Dead Bait 4

by Weston Ochse

  Down inside the death hole, things bumped against him. The water was furious. His contact lenses pressed against his eyes. The skeleton of a raccoon or a small dog came and went and then his lungs began to burn. Above him, a small point of light emerged from the chaos and then the bride and the groom arrived.

  ***

  Does the spray over the river stones ever repeat itself?

  Is the sound of the river really ever the same?

  The rocks reach like hands from the spray, as unable to grasp the air, as we are able to understand.

  You’ll Like It Here

  Sam Reeve

  The mountains loomed beyond Tatariv’s small train station, encircled with mist like a lace shawl around an old woman’s sagging shoulders. On the other side of the track, along the tree line, a couple stray dogs picked at trash and nipped at each other’s legs. Masha hefted her bag and looked at Dylan, who smiled back nervously.

  “Welcome to the Carpathians!” she said. “You’ll like it here, it’s peaceful.”

  Two grey-haired babas with scarves tied over their heads approached them, offering to sell them fruit and fresh milk. The milk was in old plastic water bottles, the faded labels still attached.

  “You want to try some?” Masha asked. Dylan hesitated. Masha said tak, “yes.” The woman unscrewed the cap and poured a few drops into it and handed it to Masha, who put it to her lips and sipped. “Not bad.” She pulled a few crumpled hryvnyas from her pocket and paid for the bottle, stuffing it in her tote bag.

  Masha led them from the train station crowded with old Ladas and more women selling homemade goods.

  “Is it like you remembered it, this region?” he asked.

  They walked down the road, past two men leaning against a taxi. The men ate sunflower seeds and smoked unfiltered cigarettes, and said something to them as they walked past. Masha shook her head to them and then smiled at Dylan.

  “Nothing has changed.”

  ***

  In front of the hotel that rented the canoes was a car with two rusted tanks affixed to the back bumper, and two hoses running into the back of it.

  “And what is this?” Dylan asked. “Is this one of those car trunk meth labs?”

  Masha laughed. “No, of course not. This is a wood-fire car. It saves on fuel. There is plenty of wood around here, yes?”

  Dylan continued to inspect the vehicle while Masha went to negotiate a price for the canoe.

  “And where are you going, little lady?” the hotel manager asked, eyeing her husband who still eyed the strange car.

  “Up the river, there’s a lake to the north, right? The one famous for its large fish?”

  The man gave her a strange look, shook his head. “This is unwise,” he said.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because this is a remote region, you know? Full of bears, wolves. Must be careful.”

  “Ahh, you afraid we’ll catch all your big fish or something? Don’t worry, we’re just camping.”

  The man shrugged when Masha handed over the cash, and nervously played with the bills as she filled out a rental card with her passport information.

  ***

  All day they paddled against the lazy current. Sticks and leaves gently floated past them, down the small tributary to join the much larger Prut river. Birds crisscrossed the sky above them, to and from the dark trees that lined the shore. Roots hung over the edge of the bank, reaching for the water with their twisted fingers.

  Several hours into their journey, the river narrowed, and up ahead they could see trees where they expected the river to continue.

  “What the…” Dylan trailed off, confused as they paddled up to a wall of green. The river seemed to end. Masha squinted at the map saved on her phone.

  “This doesn’t make sense, the lake is supposed to be up ahead, isn’t it?” Dylan asked.

  “Yes, of course it is, but as you’ve already experienced on this trip...not all Ukrainian maps are accurate. In fact, most aren’t.”

  “Well?” Dylan crossed his arms and stared up at the trees. He had never seen a river end like this, as if it was just cut off suddenly. He shook his head, frustrated.

  “What did you call those men, the ones you said carried canoes?” she asked.

  “The what?”

  “The ones you said you read about in school.”

  “The coureurs de bois?”

  “Yes, we will do as they did then.”

  ***

  Masha carried both her bag and Dylan’s, his strapped to her front. Dylan hoisted the heavy canoe over his head, the yoke resting on his shoulders. Water dripped down onto him from the hull, mixing with the sweat that poured from his brow as he navigated the rotting stumps and clingy brush of the forest floor. It was strangely silent, and they heard only the sound of their huffing and cursing.

  After many breaks and roughly an hour of portaging the canoe, the navy glass surface of a lake peeked through the branches up ahead. They made it to the shore and looked out. Dark, still water reflected the trees, and they quickly cleaved through the surface with their canoe, making for the far side of the lake where they could see a pebbly beach.

  The sun had just begun to dip behind the nearby mountain, threatening to cast them in the dark. They had almost reached the far shore when something bumped the boat.

  “What was that?” Dylan asked, white knuckling the side of the canoe as it rocked back and forth.

  “A fish,” said Masha, looking back at him. “There are legends about the size of the fish from here, and its remoteness keeps many away.”

  “I’m sure the whole dead-end river thing helps,” he said.

  They made it to shore, pulled their canoe up the small beach, and sat down to rest at last.

  “My arms are aching,” said Masha, stretching as they peered out across the lake. The cherry blossom sunset reflected on its surface, and just then a fish’s tail breached the pink water. “See,” she said. “Big fish.”

  Masha and Dylan set up camp for the night, which consisted of a two-person tent, a fire that Dylan managed to get lit only after much cursing and embarrassment, and a small pan in which they cooked some potatoes and rice. Their night was simple but they were happy, and slept soundly if not for the occasional splashing sounds as fish jumped from the lake to catch bugs in the night.

  ***

  At the first hint of dawn, Masha awoke, suddenly, and decided she could no longer sleep. Sporting warm leggings and a hoodie, she ventured barefoot down to the beach to wash her face. Mist rose from the lake as the sun inched above the imposing mountains and warmed its surface.

  Masha kneeled down and reached into the freezing water, cupping it with her hands. She splashed it on her face, gasped, shocked at how cold it felt. She looked up as she did this, and saw a man standing up in the middle of the lake, maybe two-hundred feet away, the water at waist height despite being at least ten feet deep where he stood. She blinked in disbelief.

  The man had long grey and white hair, and appeared to have black, shiny skin in some places, like a mold creeped over him. He was grinning, and his teeth looked rotten, even from that distance. Wide, dark eyes bulged from his head and his mouth protruded oddly from his face, like it was swollen.

  Masha cried out and quickly wiped the water from her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. The man was gone. A large fish’s tail splashed up from the water where he had stood, and she continued to look out, mouth agape. I must be sleeping, she thought. She called out anyway, wondering if they were really alone.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Dylan said, walking up behind her from their camp. Masha looked back at him, shaking, both from the cold and from her strange vision.

  “Nothing, it’s fine,” she said, standing and wrapping her arms around her body. She headed back for the camp to start on their breakfast.

  ***

  Masha and Dylan spent the day exploring the surrounding woods, picking wild mushrooms and berries like she had as a child with her gra
ndmother. Being summer, it wasn’t high season for the mushrooms, but they found enough for a small meal. Later she fried them in their pan, along with a few more potatoes, and Masha kept watch of the lake out of the corner of her eye. She couldn’t forget the strange man she’d seen, real or not. Dylan noticed her odd behaviour, and raised an eyebrow.

  “You look worried,” he said. She smiled and waved her hand, dismissing the notion that anything was wrong. Content and weary from their day of hiking, they fell asleep after their meal.

  ***

  Sometime in the night, Dylan awoke, needing to pee. He decided to walk down the beach to the black lake. As he relieved himself he marveled at the stars, how bright and plentiful they seemed out here, away from the city lights. Somewhere out on the water a fish splashed, sending ripples towards the shore. He looked down, and noticed a playing card in the muddy sand at the water’s edge.

  Mud-stained and frayed at the edges, the bold reds and yellows of the playing card were a strange sight on the beach. Dylan bent down to inspect it, a queen of spades.

  ***

  Masha awoke the next morning cold and stiff. She rolled over to Dylan, who wasn’t there. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, tied her hair into a knot atop her head, and exited the tent. Dawn was breaking and mist once again hovered over the lake like a phantom sipping at its surface.

  “Dylan?” she called out. No response. She walked down the shore, looked at the canoe, which was still there with all their gear. She didn’t see his shoes anywhere, but his day pack remained. She figured he must be in the forest for a morning bowel movement, or perhaps searching for more berries for their breakfast. Masha smiled at the thought of him waking up early to forage for them.

  An hour later, Masha’s smile had faded and her face twisted, anxious. Her eyes kept darting to the lake. No, she thought. He’s lost in the forest.

  The rest of the day, until the darkness crept in from the sun’s retreat, she searched for Dylan. She found nothing, no footprints, no sign of him. She called his name, heard nothing in return save for the rushing sound of the pines in the breeze.

  Masha walked back to their camp, alone, head down in defeat. Her lip quivered as she fought back tears, wondering what could’ve happened to Dylan. He wasn’t an outdoorsman but also not stupid enough to get lost by himself. As she approached the rocky beach, she noticed imprints in the sandy part, close to the water.

  Cautiously, she approached. They were human footprints, barefoot, too. She could make out three prints in the muddy sand before whoever made them had stepped onto the rocks. She whirled around, and called out once again for Dylan. Silence.

  Masha’s hands shook, for she was not alone. Someone was out there, and she was sure he was watching her. She slowly reached into her pocket for her mushrooming knife, unfolded it, and walked to their camp. She decided to leave the tent, that way if Dylan returned he would have shelter. She left his bag, as well, with some of his clothes and a few potatoes. He would have enough to survive until help came.

  Panic set in. Masha grabbed her things and ran for the canoe. Unsure she could get far in the dark with the heavy boat on her back, she decided to take her chances on the water. If she had to, she would sit in the middle of the lake all night. There’s no way the man could sneak up on her from the shore without her noticing.

  Masha paddled out, slowly, and turned around every few seconds to watch the surrounding trees, which she could barely see through the dark now. She turned on her headlamp and brandished her canoe paddle like a weapon, the heavy wood feeling better in her hands than her small knife. She continued to eye the shore, mentally daring the intruder to show himself.

  Water lapped at the side of the canoe, and it rocked gently in the chilly evening breeze. Masha looked down, and saw a white face floating, mouth open. It was Dylan. She gasped when he suddenly blinked, his pale hand reaching up for her.

  “Hold on,” Masha cried out, reaching for him. A hand emerged from the water, reaching to meet hers, but it wasn’t Dylan’s. Black scales dotted the grey flesh, the fingers ending in filthy claws. The stench of rotten fish instantly hit her nostrils and she cried out anew, swinging her paddle towards the hand. The long-haired man erupted from the depths, Dylan nowhere in sight, and grabbed hold of Masha.

  She fought at him with the paddle, hit him on the side of the head, but he held on tight and threatened to capsize the canoe. His bulging lips made sucking sounds, blackened teeth gnashing in her face.

  With more strength than Masha expected from a frail-looking old man, he ripped her from the canoe, and plunged her beneath the icy mountain water. She fought for air, grasping for the canoe to pull herself back in. A clawed hand held her by the wrist and dragged her down. She turned, eyes open underwater, and saw Dylan down below her.

  “Help me,” she mouthed, looking at him with confused eyes.

  “Come with us,” he seemed to say, smiling and waving her down towards the bottom of the lake. “You’ll like it here.”

  Yacht Rock

  Matt Serafini

  Music is another way to dream.

  That’s what Dennis Bouchard thought as his yacht, Cannon, rocked slow on mild Atlantic waters. On the radio, Dobie Gray encouraged the boat’s lazy pace, crooning Drift Away through the deck-by-deck stereo system.

  It cost a pretty penny to wire the Cannon this way, but Dennis wanted the best. Scratch that. Deserved the best. A man needed access to these soothing sounds whether he was sloshing drinks at the teakwood bar below deck, or swept up in the ocean breeze while stretched out in the aft lounge.

  Dennis closed his eyes and pushed his face beneath the shower stream so the water could rinse him clean. It was mid-afternoon and the Cannon bobbed toward France. He hoped so, at least, because they were supposed to be there yesterday. And would’ve been, had it not been for the sputtering and stalling engine. By the time black smoke filled the motor compartment, it was too late to deny there was a problem.

  Dobie Gray wanted to Drift Away and Dennis was terrified they were actually doing it.

  His heart pounded as he forced a smile beneath the cleansing water. It’s 1985, he thought. This is the future. Nobody gets lost in it.

  The music lulled him. Its rhythm calmed his racing heart. He always counted on it to shift his mindset, and it was reliable that way—like an old playground friend. Music could get you to step outside your reality, to break from a waking nightmare. Today, Dennis’ only nightmare was that this life was a dream, and his old one was in the shadows waiting to spring. That fear woke him from time-to-time with cold sweat. And each time he’d think “thank Christ” before reaching for the whiskey bottle and pouring one off to send those 9-to-5 memories scurrying.

  Because this life was exactly where Dennis wanted to be. His problems were back there beyond the Miami marina, somewhere in early 1983. The drugs made it hard to remember all the ways in which it had gone wrong back then. The years before Frank had come knocking with an offer.

  With an investment.

  A “sure thing.”

  A horror picture called Night Slash, about a guy in a ski mask who hacked up a bus full of cheerleaders after they broke down in the Ozarks.

  Dennis had been 44 then, stricken with a soul-crushing case of is this all there is? Sleeveless button-downs. Plaid ties. Black socks. Co-workers who loved punching a clock. Arguments about who got to have time off at Christmas.

  Who needed it?

  It was the music that pulled him through that drudgery. The melodies stoked fantasies of escapism and promised another life.

  Is this all there is?

  That question plagued him in bumper-to-bumper traffic always, and his hands would coil around the steering wheel as his jaw clenched and teeth gnashed and he’d think, “Not if I can help it.”

  For Dennis had a tiny nest egg stashed away. In his bank account, not that husband and wife joint thing everyone got scammed on. Frank was his pal from way back, and might’ve heard about the “rainy day
” fund a time or two before, usually after a Thursday night spent crushing Miller Lites and extra saucy buffalo wings, when secrets were apt to flow a bit looser. He’d come knocking in search of it.

  “A couple of hundred grand can get a lot done on a picture like that.”

  It was a gamble, but Dennis was hungry for change. Anything was better than the grind.

  The music had wanted him to go for it.

  He had been rotting in traffic on I-95 listening to Seals and Crofts revere a Diamond Girl. It was that melody specifically that had opened a window into the future and showed him this moment. All that could be possible if he’d only put his money where his thoughts were.

  Night Slash was a gamble, sure. How many horror pictures had hit the market around that time only to die a woeful box office death? But Seals and Crofts hadn’t steered him wrong. The $41 million box office haul was astonishing. Bidding wars on foreign sales in thirty territories. The first thing Dennis did was go out and buy himself a divorce, hoping one day he might forget that life as quickly as he’d forgotten her name. Next came beachfront property, and then another six million for his pièce de résistance. This bobbing baby.

  “Drift Away” passed, seguing into the aggressively soothing trumpet of Chuck Mangione, which chased away what little trepidation remained embedded beneath his ribs. Feels So Good. This is the life. This was sweet freedom.

  Dennis stepped from the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. There was one errant bump remaining on his cabin’s bedside table. A shot of candy disappeared up his nose with a quick sniffle.

  “I can’t find anyone,” Sybil said. His very own Diamond Girl leaned against the doorjamb in a skimpy golden two-piece that matched her curly blonde locks. Her other hand dusted her hip like this was another of her sultry photo shoots.