by Weston Ochse
Fear crept along her spine as she imagined things in the darkness, silent deadly things, watching her as she walked the tide line.
It sounded like a fish surfacing, or something slapping the water with the palm of its hand.
But her light found nothing but dead sea.
She heard someone calling in the distance. Although she couldn't make out the words, she thought it sounded like Obediah, which meant they still hadn't found the boy. Gertie heard a great slurping sound and almost jumped out of her skin, even though she recognized it as Sump Pump #2.
She chuckled and pushed her hair back, then stuck the baseball bat under her arm as she rearranged her pony tail. She decided that she'd give it a few more yards, then return to the restaurant. She'd already done more than was necessary, and out here alone, she didn't know what might happen.
The beam of Gertie's flashlight swept past something white and filmy. She stopped and adjusted the light, circling until she saw what looked like the blind, cataracted eye of an immense dead fish.
As she stepped closer flies erupted from the seaweed to buzz madly about the beam of the torch, making it almost impossible to see. She waived a hand to clear away the pests and stepped closer to examine her find. What she saw, however, wasn't the eye of a fish but a human.
She inhaled sharply.
Oh my God, she thought. Was this Obediah? Had the poor boy drowned?
She turned and glanced behind her, wondering if she should call out. She returned her gaze to the head and tried to make out the features, plus see where the rest of the body lay. But everything was too obscured by the seaweed, the trash and the way the light played off the surface of the water.
Then, for a moment, Gertie could have sworn that the eye blinked. Suddenly she wondered if Obediah might still be alive.
The eye blinked again. This time she saw it.
Or was it the waves pushing it open and closed?
She stepped into the surf and was now close enough to see yellow ichors seeping from the thing's neck.
What kind of person has yellow blood?
Then she saw it in all its gory reality. The thing beneath the water couldn't possibly be Obediah. It was too old. It had the face of a middle-aged man. The neck was all but severed from the body. The head hung by only by a few pieces of skin. The spinal cord had been shattered and swayed like a broken rope in the water. The skin was a mottle of greens. The blood wasn't simply yellow but seemed to glow in the water.
This must have been what she'd seen run across the street.
Then it hit her. All the rumors were true, even those far-fetched things that Andy had been spouting to the other drunks in the restaurant when he thought she and Maude weren't paying attention. Gertie tried to step back but found she couldn't move her foot. Looking down, she saw why and screamed. A hand had wrapped around her ankle, green and gray tinged skin, yellowing nails that, even as she watched, pierced the flesh of her foot and slid against her ankle bone.
She screamed again before she was jerked off her feet. She landed hard against the sand, the back of her head slamming the ground. Air left her in a whoosh. The flashlight and bat went flying.
Another hand gripped her leg. First one tug, then another and another and Gertie was all the way in the water. She felt teeth slide against her skin and screamed hysterically and breathlessly. Teeth bit into her thigh and ripped away a huge chunk of flesh. They tore in again and again, each time ripping and shredding. When it hit her femoral artery, she screamed a final time, then was pulled beneath the tide. The red of her blood mingled with the yellow of the creature, resulting in a wide, orange slick that held together for a moment, before being washed under by the tide.
Abigail wasn't sure how much time had passed. It was dark outside. The only light came through the window from a streetlight over on Avenue C. For a moment she didn't know where she was. Then she saw the gun lying next to her on the bed, glistening in the moonlight like a nightmare made of oil.
She sat bolt upright. Her eyes went to the door as she remembered the creature who'd scrambled through her doggy door and chased her into the bedroom. She'd thought it was the Klosterman Kid at first, but it couldn't have been. Yellow soulless eyes shone through the layers of her memory that were like nothing she'd ever seen. There was a savagery about the creature that absolutely terrified her. Like the Rottweiler that had chased down her beloved Trudie that one time. It had paused in its mauling once after she'd kicked it a dozen times, and the look it gave her was nothing short of monstrous. That was the look the creature gave her.
Abigail realized she had no idea where Trudie was. She opened her mouth to call the dog, but then paused. What if the creature was waiting outside the door? What if it was outside her window?
She craned her neck and listened for a sound, any sound. It took a moment, but she was able to discern breathing. It took a moment longer for her to detect where it was coming from--under the bed.
She leaped off the bed and fell to her knees, lifted the bed skirt, and peered under the bed. Trudie lay with her head on her paws, staring fearfully at the door. Abigail reached until her fingers brushed the dog's curly coat. Then Trudie turned, recognized her, and ran towards her face, licking her, as elated to see Abigail as she was to see the dog.
Abigail rose to a sitting position. As she reached for the pistol on the bed, the dog jumped into her lap and curled up. She held the pistol to her chest with her right hand as she petted the dog with her left.
"Do you think it's still out there, Trudie?" she whispered.
The dog glanced up at her, then resumed its vigil on the door.
"Can you smell it? Can you sense it, little one?"
The dog growled low in its throat.
Just then something scraped against the outside of the bedroom door. Was it the creature? Or was it her imagination?
The scratching came again, ever so lightly, as if it was in her imagination and not even there, a trick of the mind that told her it was probably okay to open the door.
Probably.
Patrick pushed the fly down to the bottom of the bowl and held it there with his spoon. Eight sodden Cheerios floated in the milk, looking gray in the morning light.
Or was it his eyes?
Storms snapped across the front part of his brain. The rest of it seemed shrunken to rattle against the inside of his skull. He tried not to move. Even blinking hurt. But under Auntie Lin's watchful eye, he had no choice but to pretend he hadn't been hammered last night, which meant he couldn't possibly be hungover.
Oh, if only that were true.
The fly somehow fought free of the spoon and shot to the surface of the milk. It came through one of the Cheerios and held onto the miniature life preserver. He imagined it staring at him through faceted eyes, condemning him for the attempted drowning and begging him with its tiny fly voice not to do it again.
Patrick prepared to finish the job when Auntie Lin spoke.
"More coffee?"
He hadn't touched what she'd poured earlier, yet she stood poised to refill it. He tried to smile but lacked the coordination to pull it off, and instead made a pathetic lopsided frown.
"No thanks."
"You're not fooling anyone, you know."
He looked up from his flyacide. He was about to say something but was saved by raised voices coming from across the restaurant.
"I don't care about that. We need to get people here to help."
Abel Beachy had brought his family in for Saturday breakfast, as he did every weekend. Noticeable was the empty seat where Obediah normally sat. Jedadiah, Marlene, and Abel's wife Rachel sat stone-faced and bleary-eyed, staring at their untouched plates of eggs and sausage, while the leader of the clan shook his fist at the deputy sheriff.
"Honestly, there's nothing more we can do. Did you check his room? Maybe there's a phone number or some -"
"We don't have phones! We're Amish, you idiot!" Abel boomed.
Will held his hands out. "Did Obedi
ah meet a girl recently? What about school? Was there someone special?"
Abel shook his head fiercely and was about to reply when his daughter caught Will's eye.
"What is it, Marlene?"
She glanced at her father, then returned to staring at her plate.
"Abel, please tell your daughter that it's okay to speak. If she has anything that can help us, then I need to hear it."
Abel fumed for a moment longer before softening. He reached out and put a meaty hand on his daughter's thin shoulder.
"Marlene, do you have something to tell Deputy Sheriff Toddrunner?"
"No, papa."
"Marlene?" Will asked. "This is serious. If you were asked to keep a secret by someone, you need to reconsider. This is starting to become a big deal."
She looked up again, a deer caught in the headlights. She bit her lip and began to cry. "He has a girl he likes in Brawly."
Abel seemed ready to launch himself out of his chair, but Will quelled him with a look. To Marlene, he asked, "What's her name?"
"Mary Jo something. He met her at the farmers' market three weeks ago."
"Did you get a last name?"
She murmured something that sounded like no, then shook her head.
"At least we have somewhere to start," Will said, writing in his notebook.
Abel glanced around the room and noticed that all eyes were on him. He seemed about to say something, but then set to his breakfast instead, bringing the food woodenly to his mouth without enjoyment.
Jose and Kristov sat far at the other end of the counter. The Duvall Brothers sat at a table, as did Andy Gudgel, Kim Johnson and several other locals.
Auntie Lin carried around the coffee pot offering refills. Derrick bussed dirty dishes. Natasha carried plates of food two at a time to waiting customers. She'd been offered a tray to use, but was afraid she'd upend whatever she carried right onto the customers. Maude had been in the kitchen most of the morning and only now came out, wiping her hands on her apron. The dark skin of her face was flushed. Heavy bags hugged her eyes.
Will got ready to leave, but stopped when Maude put a hand on his arm.
"What is it?" He looked around. "Where's Gertie?"
"I was going to ask you the same thing," she said, her voice drawn and tired. "She didn't come home last night."
Will nodded. "It's not like her to miss breakfast."
"No, it's not." Maude shook her head. "I don't know where she is, but I don't want you to have to go looking if she's just sleeping in or something."
The deputy sheriff thought about it for a moment, then placed his hand atop hers. "Don't worry about it. She's always turned up before. You know how she used to get with Laz." He glanced at the Beachys, "I'll track down this Mary Jo in Brawly and see if Obediah headed that way. I've seen hormones tear even the best of families apart." He took his hat from the table and put it on his head. He nodded to the room before leaving, held the door for a moment to allow someone else to step inside, then was gone.
The door clanged shut behind the newcomer as he took in the interior of the restaurant. He was in his mid_thirties and bald. He smiled, waved once at the room, and took an empty seat at the counter beside Patrick. "Cup of coffee?" he asked.
The words broke the tension in the room. Auntie Lin rushed to fill a mug and everyone else returned to their meals and private conversations.
The new guy introduced himself as Hopkins. He told Patrick he'd come from the Salton Sea Ecological Authority to investigate the effects of the recent earthquakes on the fish die-offs. Many of the locals barely even acknowledged his presence.
Half an hour later, Hopkins finished his meal and excused himself to begin taking readings of water and soil samples.
Finally alone, Patrick took the moment to remove the fly from his cereal. He placed it gently into a napkin and folded the material into a delicate square. The creature deserved a proper burial. If Patrick was feeling better later, maybe he'd even honor it with a wake.
Natasha was glad to be free from the restaurant and back in her grandfather's trailer. The walls were dark paneled and the floor was carpeted in thick blue shag. Her grandfather's things were everywhere. Standing in the sunlight filtering through old, yellowed curtains, Natasha could feel him everywhere. His things had a smell about them that reminded her of barbershops, liquor stores and cut grass, and she could only imagine that that was what her grandfather had smelled like.
The living room was at one end of the doublewide and held two long leather couches, perpendicular to an easy chair on one end and a giant screen television on the other. She and Derrick had slept on the couches last night, an old VHS tape of Weekend at Bernie's playing on the television as their nightlight.
They'd unloaded the car, and several suitcases and boxes of their most important things were stacked against a wall. But there was no room for their stuff while her grandfather's things were still there. Removing them should be left up to her dad.
Her dad... he'd already fallen into a depression and, as Auntie Lin put it, was trying "to solve the word's problems with alcohol." Natasha could certainly understand how it might feel to be deserted by a parent and the thought sent a dagger of emptiness slicing through her gut. But then again she'd always thought that she was made of tougher stuff than her father. One thing was for sure: if he wanted any quality of life at all, he needed to get over it.
Suddenly the place felt confining.
"Come on," she said to Derrick. "Let's go outside."
Derrick was more than ready and, for the first time in an hour, cracked a wan smile. "About time."
His thoughts were probably running along the same lines as hers. She reminded herself that her brother might also be feeling deserted by their father and need some attention.
She grabbed a pair of sunglasses she'd found on her grandfather's dresser - the kind worn by fighter pilots - and put them on. She like the way they felt; they made her feel cool.
It was ninety-two degrees in the shade of the palm trees in the front yard. Derrick ran back inside and snagged a Pirates baseball cap. His love for the Pennsylvania baseball team was a continuing bone of contention between him and his father. Natasha didn't think her brother even liked baseball. He just enjoyed their father's frustration with a traitorous son who liked the Pirates over the Phillies.
When he returned, she and Derrick stood beneath the palms and stared out at the sandy streets. The water was hidden by a giant seawall. Only the birds were visible, rising into the air and diving back down, presumably eating the fish that swam lethargically to the surface to die.
"Don't you two look as out of place as a Mormon in Compton," Veronica said, leaning against the chain link fence.
"What?" Derrick drew the word out as he silently repeated her mysterious statement.
Natasha adjusted her glasses. "I thought we looked good."
"Right. Sure you do. So did the Clampetts."
Veronica wore boy's shorts that came down to her knees and a yellow and purple basketball shirt with Kobe Bryant's name and number, and basketball shoes without socks. A smile lit her clean face. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and red mirrored punk sunglasses protected her eyes.
"Where'd you go last night?" Natasha asked. "You missed all the fun."
Veronica's smile dropped. "You can have that kind of fun. My uncle doesn't want me out at night. We hear all sorts of things when it gets dark."
"What? Like monsters?" Derrick teased.
Veronica shrugged and pushed herself away from the fence. "There's something that makes the noise at night and, whatever it is, I'm going to stay away from it."
"I might have seen some of those things," Natasha said carefully. She didn't want to be treated as if she were stupid, but she wanted some answers, if there were answers to be had.
Veronica shook her head. "Watch what you're looking at is all I have to say. Sometimes you shouldn't be looking too closely at things, you might see what's really there."
/> "That doesn't make any sense," Derrick said.
"Sure it does. It means mind your own business. Keep to yourself. You gotta live that way if you're going to survive where I came from. You got to live that way if you're going to survive here too."
Her words hung heavy in the air, and Natasha couldn't tell if the other girl was being serious or not. She had a rough side to her that came out every now and again, as if it were a defense mechanism. Natasha thought about her life in the malls of suburban Philidelphia and realized how different her world was from Veronica's.
Veronica glanced at Derrick who was staring at her. "What are you looking at?"
"Is there really a chance we won't survive?" he asked in a low voice.
Veronica canted her head, then laughed. "Listen. Half the stuff out of my mouth doesn't mean anything. I'm just talking smack. Nothing more than smack. So you ready to go, or what?"
But Derrick persisted. "Which half?"
"Which half what?" Veronica asked.
"Which half is smack?"
"Oh." She grinned evilly. "That you'll have to figure out for yourself." Seeing his doubt, she added, "It's what makes living so much fun." She bounced on her feet. "Anyway, you all want to do something?"
Natasha had wondered the same thing Derrick had. People had a habit in this town of making mysterious remarks, Veronica included. She had to wonder if there was anything to them, but now wasn't the time to press it.
"I don't know," she said. "What do you want to do?"
"There's lots of ways to get into trouble around here." Veronica said.
"Are we going to steal a car? Rob a liquor store?" Derrick turned his cap sideways and made a gun out of his finger as he took aim and shot at the trailer across the street.
Natasha pulled his hat over his eyes and shook her head. "Calm down, Tupac." To Veronica she said, "So what shall we do?"
"Like anything... Hey! Let me show you the Mad Scientist at work. Come on."
Veronica took off walking. Both Natasha and Derrick had to hurry to catch up with her. They went down two streets, then began to pick their way through an alley filled with cast-off appliances. The refrigerators had had their doors removed. Natasha had heard how it was to stop children getting locked in them. The stoves seemed older than any of the ones she'd ever seen. Here and there a microwave lay broken and rusty, like a forgotten shrine to bad cooking.
