by Val Tobin
wait long enough, it’ll be dark and we won’t go at all.”
Emptying the car seemed to take forever, what with Jeff stopping to complain every few minutes. But at last they got the car unloaded, the power turned on, the beds made, the cooler emptied into the fridge, and the windows opened. They all used the outhouse, though Rachel found sitting in it unnerving. To her relief, Mom went to the lake to get a bucket of water and took it upstairs to the bathroom.
Work finished, brother and sister walked down to the dock, Spike racing ahead. Jeff had a sullen look on his face. Their mother had forced him, but not Rachel, to wear a life jacket. Mom stopped on the way to dig the hammock out of the shed, and then followed the kids. Two birch trees stood a convenient distance from one another, the perfect anchors for the canvas swing.
Jeff found a throwing stick for Spike, and tested it out, tossing it back towards the cottage. The dog gave a loud bark and ran after it. He snapped at it and almost caught it before it hit the ground. Rachel contemplated joining in the game.
“Look at the island,” Jeff said.
He pointed out towards the middle of the lake. Across from where they stood, a clump of trees huddled on a hump of rocky ground. More of the island would emerge as the season progressed. By the fall, it would be possible for them to use it as a beach. Sometimes they’d even build a campfire on it and roast hot dogs and marshmallows.
Rachel climbed the rocky ledge towards the shore where the dock sat, half on the shore and half on the water. She collected round flat stones on her way. Jeff beat her to the dock and tossed the stick towards the Wilson property shoreline. Spike tore off after it. Rachel glanced at the boy. He gawked at the Wilsons’ property, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed tight together, a rubbernecker at an accident scene.
“Throw the stick, Jeff. Spike’s waiting,” she said.
He looked around for the dog, who stood on the shore, tongue lolling. Jeff threw the stick, propelling it down the shoreline. It flew towards the trees and shrubs. Spike tore after it, racing faster than the stick. He twisted around and opened his mouth, ready to snag it. It bounced off his nose and into the scrub. Spike dove after it, barking.
Jeff laughed. Rachel turned away, smiling. She faced out into the lake and held one of the stones in her right hand, index finger curled around it. If she could remember last year’s practice sessions, this could work. Crouched over, she focused on the process. Her wrist flicked. The stone splatted onto the water and sank.
She sighed. It always took a few tries to get it right. A splash behind her made her glance back. Spike.
Rachel flicked her wrist again, and another stone blooped into the water. Two stones remained, rounder and flatter than the first two. She hoped the next try would do her justice. To give her back a rest, she stood tall for a moment and gazed out onto the lake. Where were the loons? There should be at least one on the water, bobbing along the current.
I’ve also noticed fewer wild animals around.
She threw the next stone. It skipped once and dropped into the water. Better. She thought she was getting the hang of it.
Relax. In her mind, her dad’s voice instructed her. Don’t over-think it, Rache.
Every time she tried to use her head to line up the shot, she failed. When she let her hand think for her, she nailed it. But it took practice to get the fluid motions right. She crouched again, the last stone in her grip. Rachel let it sail from her hand. Two skips, then a plunk when it dropped into the water. Not bad at all. The distance between the two skips was decent. By the end of the weekend, she’d be back in top stone-skipping form.
Another splash from behind Rachel made her turn around again. Spike, stick in mouth, returned to Jeff. Rachel dipped her hand into the water and shivered when the cold knifed through her. Still, she couldn’t resist dipping her toes into the water.
She sat on the end of the dock and pulled off her running shoes and socks, easing bare toes into the water. Cold! She yanked them out again and then slid them back in, this time getting both feet wet to the ankles. A full-body shiver rattled her teeth, and she pulled her feet out again. Rachel set her wet feet onto the dock, making footprints on the dry wood.
“Aw!” Jeff yelled.
She turned and followed Jeff’s gaze. The stick he’d thrown hung trapped in the branches of one of the short cedars. It dangled out of Spike’s reach. If Spike nudged the branches, it would drop to the ground. Spike ran to it and danced around the tree, snapping at the stick.
“He won’t try to shake it loose,” Rachel said.
“Hit it, Spike. Get the stick,” Jeff shouted.
Spike continued to prance around the tree. He raised his head and sniffed at the air, then plunged into the bushes, barking.
“Spike!” Jeff continued to shout after the dog. “Come back here! Get the stick!”
Rachel sat and put her socks and shoes back on while she waited for Spike, who continued to bark. The bushes stirred as he rummaged through them.
“Spike,” Jeff called.
“Give him a minute. Maybe he’s flushing out a chipmunk,” Rachel said. The moment the words were out of her mouth, she realised they hadn’t seen any chipmunks since they’d arrived. The place typically crawled with them.
I’ve also noticed fewer wild animals around.
Rachel gulped and shook her head. She wanted Enza’s voice out of her brain. No doubt the chipmunks were hiding from the dog. The loons were in their nests. They’d cry out during the night, as usual, and she’d know everything was normal.
She stood and looked towards the Wilsons’ dock, trying to penetrate the thicket where Spike had disappeared. Not disappeared. Spike wasn’t gone. He wasn’t. He was hiding.
The bushes were still. Water lapped against the front of the dock. A gust of wind blew hair into Rachel’s eyes, and she shivered and brushed it aside.
“Spike,” she called out.
Nothing.
Rachel took a deep breath and raised her voice. “Spiiiiike!” She held her breath.
The bushes rustled and moved. Spike. It had to be him, because there was no one else, nothing else, there.
“Spike,” she called again.
Jeff stood rigid at her side. Rachel looked over at her mother. Mom sat in the hammock, alert, but hesitant, trying to decide if she should give the kids more time to work it out themselves.
At the sound of rustling branches, Rachel turned her gaze back to the bushes where Spike was hiding, just hiding. She caught a glimpse of dark fur. Definitely Spike. His black fur and the white blotch on his forehead played hide-and-seek among the bare branches of the bushes and dense evergreens. Spike emerged from the brush, carrying something in his mouth.
Rachel squinted. Something strange stuck out from both sides of Spike’s mouth. Was it a piece of a scarecrow? He drew nearer. Her eyes recognised what the dog carried, but her brain had difficulty accepting it.
Spike carried a human arm.
“Rache, what’s that?” Jeff’s voice pitched high.
She screamed.
Time slowed.
When the dog drew closer to them, Rachel looked him in the eye. She wondered if he knew what he carried and what he thought to do with it. Jeff stood beside her, eyes wide, jaw slack.
“M-M-M-Mom.” Her eyes turned away from the arm, an arm. Rachel searched for her mother and spotted Mom making her way towards them.
“Drop it, Spike. Now!” Mom yelled.
Spike stopped short of the dock and looked at them, uncertain, as if wondering why they weren’t telling him what a good boy he was. He dropped the arm, and it landed with a hollow thump. A brown cotton sleeve covered the long, thick arm. The hand ended in stubby, fleshy fingers that reminded Rachel of sausages. The top of the arm was a ragged wound.
“Mom,” Jeff said. “Whose arm is that?”
“I don’t know. It looks like a man’s arm,” Mom said in a hoarse whisper. “We’ll call the marina and they can send the police out here. Quickly. Get in the h
ouse.”
The two kids followed Mom off the dock, picking their way through the rocks and brush. Spike’s paws thudded across the hard ground, kicking up leaves and debris while he caught up to them.
Rachel glanced back at the arm. It lay on the shore like something from a zombie movie. What if the Wilsons had turned into zombies? What if Kelly was a zombie and came after her and Jeff?
Spike ran to Rachel and barked, startling her. She quickened her pace and burst into tears, which triggered wails from Jeff. Mom grabbed them each by the hand and pulled them up the stairs to the cottage door. They went inside and their mother closed and locked the door.
Jeff took off his life jacket and threw it on the floor. The kids huddled on the couch with Spike lying next to them. Rachel stared at Spike’s mouth, trying to find traces of flesh in his teeth or on his lips. It looked clean. He hadn’t bitten into the arm. Still, she thought she’d never let him lick her face again.
Mom cursed and poked at her cell phone. When she caught Rachel staring, she said, “No signal. I’ll try outside.” Mom went to the door facing the lake and stepped onto the balcony.
She fiddled with her cell phone again, pressed it to her ear, and listened. After a moment, she turned it off and came back into the cottage. “I still can’t get a signal. We’ll drive to the marina and talk to the police there.”
“Can we wait here?” Rachel said.
“No. I don’t want to leave you alone.”
Rachel stood and turned to Jeff.
Owl eyes stared back at her. His nose ran
