Yep, I know you see it. It’s written all over yer face.
And if I ain’t mistaken, that there patch is s’posed to say Farmin’ton Police Department, not CARL, YOU DONE GOOD.
HELLHOLE FISHING
Stanley B. Webb
Pat Tinker backed his pickup truck to the boat ramp at Hershel’s Bait’n Break in Constantia, New York, on the shore of Oneida Lake. He dragged his white-oak skiff out of the back, and it hit the ramp with a bang.
“Watch it, Tinker,” he spoke to himself. “She leaks enough, already.”
He dragged the boat down the muddy ramp, pushed it in until the bow floated, then returned to the truck for his fishing pole, flashlight, and oars. He left them in the boat, and took his empty thermos into Hershel’s.
“Evening, Hersh!”
“Hello, Tink,” replied the fat, bald man behind the counter. “Bullheading tonight?”
“Oh, yes; I finished the mess of them I caught last week. I’ve had bullhead for breakfast, dinner, and supper, seven days straight. I had to dig a hole this deep to bury all the bones.” Tinker held a hand waist-high.
Hershel grinned, and said, “It’s amazing you could fit all those fish in your galvanized pail.”
“I filled it fifteen times!”
Hershel laughed. “What can I get you?”
“Two ham on ryes, a thermos of black coffee, and a can of night-crawlers.”
A gaunt man entered.
“Evening, Stosh,” said Hershel. “Having your usual?”
Stosh nodded. “Egg sandwich, and apple pie.”
Hershel disappeared into the kitchen.
Tinker silently considered how to tease Stosh. He finally asked, “You going out to look for Hellhole tonight?”
Stosh nodded.
“In your little, old canoe?”
Another nod.
“You have your camera?”
Stosh closed his eyes, and nodded.
“You know, I think I found Hellhole once,” said Tinker. “I was out bullheading, like I’m going tonight, and I found a place where my anchor never touched bottom. I’ve got a two hundred foot line on that anchor, you know?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Anyway, I knew I couldn’t catch any bullhead there, because there wasn’t any bottom for them to feed on, but I thought I’d drop my line anyway, to see what I could hook.”
Stosh rolled his eyes.
“I hooked something,” said Tinker. “But I couldn’t reel it in. Whatever it was, it kept pulling my line out. So, I set the drag on high, and then, the thing started to tow me! I think it got me going twenty, twenty-five miles an hour. I was afraid it would swamp my boat, so I cut the line. Whatever it was, it had pulled me so far, it took me two hours to row back.”
Hershel reappeared with their orders.
Stosh said to Tinker, “You’re not the first man to make fun of me, nor the best.”
“Aw, Stosh, don’t you have a sense of humor?”
“Not after listening to guys like you for forty years. I still dream about that night. I was just a kid, out bullheading on the lake, and it happened like you said: I found a place where my anchor didn’t hit bottom. The monster rose beside my boat. The moon was dark, so I could hardly see it, but I smelled it; just as if the bottom of the lake had risen.”
“Seriously,” said Tinker. “It was probably a waterlogged, old stump.”
“It was alive! Someday, I’ll get its picture; maybe tonight! Then, you’ll see, you’ll all see!”
Stosh paid for his order, and left.
“You shouldn’t fun him,” said Hershel.
Tinker gestured broadly. “How can I resist? You know as well as I do that there’s no monster in this lake; there’s no Hellhole, either. Oneida Lake never gets much deeper than fifty feet.”
“Have you dropped anchor on every square foot of that lakebed?”
“Most of them.”
“Oneida Lake is all that remains of prehistoric Lake Iroquois, which once covered most of New York State. I’ll reserve judgment on what might be down there.”
“Maybe you should help Stosh hunt his monster.”
Hershel shivered. “No, thanks.”
Tinker chuckled as he left. Evening had become night. He sat in his boat’s middle plank seat, locked in his oars, and put his gear on the stern seat before him. His feet splashed on the bottom boards.
“An inch of water already,” he said.
He set his bailing can between his feet.
“When that floats, I’ll bail out.”
He rowed toward the middle of the lake. The Bait’ n Break’s lights went off before he arrived.
“Hershel’s closed up, and gone home. I feel kind of lonely, now.” Tinker raised his voice. “Can you hear me, Stosh?”
A silent minute passed, then a faint echo returned.
“I guess Stosh ain’t close by. I’ll catch a fish to keep me company.”
Tinker checked the knot at the bow, then played out twenty feet of line, until the grapnel anchor caught the bottom. He bailed, then pulled a night-crawler from the bait can, crammed the struggling worm onto his hook, and dropped it to the bottom of the lake. Tinker lay the pole aside, and hummed as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He took a cautious sip, just as the tip of his pole sagged. Tinker set down his cup, took up the pole, felt the weight at the end of the line, and gave a jerk to set the hook. The fish tried to run. Tinker laughed as he reeled it in.
“You’re a good one!”
The bullhead was a black, slimy fish, with whiskers around its mouth, and stinging spines on its fins. Tinker avoided the spines as he removed the hook, and dropped the fish into his bucket. Then, he examined his bait.
“You’re still wiggling, I think you’re good for another go.”
He sank the worm, and resumed his coffee. Some while later, he reeled in his line, and cast to another direction. Tinker finished his coffee, poured another cup, and opened one of his sandwiches. When the sandwich was gone, he reeled in again, and studied the limp bait.
“I guess there’s not enough left of you.”
He pulled the dead worm from the hook, and threw its fragments into the lake.
“I’m feeling restless; I think I’ll try another spot.”
He bailed, then rowed for a while, and let down fifty feet of anchor line.
“The bottom seems steep in this direction.”
Tinker baited his hook, then looked at the glittering stars.
“The dark of the moon,” he said, then looked around. “Stosh! Are you nearby? I ain’t going to tease you anymore.”
Twenty seconds passed quietly, then his echo returned, clear and distant. Tinker smiled.
“I’ll have a sing-a-long. ’Was a farmer had a dog, and Bingo was his name-oh!”
The seconds passed, and his echo sang back to him.
Tinker sang the next line.
“B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O! And, Bingo was his name-oh!”
He tapped his foot when the song returned, then continued.
“’Was a farmer had a dog, and Bingo was his name-oh!”
When he sang the following line, Tinker dropped the first letter from the dog’s name.
“…-I-N-G-O, …-I-N-G-O, …-I-N-G-O! And, Ingo was his name-oh!”
The song continued in that way until the final verse, when Bingo’s name was silence.
A close and heavy splash broke that silence. His echo returned, followed by the echoed splash.
“What in hell was that?” Tinker asked softly.
A single wave passed under the boat. He drew a quivering breath, then reeled in his line.
“I’m going to call it a night.”
He stowed his pole, then pulled the anchor up. He unshipped the oars, turned the boat around, and paused.
“If I run away, I’ll never be able to tease Stosh again. That was probably just a sturgeon; they grow pretty big. I’ll row in that direction, and have a look.”
Tinker waited at the oars for a long time.
“Damn it, I owe it to Stosh.”
He bailed, then rowed toward the splash. He shipped his oars, and lowered all two hundred feet of his anchor line, which hung vertically in the lake. Tinker bounced the anchor a few times, in the futile hope that he would feel the bottom.
“If Stosh was right about Hellhole…”
He pulled the anchor in, seized the oars, and stopped.
“Don’t be a coward, Tinker; start fishing.”
He baited his hook, and pinched a ball sinker onto the line. Tinker swung the tip of the pole over the water, and released the reel. The line dropped into the lake, and sank. His expression turned increasingly gloomy as the line spooled out, until it reached its end. Tinker bounced the sinker.
“Bottomless.”
He let the line hang there for a while.
“Well, there’s nothing here. I might as well go home, after all.”
Tinker tried to turn the reel, but the line would not come.
“Snagged. I must have hit bottom, after all.”
He strained against the snag, until his pole bent double.
“It’s snagged good.”
Then, he noticed that the line slowly traversed around the boat. Tinker went still. The line circled the boat, then went slack. He reeled a long time, before the bitten end appeared.
“There is something down there. Stosh, you’ve been a true man all along, and I’ll tell you as soon as I’m ashore.”
Tinker put the oars in the lake, then reconsidered.
“If I were a true man, I’d catch that monster. Well. I tried, didn’t I? And, it broke my line.”
His eye fell upon the anchor, and he sighed.
“Lord, I’ve not been a good man, but I don’t think I’ve been bad. Mischievous, I’d say, but if you see it differently, I pray that you’ll be forgiving, and protect me tonight.”
Tinker opened his last sandwich, baited the anchor’s prongs with ham, and let it sink. He sipped another cup of coffee as he waited.
The anchor line suddenly jerked. Tinker dropped his cup, and clutched the gunnels. He eased forward, and took ahold of the line. Great power vibrated up from the depths. He held his breath, and set the hook. The line jerked out of his hand.
“Ouch!”
The bow dipped. Cold water poured in.
“No, No, No, this old bobber has too much float in her! Let up!”
The bow rose again.
“Thank you, Lord.”
The boat lunged ahead. Tinker fell backward. He scrambled up, and gripped the sides. Rooster-tails of water rose from the bow as his catch towed him. The boat cut to the left, then to the right, then made tight circles. Frightening sounds came from the old oak planks.
“Please, hold together!”
The boat stopped, and wallowed in its own wake. The line went slack. Tinker retreated to the stern.
“You’re coming up, to find out who’s caught you.”
The monster surfaced. Tinker found his light. An armored hump floated alongside, ten feet long by three high. A serrated ridge went down its middle. Huge crawfish swarmed upon it.
Tinker felt relief.
“You’re just an overgrown turtle! Wait until Stosh hears.”
The monster raised its long neck.
“Dear God!”
The head resembled a crocodile’s more than a turtle’s. His anchor hung from its narrow jaws, which bristled with teeth. Its eyes stared like twin moons.
“I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t hurt you. Surely, I couldn’t hurt such a big fellow. I’ll just unhook you, then, we’ll let bygones be bygones.”
Tinker reached out with an oar blade, and poked beneath the anchor’s prong. The anchor came free, and dropped back into the lake.
The monster regarded him for another minute, then sank vertically. An oily slick whirled in its wake.
He cried for a time. Then, he noticed that the water in the boat was above his ankles. Tinker bailed desperately.
“I do not want to go swimming here, no sir!”
Dawn was near when he returned to the Bait ‘n Break. He loaded his boat and gear into his truck, then went inside. Stosh was among the breakfast crowd. Tinker joined him.
“I didn’t go out last night,” said Stosh.
“No?”
Stosh shook his head. “I’m tired of being a fool.”
“Well,” said Tinker. “There are fools, and there are fools. I’ve been a bit of a fool myself, and I’d like to make amends. It would be a shame for you to give up the lake; suppose I take you fishing tomorrow night?”
Stosh looked suspiciously at him. “What’s the joke?”
“No joke, I’m just tired of fishing alone. I need someone to talk to, before I start talking to myself.”
Stosh considered, then shrugged. “Why not?”
“Remember to bring your camera; one never knows when he might catch something worthy of a photograph.”
RETURNING MAGIC TO THE KINGDOM
Brian M. Sammons
This place sucks, Billy thought as he crushed out his cigarette on a poster of the famous cartoon vermin. After giving the rodent a smoldering third eye, he turned around and surveyed all the witless people before him.
God, these idiots make me sick, he fumed as he watched the undulating mass of humanity moving in brightly colored herds from one attraction to the next. Worst yet, Billy’s family was out there in that churning cheerfulness, and he knew they were probably enjoying it like the mindless lemmings they were.
It wasn’t like Billy didn’t like to have fun, but he was fifteen now and way too old for this place. He couldn’t ride the Cup N’ Saucer or float down Pirate Bay. What would people think if they saw him, trying his best to look hardcore with his baggy shorts, Reebok B-Ball shoes, throwback Pistons jersey, and his gold thug amulet, getting on the Danger Mine ride? They would think he was just some punk-ass wannabe, a poser, and Billy wasn’t having any of that.
When I was little I would bug Dad to take me here all summer long, and that cheap prick never did. Billy seethed as he continued to radiate scorn at the crowd. Hell, we were even living right here in Florida at the time, and he still wouldn’t do it. Oh, but once we moved to Michigan and Dad got a new flat-chested wife and her dumbass kids, then all of a sudden coming here was a great idea. Never mind that it costs a lot more now. Never mind that we had to travel all across the country now. Never mind that I’m too fucking old for this place now!
Billy pulled out another Marlboro Red and lit up. The fact he was standing just three feet from a No Smoking sign made him look even cooler. He was sure of it.
And then, before leaving for here, that asshole has the nerve to smile and grab my shoulder like we’re buddies and say, ‘Come on, Billy, you always wanted to go there.’ Well sorry, Dad, but you’re too damn late.
Billy spun around with the intention of going into the MENS room to find something to break when he spotted her. The sight of the girl caused all his thoughts of therapeutic vandalism to vanish in a flash. She was about his age, maybe a year or two older, and she sure wasn’t his usual type. She looked more like a metal chick than anyone interested in hip hop. In fact, she could have been a Goth if her skin wasn’t so beautifully tanned.
Her lips, nails, eye shadow, and most of her hair were jet black. The only color to her at all was some crimson streaks strategically placed to break up her ebony tresses. She had on biker boots, newly faded and ripped jeans, a vintage Metallica concert t-shirt, and matching silver eyebrow and nose rings. Despite being an obvious metalhead, she was smoking hot. Thin waist, curvy hips, and big round breasts; she was every fifteen-year-old boy’s wet dream made flesh. Best of all, she was looking at him and smiling. Well, it was more of a sneer, but Billy knew that it was as close as this babe would ever get to a smile. After all, he understood all about keeping up appearances.
Billy sneer-grinned back and the heavy metal hottie laughed before turning around and d
isappearing into the crowd of merry dimwits behind her. That almost caused Billy to gasp out loud like a sap in a chick flick, but luckily he remembered to gather his cool before he could do too much damage to his badass image.
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his low-riding shorts, he began to saunter after the black beauty. At just fifteen, Billy knew all about the hos playing hard to get before letting a guy tap that ass. As if saying no two or three times before getting nasty didn’t make them a slut.
Billy slid through the masses like a surly shark. Into the sea of fat families he swam, and through breaks in the waves of ruddy, sweating faces he would catch dark glimpses of his quarry. The hard-on in his jeans was his divining rod, wherever it pointed, he followed. He saw that she was continually looking over her shoulder as she went, no doubt checking if he was following. That was a good sign, the game was most definitely on.
Then all of a sudden, the game was off.
Billy had cut through the crowd like a heat seeking missile only to come out the other side with no sign of the girl he was chasing. He turned and scanned the area around him, but couldn’t find a trace of her. In front of him was the swaying sea of simpletons, and now behind him was a small brick building nestled within a clump of trees, a little touch of green in the concrete-gray landscape.
Where the hell is she? Billy thought as he felt his anger starting to rise and his penis starting to shrink. Man, this ain’t fair. First good thing to happen all day and… hey, is that a trail?
Billy noticed a slim separation between the trees behind him. He stepped closer to examine the trail and saw that someone had run down it very recently, someone in about size eight biker boots. With his grin restored, Billy followed.
Unfortunately there wasn’t any teenage, naked, metal goddess waiting for Billy at the path’s end as he had hoped. Instead all he saw was the back of the small brick building he had noticed earlier and an open steel door. Billy closed the door to check if there was a sign on its face. There was and it read: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. He opened the door once more and peered inside, but only saw a dark hallway staring back at him. Looking around and seeing that he was out of sight of the nearby bustling horde, he leaned into the hallway and risked a low shout.
Fossil Lake II: The Refossiling Page 9
