Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale

by Dane Hatchell

  Time and Tide

  Dane Hatchell

  These stories are a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell

  Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed Press:

  Other Titles Available from the Author

  Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution

  A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South

  A Werewolf in our Midst

  Apocalypse³

  Club Dead: Zombie Isle

  Dead Coup d'État

  Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

  It Came from Black Swamp

  Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story

  Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare

  Pheromone and Rotten

  Red Rain

  Soul Mates

  The Garden of Fear

  The Last Savior

  The Turning of Dick Condon

  Two Big Foot Tales

  Two Demented Fish Tales

  Zombies of Iwo Jima

  Zombie God of the Jungle

  Zombie’s Honor

  Time and Tide

  “I saw her again, Mommy.” Mikey stood next to the imitation leather couch where his mother, Estelle, slept. “Mommy, I saw the girl again.” His almond shaped eyes stared at her through coke bottle glasses.

  “Mmmphh . . .” Estelle twitched. The smell of vodka and body odor hovered in her personal space.

  “She was by the water and I saw her and I told her to wait and I ran to her but she was gone before I could get there.” Mikey recounted the story in exact detail. He grabbed her shoulder and shook it a few times.

  “Mikey . . . child . . . it's not even noon. Why’re you bothering your momma?” Estelle rolled from her side and faced him. The faux leather grain pattern marked her cheek and a cushion seam left a line down the side of her face.

  He smiled, now having her attention, and adjusted his glasses on his flat nasal bridge. "Why does she go ’way?” His smooth round face and perpetually opened mouth reflected a constant state of confusion. For a twenty-two year old with an IQ of 50, he was accustomed to receive unsatisfactory answers to most of his questions.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no girl on the beach. Real girls don't appear and disappear out of thin air. It's probably just a manatee playing by the shore or the sun making a mirage on the water.” Estelle furrowed her brow and placed the palm of her hand on her forehead. She then reached for a glass on the coffee table that contained a small amount of clear liquid and gulped it down.

  “No, she walks on the beach. Manatee's just swim in the water. They don't have legs and walk and don't look pretty like her,” Mikey said.

  “Whatever . . . whatever. Hey, where’re you running off to?” she asked as he skipped to the back door.

  “I ate me a peanut butter sandwich and put on my sunscream and my hat and shoes are outside and I'm going to walk the beach— bye-bye.”

  The wooden screen door banged closed. She winced in pain and put a couch cushion over her face.

  Mikey carried a bag of carrots and left the weathering old beach house behind. He made long steps on short legs toward the sandy beach of Crystal River, Florida, not more than a hundred yards away.

  The house had belonged to Estelle's Father who had earned his living as a fisherman for most of the sixty years of his life. Her Father had left her the house and a small amount of savings when he died that supplemented the income from government assistance for her and Mikey to live on. The property was worth much more than the dilapidated sun-cracked house. But she had lived there all her life and never once considered selling it and moving into town.

  Mikey loved everything about the beach. The waves crashing on the shore were a serenade to his small ears and deposited a variety of treasures from the ocean on the white sands. Sometimes he would find whole sand dollars near the water’s edge. He would shake-shake-shake them to hear it rattle. His Mother had said that was the sound that the dice made when the Romans gambled for the robe of Jesus after he died. He knew that there weren’t any dice inside, because he broke one open to check. Instead of dice, he found five tiny little ‘doves.’ He was fascinated by the little dove shaped calcium and had over a hundred doves glued to a sheet of cardboard in his room that he had collected.

  “Hey, big guy . . . yeah you. Watch where you're walking,” a tiny sand crab called up from below.

  “I'm sorry,” Mikey said gazing down. “I was just trying to find some shells and didn’t see you.”

  “Yeah, well, I spent a lotta time digging out that hole. So, go around. Got it?”

  “Okay.” Mikey didn't like the tone the sand crab used with him. After trotting a few steps out of the way, he turned, and asked, “Hey, do you want me to dig a hole for you? I can dig a big, deep hole if you want.”

  The sand crab flicked another load of sand out of his humble abode and waved Mikey on.

  It's just not fair, Mikey thought, as he avoided the waves crashing ashore. Everything seemed to have a purpose in life, except him. Mr. Sand crab was always working on his house, and there was no one telling him what to do. Mikey's mommy was always questioning and correcting him. He never seemed to make her happy.

  He wanted to live life on his own and wanted lots of friends. But people didn't like to talk to him very much. They would avoid him or make excuses why they couldn’t stay and talk. Sometimes they would talk slow or raise their voices. Mikey didn't like it when they did that. There was nothing wrong with his hearing. He just couldn’t understand what all their words meant.

  Even the sea creatures and birds didn't treat Mikey very well. They were always busy-busy doing what they do. The only time they really paid attention to him was when he was eating. They would pest him until he ate all the food or until he gave them some. After it was all gone, they just wanted to be left alone and ignored him. None would have a meaningful conversation with him. No one that is, except for Mr. Manatee.

  Mikey’s big dream was to be the captain of a Pirate ship. He wanted to sail the world in search of gold and other treasures, like in the stories his Mommy would read to him. He wanted a parrot too, but he didn't want to have a peg leg.

  Mostly, he wanted to love and be loved. Not like the love he felt for his mother, but the kind of love that only a Princess could give. Mikey had never kissed a girl. He had never even found a girl that wanted to hold hands.

  He longed for the young woman that would mysteriously appear and disappear on the beach to fall in love with him. She was tall and thin, and had long brown hair that draped down to her waist. She walked with such grace on the uneven beach that he knew she had to be a Princess. But he never could catch up to her. He never had the chance to ask her name. If he ever got the chance, he would give her his cardboard with the collection of a hundred sand dollar doves pasted on it.

  Mikey finally reached the old pier that was all that was left from an ancient beachside motel. His mom had warned him to stay off the pier. She was afraid he might fall off and drown. He wasn’t afraid. He could tread water with the best of dog-paddlers. Still, he did feel safer swimming in a pool or in shallow waters by the beach.

  The pier was twelve feet wide and protruded some thirty feet into the Gulf. At high tide, it still kept fisherman four feet above th
e water. The swollen wood grain on the graying boards made for a precarious trek. Nail heads popped up here and there, and the wood splinted easily when it came in contact with soft flesh.

  Mikey made it to the end of the pier, turned, and looked back at the beach. Not another soul was in sight save for the gulls pecking at tasty morsels by the shore.

  “I'm over here, Mikey.” The familiar voice of his friend called from the water.

  Mikey spun around, somewhat startled. “I was looking for you, Mr. Manatee, but I didn’t see you. I brought you some carrots.” He opened the bag and emptied it over the side of the pier.

  The 900 hundred pound gentle creature used its powerful tail to lift the top half of his body above water. His back was scarred with random slices and gouges from irreverent boaters that sped in the protected waters. He used his front flippers and shoved the crispy carrots past his prehensile lips to the molars in the back of his mouth.

  “Thank you for the food, Mikey. You are a good and trustworthy person.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Manatee. You’re the only one that tells me that. No one else does, even though I try to be nice to everyone. I want them to be nice back to me. But I don't get treated nice all the time. Mr. Sand crab wasn't nice when I met him. I gave the gulls bread the other day and they still pooped on me. Why can't others be nice all the time?”

  “Unfortunately, you can't control how others treat you. You can only control your actions. Actions have consequences. You know that, don't you?”

  “Yes. If I do bad I get in trouble.”

  The ocean bubbled near the manatee, and a large triangular shadow appeared on the water. The shadow turned out not to be a shadow at all. A giant devil ray emerged to the surface. His black skin glistened in the sunlight. The harpoon-like tail floated to the top, drifting on the waves of the Gulf.

  The devil ray swam by the end of the pier and lifted his mouth above water. His cephalic lobes drooped down. His pectoral fin measured twenty-five feet from tip to tip.

  Mikey retreated a step or two. He had never seen such an ominous creature before in his life. The ray’s mouth opened and closed like it was chewing air. Mikey worried that it wanted to chew on him.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to show up,” the manatee said to the devil ray. “Where have you been?”

  “From going to and fro in the oceans, and from swimming up and down in it,” the devil ray said. “What do you think I was doing? Whacking off to porn? Jeeze.”

  “Ray, this is, Mikey. There is none on Earth as true as he.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mikey. Please, call me, Ray.” The devil ray lifted his right cephalic lobe and gave a sort of salute.

  “Hel-Hello, Mr. Ray,” Mikey said, uneasy with the new acquaintance.

  “Say, Mikey, ol’ Manatee here tells me that you're a real straight shooter. That right?”

  “Well . . . yes. I guess so,” Mikey eked out.

  “Come lad, don't be so shy. Now, you say that you’re good to everyone, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not everyone is good back to you, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you considered that if you act badly to those who act badly to you, that they might in turn act good to you?”

  Mikey’s mouth opened a little wider. The wheels in his mind spun in confusion.

  “Think lad, think! If you want to get bad people to act good, you must treat them like they treat you. You must treat them badly.”

  “But, but I don't want to be bad to anyone,” Mikey whined.

  “Mr. Manatee said that you can't control other people's action. He's wrong. He's just a big pussy. You can control how other people treat you.”

  The devil ray made a silent command. The pier vibrated from the pounding of three pairs of running feet.

  “Touch not his life,” the manatee said to Ray.

  “I know the routine.” With that, Ray disappeared into the depths of the dark blue waters.

  Three boys in their pre-teens tanned by Florida sunshine scuttled up the pier. One carried a fishing rod, one a pail of bait, and the other proudly brandished a speargun he held onto tightly with both hands.

  Mikey knew the three boys. They too lived nearby. Sometimes when they were playing on a boogie board by the shore, they would let him take a turn. Try as he might though, he was never able to successfully glide on top of the thin layer of water between the board and the sand. Instead, he would slip backward and land on his backside, or tumble forward and scrape his hands and elbows in the sand. The boys would laugh and laugh, and egg him on to try again.

  Sometimes they would walk together to the gas station. The boys would give him money and he would go inside and buy energy drinks and cigarettes. Each boy had brought him a note signed by their mothers, so Mikey knew they had permission to smoke.

  Kenny, Kyle, and Blaine sped toward Mikey with evil grins contorting their faces. After slowing to a fast walk, the three came to an abrupt halt a few feet away.

  Something was different with his friends. Mikey felt tiny fingers of fear crawl down his neck.

  “Look guys, it’s the ’tard,” Kenny said, who was more or less the leader of the bunch.

  Mikey had his feelings hurt instantly. He hated being called a ’tard. He didn't know why his friend would call him that name. “Don't call me ’tard. I’m not a ’tard!” he lashed out.

  “Oh, you’re a retard, all right. I bet you say it wetard,” Kenny laughed. "You have a big, goofy face, short arms, short legs, and short fingers. I bet it’s true that your momma slept with a manatee.”

  Mikey started to cry. His face turned crimson as the anger swelled.

  “Look, in the water. There’s his daddy now.” Blaine pointed to Mr. Manatee by the end of the pier.

  “Mikey, is that your dad down there? You came here to see your dad, didn’t you?” asked Kenny.

  “Why are you being so mean to me?” Mikey cried. “That's not my daddy!”

  “Okay, Mikey, if that's not your dad, then I’m going to use him for target practice.” Blaine pointed his speargun at the manatee and said swoosh as he pretended to pull the trigger.

  “You leave, Mr. Manatee, alone!” Mikey screamed. Snot dripped from his nose down his chin.

  “No, he's going to do it, unless,” Kyle thought a moment, “unless you eat all of these shiners in this bucket.” Kyle held up the bucket.

  “I don't want to eat them.”

  “Then I'm going to shoot the manatee.”

  “But, I don't want to eat the fish bait!” Mikey screamed.

  Blaine lifted the speargun and took careful aim.

  Mikey yelled, “Wait, wait! Don't shoot, Mr. Manatee. I'll eat the little fishes.”

  Kyle stuck his hand in the bucket and managed to capture three. He held his hand out dripping smelly water. Mikey begrudgingly opened his hand and Kyle dropped them in.

  Mikey opened his mouth and raked the shiners off his open palm, making an awful face as they squirmed on his tongue.

  “Eat ’em. You've got to eat ’em,” Kenny demanded.

  Mikey bit down. A salty-fishy-funky liquid squirted into the back of his throat. He gagged and heaved two times before he fell to his knees and threw up on Kyle's shoes.

  “Gross, you stupid ’tard,” Blaine said. “Looks like you lose.” Blaine raised the speargun and pulled the trigger. The CO2 cartridge propelled the arrow at several hundred feet per second and pierced the side of the defenseless giant.

  The manatee let out a cry of pain and anguish like none of them had ever heard before. The massive mammal of flesh and blubber went limp in the water. A ribbon of blood trailed into the Gulf.

  Mikey started to hyperventilate. Mr. Manatee floated in the ocean, dead! His friends had killed him. Why? Why had they been so mean? Mr. Manatee didn't hurt anyone, ever!

  The three boys danced and gave high fives to each other.

  Mikey shivered, still on his hands and knees. Before his eyes, a revolve
r materialized next to his right hand.

  Words from nowhere spoke in his ear. To get bad people to act good to you, you must treat them badly.

  Mikey knew about guns, and something inside told him this one was real. Not like the plastic guns his mommy bought him to play policeman with.

  The boys had shot Mr. Manatee. They were bad. If he shot them, they couldn't do any bad things to him anymore, Mikey thought.

  The irreverent celebration of the boys made him angry. They had killed his friend and rejoiced over it. He slowly reached out his hand and gripped the butt of the revolver. He studied the long, sleek barrel, cocked back the hammer, and thought about shooting each one in the chest, and then throwing them in the water for the crabs to eat. But something in the back of his mind reminded him of what his mommy had told him, ‘Two wrongs don't make a right.’

  His anger turned to confusion. Mikey tossed the revolver into the deep of the Gulf and wiped the vomit off of his chin with the back of his hand. He felt scared and like his soul had been violated. He wanted to run home and tell his mommy, but the three boys stood menacingly between him and the shore.

  “Looks like the ’tard’s got his sea legs back,” Kenny said.

  “Yeah, but he smells like puke. He needs a bath,” Kyle surmised.

  “He’s the son of a manatee, he belongs in the water anyway,” Blaine said, and the three charged into Mikey. All four went over the side of the pier.

  Mikey hit the water on his back side and swallowed a mouthful of Gulf as he went under. He flipped himself around and floated to the surface, struggling for air.

  “I'm going to ride Mikey the manatee to shore,” Blaine called.

  Mikey held his own, just barely able to keep his head out of water, and finally got enough air to breathe normally. Blaine caught up with him, grabbed his shoulders, and pulled him back down.

  Mikey's head went completely under. He kicked his legs frantically and paddled with his hands in desperation. His lungs ached for air and was about to take an involuntary breath when he and Blaine were lifted from underneath to the surface.