I stopped my bicycle and let it fall to the highway as I stared. I was so frozen with amazement that it didn’t occur to me to hide. I’m not sure how big she was, and I assumed it was a she because she had two little baby Loch Ness Monsters with her. Monsterettes? They played in the shallows of the reservoir and I saw them catch a few fish. The larger one bellowed happily when one of her babies made a successful catch.
I knew that they weren’t really Loch Ness Monsters. My mind struggled to remember the name of the most logical conjecture of the origin of lake monsters. The popular theory was that it was a dinosaur holdover that managed to elude all of mankind’s scientific endeavors. A plesiosaur or something like it. It was an extinct ocean reptile with paddle-like limbs, a long flattened body, and the classic tail out of a hundred blurry photographs. That was what I would have described the animals in front of me.
This one wasn’t extinct. Neither were her two babies. If there were people about I supposed they would have called her Fernie for Fern Ridge Reservoir. But what the heck did I know?
They weren’t interested in me and later I discovered I was grateful because the crossbow probably would have affected them like a buzzing mosquito. The mommy, at forty some feet in length, would have swatted me like an annoying insect. After a while they waddled into the deeper portions of the lake and vanished from my view.
I got back on the bike and rode even harder than I did before. Fourteen miles later, I was still shivering. Once I had read an account of a pioneer exploring the wilds of North America. The account said that a man was just as likely to be killed by a bear, mountain lion, or a pack of wolves as he would be if he were attacked by hostile Native Americans. In that age, bears, mountain lions, and wolves were prolific. I wondered what the explorer would have made of Fernie and her two offspring.
I stopped to consult my map and according to the mile marker I had passed I was supposed to be in the middle of a small town. I looked up and found that the town was gone. Absolutely, undefinedly, incomprehensively gone. Instead an emerald-green swamp bordered the edge of the road and the asphalt of the road was ragged as if something had torn it away in great chunks. I didn’t see any sign of human population. Nor did I see any sign of animal population. Abruptly, there was a strange haunting call that echoed through the moss laden trees that crept through the murky, lily pad filled waters. It repeated twice and then was silenced.
It sent a shiver of emotion down the entire length of my spine and I sped through the area, working the pedals of the Schwinn as hard as I could. By the time I crossed the Siuslaw River long miles later the road had returned to normal and I started to pass the odd home again. Homes became more frequent; most had docks on the river. Twilight was settling on the world and I picked a house at random in which to spend the night. I kept dreaming of that peculiar lingering cry and it seemed to circle the house I slept in, as if it were searching for me.
I had found an interior room without windows and laid out my sleeping bag there, blocking the door with a chair against the door knob. In the morning, I exited the house hesitantly and discovered strange three toed foot prints that circled my bicycle and then led away. I kept the crossbow across my shoulder where I could reach it easily and it became a habit that I became accustomed to doing.
By the end of that day I had reached the Pacific Ocean, where I planned to turn south. I could have kept on I-5 from Springfield, but I loved the ocean and if I had to ride my bicycle the entire length of California then I was going to have something pretty to look upon. Besides I didn’t have anything better to do. (Did I want to mention that something was drawing me to go that way? Something that made me feel both excited and dismayed. No. I didn’t want to mention that.)
There was the little problem of the Siuslaw River Bridge once I got on Highway 101. Pedaling through the tidy little coastal city of Florence kept me occupied enough until I reached the river again and the old bridge that once spanned it. Well, put frankly, half of it was gone. I rode to the edge and examined the end. It looked as though it had been sheared away with a very sharp knife. I looked out to sea and thought, Or a very large sea animal with very sharp teeth who thought an old, art deco bridge was just the thing to eat on a newly born day.
In any case in order to head south I had to find a way across. There was a plethora of boats in the area near the bridge. I borrowed a rowboat, pointedly ignoring the little outboard engine, loaded the Schwinn, and did it the hard way. Rowing a third of a mile might sound easy but it wasn’t. In addition to the rowing I kept looking around the water to make sure I didn’t look like a tasty treat to the local, new, marine life. Of course, I didn’t know what I was planning to do if something did take an undesired interest in me. Blow a raspberry and row like my tail was on fire? Shoot a bolt in their general direction and tell them about Fernie? Either sounded good.
I sighed with relief when I got safely to the other side. I sighed even more when I got my bike up to where the road started up again.
As I continued my journey the days slipped a little into the fog that surrounded me. I longed to hear a human voice. I longed to see something that gave me a sign that I wasn’t alone any longer, that I couldn’t be the only one who was left in a world that threatened to kill me well before I could understand what had happened.
Some days I only rode a little ways; I kept finding my way onto the beach. The sands that varied from white to gold and the sharp smell of the sea spray had a healing power that held sway over me. Although I was alone; on the beach, I wasn’t lonely. One day I spent the night in Reedsport. The next night I slept among the regal sands of the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area. The wind kept me company and lulled me to sleep.
I think I was waiting for the weird to happen again. That’s what I called it. Unicorns, Fernie, disappearing human beings, vanished towns and bridges, swamps that were probably not there before. It was the weird. It had happened and I fully expected it to happen again. To be perfectly precise, there was a feeling that I had, as if I knew something was about to happen again. I shouldn’t have been surprised.
The third day from Florence I was almost to North Bend riding industriously on the Schwinn. My butt had developed calluses and a profound respect for people who had rode long marathons on bikes. I was still in that fog, half in shock, not able to think about more than getting my legs to keep moving the way they were supposed to move and the fact that there wouldn’t be any more biking races didn’t faze me the way it should have done. The sun was high above me and slightly to the rear when I saw a shadow cross over me. It moved swiftly, there one second and gone the next.
In that moment I thought, airplane. It’s the shadow of an airplane. Oh, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t even have time to stop. I leaned slightly forward and something raked my back as it tipped me upside-down on the asphalt. I hit the hard surface with a grunt and a scream. The crossbow skittered across pavement. Then I didn’t hesitate, I scrambled for the side of the road and the protection of the thicket of scrub pine.
I didn’t stop until I was so deep into the thicket someone would need a treasure map to find me. One knife was in my hand and I couldn’t remember reaching for it. My back burned and the cry of something angry filled the day. Even through the thicket I saw the movement of something as it swooped past. It circled twice and then flew away. I saw its indistinct shape and trembled.
My first stop in North Bend was to a pharmacy. I had to find a mirror to look at the scratches on my back. Four parallel marks raked down between my shoulder blades and despite their ragged appearance they didn’t seem to need stitches. There was no way I could have done anything about that. I practically took a bath in hydrogen peroxide and used a length of two inch white gauze to wrap around my body several times before gingerly pulling on a new T-shirt.
My second stop in North Bend was to the library. Unfortunately the library was all computerized and it took me a while to find the book I wanted. It was in the fantasy section. It was a book on m
ythological creatures. After searching through the pages of the book I came to the conclusion that the critter that had taken a swipe at me was a griffin. Traditionally the griffin had the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle. I didn’t get a great look because I had been too busy fleeing for my life but the lean, new version seemed a lot creepier. The wings seemed a mile wide and the streamlined body half the size of a modern lion. The sharpened beak appeared as though it could cut through a full suckling pig without effort.
Ignoring the burning pain that continued in my back, I found a notebook in a librarian’s desk. Detailing my experiences, starting with the unicorns and where I had seen them, seemed important at the moment. I included the swamp with the funny three-toed thing that had trailed me to the house on the river. Fernie was put in there and her two babies. The last entry was the griffin. I drew rough pictures and indicated what the situation was been.
I was just like Captain Cook and his ship, the Endeavour, except I didn’t have a ship. I had a Schwinn and I wasn’t sure if anyone was left in the world who would appreciate my meager efforts. But it gave me something to think about.
Hoping that the griffin had a limited hunting area I left North Bend quickly. Highway 101 moved away from the coast for a few miles as it passed through Coos Bay, Millington, and a few wide spots in the road. I looked over my shoulder often, scanning the skies, but I never saw the griffin again.
Further down the road, Bandon was a nice little coastal town, even if its population had vanished. The bridge that crossed over the Coquille River was whole even if little dragon like critters the size of pigeons flew over the tallest supports. They didn’t seem interested in me. I think I was too big. They were after the fish in the river.
On the edge of collapse, I found a bed and breakfast inn on the south side of the river that overlooked the old and new lighthouses. I ate about three bites of a cold, canned meal and drank a little bottled water. For some reason I wasn’t hungry and my stomach rolled at the thought of eating more. When I was done I went out onto a wide veranda that looked out over the Pacific Ocean and marveled at the incredible sunset. Mentally counting all the colors of the clouds above the setting sun, I didn’t realize something else was happening.
Off to the south were a series of ancient sea stacks that jutted from the turbulent waters. The rock was being slowly eroded away by the endless ocean. Further down the beach were the shapes of more rocky outcroppings that protruded from the ocean floor. On the highest hill that overlooked the outcroppings was a bonfire.
It took me a moment to realize that I was looking at a bonfire. It was a controlled fire contained in some kind of pit. I couldn’t see if there was anyone there, but the fire itself was the indicator that called to me. I believe that my heart ceased to beat for a count of ten seconds before it roared back into life.
My first instinct was to run for it, to find the person who had created the fire before they slipped away. My second instinct was to check to see if I was seeing things. I rubbed my eyes, blinked several times and found that the bonfire was still there. My third instinct was to question whether one of the new animals might have made this thing.
And there was that feeling inside me. In my excitement to see another living human being, I ignored it completely. It said something bad was about to happen but I shoved it down inside of me where I didn’t have to listen to it.
But I collected my crossbow and loaded it with a bolt. I checked to make sure my knives were accessible. Then I went for an evening stroll on the beach. So to speak.
The fireflies came next. As soon as my foot touched the sand, they whirled up and around me, a great cloud of little bright lights that glowed brilliantly. They circled me and buzzed past me, a seemingly organized group of relentless animals. Fireflies? They were and they weren’t, as they jittered incessantly at me. I swiped at them but they didn’t seem to want to bite me. They swirled about for a long minute and then shot off to the east in a line of bright twinkles. One last one buzzed directly at my face and it sounded as if it were scolding me. Then it blasted off after its comrades.
I looked at the bonfire longingly, suddenly shaking in my Sketcher’s. I was afraid of disappointment. The closer I got the more I was certain it was manmade. I climbed the bluff following a well-worn trail and breathed heavily with exertion. I felt hot and anxious as if something was pulling at me.
Twenty feet from the fire a shrieking let go as if a thousand people started to simultaneously cry out at my presence. I twirled around but I could only see the shadows created by the fire. I yelled, “Who’s there?” and winced at the sound of my voice. The shrieking died away and there was only the crackling of wood burning.
I held the crossbow up, ready to aim at whatever menace would appear to me next. The man who had built the fire yelled horribly as he launched himself at me from out of the darkness. I had an impression of tangled blonde hair and scorching blue eyes that held no amount of humanity left within them. He knocked the crossbow from my hand with one of his. I was trying to twist away when his other hand, knotted into a grim fist, connected with my jaw and made the world go away.
Chapter Four – Really Not Alone…
When my much too heavy eyelids finally lifted again, my four limbs were tied to four stakes that had been plunged into the ground. Everything hurt from my head to my back to my wrists to my ankles. The ropes were secure and the bonfire still merrily burned yards away and it was the only noise I could perceive. I slowly turned my head and saw that I wasn’t alone. I mean, I really wasn’t alone. I might have been glad despite that two things were a problem and the second was a doozie. The first was that I was tied helplessly to the ground. The second was that the man who had attacked me was sitting nearby on a rock, methodically sharpening his knife. Perhaps the fire’s dancing light made it worse but he looked far more dangerous than any of the new creatures I had faced previously.
Being alone didn’t seem like such a terrible thing at that moment. I tugged at my wrists and pulled as hard as I could. My skin began to tear.
“It won’t…” he said and stopped. I froze as he spoke. He wasn’t used to talking any more than I was and it obviously bothered him. Then he started again hoarsely, “It won’t do you any good to struggle. I’ve had…practice.” He pointed with the end of the long knife he had been sharpening.
I looked and saw what I initially thought was a pile of rocks. It wasn’t rocks. It was a pile of burnt bones. The one on top was instantly recognizable as a human skull. A femur stuck out from under the skull. Black, thick fear threatened to overwhelm me. It rolled over me and my stomach clenched as if being compressed by a large fist.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement and I turned my head to see. It looked like a large spider that scuttled out of sight. I thought, You’re losing it, girl. My eyes went back to the man with the knife.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said faintly, ashamed that my tone came across as pleading. Regardless, my voice sounded scratchy and it wasn’t the only thing that was off. My flesh seemed as though it was on fire. I knew that I wasn’t close to the flames but I felt as though I was standing right on top of them. I felt as though I was drugged, dragging myself through heavy water endlessly. Then I added what I most had desired, “You’re not alone anymore.”
The man resumed his sharpening of the knife and the snick-snick-snick of the blade going over the whetstone sent a shiver of helpless reaction down my spine. “I’ve always been alone,” he said, almost calmly. The insanity was threaded through his tone. His Slinky was seriously kinked. He was a few fries short of a Happy Meal. He was surfing in Nebraska.
I finally found someone, but he had slipped over into the world of dementia and delusion and he was going to fillet me like a swordfish. “My name is Sophie,” I said desperately. “You have to be alone anymore. Just like I don’t have to be alone anymore.” But I was lying. I didn’t want to be around this man with his face that clearly showed the warped malevolen
ce underneath. I wanted my mother and my father. I wanted my friends. I wanted people who loved me and I loved them. I didn’t want this escapee from an insane asylum. This man, who could be me, if I wasn’t very careful. “I can…”
My words broke off when the man hurled himself off the rock with a grunting roar. “Shut up!” he bellowed as he moved. “I don’t want to hear your VOICE!” The knife flashed high above his shoulder and his eyes glittered wildly in the fire’s golden light. The knife made an arc that ended as he straddled my body and brought in down into the fleshy part of my shoulder. He said it again, “Shut up!” but I was already screaming with the onslaught of the agony brought on by the knife’s penetration.
Even while I was screaming I saw that he wasn’t so much older than I was, not even twenty-five under the black dirt embedded on his skin. But the thought skittered away as he reversed direction and yanked the blade out with a sickening slurping noise. My scream was abruptly cut off as I fought to maintain consciousness.
The pain and the heat and the fear all swamped me like a huge wave. I opened my mouth to say something, to say anything, when he lifted the knife again. It looked as though he was aiming for center of mass and my time was coming to a horrible end. There was a moment where I took it in and thought that at least it would end quickly.
A single firefly that was not really a firefly buzzed directly into the man’s face. He grimaced uncontrollably and swatted at it with the knife. I blinked and a second one appeared. Then another and another appeared, a little barrage of enemy fighters zooming in for the kill. The man began to throw his arms around, trying to chase them away. He snarled viciously and they flew at his face. He threw himself to his feet and ran at the bonfire.
I think he was going to reach for a lit branch to wave at the fireflies, but they stormed him in a ferocious torrent. He screeched and tripped, falling into the fire while they veered away from the conflagration. Branches and fire crackled with angered disparity. It seemed as though he lay in the fire for a long time but must have only been for a few seconds. He started to scream in earnest, wretched emanations of pain that made me want to cover my ears, and rolled away from the flames. His hair was on fire as was his ragged clothing. Leaping to his feet he ran as if that would save him. He kept screaming as he went off the side of the bluff and then it stopped abruptly.
Sea of Dreams Page 3
