Riapoke

by Bryan Nowak

  RIAPOKE

  by

  Bryan Nowak

  Copyright © 2017 by Bryan S. Nowak

  All rights reserved

  Bryan Nowak – Sterling, VA

  www.bryannowak.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic means including information storage or renewal systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewing party, who may quote short passages in support of a review.

  The information in this book is based purely on fictional events. All characters are fictional with the exception of certain historical figures. Any resemblance of the main characters to any people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

  Second Edition

  11 August 2017

  United States of America

  Table of Contents

  The Dangers of Camping 1

  A Quiet Morning on Lake Oleander 7

  A Well Earned Rest 11

  Still Waters Run Deep 21

  Sets Her Heart Aflutter 31

  A Rough Landing 47

  The Penitent Man 57

  The Bitter Rescue 63

  The Dangers of Boating 71

  Killing a Friend 81

  The Long Road to Riapoke 91

  Four for Dinner 101

  Attempted Murder 117

  I Want Mommy 129

  Breaking and Entering 137

  The Enemy of my Enemy is Not My Friend 145

  A Family Chooses 161

  Halloween comes early in Riapoke 177

  Invasive Species 189

  The House of the Demon 199

  Cry Havoc 213

  Prisoner in Hell 223

  The Great Escape 229

  When Immortality Ends 237

  Ascension 247

  Matchitehew 253

  The Deep Sleep 263

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 269

  The Dangers of Camping

  The morning shone through the canopy of trees like beautiful cascading mini-waterfalls of light. Had they not been so low on provisions, Carl Jensen might have allowed a lengthier stay in the warmth of the sleeping bag. Next to him, the sleeping mat belonging to Mary Conway, a stunning brunette he’d befriended on the trail, lay unrolled. Ordinarily he wasn’t into one night stands, however, this relationship stretched out the better part of a week. Mary grew on him. She must’ve gotten up to tend camp.

  Carl pushed the tent flap aside, revealing the beautiful mountain vista. The spot was Mary’s idea. Consulting the map in their cross country hike, the trail curved slightly inward into the Virginian forest, near a lake and small town. The lake promised a place to run water through a filter and the town, although small, provided a place for additional provisions and a hot meal for the two of them. Reconstituted trail food tasted all right; however, a burger and fries really helped them push farther toward their destination.

  The camp site stood seventy-five feet off the main trail in a little stand of pines. The trees provided a nice wind break from the breeze blowing off the mountain. From a small break in the trees Carl made out the tops of houses and buildings in the distance as well as a taller structure featuring a large neon coffee cup, suggesting a cafe or restaurant. Pulling the laces of his boots tight, Carl stretched and sat for a minute enjoying the serene picture the cityscape painted.

  Glancing around, Mary wasn’t in camp. While nothing more than a summer fling, a little notice that she left for town ahead of him was certainly the polite thing to do.

  Turning toward the back of their campsite, Carl was just about to walk off into the underbrush with a roll of toilet paper and a metal trowel when something stopped him. Mary’s pack, boots, and hiking stick were leaning neatly against a fallen log. While he knew little about Mary, no good hiker ever went anywhere without a pair of trusty boots and hiking stick. It didn’t make sense.

  Wondering briefly if Mary took off running around naked in the woods made Carl smile. Mary had proven to be wildness incarnate. This summer stood out as one of the more memorable adventures he’d had.

  Walking toward the dark woods for a morning constitutional, the rubber sole of his boot stepped in something wet and squishy. Hoping the noise hadn’t come from an unfortunate run in with bear or fox poop he stooped to examine the dark, slick liquid. It looked like reddish oil; likely a logger’s vehicle probably broke down here and the careless asshole just let it leak fluid from a broken line or something.

  Some people are so inconsiderate.

  Something else caught his attention a few feet ahead of him, in the shade of the tree. A clump of fur lay balled up in the dark. Fairly long for an animal, its brunette color marred only by streaks of blood and dirt that matted the fur. The metallic smell of blood stung Carl’s nostrils.

  “What the frigg?” he exclaimed to no one in particular.

  Feeling remorse for the animal to which the fur once belonged; whatever got to it had been less than kind. Turning the fur over with a stick laying nearby, he noticed the hair still had skin attached to it, perhaps ripped out or cut off by a hunter in haste to harvest the animal.

  Carl decided to search for another spot to relieve himself when the sunlight caught the mass of hair, blood, and dirt just right. In the ball something metallic glinted back at him. Jabbing at the mass with a stick, a small piece of metal fell out. Carl recoiled in horror at recognition of the piece of jewelry. A cross. More precisely … Mary’s cross.

  Backing away from the horrifying site, he tripped over the moist patch on the ground. The liquid gave up its true identity. Blood.

  “Hold it right there!” a voice yelled at Carl, breaking the silence of the woods.

  Carl turned around and couldn’t believe his eyes. A police officer just happened to come walking up the trail at this exact moment he discovered this horrifying mess.

  “Officer, I need your help.”

  The police officer drew his pistol. “Just hold it right there. Don’t move a muscle.”

  “Officer, I can explain. Something awful has happened to my friend. We need help.”

  Aware someone else was standing behind him, opposite the officer, Carl turned to see who it was, just in time to catch the swing of something black toward his head.

  Carl Jensen clung to a remaining question as the woods, tent, and the cityscape faded.

  Why isn’t this officer helping me?

  Unfamiliar smells woke him. All around the walls danced like caricatures of themselves. As if an artist painted on the disproportionate shadows being cast in an infinite number of directions. At first, Carl wondered if he was dreaming, then realized this was the inside of a dark cave, lit with flickering torches.

  Trying to lift his head and neck, the pain seared through him like a sword thrust through an eye socket and down into his neck. Only one eye opened in response to the desire to see.

  To the left, chained to the wall, a woman hung lifeless. It took a moment or two to recognize the broken body of Mary. Half of her beautiful hair had been ripped out and a laceration above the right eye bled over the woman’s face.

  Carl’s hands and arms screamed out in pain, confirming they were similarly bound to the wall. The ropes seared his hands and arms as the weight of his body pulled down on them. He attempted to stand, but his legs refused to cooperate.

  “I see our friend Carl is awake now, Master,” a voice called out in front of him. “Shall I knock him out again?”

  “It is not my will, high priest. Let the tribute witness the ceremony. The fear will make the heart all the more tasty.”

  Tasty? What the hell is this guy talking about?

  Carl tried to say something; however, his lips and tongue refused to work in unison.

  “Proceed, high priest,” the deep voice bellowed through
the cavern.

  “Yes, Master,” a black-robed figure responded.

  Two other figures emerged from the side of the cave. Their robes were white, in contrast to the other man, and looked like monks robes with Native American ornamentation. Carl couldn’t recall ever seeing anything like it.

  The figure in black approached Mary. Saying something unintelligible, he reached up and grabbed her collar. Pulling it away, the man’s other arm came up with a small blade and plunged down in an arc, cutting the shirt off. With Mary’s breasts exposed, the man stepped back as if to admire them. The one identified as The Master spoke up in a language similar to the language the priest spoke.

  Two figures, clad in white, approached the man in the black robe, handing him two daggers in exchange for the short bladed knife he’d used to cut away the shirt. Carl spied the opulently bejeweled handles of the blades glinting in the firelight. The black-robed figure slid one of these daggers in a sheath on his belt while keeping the other in his right hand. The Master stopped speaking, and the man in black plunged the dagger deep into Mary’s stomach. A harsh scream escaped Mary’s lips the moment before death or pain rendered her mute.

  Carl wanted desperately to avert his eyes; however, any attempt to move his neck was met with excruciating pain.

  The man in black rolled up a sleeve and plunged his arm deep into the wound he’d inflicted on Mary. Working the blade upwards in a sawing motion, he cut and plied away portions of the chest cavity, with disturbing imprecision. Mary’s innards spilled out onto the floor in a sickening pile of human tissue. The sleeves of the black robe became slick as they sopped up more and more blood from the gruesome display. The robed figure held up Mary’s excavated heart.

  “With this heart, I thank thee for the most holy of sacrifices. I declare this heart Holy and this sacrifice worthy of our lord, The Master.” Turning from the now still body, the man in black brought the heart to the altar at the front of the cave.

  Carl tried to follow the ghastly proceedings; however, the injuries from the beating he’d received proved so severe that even the simple act of lifting his head hurt too much. The Master let out a sigh, clearly satisfied.

  In the briefest of moments, the man in black stood before Carl. “You are selected to make the ultimate tribute to our Master. You shall become one with him and the name of Carl Jensen will be written among the stars for all eternity. This is indeed a great day.”

  A sharp pain struck Carl as the flash of the steel blade disappeared into his abdomen.

  A Quiet Morning on Lake Oleander

  Waylon Anderson cast a line toward the thrushes along the bank of the lake. The electric trolling motor, at the bow of the john boat, pushed the aluminum hull through the water. The morning was pleasantly warm. A blanket of clouds the evening before kept the heat in, dissipating just in time to let the morning sun continue the warming trend. A mugginess hung in the air, clinging to everything like an uncomfortable suit of clothes.

  An orange five-gallon pail held this day’s take. So far, three crappies and two bluegill fluttered their fins uselessly, as if they resigned to fate. Not the kind of haul he’d anticipated, as the bass decided to stay home this morning.

  Rounding the bend in the largely quiet lake, he cast his line in the direction of a log sticking up out of the water. The log always lay there, a gnarled old signpost for the anglers of the area. It marked the beginning of a much larger tree, which branched out along the bottom of the lake. His grandfather taught him as a young boy how to tie line and bait hooks at this exact spot.

  Remember to cast directly behind you in a boat like this. Not much room in here and I don’t want to be put on your hook. I’d make bad bait. What kind of fish you think would eat me, Waylon?

  The memory of his grandfather made him smile. A massive man, probably six feet tall, he could do no wrong. Even now, as an adult, Waylon remembered the smell of the old man’s Zippo lighter. “Smoking is a filthy habit,” he told the young Waylon. “Wish I’d never picked it up.”

  His grandfather served in two wars, WWII and Korea. Although the family purposely never talked about it, little Waylon’s overactive curiosity got the better of him. He would get this sad look. Waylon’s mother attributed the sadness to memories of friends lost in combat.

  At the sound of his lure hitting the water, a nearby turtle made an immediate escape below the watery surface. Waylon felt bad for disturbing the turtle's slumber. Playing the line a little, something jerked under the surface. Either a fish, or the lure hooked something. He knew the area well enough that it wasn’t the log, so it must be something else just below the mirror-like surface of the lake. He let out line, it slackened and for a moment it didn’t move. The lure definitely sunk its hook into something below the waterline. Trying a few tricks to get it loose from whatever it snagged on, the lure didn’t want to budge. The only remedy seemed to be to move the boat in closer.

  The trolling motor made a low groan as Waylon pointed the john boat toward the log, carefully reeling in the line to avoid getting it snagged on either the trolling motor or the engine in the stern of the boat. Nearing the log, he set the fishing pole down and plunged his hand into the ice-cold water.

  The lake itself was spring-fed, originally created by someone damming up a river that cut its way through the area. As a child he’d heard stories about how the lake swallowed up an entire town, the ruins of which remained at the bottom of the lake. There was also a tall tale of a lake monster which lived in its murky depths. His grandfather told him tons of great stories about the lake, stories that filled young Waylon’s imagination with sightings of the Oleander lake monster, and lake people, carrying on a perfect existence under water. Recollections of the tall tales always brought a smile to his face. This particular spot, however, only plunged to a few feet deep. Retrieving the line didn’t present much of a challenge.

  In spite of the warmth of the day, the water chilled him to the bone. Lake Oleander maintained a constant current with cold springs feeding it and water exiting in a river at the southernmost point. Refreshing during the summer when you took a swim in the heat of the day, cold when you really didn’t want to be wet. No one ever swam in this part of the lake, leaving it quiet for fishing.

  Reaching down, he traced the line into the murky, mud-brown depths. The lead weights and the top of the lure sat only six inches below, indicating the hook was only a few more inches toward the bottom. The hook buried itself deep into something soft, like an old bag made of rubber or perhaps a discarded child’s ball. The pull of the line felt spongy with a little give as he pulled. Part of the object was covered in a fine grass. Grabbing a slight spongy protrusion on one side, Waylon pulled the thing up toward the boat.

  Almost losing his balance, he recoiled in horror as the object crested the surface of the dark waters. What he’d used as a handle came off, leaving the rest of the ghastly thing to plop back in the water. In his hand, the remains of a human nose, waxy and cold, hung loosely. Throwing his fishing pole into the water, along with the nose, he scampered back toward the engine, tripping over one of the metal seats in his panic.

  For a moment, Waylon watched the head roll from one side to another. One eye, hanging from the skull, lay flush against the cheek in a mangled mess of tissue. The eye sockets of the unfortunate cranium were sunken, the eyes a silky gray color with no pupil visible. Skin, the color of light brown, hung gingerly to the skull as if preparing to slither off the bones the second anyone attempted to retrieve it from the watery grave.

  He recognized the head, even in its current state, as belonging to Carl Jensen. A hiker well known on the trails in Virginia, last seen by a group of fellow hikers twenty miles south of town with a girl he’d befriended on the trail. Missing since the Monday before, the townspeople knew and participated in what befell the young man. The town stayed silent on the affair, it wasn’t the first hiker to happen into town and never be seen again and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

  Reaching
down with the oar, he tapped the head and watched it roll over and sink back into the water. As it did, the severed remains of the young man’s neck hung at the surface, momentarily visible. Something nibbled on the exposed tendons and jaggedly torn skin at the base of his neck. The sight horrified Waylon, not because of the severed head. It was alarming that the head was seen at all.

  Waylon withdrew a small flask from his pocket and took a long swig, hoping, against hope, that the whiskey would calm his frayed nerves. The elixir did its job, helping to erase the image of the fishing lure embedded in a severed head. Either way, the day of fishing was done. He needed to find Donny. He always knew what to do.

  Firing up the motor, the john boat fled the final resting place of Carl Jensen as quickly as the little motor could carry it.

  The churning of the water by his boat engine forced the head to bob to the surface once more. A crane swooped down into the shallow water and landed next to it. Using its elongated beak, it pecked at one of the eyes in the sockets, pulling it free for a morning snack.

  A Well Earned Rest

  “Honey, did you remember to pack your swimsuit?”

  “Yes Mom, I packed it. Sheesh, I’m seventeen. I do know how to pack for myself.”

  The woman stood next to the car, giving her son an aggravated look. “Okay mister smartypants, you don’t have to get snotty with me.”

  Meghan Johnston had only one thing in life that meant anything. That thing just turned seventeen years old and threatened to get a full scholarship to a university far away from home. Twelve years before, his daddy left them both. A mother and a boy of five, left alone to make a way in the world. That same five-year-old, now twelve years later, berated her for being too much of a mother.

  “So, mister man-of-the-house, did you remember a razor so you can shave that stupid looking thing you have growing on your chin?”