The dilapidated, wooden building whose sign proclaims it as the home to “Allegheny Adventures,” its red paint weathered and peeling, looks more abandoned than closed. The van parked next to the building is equally devoid of habitants, though there are three canoes loaded onto its attached trailer.
“Where the hell is everyone?” Dad wonders to himself, hands tapping the steering wheel annoyedly. The SUV idles quietly on the dirt road that terminates at the gravel lot adjacent to the building. The car windows are down letting in the comfortable warmth of a mid-August afternoon.
“What’s going on, Dale?” Sean calls to Dad from the jeep behind us, his head sticking out the window. Through the windshield I can see my older sister, Tara, asleep next to him, her foot braced against the dashboard where she’s riding shotgun, but can’t spy her friend Amanda in the back seat.
“Dunno, babe,” Dad answers back, “looks like the Dead Heads forgot we were coming.”
“Seriously?” Sean’s voice carries a put-upon tone, “you said this was going to be fun.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “I’ll take care of it.” He turns to me as he opens the door and steps out. “Stay here, Paul, keep an eye on your brother.”
“He’s not my brother,” I mumble quietly under my breath as he slams the door.
“What was that?” Dad asks leaning back in the window.
“Nothing,” I reply quickly.
“That’s what I thought,” Dad says with an arched eyebrow, “Stay here.”
He hitches up his shorts and starts walking to the building.
“I’m booooored,” Dennis whines from the seat behind me.
“Shut up, Dennis,” I tell him, still looking at Dad as he climbs the three rickety steps and bangs on the screen door at the top.
“That’s no way to talk to your brother, Paulie Waulie.”
I turn back to him.
“Just because our dads are married doesn’t make you my brother, you little scab.”
He sticks his tongue out at me, but my glare is enough to make him turn back to his video game magazine with a grumble. I return my attention to the building where Dad has switched tactics and is trying the door. It swings open as he pulls and he calls back to us, “Be right back,” before stepping inside, the screen banging noisily behind him. I check my watch and see it’s just a little past two.
Sean gets out of the jeep, pushing his designer sunglasses up his nose and stretching exaggeratingly. For a moment everything is serenely quiet, the only noises the low rumble of the car engines and the slight whisper of a breeze.
“Dale, everything ok in there?” Sean shouts toward the door Dad disappeared through. There’s no answer, and the silence extends for several long heartbeats.
Abruptly, the screen door practically explodes outward, slamming against the side of the building and eliciting a shriek of surprise from Sean. A haggard looking man wearing a scraggily beard and a brilliantly colored tie-dye t-shirt emerges, stumbling down the steps. He barely catches himself from face-planting in the dirt before spinning in place back toward the building, his balance wavering. Concerned, I open the door and get out, but don’t know what else to do. Looking back, I see Tara is awake and that she and Amanda have gotten out of the jeep, their mouths both twisted into frowns. Dennis has dropped his magazine, his jaw open in dull shock. My dad exits the building after the man, a look of confused bemusement upon his face.
“No! No way, no how. I ain’t going and I ain’t taking you, dude,” the man I recognize as Jerry Conroe, the owner of Allegheny Adventures, shouts at my dad, jabbing his finger towards him violently.
“Jerry,” Dad spreads his hands in a placating gesture, “What are you talking about? Paul and I have been coming here for years. We paid in advance months ago.”
“Nuh uh, man,” Jerry shakes his head vehemently, “not a chance. You know how we ain’t gotten any rain this summer? River’s the lowest it’s been in like eighty years. Turns out that ain’t a good thing.”
“I looked online just yesterday. Everything says the water’s still deep enough for canoes, just not some of the bigger stuff. We shouldn’t have a problem.”
“I ain’t TALKING about the fucking canoes, man,” Jerry screams, spit flying everywhere.
Dad wipes away a few flecks that land on his beard. “Gross. Look, Jerry, I think you’re a little too stoned to be talking business. Where’s Cheryl?”
“Cheryl’s….” Jerry drifts off before collapsing to his knees sobbing, “Gone, man. Cheryl’s gone,” he manages to get out.
“Dale?” Sean has walked up near our car, eyes wide with concern.
Dad holds his hand up, warding Sean back. He kneels down next to Jerry, speaking quietly near the crying man’s ear. Jerry keeps sobbing but after a minute or two starts nodding his head, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. Dad stands and claps him on the shoulder, then helps him to his feet.
“We’ll get the trailer loaded with our gear. Get sobered up and I’ll let you know when we’re ready to go.”
Jerry continues to nod before stumbling back up the steps and back into the building, the screen again slamming noisily behind him.
“Paul?” Dad looks at me, “Sean and I will park the cars. Could you take Dennis and the girls to the shed and help them get the lifejackets and paddles?”
“Sure, Dad,” I turn back to Dennis, “let’s go, puke stain.”
“Is that normal?” I hear Sean ask Dad as I walk behind the building towards the equipment shed.
“Nah,” Dad said, “Jerry’s just a little more baked than usual. I think his wife left him.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
“That’s the guy you and Dad have always talked about?” Tara asks, catching up to me as we reach the shed. “I thought you said he was cool.”
“He is, his wife too. I mean, they always have been anyways,” I shrug as I pull open the door, “I guess that’s why Dad tells us not to do drugs.”
“You’re such a square, Paul,” Amanda ruffles my hair as she walks behind Tara into the shed, perusing the equipment, “I bet he could get us some really good shit. Now,” she turns back to me with a malicious grin, “think you could help me find a lifejacket that will fit over my girls?” she arches her back, causing her chest to stick out provocatively.
Tara rolls her eyes and gently shoves Amanda, “You’re ridiculous. Don’t tease him,” she turns to me, seeing my eyes practically bugging out of their sockets, “and you’re a pig.”
“Hey!” I protest.
“Ooooo, Paulie’s got a girlfriend,” Dennis croons from the doorway.
“Shut UP, Dennis!”
“Sorry, Paul,” Amanda smiles wryly, “You’re cute, but you’re not my type. I like my men older. Now your dad on the other hand…mmm, if he weren’t gay…”
“Oh my GOD,” Tara shrieks, grabbing a lifejacket and paddle at random and storming back out of the equipment shed, “I can’t believe I invited you on this trip!”
“You need me, honey!” Amanda calls after her, “Without another source of estrogen on this trip you’ll die!”
She chuckles, turning back to me. “Seriously, though, can you help me find a good lifejacket?”
“Sure. Dennis, grab a small, I’ll help you get it sized in a second,” I tell my stepbrother, pulling on my own jacket with practiced motions before handing Amanda a medium, “Here, try this one.”
Amanda taps her lip with her finger thoughtfully as I adjust the various straps. “How’s that work anyway? I mean, Sean throws a giant blip on my gaydar, but your dad is, like, totally hetero-seeming. And both of them obviously had kids with previous wives.”
I shrug.
“I think it was just a different time. When they were our age, they felt forced to try and fit in. Sean says he ‘finally realized he couldn’t repress who he was anymore’ and that’s what ended his first marriage. My mom left Dad, Tara, and me when she found her ‘soulmate’ in her weekly bible study.“
“Dude, that sucks. No wonder Tara never told me. How’d Sean and your dad meet?”
“Community theater. They played Jean Valjean and Javert opposite each other in Les Miserables. The rest is history.”
“That is so CUTE! And your dad does theater? MUSICAL theater?!” Amanda gasps, “God, he would so be my type.”
It’s almost four by the time we get the gear on the trailer, have Jerry, still likely stoned but considerably less upset, drive us the twenty-five miles north to the river entry point, unload, and get the canoes ready to launch.
“Ok, Jerry,” my Dad strokes his beard, “you get back home safe and we’ll see you in a couple days, yeah?”
Jerry mumbles something under his breath but nods agreeably and waves before slamming the van door closed and driving away.
“You know the most interesting people,” Sean muses.
I go to get in the canoe my dad is standing next to, but he puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Ah, hold on a sec, Paul. I think you and Dennis should share a canoe.”
“What?! Dad…”
“No come on, think about it. You’re the most experienced one here besides me,” he lowers his voice conspiratorially, “Sean’s not much of an outdoorsman, but I think he’ll do ok with Amanda.”
“Well, why can’t Dennis go with you, and I get Tara then?” I hiss back.
“Big senior too cool for his little brother? No, come on Paul. He’s too light compared to me. You know it’s important to keep the canoes at least somewhat balanced. Besides, he looks up to you.”
“Dad, I don’t…”
“Paul…” Dad interrupts my protest and crosses his arms. I can tell an argument isn’t going to end my way.
“Fine,” I grumble, “but remember it’s your fault if the little idiot won’t listen to me and tips the canoe.”
“Good man,” Dad slaps my back and turns his attention to the rapidly darkening sky. “Now, we’d better get a move on. Despite what Jerry said about not having any rain this summer, I think we’re about to get some. Let’s just go to the first island down to pitch camp for the night. It’ll ease the others in, and with good luck we’ll get the tents up before the weather hits.”
If we have any luck, it isn’t good.
The issues start almost immediately. Dennis is not only too weak to really help with the paddling from his seat in the front of the canoe, but the little shit actively works against me. He dips his paddle in the water forcing me to constantly change the side I’m rowing on, and at one point even back paddles, snickering at his cleverness. Before long, we’re far behind the other two canoes. I cast what I hope is an “I told you so” look in Dad’s direction, but even from as far away as I am I can tell he and Tara are laughingly engaged in conversation and he doesn’t notice.
“Stop it, you little fart muncher.”
At last, Dennis tires of being annoying and simply leans back on the gear we have piled in the middle of the canoe, pretending to go to sleep. Without having to compensate for his sabotage I’m at least able to get us going in something resembling a straight line, though with just me rowing there’s no hope we will be able to catch the others before they get to the campsite.
The island in the middle of the river that Dad has chosen is only about a mile and a half down from the launch point, but even that takes us the better part of an hour to navigate. The rain starts to fall about half a mile out, a slight drizzle at first but gradually increasing. I can see ahead where the other two canoes have made the bank of the island. Dennis sits up abruptly with a shriek of surprise. As the rain abruptly picks up, he actually starts helping me row. Even with both of us paddling in unison, by the time Dennis and I finally reach the campsite and manage to pull our canoe out of the water, we’re fully soaked through.
Coming into a clearing we’ve used in past years, Dad is in the process of staking the weather fly down on a small two-person tent, while Sean sits hopelessly in the middle of a pile of poles and tarp. The girls are nowhere to be seen so I can only surmise they’re in the tent Dad is working on. He pauses as he sees us stumble up.
“Paul, I’m going to finish getting the girls settled, then I’ll help Sean with our tent. Why don’t you and Dennis unload the gear from your canoe and stack it under that tree over there with the rest of it. Then take the hatchet and the hacksaw and try to find some wood so we can get a fire going.”
“In this?” I raise my hands to indicate falling rain, a distant rumble of thunder helping illustrate my point. “It’ll all be soaked.”
Dad throws me a grin.
“Don’t worry, kiddo, I packed some dry tinder. Once we get it started the wood’ll burn, might just be a little smokier than normal.”
I grumble but move towards the canoe and start pulling out bags and coolers, shuttling them to the tree with the other equipment and supplies. To my surprise Dennis helps without even a snarky comment. By the time we get the gear unloaded, Dad and Sean have the second tent about halfway up. I walk towards them, hatchet in one hand and a waterproof flashlight in the other.
“We’re all set. How come you didn’t have the girls go get wood while you were waiting for us?”
Dad laughs.
“Didn’t trust them to find the right kind. Also, come on, will it kill you to prove that chivalry isn’t dead?”
I shake my head and sigh.
“Come on Dennis.”
From previous stays on the island, I know it isn’t huge, maybe a ten-minute walk from end to end. Each year there are usually one or two decent sized trees that have fallen over, so I’m fairly confident we’ll be able to find some deadwood, though I’m still skeptical how well it will burn with all the rainwater soaking through it. I just know that sometimes there’s no point in arguing with Dad.
Despite the extended daylight hours of summer, the clouds have caused night to fall prematurely. I’m glad I thought to bring the flashlight; otherwise, it would be way too easy to trip and fall face-first into a mud puddle. I play the beam on the ground in front of me, carefully choosing my steps, periodically pausing to shine the light off to the sides, looking for fallen logs. Dennis follows me, head down and grumbling, swinging the hacksaw he’s carrying and letting it hit against the tall grass and various plant life that lines the narrow animal trail I have us walking on.
Finally, after maybe ten minutes of searching, I find something promising. A tree has fallen, and the way it rests against one of its still-standing neighbors seems like it may have even gotten a little bit of top cover from the rain. I hand the flashlight to Dennis.
“Here, hold the light for me. I’m going to use the hatchet to try and get some of the small stuff cleared off then I’ll swap you for the saw.”
“Why can’t I saw?”
I look up at the still falling rain.
“Because I can do it faster and I’d like to get out of this crap and into dry clothes as soon as I can, wouldn’t you?”
Dennis mumbles something under his breath but grunts and shines the light on the fallen tree as I’d asked. I start to clean off the smaller twigs, working by the light. Dennis starts hopping from foot to foot to try and stay warm, causing the beam to sway, but I manage to bite my tongue and not say anything.
I’ve switched to the hacksaw, cutting off and stacking some good looking, inch thick branches, when a keening wail carries high over the falling rain, sounding from somewhere not very far down the river. Dennis snaps the flashlight beam around wildly.
“Paul! What was that?”
I pause for a moment, listening, and hear an answering call echo, this one from farther up the river in the opposite direction. Its solitary weirdness sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature that has dropped fiercely with the storm. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at full attention.
“I..I don’t know. Maybe some kind of bird or frog or something.”
“In this rain?” Dennis’s voice hisses, incredulous.
I shake my head, shrugging off the fear.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not here. Let’s get this finished up and back to the tents.”
I get back to work, and to his credit, Dennis holds the light steady.
We return to the campsite maybe twenty minutes later, both carrying armfuls of cut branches. The tents are both now fully set up. Dad has also erected a makeshift tarp over a circle of stones he’s arranged to serve as a bonfire pit to help protect the flame from the weather. He’s crouched over a small pile of paper and would scraps, carefully setting them to provide the maximum chance of the fire catching.
Dennis dumps his wood next to him.
“Where’s my dad?” he asks, and Dad nods toward our tent.
“He’s getting changed, Dennis. Why don’t you go do the same? Paul, can you help me get the fire going?”
I sigh internally but nod and move to help him as Dennis disappears into the tent.
Waiting until the flap zipper closes fully, I whisper to Dad, my voice low.
“Did you hear those noises?”
Dad nods.
“Yeah, we all did. Scared the crap out of Sean, he jumped about a mile. The girls were pretty freaked out too.”
“They aren’t the only ones. Dad, what the heck was that?”
“Dunno, son. Can’t say I’ve heard anything quite like it before. Maybe a mountain lion?”
“A mountain lion?” I squeak. “TWO of them? Do they even live around here?”
“Maybe they got lost from over near Penn State. Hey, they probably don’t swim very well.” Dad grins, “But all the more reason to get this fire started.”
We finish arranging the starter, the tarp doing a surprisingly good job of keeping it dry, until Dad at last nods in approval.
“That should do it. Let’s give it a shot.”
He takes out a long Bic lighter and sets the flame to the rolled newspaper in several different spots. The tinder catches quickly, the wood snapping merrily, and we move to stack the branches Dennis and I cut into a rough pyramid over the starter material. The sticks smoke considerably as they begin to dry, but eventually catch just as Dad predicted. He looks over to the remaining pile.
“Nice job, Paul. Those won’t last very long though. We need something bigger if we want to keep this going through the night.”
I sigh. “I think the tree I got these from will work, I’ll just have to cut some logs from farther down the trunk.”
“Ok. I hate to ask,” Dad glances up at the still falling rain, a peal of distant thunder rolling from away over the mountains that line the river, “but any chance you could go cut a few good-sized ones before you get cleaned up?”
“You can’t come with me?”
“I think I’d better stay here, just in case any of the camping newbies need anything. I’m sorry this trip is off to such a rough start. You want to take Dennis again?”
I don’t have to take a moment to think about it.
“No. I’ll get it done faster by myself. Besides, he’s already probably changed.”
Dad claps me on the shoulder.
“Proud of you, Son.”
I roll my eyes and stand, grabbing the hacksaw and flashlight from where I’d set them.
“I’ll leave the hatchet with you. Don’t think I’ll need it to cut the big stuff.”
Dad nods in agreement.
“Hey!” he calls.
I pause, turning back to him.
“I love you, Paul.
“Love you too, Dad.”
“We’ll be waiting here!” he grins.
I scowl and trudge away back towards the fallen tree.
I find the spot Dennis and I came from without difficulty and get to work, setting the light in a way to shine on where I’m cutting. The rain has blessedly stopped, at least temporarily, but the cold front that brought it has caused an eerie fog to begin to seep sinuously up from the undergrowth. The temperature has continued to drop and it’s only the physical activity that’s keeping me from shivering. It’s probably not too cold yet, maybe in the lower fifties, but the change from the upper eighties of the earlier afternoon make it feel much worse than it actually is.
Something nags me at the back of my mind as I work on the tree, but it’s several long minutes before I realize exactly what it is. Other than the rasp of the saw gliding back and forth against the tree, and the distant gurgle of the river flowing past the island shore, the night is utterly still and quiet. No birds call, no insects chirp, just dead silence. Another chill runs down my back as my mind returns to the mysterious cries from earlier, and then back farther to Jerry’s strange warnings from this afternoon. Despite what I told Dennis, and what Dad told me, those sounds were like nothing I’ve ever heard before.
I get back to my work with a will, focusing on getting enough wood to last the night so that I can get out of my sopping clothes and curl up in my sleeping bag until morning. I tell myself that surely the light of day will ward off whatever it was that made those sounds, but a little voice at the back of my mind asks “but what if it doesn’t?”.
The going is slower than earlier, the lower parts of the tree between six and eight inches thick and taking much more effort to work through. Still, I’ve managed to cut a good number of pieces, enough that I’m thinking it may take multiple trips to get back to the campsite, when I pause, my ears registering another sound from back the way I came. Thinking about it, I realize that the noise has been going on for several minutes now, interrupting the earlier silence I had previously noted, but I was so focused on my work that at first I didn’t notice the change. The sound is faint but distinct.
Screaming.
I hesitate for just a moment, fear causing paralysis, before another cry, high pitched and full of pain, launches me into action.
The firewood forgotten, I sprint back towards the campsite, saw in one hand, flashlight in the other, the beam bouncing wildly in front of me as I run. I take a bad step and fall face first, sliding along the wet ground, the hacksaw dropping from my hand and skittering into the undergrowth. I leave it, having managed to keep hold of the light, pick myself up, and continue my mad dash. I run as fast as I can, my breath pounding in and out of my lungs, a stitch cramping along my side, but all the while my fears tell me that my greatest efforts won’t be enough.
I burst from the brush into the clearing. The fire still burns merrily where Dad and I set it, but the rest of the campsite is in utter disarray. The tents are collapsed, the flaps violently torn open, poles snapped jaggedly, reaching like broken bones of a compound fracture. Our gear is strewn about haphazardly.
Of the rest of my group, Dad and Sean, Dennis, Tara, and Amanda, I see no sign, outside of a terrible, wet, redness that seems to mark and stain every piece of gear. I stand, mouth open in shock, my mind whirling as it tries to comprehend what I’m seeing, but knowing the shallow pools dotting the soaking ground here and there can only be blood.
A wordless groan alerts me to the collapsed tent.
I rush to the noise and cry out in horror at the sight of my father’s ruined body. I kneel down beside him, cradling his head in my lap. The flickering firelight is enough to see the vicious wounds all across his face, pouring red. His jaw is horribly broken, his chin shifted almost two inches to the right of where it should be. His eyes are swollen shut, and his nose is turned at an impossible angle. The hatchet I’d left with him at the fire is buried three inches into his chest, and I can see white poking through a hole in his left pant leg. The rest of him is fully covered by the deep furrows of claws, as if a wild animal tried to tear him apart.
I’d done a couple years in the Boy Scouts, earned a medical merit badge, but I’m at a loss for anything to do for him. Still, I gently start to lay Dad down, thinking to try and find the first aid kit that must still be somewhere in the ruined piles of gear, but he reaches out, grabbing my wrist with surprising, desperate strength. In a haze, I notice two of his fingers have been torn from his hand. I stop moving him, lean down to listen, to see if he is going to try and say something. Maybe he can tell me what caused this catastrophe, what happened to the others. All I can hear, though, is the rough wheeze of his breath being painfully forced in and out of his lungs. Tears fall from my eyes, intermingling with the blood still seeping from his face, as his breathing catches, rattles, and then stops.
A sob escapes my throat as I clutch at my father’s corpse, the best and strongest man I’ve ever known. My thoughts are a jumble of puzzle pieces in my head, shock and grief and disbelief all fighting for position. My entire body trembles uncontrollably.
Unexpectedly, one realization manages to push through the gauze that my mind is wrapped in, the thought cool and cold as a piece of granite. Whoever did this to Dad is still out there. They have the others, and they might come back for me.
My stomach turning, I reach down, bracing myself, and manage to pull the hatchet out of Dad’s chest, the blade releasing with a sickening crack. A downpour of blood escapes from the newly revealed opening, but I tell myself I’m not causing any more harm. There’s no more harm to cause.
I sniff hard to clear my incredibly stuffed nosed. I stand and take stock of my situation. There’s no phone to call for help. Dad always insisted on completely unplugging for the trip, and it’s not like there’d be service even if I had one. Sean, Dennis, and the girls are missing, possibly dead, or possibly worse. If I try to find help, it will be hours before I get back with anyone, and by then it will be too late to do anything. I move down to the canoes.
All three are where we left them, but enormous tears have been ripped in each of their hulls. There’s no way I could use one as is. As I look over the boats, trying to determine if there’s any way to repair one enough to make it at least partially floatworthy, the beam of my flashlight catches on a series of footprints impressed in the riverbank, the dirt made soft by the recent rainfall. I shudder to see them. Larger than a grown man’s, the prints were made by something heavy, its feet both clawed and webbed like an enormous platypus. A rustling in some nearby bushes causes me to start. Cautiously I approach the noise, using the hatchet to push away some of the tall grass hiding the motion, my mind going numb as my flashlight finds the source.
The creature is big. Not huge, certainly, but definitely over six feet long and weighing several hundred pounds. It has four limbs, roughly arranged in the same anatomical layout as a human. The beam of my light reflects dully off slimy scales covering the entirety of its body, their color a dark green, almost black. Both its hands and feet are webbed and clawed like the footprints I found, but its fingers look like they might be dexterous enough to use tools. The thing’s head is some kind of hideous cross between human and fish. Whiskers like a sturgeon droop from its cheeks and it opens its mouth to snarl at me, its teeth arranged in a circular pattern like a lamprey. The sound it makes is weak, but I recognize the same strange call that Dennis and I heard earlier.
I can also tell it’s badly hurt. The thing is trying to drag itself back to the river, but there’s an enormous gash in its shoulder impeding it. Its left arm is almost torn from its body and leaking blood, though not as much as I would expect. I realize that Dad must have been the one to wound this creature, though he certainly got the worst of the exchange. A cold fury begins to work its way up from deep inside my stomach, and I raise the hatchet with the intent to finish the monster off before a thought stops me.
I have no way of knowing where Tara and the rest were taken, but it must have been by other creatures like this one. It appears to be aquatic, or amphibious, and with no way of even knowing which way they went down the river, I’ll have no way to find their lair on my own. I consider the dilemma and come upon a possible solution.
Noting the relative slowness that the creature is managing to claw its way to the water, I go back to the trashed campsite and begin rifling through the gear. It doesn’t take me long to find what I am searching for: a spool of all purpose parachute cord and a box of chem lights. I pull out my pocket-knife and quickly cut lengths of cord, tying slip-knot loops through half a dozen of the lights before cracking them to life in a bright green flash of neon. I also take a pair of two-foot long pieces of cord and tie one end to each handle of the hatchet and flashlight, the other to my belt, before securing the tools as best I can in my waistband.
Returning to the creature, who is only feet from the river, I take my lifejacket from the ruined canoe and pull it on. I take four others and use their straps to tie them to each other, considering the next step of my strategy. The closeness to the water, or possibly my nearness, sends the monster into greater efforts, as it flops, squirming towards the perceived safety of the river. I softly approach it and, as it thrashes, manage to loop three of the chem lights around its various limbs, securing the last one just as it makes the water. It will have to be enough. Being submerged seems to invigorate it, confirming my suspicions of the creature’s aquatic nature, though it is still clearly hampered by its wound. If it weren’t for my doctored lights, it would be impossible to tell where the creature was in the water, and even with them I can tell I’ll have to try to stay close or risk losing it.
Slipping into the river, I arrange myself on the secured lifejackets like a makeshift raft and begin to follow the fleeing fish monster, hoping against hope that it will take me to wherever my family is.
I abandon all sense of time, my focus entirely kept on keeping track of the three, small balls of glowing light moving gradually down the river. I follow the creature through one fork, then another, then another, before I lose track and stop trying. I’m thankful the thing is as badly hurt as it is; I realize its injury is all that is keeping it moving slowly enough that I can keep it in sight, and likely the only reason it hasn’t attacked me.
My throat tightens when I see one of the chem lights separates from the others, falling to the bottom of the river and sinking into the silt, apparently having been kicked lose from the monster. Somewhat unsteadily, the other two glide away though, continuing in the same direction they have been, so I keep following, sending up a silent prayer that the remaining cords stay secure.
Abruptly, the motion stops. The lights which I’d been following perhaps two feet underwater now bob to the top. Cautiously I approach, fearful I know the reason. Before long, I confirm I’m right; the monster has bled out. It floats on the surface of the river, a lethal goldfish dead in its massive bowl.
The cold and wet and dark, unnoticed until now, warded away by fear and the adrenaline of my pursuit, come crashing down on me. I shiver, supported by the extra lifejackets I can only hope I’ll need, trying to figure out what to do next.
I try to work things through logically. We’ve been traveling quite a way from the island. The monster lair can’t be much farther. Besides, for a lack of better ideas, and since I don’t have anything truly better to do, I’ll just have to try and search the riverbank for a cave or something. And pray.
I move to the side of the river the creature seemed to be heading for. Nearing the bank, I fumble for my flashlight. My heart leaps when I find it isn’t there before I remember the safety line I’d tied to it. Thanking my past self for his preparations, I trace the cord still secured to my belt and pull the flashlight into my grasp. I have to smack it against my palm a time or two before it weakly turns on, its claims of a waterproof nature apparently more for advertisement than actual use.
It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for.
The Allegheny isn’t terribly deep even in wet years, maybe eight or nine feet on average. I can see from the marks on the bank where the water would typically be four feet overhead, and the yawning hole I find is only submerged about halfway. I think back to what Jerry had said earlier, about how this was the driest season in decades. Any normal year, the opening would be fully underwater, but now…
I shine the flashlight into the hole, fear of dark enclosed spaces gripping my heart. The opening is certainly big enough that I could fit, but there’s no way to know that it stays that way, no way to know this is in fact the monster’s lair, or that Tara or Dennis or Amanda or Sean are still alive.
My mind returns to Dad’s ruined face, his last, gasping breaths, and I sigh. I have to try.
It’s awkward going to say the least, dragging the four extra life jackets with me, but if I find any of the others, and if they are in bad shape, and if we have to swim any distance to get out…
There are way too many “ifs” going through my mind.
The tunnel goes into the riverbank for fifty yards or so before dipping down. It remains consistently half-full and I float-swim along. My breathing rate increases, reaching the point I’m practically hyperventilating, the claustrophobic sense of the earth crushing in around me competing with the understanding that I may be trapping myself in a den of killer fish monsters. I manage to get ahold of myself and continue onwards.
After a subjective eternity, the passage I’ve been swimming through emerges into a cavern of significant size, maybe fifteen or twenty feet tall and three times that across. Coming out of the wall I fall with a splash into a sort of underground lagoon that takes up the majority of the cavern. The walls of the cave glow with a faint luminescence, enough to faintly see by, though I don’t know enough marine biology to say what kind of algae or whatever is causing it. I swim to the shore, and find my efforts are rewarded. There are dozens of webbed clawprints similar to those on the island, as well as some other marks that look like something was being dragged. I can only hope it was the rest of my group.
There are at least a dozen different passages off the cavern I’m in, but the freshest prints and drag marks seem to head down three of them. There might be other exits to this underground warren, but I don’t know where they are, and it’s going to be way too difficult to bring the lifejackets with me. I have no idea how we would get back up the passage I came in through, but that will have to be something I figure out later. I find a small recess in the wall that I’m able to stash the extra vests before taking out the hatchet and flashlight, picking the leftmost footprint marked tunnel at random, and creeping along as stealthily as my squelching shoes will let me.
The flashlight is almost unnecessary. The algae persists enough to light my way so I keep the beam off, and move as carefully as I can, pausing every few steps to listen for sounds that might reveal the location of more monsters or my family. Seemingly far away down the passage, I hear hooting calls like the ones Dennis and I heard earlier, but there’s something about the tone that makes me think it’s just the creatures communicating, rather than an alarm that they know I’m here.
The passage floor is slimy, so I’m very careful to avoid slipping and falling. Fortunately, there don’t seem to be any other passageways to choose from, or else I’d have to start making some difficult choices. The tunnel I’ve chosen opens into a cavern only slightly smaller than the one containing the lagoon. The algae on the walls here is even more highly concentrated, and though it’s not as bright as lighting a lamp, the glow is still more than enough for me to see by.
I wish I couldn’t.
Sean is suspended upside down, his arms and legs secured spread-eagle to poles on either side of him by rough looking rope and surrounded by four of the fish-monsters, one considerably larger than the others. A piece of wood has been wedged in his mouth, but I can see he’s awake, his wide eyes fear-filled and wild, his head whipping back and forth.
My earlier suspicion that the creatures can use tools is confirmed as the largest creature takes a flint knife and deftly cuts away Sean’s clothes, leaving him hanging naked. It makes its strange cries all the while, and I realize that, based on the rapt attention of the three smaller creatures, this must be the monster’s version of a school lesson. Clothes fully removed, the monster takes Sean’s hair in one clawed hand, bends his head back, and cuts his throat.
I stifle a cry, jamming my hand into my mouth as Sean’s life pours from the gaping wound. I can tell he is trying to scream himself, but between the wooden gag and his own blood choking him, he only manages to emit a panicked gurgle. The gout doesn’t last long, the creature must have severed both carotid arteries, and soon the blood is only dripping. I fight the urge to be violently ill as the fish monster continues to dress its catch, slicing open Sean’s belly and removing his stomach and intestines, the smell like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
I cautiously edge away from the gruesome scene, unable to take it for even another moment. I’m furious that I didn’t do something to save Sean but at the same time know there was nothing I could have reasonably done. I can only pray I have better luck with Dennis and the girls.
I make it back to the entrance cave and follow the second tunnel with the drag marks. I still move cautiously, but faster than I had before. If I’d been only a few minutes faster, maybe I could have done something to help my stepfather; I can’t let something like that happen to the others.
Similar to the first tunnel, this one also doesn’t seem to have any offshoots. Part of me wonders whether these paths are natural rock formations or if the creatures somehow carved them out. Where the other was fairly straight, this one is far more winding with noticeable changes in elevation. The height of the tunnel remains relatively constant, thankfully, and other than having to duck a time or two my earlier feelings of claustrophobia are generally kept at bay.
The room the second tunnel emerges into is smaller than the one Sean was murdered in. The algae remains on the walls, though in lesser concentration. The room is dim and, if I’m right that these passages have been designed by the creatures, there must be a reason for that. The floor is covered in almost a dozen of what I can best describe as nests, their makeup comprised of everything from ratty blankets and old scraps of leather to tree branches and castaway clothing. I carefully peak into the closest nest, my stomach turning at the mass of squirming flesh writhing and convulsing in its middle. It’s several long seconds before I realize what it must be: a pile of fish monsters in some kind of larval stage. I’ve stumbled upon the monster’s version of a nursery. The tadpole things, their mouths gaping wide with those lamprey-like teeth, wiggle and gnash disgustingly.
“They’re all gone.”
My heart leaps into my throat at the words that sound from the other side of the room. I turn to look for the source and am amazed to find Dennis sitting alone, his back to the wall.
“They took them all but left me.”
I rush to his side.
“Dennis? Hey, Dennis!”
He turns to look at me, but his eyes are glassy and blank.
“Why did they leave me?”
“I don’t know, man, but come on we have to find the girls. Do you know where they took them?”
I pull on his arm, attempting to drag him to his feet.
“Don’t wanna go. Wanna stay here.”
He begins to fight against me, tries to peel my hand away from his arm.
“Come on, Dennis, cut it out!”
“No, don’t wanna go!!” he practically shouts before reaching down and trying to bite me.
I yelp and drop his arm, my brother sinking back down cross legged to the floor. I look around hurriedly. There’s a passage on the opposite side of the room from the one I came in, and I think I can hear fish monster noises heading this way. It only makes sense; they wouldn’t want to leave their nursery unguarded. I can’t afford to fight with Dennis before I find the girls, and he seems safe enough here for the moment, for whatever reason.
“Dennis, I think something broke in you. I’ll be back, but I have to go find Tara and Amanda, ok?”
He mumbles something, but whether it’s a response to me or to whatever voices are talking in his head I can’t tell.
I leave, hurrying to ensure the monsters coming to check on their young don’t find me.
I’ve traded all sense of stealth for speed at this point. I don’t totally understand what’s going on, and I can’t afford to let the monsters find me, but I have to find my sister and her friend.
I jog down the third and final tunnel with the drag marks, praying that this is where Tara and Amanda were taken and not some other helpless victim. This tunnel is shorter than the other two and it doesn’t take me more than a few moments to reach another room, this one dominated by a cage made of thick branches, another tunnel on the far wall continuing farther into the lair. A large iron lock secures the cage door, and I wonder how the monsters could have gotten ahold of it. Unfortunately, there’s no key helpfully hung upon the wall. A quick examination makes it obvious I’d have better luck hacking through the cage bars than the lock, but considering their thickness, even that would take considerable time I don’t have.
A form lies huddled in the far corner of the cage. It’s covered by a rough blanket so that I can’t see who or what it is, but I have to believe they’re a prisoner. The algae on the walls here is incredibly dim, so I turn on my flashlight and shine it on the shape.
“Psst. Hey. Who are you?”
“Is…is someone there?” The form rolls and shifts toward me. The cage ceiling is too low for them to stand, but they crawl toward the sound of my voice. “I can’t see you, please help me.”
I take a step back as the prisoner reaches my side of the cage, grasping at the bars. I can do nothing but gasp in horror. She’s filthy and naked, besides the blanket draped around her, but despite that I recognize her; its Jerry’s missing wife Cheryl. Her eyes are gone, carved from her head and leaving only wet, empty sockets.
She is heavy and swollen with pregnancy.
“Please,” she begs, “it hurts.”
My mind struggles for a long moment, half trying to come up with some plan to help, the other attempting to wake itself up from this nightmare, when she falls back to her side with a cry, shuddering. Cheryl’s belly seems to distend, as if something inside it is struggling to be free. The flesh of her middle pulses in and out, in and out, and then, abruptly, tears open. She screams in pain as dozens of the small, white fish-tadpole things like the ones I’d seen in the nest pour out of her womb. Their birthing wails are miniature versions of the fish monster calls, and with revulsion I watch as they squirm about and begin to devour Cheryl, small pockmarks of flesh torn wherever their mouths touch. More and more of the creatures crawl from inside her and join the feast, continuing even after her screams turn to small whimpers of pain, the whimpers to silence. This is at last too much, and I throw up in great, gasping heaves. The monsters pay me no mind, continuing to eat.
I keep vomiting, beyond when my stomach is empty and my throat hurts from the effort. After a long time, too long, I manage to pull myself together. I hear noises from back the way I came so, with little other choice, I pick up my hatchet and flashlight, and continue on.
The tunnel continues farther and farther away from my point of entry and from Dennis. My luck continues to run dry, and now there are intersections and branching routes to choose from. I pick at random. At one point I think I hear sobbing, only to realize after a moment it’s coming from me.
The algae is fully gone now, the flashlight gutters and dies, but I carry onward, desperate, unknowing what else to do but take another step forward. I hear a deep roar ahead, like a great sleeping beast, but still I go on.
Suddenly, the tunnel disappears, my foot doesn’t strike the ground I was sure would be there, and I’m falling, falling, down and down. I hit water with a crash, the wind knocked from my chest, and I’m borne away on an underground current.
Disoriented, blind to everything, my head strikes rock, the blackness of unconsciousness indiscernible from the abyss I’d been fleeing.
“Hey, I think he’s alive!”
Awareness returns. I’m lying on my back, soaking wet, the mid-morning sun shining upon my face, a ring of concerned faces looking down on me.
“Son, what can you remember? Where did ya come from?” A man wearing a traditional captain’s hat and a thick beard helps me sit up. My head throbs. I realize I’m on the top deck of a boat, a sign on the bulkhead proclaiming “Monongahela Gateway Clipper.”
“We found ya bobbing along. Heck yer lifejacket’s the only thing that kept ya only half drowned! Did ya fall overboard or somethin’? Was there anyone else with ya?”
I look at the man. His eyes are kind but concerned.
I think for a moment, trying to decide what I can possibly say.
“There was,” I tell him slowly, “but they’re gone.”
Written by Shadowswimmer77
Content is available under CC BY-SA