Chad was a truck driver. Tanker truck. Haulin' diesel to some little town east of Moncton, New Brunswick, the name of which he couldn't be bothered to remember. Cherryl's Point or some such thing. Didn't matter much to Chad. Just so long as he got to pee. He hadn't gone to the bathroom since he left Quebec City. That was hours ago.

He could go for some conversation too, if he were honest with himself. Hadn't spoken to a soul since ordering two Boston creams and a double-double at the drive-thru Tim's. Sarah had been the little blonde's name. Boring kinda name. But then, she was a boring kinda girl. All business. No warmth.

"Here are your donuts, sir," she'd said, without so much as looking at him.

"Why merci--" he made a point of reading the tag above her perky left breast. "Sarah." And he smiled a friendly kinda smile that most civilized folks would consider polite. Sarah hadn't. Her nose kind of scrunched up.

"Let me grab your coffee." How do you like that? Not a de rien or your welcome or nothing.

When she reached out to hand the steaming hot cup to him all she said was, "Double-double."

"Ah, perfect!" Chad told her. "Can't get through the day without about six of these!" He added a chuckle, something to loosen the little thing up, but she didn't even crack a smile.

"Have a nice day," she said, looking up at the monitor in front of her, already on to the next order. Business. Cool, hard business.

Nothin' like Isis and Mercedes, the strippers at Solid Gold where he spent most of his paycheck last month. Those girls were listeners. With twinkling giggles and skin that smelled like candy.

Chad hoped Point Sharon, or whatever it was, had a good spot like Solid Gold. A good spot for an all-you-can-eat buffet and a couple Isis and Mercedes-types who liked to listen.

If he ever got there.

The road was pitch black in front of him, rolling out piece by piece in the light from his headlights. There was nothing but him and the stars. And the moon glowing off the ocean as he drove along the coast. He hadn't seen so much as a gas station for three hours. Where the hell was this Point Charice, anyhow?

His bladder started to ache. And there was no sign of lights anywhere up ahead. He could pull over maybe. Empty his tank right there on the beach. Then again, if he just bit through the pain, he could probably be there in the next half hour. It was seven and a half hours from Quebec City to Point Chester and he'd been driving for more than seven hours. Of course, friend of his had his bladder burst a few years ago in a movie theatre. Don't want that. But it might have been his appendix.

Something large on the road exploded into view.

Chad wrenched the wheel, hard right, to avoid the giant black mass.

The tanker fought him, the muscles in his arms threatening to tear from the strain.

Tires screeched.

Chad roared back at them, slamming the brake so hard he thought his foot would smash through the floor.

And just like that, the tanker stopped.

Chad sat there, panting, his heart thumping against his ribs, his pants soaked through - his bladder pain gone.

What in the Sam Hill was that?

He could see the black lump in his side mirror. A giant leather sack sprawled out on the road, shaded red from his back taillight.

Chad wiped the sweat off his forehead, readjusted his cap and climbed out of the cabin.

Alone on the highway, all Chad could hear was the rush of the waves washing up on the sand beside the road. The breeze that came off the water chilled his soaked jeans and sent a shiver up his back as he walked up to the object that nearly killed him. There was a smell to it. A putrid stink. Like dead fish and old seaweed.

Up close, he knew instantly what it was. Five and a half meters long. It was a monster. The bright white of its belly practically glowing in the moonlight, the deep frown of razor-sharp teeth unmistakable. Chad was no marine biologist, but it only took a week in the summer of watching TV documentaries and a couple Hollywood blockbusters to know what he was looking at.

Shark.

Right there on the road.

How in the hell?

Chad scratched his head and looked back at the truck, clinging to the side of the road as if it might slide off in to the ditch. But he wasn't worried about that.

Because when Chad turned around, the only thing he could look at was the others.

Lined up along the road just ahead of him.

Six more.

No -- seven.

Seven sharks.

And the one at his feet made eight.

Eight sharks.

In the middle of nowhere.

Dead on the highway.