Silurid

by Gerry Griffiths

“I need to go change,” Billy said, covered in mud.

  “Yeah, we need a break out of this rain,” Jess said.

  “I’m for that,” Kyle said.

  “You guys go ahead. I’m going to check the pumps on the raceways,” Gus said and trudged off in the pouring rain.

  ***

  Vernon woke up to the smell of smoke. The acrid stench made his eyes water and smelt like burning plastic. He shot up from bed and ran over to the workbench.

  All three monitors and processors were sputtering sparks and engulfed in flames.

  He grabbed a fire extinguisher, pulled the pin, and discharged a smothering spray of powder onto the fire. Once it was all out, he stood and stared, his research reduced to a black, gooey mess.

  Something told him to go up to the catwalk. Once there, his fears were confirmed. The concrete extension from the pond was empty.

  He raced down the steps to the workbench. The VHS tapes that he had recorded all of his research were ruined, floating in one of the drawers. In a fit of temper, he ripped a few drawers out of their slides and hurled them across the flooded floor.

  He fell to his knees and pounded the water with his fists. He looked up and was able to see out below the Quonset hut wall.

  There was only darkness beyond the pond. The cinder block wall had collapsed, and the water in the pond had drained out.

  Zeus and Athena were gone!

  “NOOO!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  Vernon stood and went over to one of the drawers still in the workbench. He took out a topography map and unfolded it. He hunched over the map, drawing lines with a marker pen.

  “There’s only one place for you to go,” he said, and circled a spot on the map.

  He left the map on the workbench and began collecting what was salvageable.

  Vernon made a few trips out to his truck: some dry clothes, camping gear, an inflatable four-man raft with a wooden transom, an outboard motor and gas tank, a portable pump, and a mobile tracking device.

  He climbed into the cab, started up the truck, and sped off into the night.

  ***

  “I tell you, it was weird. I was checking the pumps when I heard this ungodly cry coming from the Quonset hut. It was Vernon. And then I saw him packing up his truck. Then he took off like a bat out of hell,” Gus said, relaying what he had seen while they walked toward the Quonset hut.

  “That is strange,” Jess said. Billy and Kyle were walking alongside, shaking their heads, just as bewildered.

  They were just approaching the entrance when a gust of wind blew across their backs, and the door swung open.

  The four entered the building, shining their lights in every direction.

  “Smells like there was a fire in here,” Kyle said, wading toward the workbench.

  Gus slogged through the water to the rear of the building.

  “What do you make of this?” Billy asked, shining his light on the concrete wall.

  “Let’s take a look,” Jess said, and they climbed the steps to the catwalk.

  They stood on the catwalk and shined their light down into the algae-covered extension of the pond.

  “Must have been a good twenty feet deep when it was full, judging by the waterline,” Billy said.

  “Check out those markings,” Jess said, shining her light on the top lip of the wall. “There are two distinct measurements. Each one is identified with an A and a Z. I wonder what they mean? By the dates, they look like growth charts. Reminds me of when we used to get our heights notched on the doorjamb when we were kids.”

  “That’s impossible. Those markings are nearly thirty feet long,” Billy said.

  “Hey, look what I found,” Kyle shouted.

  Jess and Billy came down to see what Kyle had discovered.

  “Vernon marked up this map. Might show us where he went?”

  Billy looked down at the map. “That’s Adobe Creek. Just behind the hatchery.”

  “He’s circled something here,” Kyle said.

  “That’s Lake Recluse,” Jess said, feeling a knot form in her stomach.

  “Over here,” Kyle shouted. “Check this stuff out.” He had wandered over to the drawers that had been yanked from the workbench and thrown about the place.

  They waded over to where Kyle stood and began inspecting the drawers.

  “Looks like Vernon kept some sort of journal. It’s a little soggy,” Kyle said.

  “Can I have that?” Jess asked. She took the book from Kyle and read the cover: The Silurid Result. “I better keep this.”

  “There’s a bunch of tapes here, but I’m afraid they won’t be much use to us,” Billy said, holding up a dripping wet VHS tape.

  “Too bad they all got damaged,” Gus said.

  Kyle scooted under the hanging wall that led outside to the pond.

  “So are we any closer to knowing what Vernon was doing in here?” Billy asked.

  “I’m still not sure,” Jess said.

  “You guys better get out here,” Kyle called from outside.

  “What’s he found now?” Billy asked.

  They stooped under the hanging wall and joined Kyle, standing on the edge of the empty pond.

  “Shine your lights down there,” Kyle said.

  Everyone directed the beams of their flashlights on the muddy bottom of the large pond.

  “Holy shit!” Gus said.

  “Dear God,” Jess said.

  “I guess now we know,” Billy said.

  They stood silently and gawked at the two deep behemoth impressions in the mud that stretched half the length of the pond like a pair of intact prehistoric fossils.

  ***

  For hours, the raging waters flowed through the ruptured levee and raced down the gullied stretch known as Adobe Creek. After a forty-mile journey, the overflowing creek surged into Lake Recluse.

  A coyote howled in the hills above the remote shoreline. Nocturnal creatures rustled in the underbrush. The predators sensed the urgency in their quest, as it was only an hour before sunrise.

  The moon poked its face out of the rain-spent clouds, the night sky and mountains reflected on the lake’s surface.

  A gaggle of Canadian geese flew down for a rest stop. Breaking their perfect V-formation, the birds tilted back their wings and made their approach. Their webbed feet slowed their descent, skidding onto the water.

  There was a ruction of honks and splashing while the geese reveled in the brief time allotted before continuing on their journey. The weary travelers floated aimlessly, dipping their long necks into the water, searching for fish.

  Suddenly, the geese began to panic, rustling their wings. Some of them attempted to take flight, but couldn’t seem to get off the water. They honked in desperation, shuddering, until all thirty birds floated dead on the water.

  Before a wisp of cloud could slash the face of the moon, the birds were sucked under.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jasper lugged his fishing gear down the hill. For some reason, the bank on this side of Chickaree Creek looked different. It took him awhile before he realized that the creek was wider. Must be from all the rain. That was okay, the deeper the water, the bigger the fish.

  He quickly set up on the new bank in the early morning sun.

  He opened his lawn chair a foot away from the water, placed his cooler to the right and his tackle box to the left for easy access, giving him no reason to have to get out of his chair. He pushed the pole holders in the sand and stuck in his two fishing rods. He loved the new fishing regulation allowing a fisherman to use two poles, as long as he stayed within a certain distance of the rigs. There was enough beer in the cooler to last him the day.

  He baited his 1/0 hooks with Berkley Power Bait, ensuring that the tips of the hooks and the barbs were hidden inside the yellow gob that looked more like Play-Doh than fish bait.

  Jasper picked up his first pole and opened the bail. He let the line lay across the crook of his finger and tested the weight of the
slip shot. He brought the rod back and whipped it forward in the direction of the middle of the stream. The end of his line dropped exactly where he wanted it. He reeled in the slack, sticking the pole in the holder. He quickly baited up the second rod and cast the line out.

  Rather than have to stare at his poles waiting for a strike, Jasper clipped small bells on the tips of each pole. A nibble or a bite, and the bells would ring.

  Jasper reached into his cooler, grabbed a can of beer, and popped the tab. He was about to take a gulp when one of the bells shook. The tip of the pole dipped, almost touching the water.

  “Hot damn!” He grabbed the rod and began reeling in the line.

  The fish broke the surface. It was a fat two-pound catfish.

  He brought the fish ashore and reached down to remove the hook.

  The fish thrashed to get back into the water.

  “No, you don’t,” he said, holding the wriggling fish down with his boot. The last thing he wanted was to get poked by one of those sharp spines that were on each side of its mouth. He’d been jabbed before and remembered how his hand had swollen up from the nasty venom.

  He had just fed the fish onto a stringer when the other bell began to ring. This time, the pole was almost yanked out of the holder.

  “This must be my lucky day!” He reeled in another catfish, this one bigger than the one before.

  He wasted no time, baited the hooks, and cast out. Before he could even reach for his beer, the bells started ringing, both at the same time.

  Good Lord, I must have died and gone to fisherman’s heaven!

  Again, they were catfish. He set them on the stringer and decided to take a short beer break. He kicked back in his chair and looked upstream.

  Claude was standing on the shore, about seventy feet away.

  “Hey, Claude. What do you think of these beauties?” Jasper gloated, raising the stringer of fish.

  Claude flipped him the finger.

  “What’s that? Your IQ or your sperm count?” Jasper laughed. He knew Claude was still sore about the cheese dip stunt from the barbeque.

  He took a gulp of his beer and thought he would watch Claude before resuming fishing. There was no hurry. For some unfathomable reason, the stream was miraculously teeming with fish.

  Claude stepped into his chest waders. Carrying his fly rod, he stepped out into the shallows and began casting, forward and backward. He played out more line with each forward cast. He was paying too much attention placing his fly, neglecting what was behind him, and ended up backward casting his line and tangling it in a low-hanging branch.

  “Swift move,” Jasper yelled, laughing so hard he almost fell out of his lawn chair.

  Claude tugged at the line, but the filament was wound tight around the branch. He gave it a hard yank and broke the branch off. The tree limb fell, landing in the water, and slowly floated downstream.

  “Oh, you’re killing me,” Jasper howled. This time, he pitched out of his chair.

  “Bite me, Jasper,” Claude yelled. He shoved his reel inside the strap of his suspenders. He took his pipe out of his shirt pocket and fumbled for a match.

  A pair of meadowlarks swept down and perched on the floating branch.

  Jasper sat up in the sand, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Looks like you caught something after all!” He was laughing so hard he thought he would pee his pants.

  He chuckled to himself and got up, baited a hook, and cast out his line. He leaned down to shove the handle of his rod into the pole holder.

  A foot-high swell washed ashore right over his boots.

  “What the—?” He looked for the cause and saw something strange out on the water.

  It was too big to be a log. A sandbar perhaps, but that didn’t make sense. He had fished this same spot a hundred times and never remembered a sandbar in the middle of the creek. And why would a sandbar suddenly appear out of nowhere when the creek level was so high?

  He shielded his eyes from the morning sun to get a better look at the elliptic-shaped mass fifty feet away. His first assumption had been wrong. It wasn’t made of sand. It looked more like shale stepping-stones all bunched together.

  And it wasn’t stationary. It was moving.

  Drifting upstream.

  Coming straight for Claude.

  “What do you make of that?” Jasper yelled, looking over at Claude.

  Claude was fussing with his pipe, purposely ignoring Jasper.

  Jasper glanced back at the water and caught a glimpse of the two meadowlarks perched on the floating branch—just before they were sucked under.

  “Jesus, Claude! Did you see that?”

  Claude lit his pipe and was about to flick the match when the line at the end of his fly rod went taut and he was pulled forward. He made a futile attempt to unhook the reel from his suspender.

  He was yanked in face-first, the water rushing into the front of his chest waders.

  Jasper watched Claude go under.

  “Claude!” Jasper reached in his tackle box and grabbed his fillet knife. His plan was to go in the water, intercept Claude, and cut the filament setting him free.

  He was about to enter the water when he heard a strange crackling sound. He looked down and saw a dozen or more catfish floating on the surface.

  They looked dead.

  He reached down and put his hand in the water to touch the nearest fish.

  “Damn,” he yelled when he was jolted backward, landing hard on his butt.

  Somehow, he had just gotten shocked.

  His skin felt tingly, just like the time he had forgotten to throw the circuit breaker and nearly electrocuted himself trying to fix a fool light switch.

  “Jasper, help—” Claude yelled, coming up for air.

  Jasper watched Claude drift by. What could he do? He felt helpless. Sure, Claude was a pain in the ass, and they were always on each other’s case, but he was the closest thing to a friend Jasper ever knew.

  He looked downstream. A tree had uprooted from the storm and fallen partly across the creek. If he hurried, he might be able to snare Claude, cut him loose.

  Jasper took off running. Even he was surprised how fast he could move when he wanted to. Not that he would break any Olympic records. When he reached the fallen tree, he didn’t even think twice, just jumped up, and started shuffling out over the creek.

  You’ve only one chance, Buddy Boy, so you better make it good!

  He got down on his knees, grabbed a branch, and leaned out.

  Claude came within arm’s reach and held onto the log.

  Jasper sliced through the suspender.

  Claude’s $400 fly rod and reel disappeared downstream.

  “Try and pull yourself up!”

  “I’m trying!” Claude’s chest waders were completely filled with water. It was like having an anchor wrapped around his legs.

  “Hook onto my belt! I’m going to cut the other suspender!”

  Jasper cut the fabric. Claude paddled and kicked his legs. The heavy chest waders slipped down past his waist, and after more struggling, Claude was finally able to squirm out of them.

  Jasper helped Claude clamber onto the fallen tree trunk.

  “I never thought I would be saying this—thanks.”

  “Couldn’t let you drown,” Jasper said, smirking. “You’re too much fun to have around.”

  “What the hell just happened?” Claude asked.

  Jasper looked out over the creek.

  The sandbar, or whatever the damn thing was, was gone.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Me neither.”

  Jasper and Claude sat on the fallen log, dangling their feet over the water like a couple of misfits out of a Mark Twain novel.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to tag along?” Billy asked.

  “No, I’ll be okay. Besides, I need you here to run things,” Jess replied.

  Jess climbed into the Bronco and started the engine.

&nb
sp; “Hey, wait a minute,” Billy said. He ran up the steps and darted into the office. He came back out carrying a satchel. He went around to the passenger side and pulled on the handle, but the door would not open.

  “Unlock the door,” he said.

  “It is unlocked. The stupid thing keeps sticking.” Jess leaned across the console and pushed the door. The door creaked open.

  “Here, you don’t want to forget this,” Billy said, and put the satchel on the passenger seat.

  “Thanks, Billy.”

  “You be careful.”

  “I will. Don’t worry.”

  Billy closed the door and waved goodbye.

  ***

  Jess had been driving on the interstate for forty-five minutes when she happened to glance at the digital clock on the dashboard. The time was 7:38. It was good that Billy had remembered the satchel. Inside was Vernon’s journal, which was of grave importance to her brother.

  A highway sign came into view: Route 7. Blue placards hung beneath with icons of a boat and a gas pump.

  She took the exit looping to an underpass and turned left at the Lake Recluse 37 miles sign.

  For thirty minutes, she drove the windy road that weaved up into the hills. It was a slow drive, especially with the hairpin turns forcing her to reduce her speed down to 20 miles an hour. Not a drive that she would cherish having to do every day. She saw black skid marks at one bend where a driver had slammed on the brakes either going too fast or attempting to avoid hitting an animal in the road.

  Jess caught her first glimpse of the lake through the trees.

  She slowed down when she saw the road flares lined along the shoulder.

  A flagman was just up ahead and waved for her to stop.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to turn around,” the flagman said, approaching her side window.

  “You don’t understand. I have to get through,” Jess said.

  “Not possible. Last night’s storm brought the hill down on the road. No one gets in or out. Might be another two or three days before we can get it cleared.”

  “Is there another way in?” Jess asked.

  “Nope. Not unless you can chopper in.”

  “How far is the lake from here?” Jess asked, wondering if she should hike in.