The skiff bobbed in the shadow of Angel Island, east of the Golden Gate, north of downtown San Francisco. A Nike air defense base stood at the far corner of the rugged enclave, its attention turned skyward to repel Soviet bombers, the missileers oblivious to the small boat. A wall of twilight fog surged from the Pacific, swallowing the seventy-story suspension bridge towers that straddled the bay’s opening.

The man in the skiff, only a tall silhouette in the murk, ignored the cold warriors on the peak behind him and the chilly fog bank cloaking the distant city lights. He adjusted a rack of electronic gear before keying a radio mic.

“I’m in position. Ready to activate sonic beacon.”

“Jennings, I still don’t like you out there alone.” The tinny speaker couldn’t hide the tension in the woman’s voice.

“We’ve proven the creature remembers. He’s likely to avoid a bigger boat with a crew.” Jennings hefted a tranquilizer gun. “I’ve got plenty of rotenone to knock him out.” He set down the gun and returned to the electronics. “And I’m not alone, Marcia. Dr. Ferguson, Dr. Morton, Dr. Barton … I feel they’re right here with me.”

“Only two of those men are still alive. Follow their example. And remember, only observation tonight.”

“I’ll see it, all right. The buoy test proved it’s in the bay. Nothing else would leave those claw marks.” Jennings locked the key on the mic and set it down. “I’ll leave the mic open. Beacon on, commencing now.”

Jennings flipped the switch, and a high-pitched oscillation filled the air. He waited. After a few minutes, a sonar ping punctuated the cacophony. Jennings peered at the viewscreen.

“It’s him! Same signature seen in the Everglades. Thirty feet, twenty feet—”

Water churned at the bow. Jennings seized the tranquilizer gun and a flashlight just as huge, webbed hands squeezed the gunwale. The creature vaulted into the boat—nearly seven feet tall, its purple iridescent scales piled on rippling green muscle, with constellations of old gunshot wounds scarred over with mottled flesh. Seawater rivulets traced the round head, dripping off the gill flaps along the thick neck. The bulging eyes sealed against the flashlight’s beam.

Jennings stood his ground, still reporting what he saw. “Morton’s theory was right. Gills have regrown. New scales, almost glowing—”

Blocking the offending light with its forearm, the creature bellowed. Jennings sank a dart into his hide. Roaring, the creature advanced, smashing equipment.

“The rotenone has no effect—”

Talons swiped Jennings’s chest, opening red ribbons of blood and knocking him into the water.

Covering its ears as the sonic beacon keened, the creature identified the source of its discomfort and brought down its fist on the offending machine. A final roar, and then the cove fell momentarily silent as the creature swayed, spent by the beacon’s blare. The scaly head cocked at the crackling radio, the mic dangling from its mount, the channel open and relaying Marcia’s frantic cries. The creature recalled women’s screams—echoes of the Black Lagoon, the observation tank in Florida, and the pen on a nearby shore where once it had been held captive.

The amphibian arced into the bay.

***

At dawn, a Harley FL Hydra-Glide rumbled onto Pier 94 at the San Francisco waterfront. The tall, lean biker wore a pompadour and a leather vest emblazoned with “Black Widows, Fresno.” The motorcycle threaded the traffic of trucks and forklifts and finally arrived at a vehicle gate. Two men carrying Winchester Model 12 trench guns waved the biker through.

The biker parked the Harley under a giant hopper used for filling dump trucks. A hulking longshoreman with a shaved head frisked him. Another man searched the Harley’s saddlebags, finding a duffle filled with bundles of cash. He ruffled the bills with a grin. The biker yanked the bag away once the pat-down was done.

A silver-haired man in a Brioni suit dismissed the second hoodlum and smiled at his guest. “Easy, Frank. Even I have to watch my step on the waterfront.”

“I thought we were partners, Mr. Parisi.”

“We are. I don’t let just anybody in here. That’s my fortune over there.” Parisi pointed to artificial dunes dominating the landscape.

“Sand?”

“Sand makes concrete, and concrete makes freeways, schools, swimming pools. All the things that make California great. Sand’s useful in other ways too.” Parisi gave a hand signal to a scoop crane operator. The crane dropped a load of sand into a sifter. With a loud buzz, the machine shook the sand away, leaving a tightly wrapped block of heroin kilos.

“That’s your first delivery. Take it back to your friends in the Central Valley. That’s why I decided to do business with you. I heard Frank Horrigan is the big man in the biker world. But”—he stopped, glanced down, then back up—“there’s just one problem.” Parisi gave another hand signal. A new man in leathers stepped into view. “He’s Frank Horrigan.”

The real biker laughed. “They let me out of the slam. My lawyer found a technicality.”

Parisi turned solemn as the longshoreman loomed behind the soon-to-be victim. “Save yourself a lot of pain and tell us who you really are.”

“Officer Harry Callahan, San Francisco PD. You’re all under arrest.”

The surrounding men laughed. Harry rammed the duffle into the longshoreman’s jaw, and the bald giant went down in a snowfall of currency. Harry tucked and rolled, coming up with the stiletto switchblade he kept hidden in his boot. A half-second later, he pressed the knife against Parisi’s throat.

The men drew guns and scrambled, shouting to hold fire. Harry used Parisi as a shield, dragging him back to the Harley. He slammed Parisi face-first into the gas tank, tore away a saddlebag, and dove behind a stack of oil drums. As bullets flew, Harry ripped open the bag’s false bottom, revealing a massive Smith & Wesson revolver and three Pachmayr speedloaders.

The hoodlums paused as one man charged behind the oil drums. A gun blast reverberated, and the man sailed back into view, launched off his feet by the point-blank shot. The men cursed and resumed shooting. Harry fired on the run to a new place of concealment, dropping another criminal. Ducking behind a truck, he watched several men climb metal stairs to take positions on catwalks.

Harry crouched lower as a fusillade rang along the truck’s sheet metal. A hoodlum sprayed rounds from a Thompson, retreating behind a pile of crates as Harry popped up to return fire. Harry aimed at a crate. The wood split, and the hoodlum staggered into view, mortally wounded by the bullet that passed through. He squeezed the Thompson’s trigger reflexively as the muzzle pitched upward. Two other men screamed as they fell from the catwalk, hit by friendly fire.

Harry took cover next at the pier’s control booth. The two guards with the Winchester shotguns pinned him in the box-like room, their buckshot shattering the windows. Harry heard the kickstarter on his Harley. The real Frank Horrigan was at the handlebars with a revived Parisi climbing behind him for a getaway. Harry spotted the sand hopper’s control and slammed the red button, entombing the Harley, along with the screaming Parisi and Horrigan, under ten tons of sand. The guards stared as their boss was buried alive, allowing Harry to pick them off easily.

Squad cars raced to the scene. Harry walked toward the first arrivals, prompting some officers to draw a bead at what they perceived to be a large, armed biker. A sergeant waved them off.

“Don’t shoot. He’s one of ours … sorry to say.” Sgt. Briggs marched toward Harry, accompanied by a slender, colorless man in civilian dress. “Callahan! This was supposed to be an undercover assignment, not World War III.”

“Lost my cover. Had to place the suspects under arrest. Unfortunately they resisted.”

Sgt. Briggs scoffed. “Unfortunately.” His eyes fell upon the revolver in Harry’s hand. “What is that?”

“The new Model 29 Smith and Wesson.” Harry held up the weapon to give Briggs a better view. “.44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world.”

“Barbaric. Where’s Parisi?”

“Playing in his sandbox.”

Briggs fumed. “You wrecked our joint operation with the FBI.” He jerked a thumb toward the slender man. “This is Special Agent Farmer, in charge of the San Francisco field office. He can explain.”

“Carlo Parisi was the linchpin in our investigation of organized crime on the West Coast,” SpA Farmer said, his voice as unemotional as his appearance. “I’ll have to report this to headquarters immediately.”

“Hoover’s finally getting serious about the Mafia? Tell him membership’s down this morning.”

Briggs waved his arm in a dictatorial swipe. “That’s it, Callahan! Insubordination. Unauthorized firearm. You’re suspended.” Briggs smirked. “I’m so going to enjoy this.”

Harry remained impassive. “Glad I could make your day, Briggs.”

Briggs frowned at his failure to get a rise out of Harry. He and Farmer waved men forward. Another squad car pulled up. A stocky patrolman jumped out and called Harry over.

“My old buddy DiGiorgio. You here to give me hell too?” Harry said. A grave DiGiorgio shook his head.

END OF CHAPTER 1

NEXT IN CHAPTER 2: Harry meets Marcia Barton, wealthy widow of the mad doctor who last captured and lost the Gill-Man. Marcia wants to recapture the Creature. Will Harry join the scientific quest, or launch his own hunt for vengeance?

Jason William Karpf does not own the Dirty Harry and Creature from the Black Lagoon franchises or any of the related characters. Warner Bros. is the owner of the Dirty Harry franchise. Universal Studios is the owner of the Creature of the Black Lagoon franchise. The story also features cameos from Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea characters, a film and a TV series released by 20th Century Fox.

Harry Julian Fink and R.M. Fink wrote the original Dirty Harry screenplay. Harry Essex, Arthur Ross, and Maurice Zimm wrote screenplay and story for Creature from the Black Lagoon. Milicent Patrick designed the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Irwin Allen and Charles Bennett wrote the screenplay for the theatrical version of Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. Many talented writers created additional characters and dramatic situations for the Dirty Harry sequels, the Creature from the Black Lagoon sequels, and the Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea television show, some of which are also used in this story.

“Creature from the Dead Pool” is a work of fan fiction, intended strictly for entertainment and education, and is outside the original canons. The work is distributed for free, and the author does not make a profit from it. Warner Bros., Universal, and Fox have not produced, distributed, or authorized this story.

Videos, still images, and other communications related to “Creature from the Dead Pool” are fan art, curated audio and visual containing the works and likenesses of a vast number of talented professionals. Jason William Karpf claims no ownership or rights for this content, and he does not make a profit from it. Still images are AI-generated.

“Creature from the Dead Pool” and related materials reflect Jason William Karpf’s lifetime love of the aforementioned franchises. His transformative works are presented in tribute.