the mythical fish had yet to appear.

  Greg turned to Gary, his eyes flickering with unnatural light.

  “Prepare yourself, human. For an almighty display of—”

  “Bro,” said Gary, “Enough with the theatrics!”

  “I can’t just dispose of the theatrics,” grumbled Greg. “It’s part of my process.”

  “Let’s just get this over with, shall we? Summon on three! One.”

  The clouds darkened to a sinister black.

  “Two!”

  The fishmen raised their arms as one.

  “Three!”

  The wind died. The waves collapsed. Silence.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Gary scanned the sea for fish.

  Was this it? A brutal dose of reality? A massive anticlimax?

  “They better bloody pay me!” muttered Jock McGinty. “Fish or no fish.”

  So far, in spite of Greg and the gang’s furious arm-waving, no fish have answered the call.

  And then, a single snapper flops onto the sand.

  It shudders. Expires.

  A rumbling follows. The ocean boils with movement.

  And here they come. Hundreds at first. Then thousands. Tens of thousands.

  The water churns—a frenzy of scales and fins. Fish aren’t just swimming to shore; they’re hurling themselves at it. Snapper, kahawai, trevally, and kingfish leap onto the sand in a grotesque, voluntary sacrifice. A mass exodus of the sea’s finest ingredients.

  Gary’s eyes widen as the tidal wave of fish keeps pouring in.

  “That’s enough!” he shouts—but it’s already too late. Gary watches, waiting for the fish to stop. But they don’t. They just keep coming.

  Now, he’s drowning in a logistical nightmare, an ecological disaster, a clusterfuck of fish piling up in all directions.

  “STOP!” Gary screams, “For God’s sake, STOP!”

  Finally, the fishmen lower their arms, turning to admire their work—the morning’s haul.

  They are surprised when Gary comes charging over, wild-eyed and raging!

  “Are you insane? How many fish do you think we can fit in that small-ass truck?”

  “With immense power,” says Greg, cackling like a mad king, “comes zero responsibility!”

  Above, the gulls are circling. Jock McGinty stumbles out of the truck, gaping at the endless wall of fish.

  “This is not what we discussed on the phone!” he says as Gary gallops past.

  “I’ll pay you triple what I said earlier, and we’ll do as many trips as it takes. And call your brother, your wife, your cousin—anyone with a usable vehicle. We need these fish out of here ASAP!”

  Greg and Gideon rush to help. Meanwhile, on the shoreline, Gorbachev is gorging himself on snapper.

  “This is not the time, Gorbo!” Gary yells. “Get over here and help load the truck. And someone keep these damn gulls off our catch!”

  “Away sky beasts!” Greg screams, aiming a slap at a swooping seagull.

  Gary rushes toward the biblical wall of fish, slipping on a loose snapper, and falling headfirst into an immersive experience of fish and fish slime.

  Gideon pulls him to his feet, and he’s up again—loading, furiously loading, shovelling fish after fish into the back of Jock’s truck.

  The truck’s suspension groans under the weight.

  “I still have to drive out of here, you know,” grumbles a visibly disturbed Jock McGinty. “I didn’t volunteer for the bloody apocalypse!”

  The gulls are a thick cloud now, their squawking—raucous!

  “Can someone shut up those damn gulls!”

  “We don’t control birds, you know,” mutters Gideon.

  “Well, start learning!” screams an increasingly desperate Gary.

  The refrigerator hums and crackles ominously, but luckily, keeps its cool... for now.

  Gary, however, does not, because the nightmare is getting worse by the minute.

  From the pile, he picks up the first of many clearly undersized fish.

  “THESE ARE BABIES, GREG!” he screams, holding up a terrifyingly tiny snapper.

  “You wanted fish, and we delivered! You didn’t specify how old they should be.”

  “This is so illegal,” says Gary, the colour draining from his face.

  His brain is grasping at straws, desperate for a solution. There has to be a plan!

  But what? WHAT?

  Load the fish—dispose of the waste. Under the circumstances, it’s the best Gary can do.

  So, they huff, and they puff until Jock’s truck is crammed full to bursting.

  “Shall we give it a whirl then?” says Jock, his hands visibly shaking. As he shifts into gear, Jock McGinty sighs.

  “Well, here goes something.”

  The engine roars into life. The wheels spin. And continue to spin, digging a ditch in the sand.

  “Push you idiots!” roars Jock as Gary and the fishmen leap into action.

  They push and push, the truck digging deeper into what is rapidly becoming a trench—and then, just when it seems hopeless, the tyres grip.

  The truck roars forward.

  And the first shipment is away!

  “Get those fish to market!” screams Gary. “And send help for the rest!”

  Gary flops onto the sand, exhausted. They’ve made a small dent in the fish, but the job is far from over.

  Greg strides by, admiring the fish-strewn carnage. Then, as if casually brainstorming, he says, “What if we summon some sharks, you know, to clean up the leftovers?”