Mississippi DEAD

by Weaver, Shawn

  Though the heat was intense from where Jack stood, Molly did not register that the flames were so close. Fingers of fire reached out and blistered her skin. Her hair started to spark like a lit fuse as the fire made the air around her move. Not knowing what else to do, Jack ran down the small hill toward the dock. With each step across its boards, the dock seemed to propel him along by the buoyancy of the barrels underneath.

  Grabbing the mooring rope from the post, Jack jumped aboard and made his way to the driver’s seat. Taking the key that was always in the ignition, he cranked the motor to life and let out a sigh of relief when it started. Turning the wheel toward the river and pushing the throttle down as far as it could go, the houseboat surged forward and to the left. The aft of the houseboat struck the dock hard snapping boards off as water flew up into the air.

  Driving himself toward the center of the river, Jack watched as Molly, silhouetted by the fire, came to the dock. He could feel her eyes on him and as she walked onto the rocking boards. Nothing distracted her. Her flaming hair had died out, leaving only prickly stubble behind except for a long lock of hair, caked in her mother’s blood, hanging down the side of her face.

  So he could get a better look at the burning cabin. Jack pulled up on the throttle and cut the ignition. As the blades stopped spinning he coasted on momentum alone. With a few quick turns of the steering wheel the houseboat rotated toward the shore.

  From his position, Jack watched as Molly reached the end of the dock and fell into the water. Knowing that Molly was a good swimmer, Jack stared at the spot where she had fallen in, but as the seconds passed, she didn’t rise to the surface.

  Unable to keep standing, Jack sat heavily on the driver’s seat. The strong Mississippi current started to pull the houseboat down the river. Without thinking on it, Jack hit the toggle switch activating the anchor to lower at the bow. He heard the chain run through the casing that contained the heavy chain and the anchor plopped into the dark water. A loud crack crossed the distance from the cabin to the houseboat as a large branch from the flaming tree fell onto the roof of the house, sending flaming shingles into the sky as it broke through.

  Near the shore, Jack saw Steven walking aimlessly about. Then another form appeared. The flaming cabin highlighted her blood-soaked clothes and blonde hair. Even from the distance he was at, Jack could see the ragged chunk that was missing from her neck and jaw line. With her posture as straight as a board, Suzie walked past her son.

  While the current pulled him toward the middle of the river, Jack could feel Suzie’s dead eyes staring straight at him. She walked down the dock, only stopping when she ran out of wood to continue. From behind, Steven lost his balance and tumbled into the water. Jack rose from his seat and yelled Steven’s name, but his grandson only flailed for a moment against the shore, and then was gone.

  Jack called Steven’s name again. Suzie responded by raising her arms in the direction of the houseboat as if beckoning Jack to come back to the dock. It pulled at his heart and he almost turned over the ignition to go back.

  A large explosion roared into the night about a half a mile down the railroad tracks. The cry of metal on metal echoed down the waters of the Mississippi. A fiery mushroom cloud ballooned into the sky as he watched the trees lite up like candles.

  Turning the ignition halfway, so that the houseboats batteries came to life, Jack reached over and turned on the radio. At first all he got was static. Pressing each preset button, he got the same static from each station, until the last, where Chuck Berry’s Twist came out of the small speakers at the top of the control panel in a fuzzy patch that was merging with a competing station from Iowa. Jack turned the dial to the right and Chuck Berry faded away to a solemn, but clearly confused, deep baritone voice.

  “We are not exactly sure at this moment. Governor Longview has not announced that we are in a state of emergency, but to recap the events that are now happening. It seems as if a biological terrorist attack has happened at the St. Louis International Airport where a 747 crashed while trying to land on the runway, just a half hour ago. There are no reported survivors and medical teams. As well as the National Guard are on the scene. In Washington the President has been advised of the incident. But no response has been forthcoming.

  “In local news…” Unable to listen any further, Jack turned the radio off.

  Getting up, Jack scrambled around the deck and entered the kitchen. Grabbing his cell phone off of the small kitchen table, Jack flipped up the cover and saw that he had full bars out here in the middle of the river, unlike when he was at the shore, where the rocky bluffs blocked a lot of phone and radio signals.

  Hitting 911, he was met by the sound of a busy signal. “What the hell?” Jack swore as he pressed the disconnect button and redialed.

  This time he heard the connection and a recorded voice said, “All lines are busy.”

  In frustration Jack tossed the phone to the couch where it bounced off a cushion and smacked down onto the floor, disappearing in the darkness under the table.

  Stepping back out onto the deck, Jack looked toward the cabin and saw the glow of fire behind the trees. Part of him told him to head back and see what he could do to help, but the terror of what he’d seen made his shoes stick to the floor, not allowing him to step to the helm and turn the motor on.

  Allowing the houseboat to be pulled down the Mississippi’s by its strong current. Jack sat in a lawn chair on the rear deck of his houseboat with an almost empty bottle of Red Dog beer in his hand. Locked into clamps on either side of his chair two fishing poles stood at the ready with their lines cast out into the great Mississippi trying to catch whatever would bite. He desperately needed to fry up a meal and try to forget the terror that had ravaged his family.

  Lifting the amber bottle, Jack took the last of the beer in one long slow gulp, smacking his lips as the malted barley beverage burned down his throat. Jack hefted the empty bottle in his hand and then chucked it with all of his might off toward the shore on his left.

  Surprised by his accuracy the bottle arced over the water. With a wet, hollow thunk, the bottle smacked alongside the head of the dead man who’d been following his progress down the river all morning. The bottle didn’t break as it gashed into the dead man’s head. Blocking its only remaining eye, for the other was a ragged hole, a large flap of his scalp free and flopping over the side of his face. Stunned momentarily, the dead man swung its arms in front of itself to keep upright. He grabbed the hunk of hair and flesh and ripped it from his skull, tearing even more skin and hair away.

  As if ravished, the dead man shoved the flesh into its mouth and began to chew a large hunk of hair. Not stopping, the dead man continued to follow Jack. Long grasses along the shore line and stones made progress slow and he stumbled every few steps.

  Shoe catching between two rocks, the dead man lost his balance and fell face first into the river. Splashing down, the dead man tried to regain his footing. Arms flailing against the reeds and mud, he was unsuccessful and slowly sank into the cold water.

  “Drown, you ugly bastard!” Jack shouted.

  Getting up from the light green chair, Jack walked back into the small kitchen and pulled open the large red cooler. Inside the last bottle of Red Dog called out to him as the amber bottle sat in two gallons of melted ice water. The bag that had contained ice, now floated to the side partially bloated with air. Grabbing the bottle, he twisted off the bottle cap and took a long drink. Letting the top of the cooler fall shut. Jack walked back to his chair.

  Looking toward the shore where the dead man had been flailing, Jack lifted the bottle in salute and took a drink. Glad that the dead man had taken his advice and sunk to the bottom of the river.

  “To yer watery grave,” Jack said as he lifted his bottle again and then took a seat back in the lawn chair.

  Setting the bottle on the deck, he grabbed the pole to his left and started too real the line back in to recast. Suddenly the line snagged. Feeling the sharp jolt
, Jack’s first thought was that something had finally taken his bait. But as he released the line to let the fish run and tire itself out. The line went slack and he knew that it must’ve snagged on the bottom.

  Reeling the line back in he could feel it tighten as it pulled against the tip of the pole. And with that, Jack realized that once again he would probably lose the hook. Luckily he had his tackle box onboard and the pack of copper hooks he had bought at the store the day before.

  Suddenly the line snapped and Jack was caught in the small stream of water that followed the broken line. Laying the pole across his lap, he grabbed the end of the line and saw that the lead weight was still there coated in a strip of furry moss and black slime. Grabbing the watery green mess, he pulled it away, but a thin strand held onto the weight. Tugging it, the strand snapped off and Jack took a look at what he held. Within the long strip of muck was a long strand of blondish hair.

  Tossing the mass back into the water, Jack picked up the amber bottle and drained it. The buzz was good driving off the pain of last night. Needing another, Jack decided to head back to Gilman’s Bait. There he could buy a case and make the needed call to the police. What good it would do. He didn’t know. Who’d believe him? But by now the authorities had to know about the train accident, and the flames from his cabin.

  Would he be arrested for the deaths of his family? Jack didn’t know. But the incident had to be reported. Something had happened and by the sounds from the radio last night and the dead man who had been following him all morning. His little strip of the Mississippi was not the only place where something bad had happened.

  Grabbing the second pole, Jack reeled it in and saw that his bait was gone. Setting both poles on the deck, he got up and walked to the helm. Turning the key he could feel the rumble of the motor as it started up.

  Pressing down on the throttle, Jack could feel the propellers spinning. As the houseboat moved, Jack rocked forward as the houseboat struck something under the water. Figuring it was probably a branch of a tree settled into the bottom of the river. Jack didn’t look back and see the churning water turn red as the houseboat headed once again back down the river toward Gilman’s Bait.

  Pulling up to the dock, Jack cut the motor and grabbed the mooring rope. Stepping off of the side, he tied the rope to a tall post and noticed a slick rainbow colored pool of gasoline was floating on the water just around the dock where the pumps were located.

  The gas’s blue-green glossy coat stunk as Jack noticed the only other boat here was a small speedboat near the shore. The handle from the gas pump was still in the tank for the outboard. And by the smell alone, Jack could tell that whoever had started to fill the tank had never finished and the manual release on the handle did not close off once the tank filled to the top. It had continued to flow into the back of the speed boat and out into the waters.

  Walking down the dock, Jack grabbed the handle and popped the release lever. He stepped over to the pump, lowered the lever, and slipped the handle back into place on the pump.

  Jack had no idea how many gallons of gas were in the boat or had been released into the river, but he hoped that what was on the surface of the water was dispersed enough so he would be safe to leave the boat for a while and go tell Sam what had happened.

  Jack thought of yelling, “Hello,” to see if the driver of the speedboat was nearby, but he knew in the movies that always signaled the evil, man or monster, to appear.

  Moving toward the store, Jack took the stairs two at a time. The smell of gas was lighter, but it had coated his nose and throat, leaving a heavy smell that deadened everything else. Grabbing the handle, Jack pulled open the door to the bait shop and the bell attached to the top rang loudly signaling his appearance.

  Music floated on the air, the same oldies that Sam listened to day in and day out. Stepping into the main aisle, Jack saw Sam sitting on his stool in his usual place by the register. As always a cigarette dangled from his lips. With eyes closed and head tilted downward. Sam looked as if he were asleep. Over the years that Jack had known him, he didn’t know if Sam ever left the store at all. Maybe he had a cot in the backroom.

  “Sam,” Jack said. “Some joker over-filled his tank. There’s a real mess out there.”

  Sam didn’t move.

  “Hey, Sam, wake up. You got a gas spill on the dock.”

  Behind Sam’s sleeping form the voice of the radio stations D.J. came on. Providing the weather forecast in an all too sunny voice, saying warm temperatures would be here through the week, and going into Friday night, there was a forty percent chance of rain. Then Credence Clearwater Revival came on, But Jack didn’t hear the words as he realized today was Saturday and the D.J. was a recording from earlier in the week.

  “Sam?” Jack repeated as he stepped up the aisle and reached the cash register. There Sam sat. The cigarette in his mouth was nothing, but one long ash as it had burned all the way up to the filter.

  “Sam?” Jack said again as he reached across the counter and touched Sam’s plump shoulder.

  Lifeless, Sam fell to the right. Sliding off of the stool and smashing his head against the keys of the register. With a ding the cash drawer slid out, propelling Sam down to the floor as a large gash crossed the side of his balding head.

  “Holy…” Jack shouted as he jumped back.

  It took a moment to regain his composure. And with his heart still pounding in his chest, Jack stepped back to the counter and peered over the edge. There, Sam lay dead.

  Stepping around the side of the outside of the counter, Jack reached over, and grabbed the phone sitting next to the register and gas meter. After dialing 911, Jack put the phone to his ear. The line connected after one ring and Jack heard the recorded message of the operator saying that all lines are busy and to please stay on the line for the next available operator.

  Jack stood there for a moment, looking out the long window that faced the empty parking lot, but only for a moment as the closeness to Sam’s lifeless body made him think of Kelly and his kids. Not disconnecting the phone, Jack set it on the counter as the recorded voice came back on repeating that all lines were busy.

  Moving quickly, Jack headed for the back door. Going through it he realized that he had forgotten the beer that he had come for in the first place. But as the door closed behind him, he knew that there was no way he was going back in there to get some.

  As fast as he could, Jack headed for the houseboat. The heavy smell of gasoline was stronger and made his eyes itch. After pulling the rope off of the post, he moved for the helm. Grabbing the key, Jack stopped just before he turned it, realizing that with the amount of gas fumes in the air. A spark from the battery could cause the gas in the water to ignite.

  Leaving the key alone, Jack stepped back to the aft deck and grabbed an oar that lay along the hull in case of emergencies.

  Taking the oar, he pushed against the dock, forcing the houseboat into the rivers current. As the houseboat slowly moved away, Jack looked back up at the bait shop. In the glare of the sun against the doors glass, he thought that he saw movement inside. Finally free of the gas slick, Jack slipped the oar back into its place and stepped to the cooler. Wanting a beer to take the edge off, he opened the lid and all he saw was water and the bloated bag that had contained the ice.

  “Damn,” he shouted as he left the lid open.

  Stepping back toward the helm, Jack tried to get the smell of gas out of his nose with a few good snorts, but he was unsuccessful. Reaching the helm, he turned on the motor and turned the wheel. He began to guide the houseboat back home. He didn’t know why, but there was no other place to go.

  A flock of sparrows flew in a mass across the river. Other than that, Jack saw no movement. No speedboats or watercraft filled with happy families enjoying the day. No children playing on the beach building sand castles. Most of all he noticed no trains blaring their way down the tracks on their way to the big cities.

  The motor on the houseboat seized, coughed, and
then died. Still moving forward, Jack turned the key. But the motor wouldn’t keep running. By the sound he could tell that it was not the fuel filter, probably something blocking the propeller, a branch, over growth of long moss, or a fishing line. Not the first time something had tangled in the propeller and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. Walking to the aft, Jack knelt down next to the outboard motor. The water looked murky brown as usual and a stream of bubbles continued to move around the rear of the boat.

  Reaching down into the cold water, Jack felt around for the propeller. Grabbing the curving blades he could feel that strands of something around it. Grabbing the fibrous mass he tugged back but nothing moved. Jack slid his hand along the wet mass and hit something cold, slimy and hard.

  Grabbing what he thought was a thick strand of moss. Jack gave a sharp jerk backward. Unable to resist, whatever was wrapped around the propeller broke free and he knew that it wasn’t a fishing line. Lifting the stringy mass out of the water, Jack had a handful of moss and what looked like to be long blonde hair.

  “Uuugh,” he shouted, flinging it back into the water where it landed with a loud plop.

  Reaching back into the water, Jack made sure the blades were clear of debris. Standing, he shook the water off his arm and walked back to the helm. Grabbing the key, he crossed his fingers, and turned it.

  The motor came to life. As he pressed up on the throttle, the houseboat began to move forward. The turning blades chugged into something. Catching, breaking free, and then stopping their revolution as they struck more hidden debris. As the motor cut again, Jack swore loudly and hit the steering wheel. Twice he turned the key trying to get the motor to turn over. Letting out an exasperated breath, Jack ran a hand through his hair, wishing that he would have grabbed a case or two of beer on his way out of the bait shop.