by Frank Martin
“I don’t know,” Paul snapped, sarcastically shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe it’s because I expect the damn mail to be where I left it!”
Susan froze for a moment, absorbing every ounce of her husband’s animosity before spitting it back at him in an eruption of anger. “You know what? Go!”
She shot her arm out, pointing to the back door, and Paul waved her off, grimacing half an abhorrent smirk as he turned to leave.
“Just go,” Susan reiterated, stomping behind her husband as she followed him to the door. “Get in that stupid, flying money pit you call a plane and get out of here. Head on up into the sky where there are no human beings for you to be miserable around.”
Paul slammed both hands into the screen door and it flung open violently on its hinge. Although he was curious, Paul never turned around to look back at his wife. He just grumbled incoherently under his breath yet loud enough for her to hear him mumble.
Who did Susan think she was, anyway? His wife would be nothing without him. Everything she had was because of his hard work. His drive to provide her with the best life he could. And how did she repay her loyal husband? By treating him like dirt.
She was right about one thing, though. The sky was the only place he felt truly appreciated. It was one of the main reasons why he chose Lake Oscawana for his summer retreat. It was one of the few bodies of water large enough for him to land on that wasn’t also constantly crowded. A perfect place for him to pop up into the blue sky for a quickie, circle around the Hudson River, and still make it back home for supper. At least, on the days Susan remembered to have it ready.
Paul knew he had stop thinking about her. This was his time now. His chance to let the bullshit slip away and be his own man.
He hopped into the left seat, started the ignition, and puttered on out to the center of the lake. The water was completely empty. Just the way Paul liked it. Not that he couldn’t land without boats in the water, but it just made things easier when he didn’t have to worry about them.
With the weekend fast approaching, he thought it be best to take this opportunity to get the old bird out of the water and back to the airport. Saturdays and Sundays meant a lot of boat traffic on the lake, and with traffic came waves. Lots of them. Paul cringed every time the choppy water rocked his plane side to side. He installed rubber fenders along the side of the dock to protect the plane, but he would rather not risk his baby getting damaged if he didn’t have to. Best to be safe and put it in the hangar. After all, what was the point of having an amphibious seaplane if you didn’t land it on a runway every once in a while?
Paul went through his pre-flight checklist as he slowly taxied out to the middle of the lake. He checked his gauges, tested his flaps, and, most important of all, made sure his landing gear was up for a water takeoff. Once everything was in order, Paul slowed down the prop to pivot the plane around, straightening himself up for a straight takeoff down the center of the lake.
As he prepared to push down on the throttle, Paul stared at the water ahead. It had a slight rough to it, just enough to make the takeoff a challenge. But that was the beauty of a seaplane. Your ground was always moving. It was everywhere. All around you in every direction.
That was when Paul realized he was wrong before. He didn’t have to go to an airport to have his plane land and takeoff from a runaway. The runway was right in front of him. This was his lane. His zone. And to hell with everyone who didn’t accept it.
Paul gradually pressed his hand down on the throttle, and the propeller in front of him kicked up as fast as it could spin. He grabbed onto the controls, readying himself to jet across the water. Except there was a problem. He didn’t. The plane wasn’t going anywhere.
Confused, Paul rapidly scanned all his gauges and couldn’t find anything wrong with the plane. Everything was running, no emergency lights were on, and the prop was spinning fast enough for takeoff. He should’ve been moving. He just wasn’t.
Remembering what his flight instructor taught him, that when in doubt a pilot should just look at the damn plane, Paul stuck his head out the window and looked back around. The outside of the plane itself was fine, but Paul grew alarmed when he spotted something latched onto his pontoon.
At first glance he thought it was a long, thick strand of seaweed, but the closer Paul looked the more he noticed the vine was moving. It was grey, thick, and scaly. Probably not even a vine at all. Because no plant, no matter how strong, could stop his plane from taking off.
Determined to break free, Paul pushed down on the throttle even further, but the obstruction wouldn’t let go. The plane veered back and forth, frustrated that it was giving off all this power with nowhere to go.
Paul looked down again and saw the slimy obstacle actually tighten its hold around his pontoon. It seemed to move on its own, almost as if it were being controlled. It reminded Paul of an arm or a tentacle, something found on a giant squid deep beneath the ocean. But what, Paul thought to himself, could it possibly belong to that lived inside the lake?
He lowered the throttle one last time, pressing it down as far as it could go. The propeller screamed as it spun faster than Paul had ever pushed it before. The plane began to shake, torn between the force pushing it forward and the one holding it back.
Finally, a sudden thrust jolted the plane forward and Paul looked out the window just in time to see the tentacle slither back under the water. The plane shot ahead like a bolt across the lake, clearing a hundred feet in the blink of an eye. Paul let out a shout of victory and pulled up on the controls, ready to soar into the sky. The rumbling of the water beneath the plane vanished as the air took hold. He felt the pull of gravity and the rush of fighting against it.
This was the thrill Paul lived for. The first taste of freedom when he began his ascent into the clouds. The euphoria was met, though, with the sound of a large splash that Paul wasn’t used to. He curiously glanced down out the window and saw that the noise didn’t come from something dropping into the water…but something breaking out of it.
The moment was barely a few seconds. An instant by any standard measure of time. But everything seemed to slow down for Paul, who witnessed a great beast of immense proportions burst through the lake’s surface like nothing he could’ve imagined. It was triple—no—quadruple the size of his plane. Its body the length of a house.
Yet despite its enormous size, the creature’s mouth was far more intimidating. Its jaw dropped open like a massive pit, ready to devour anything and everything in its path. The formidable opening of jagged teeth shot upwards far faster than Paul left the water and easily overtook him, snatching onto the whole back half of the plane, pontoon, tail, cabin, and all.
The creature’s deformed jaw didn’t cleave the plane in half. Instead, it latched on tight as gravity brought it back down, smashing the plane hard against the water’s surface.
Even buckled into the seat, Paul’s body rattled violently as if he’d been shaken inside a tin can. The cockpit essentially became a metal coffin that crumpled in on itself before shearing into pieces from the forceful crash. Shards of the plane exploded outward, finally leaving Paul exposed for his body to freely tumble into the lake.
The cold jolt of water against his face shocked Paul’s adrenaline into gear. Parts of his body he could barely feel. Others were screaming in agony. He was positive he had broken ribs and surmised that at least one of his arms was dislocated. Not to mention the hazy fog of a concussion that clouded his senses.
Yet despite his weakened condition, Paul knew the pain was a good sign. It meant he was alive. His plane, on the other hand, was a different story, but that wasn’t important now. It would be in about an hour, but first Paul had to get to a hospital. Then he could worry about getting himself a new set of wings.
Still floating under the water, Paul looked up and saw the faint sparkle of sunlight above the surface. He reached his arms to swim towards it, but every stroke seemed to bring him right back to where he started. Paul fou
ght and clawed through the water, but it was no use. He wasn’t going anywhere.
A tightening hold squeezed at his chest as the air in his lungs ran low. Panic started settling in, and Paul frantically looked around for something, anything to help him. Glancing down into the murky depths of the lake, he spotted a tentacle reaching up from the darkness to wrap around his ankle. The thing’s slimy scales tightened its grip against Paul’s flesh, but he couldn’t feel it. Paul couldn’t feel much of anything except the crushing vice in his chest, desperate for air.
With whatever faint, few thoughts he had left, Paul realized this was it. There was no way out of this. The end was in sight. And just as he felt himself slip into oblivion, the tentacle yanked Paul down deeper under the water, and the weak light above the surface faded away like a blown-out candle in the wind.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As soon as he saw the plane go down, Sheriff Thompson was already on his way back to Brad’s house. He sprinted down the road, radioing in for emergency units in between short rapid breaths as he ran. He tore through Brad’s backyard and jumped into the boat, turning the ignition the moment his hand touched the key.
With the motor fired up, the Sheriff pulled away from the dock and sped over to the crash site. It probably took him less than three minutes to get there, but that was all the time needed for the chaos of the crash to settle throughout the water. The lake had once again become calm and tranquil. The only evidence that a tragic accident even took place was the hundred or so pieces of debris floating across the surface.
Along the shore, an audience of onlookers started coming out of their homes. They all ventured to the end of their docks, curiously watching as the Sheriff rapidly approached the scene. He found it strange that none of them took their own boats out to investigate what happened. Sheriff Thompson assumed at least one or two people would join him and offer a helping hand. Then again, he learned most civilians were interested enough to watch a disaster from a distance but too frightened to jump into the fray. Or maybe the simpler explanation was that they all thought Paul Dutchman was an asshole and couldn’t care less about his fate.
As he reached the edge of the debris field, Sheriff Thompson slowed his boat as much as he could without putting it in neutral. There were shards of metal floating everywhere, like moving white polka dots bobbing across the surface. The edges of each piece were sharp and jagged, as if they’d just been torn apart like paper.
Ignoring the sheer magnitude of the destruction, the Sheriff’s eyes scanned the water for any evidence of the pilot. Finding Paul Dutchman was his first priority. He remained optimistic, hoping for signs of life, but anything would’ve been a start. A piece of clothing. A speck of blood, either on debris or floating in the water. Even a severed limb, however horrific, would’ve given Sheriff Thompson some indication that Dutchman was somewhere in the water. But he found nothing upon entering the epicenter of the crash site. Almost as if Paul wasn’t in the plane at all.
Sheriff Thompson shouted Paul’s name. He received no answer. He cut the motor and shouted again, but only the soft burble of the water smacking against the side of his boat replied.
The Sheriff was at a loss. What was he supposed to do? It would take another five, maybe even ten minutes before emergency crews joined him on the lake. Was he just supposed to wait and do nothing until they arrived? Was he supposed to jump in and start hopelessly diving under the water himself? He had no gear. He had no goggles. All he had was a desperate urge to do something other than scan the surface and pray for a miracle.
Struggling to come up with alternatives to just standing around, the Sheriff’s gaze drifted off when a loud thud smacked against the side of his boat, rocking it side to side. Sheriff Thompson’s first thought was that Dutchman was right under him and banging against the hull.
Yelling out Paul’s name, the Sheriff frantically darted back and forth between the starboard and port sides of the boat, hoping to see a hand, a foot, or even bubbles in the water. There was nothing. He wondered if he could start the boat back up and move it, allowing Dutchman to come up for air, but it was far too dangerous. The outboard motor could tear him to shreds.
As Sheriff Thompson frantically searched his mind for a plan, another loud thud rammed his boat, this one harder and more forceful than before. The blow knocked the Sheriff to the side and he had to grab on to keep his balance. That was when he realized Paul Dutchman was not under him. No way a person swimming underwater had that kind of power.
Whatever struck him had to be enormous. But what? Nothing even remotely that size, aquatic or otherwise, lived in this area. A sunken boat, perhaps? Something dislodged from the bottom of the lake that came up from under him? Or maybe even a huge chunk of the plane that got stuck beneath the surface? But how? A million pieces of aircraft were scattered all around him. Could something that large still be left?
None of it made any sense, and before Sheriff Thompson had chance to think on it further, the boat was rocked once more. This strike was the hardest of the three and caught the Sheriff off guard, knocking him to the floor.
He tried to get back up when the boat was immediately struck again from the other side. As he struggled to stand, the Sheriff realized something was doing this. These attacks weren’t by chance. They were purposeful and deliberate. Timed and precise. He was under assault.
Sheriff Thompson reached for his radio and pulled it up to his mouth when a fifth blow slammed the boat so hard it brought the entire port side straight into the air. The Sheriff flew across the boat and was lucky enough to grab ahold of his seat, squeezing it as if his life depended on him never letting go.
The boat seemed to hang there for a moment, stalled and frozen, completely perpendicular to the water. It could’ve gone in either direction, flopping back down the way it came or continuing on its path to flip over completely. Sheriff Thompson closed his eyes and prayed that he wasn’t going over, but even without seeing, he could feel the boat slowly tilt the wrong way as all five thousand pounds of it fell down on top of him.
The overturned boat smacked hard against the water, echoing a loud boom inside the small air pocket Sheriff Thompson currently found himself in. It took the Sheriff a moment to get oriented with the upside down boat over his head. After the shock wore off, Sheriff Thompson took a big gulp of air and dove down into the water. He swam out from under the boat and cautiously approached the surface, holding his hands out in front of him to make sure no debris was in his path.
He burst into the air with a gasp and immediately looked around. It was a different perspective than before, but the debris field pretty much looked the same. The only difference now was that the underside of his boat stuck out of the water like a disfigured mini submarine.
Sheriff Thompson knew he would have a hard time getting back to the shore. Bits of jagged metal floated all around him. Some were as small as a shoe. Others were just as big as he was. The Sheriff had to be careful treading water in place. One wrong move and a piece of sharp, unseen metal could cut him, and the last thing Sheriff Thompson wanted was to be stranded and bleeding in the middle of the lake.
He could always dive down again and try to swim under everything, but even that was a risky move. Who knew if there was any debris under the surface, and the Sheriff also had to deal with whatever capsized his boat in the first place.
Once again out of options, Sheriff Thompson let out a defeated sigh and conceded that waiting for help was the only move he had left. It’d been awhile since he made the call for back-up. Emergency units should have been arriving at the marina any second now.
The Sheriff grew still, floating in place, trying to listen for the sirens echoing through the valley. He heard the faint whoosh of rushing water instead. He followed the noise and saw a wave on the other side of the lake rapidly moving towards him. It wasn’t large, comparatively speaking, but there were no boats around and only a wind light enough to create a chop in the water. Certainly nothing strong enough to m
ake a wave on its own.
But there it was, zooming towards him, and actually gaining speed. The wave didn’t taper off like most. It grew stronger and larger, becoming a mound of water high enough to completely block the Sheriff’s view.
It was obvious that whatever capsized his boat had also generated this surge, but that wasn’t his immediate problem. The wave had already reached the debris field and absorbed the shards of metal into its mass. Sheriff Thompson knew if he got caught up in the swell, helplessly tossed around like a ragdoll, the debris would tear him to shreds.
There wasn’t much time to act. With the wave nearly looming on top of him, the Sheriff took another huge gulp of air, preparing to dive down deep and hoping the danger, all of it, would simply pass overhead.
“Stop!” yelled a young voice from the shore.
The sudden scream distracted the Sheriff, halting him from diving. It didn’t matter, though. The force behind the wave abruptly died, turning it into nothing more than a large roller that drifted slowly across the surface. The roller’s momentum swept Sheriff Thompson a fair distance from where he was, battering him with pieces of debris along the way. His arms shielded his face and received the brunt of the blows, but the minor scrapes were nothing compared to what could’ve happened if the full strength of the wave overtook him.
The swishing sounds of choppy water filled the air, but now that the path was clear, Sheriff Thompson could see flashing lights on the far shore in the distance. Emergency crews had arrived at the marina and the Sheriff breathed a sigh of relief. The danger was over, at least for the moment.
There was still something very wrong going on with the lake. The missing boys and mauled animals were just the tip of the iceberg. Now the Sheriff was dealing with a plane crash and attack on his boat. There was a strong possibility he wouldn’t even be alive right now if it weren’t for…the voice!
The Sheriff turned to the shore, looking for his mysterious female savior. There were many people out on their docks, tensely staring at him with wide eyes and slack jaws. April Hawkins didn’t, though. She stood by herself, her shoulders slumped in a morose posture.
