by Michael Cole
All at once, the patrons revealed assorted handguns from their vests, pockets, and belts, and held them proudly in the air. At the counter, Dave held up his Smith & Wesson revolver, which had recently been returned to him from the county. The bartender pointed his finger at the room, and his face shriveled up with frustration.
“Hey! How many times have I told you fucks not to bring those in here?”
“Relax,” Stanton said to him. He leaned against the counter and looked to the crowd, appearing like a politician running for office. “Now, I want this bastard fish dead. I don’t care how, or who does it. I just want it done. So hear me out…” he paused to make sure he had their attention. “…Thirty grand…CASH…to whoever kills the bastard.” If he didn’t have their attention before, he certainly did now. All eyes went wide with interest, including Dave’s and Luke’s. The room went entirely silent for a moment, while everyone let the offer sink in.
“You’re serious?” Luke asked.
“I’m DAMN fucking serious,” Stanton said.
“Wait, wait, wait…hold on just a sec,” Dave said. He had seen several scammers before, and wasn’t ready to commit trust to this individual. “How do we know you’re on the level?” Stanton walked up to him, standing close enough to look him square in the eye.
“Because that thing out there killed my wife,” Stanton said. Conviction set in. Those eyes that Dave looked into did not lie. This man wanted the creature destroyed, and was willing to do whatever it took. “Thirty grand,” he said, still looking directly at Dave. He then turned to the crowd. “Thirty-thousand dollars…to the one that kills the fish!” Dave was the first to stand up.
“Well, HELL! What am I waiting for?” he said. His motive had changed. Yeah, there was a satisfaction to avenging his friends, but thirty-thousand dollars was more money than he ever had. He tossed some cash onto the bar counter to pay for his drinks, and then marched straight for the door. Luke followed suit.
At that same moment, everyone stood up and started rushing for the door. Like a stampeding herd, each of them was eager to cash in on Stanton’s offer. The bartender pulled out his double-barreled shotgun from under the counter, and switched off the lights. He placed a sign on the inside window. Closed.
Stanton stepped outside along with him, and watched his posse load into their trucks and motorcycles. Although the painful guilt still resided, he could feel the burden begin to lift.
“This is for you, babe.”
CHAPTER
26
The large crawler crane, yellow in color, rested just a few feet from the manufactured drop-off at Hampton’s Ledge. Joel sat inside the platform and tested the controls. The booms slowly extended outward, to a maximum length of one-hundred-fifty feet. The newly carved hook hung from a cable just over a foot from the tip of the upper sheave. He slowly rotated the winding drum, swinging the boom to the left and right. The motion was slow, but it functioned properly.
Some construction crews were hired to dig a small trench for the crane to position within. They packed loads of gravel in front of the tracks in order to help prevent the crane from being pulled into the water. Joel’s worry was that, should he successfully hook the fish, that it would undoubtedly make a run. It would likely swim outward toward the open lake. He didn’t want to risk its sheer force possibly tilting the heavy crane into the water.
Sydney approached the crane and gazed at the sharpened hook. A pointy piece of metal protruded outward near the tip of the hook, acting as a barb that Joel had welded. Sydney stood, dwarfed by the huge machine. Joel had properly gone over the specifications. The counterweight sat at fifty-three tons on the upper, and ten tons on the lower. Its lifting capacity was well more than necessary to lift the fish from the water. The sound of approaching footsteps crunching gravel drew his attention. He looked over his left shoulder as Meya stepped alongside him.
“You think this’ll work?” she queried.
“I do,” he said without skipping a beat. Joel stepped out of the platform.
“Joel, you forgot your hard hat,” Meya called out to him. Joel chuckled.
“I’ll need one when I get home,” he said. “I’m in the dog house again.”
“Uh-oh,” Sydney said. “Your wife?”
“Yeah,” Joel said, long and drawn out. “I told her I was working with you all again tonight. I’ve been busy twenty-four hours a day since this excitement started, so she’s ready to have me home.”
“Well, that’s sweet,” Meya said. “At least she likes spending time with you.”
“I like to think that,” Joel said, smiling. “But I know the real reason: she wants to hand me the honey-do-list.”
A brown pickup truck rolled into the nearby parking lot. It slowly pulled up past the gravelly spaces and stopped a few feet from Sydney. Wilkow stepped out of the truck, covered in fish guts and bait. Dressed in khakis, a flannel shirt, and a round fishing hat, he looked as if he was ready to go out on a boat with a pole.
“Sorry ‘bout the smell,” he said. “I had to get our beef. Fresh off the steer!”
He opened the bed of the truck, and Sydney looked inside. It was a freshly sawn hide, with the ribs and fat still intact. The muscle tissue was bright red, and some remaining fragments of brown skin dangled from the meat.
“What’s that?” Sydney pointed to a large blue tub, full of red, mostly liquid, ingredients.
“Oh, my very own recipe,” Wilkow said. “Blood. Fat. Intestines. More fat. A bit of coagulant thrown in.” He climbed onto the bed of the truck, and opened the tub. “Wanna see?” The smell hit them both like a freight train of stench. Meya and Sydney both covered their noses. The smell was wretched. Meya, despite her experiences with gory sights and smells, could hardly stand it. Standing several feet away, Joel had to clench his nose shut as well. He casually walked back to the crane, leaving Sydney and Meya to suffer Wilkow’s company.
“Good lord,” she said. “Put that back on!”
“Why do you even have that?” Sydney said. Wilkow replaced the lid and stepped down off the truck.
“Because I’m gonna coat the lure with it,” he said. “That stuff should stick fairly well to our makeshift lure. You think that stuff smells, ‘blech!’” He waved his arms out and stuck out his tongue in an exaggerated disgusted expression. “But that fish out there, when he gets a whiff of this, he’ll be thinking, ‘Mmmmmmm.’” He rubbed his stomach to express his point further.
“Well, he can have it,” Meya said and walked away. Sydney started to join her.
“Hey!” Wilkow called after them. “Where’s the lure?”
“The other side of the crane,” Sydney answered as he continued walking, not even looking back.
Wilkow shrugged to himself and climbed back into the bed of the truck. He slid the tub toward the edge, then stepped down again to lift it. He groaned as he picked it up by the side handles, and slowly hobbled his way toward the crane. Joel watched the embarrassing sight from the platform.
Oh God. He’s coming towards ME with that.
Wilkow moved around the crane, eventually reaching the lure to the right of it. He lowered the tub, nearly dropping it as his body gave in to its heavy weight. After leaning back to crack his back, he looked down at the makeshift lure. It was a large, oval-shaped sheet of metal, curved slightly inward in the middle. Along the edges were several holes with wires tied around to attach smaller pieces of metal. It was just like a spoon for catching pike, except this one was six feet long.
Wilkow took a brush from his vest pocket. He dipped the bristles into the mixture, and coated the lure with it. Joel watched from the window as Wilkow applied the guts as if painting the lure. The smell worked its way up the platform, and into Joel’s nasal cavities.
“You sure the water won’t wash that off?” he called out.
“Not right away,” Wilkow said. “Once I have this thing covered, we’ll let it sit for a little bit. The substance should stick to lure. We may have to recoat i
t after.” He applied a few more coats of the mixture, then looked at the brush. “Oh yeah!” He held it up toward Joel. “I hope you don’t mind. I borrowed this from your van. I’ll give it back when I’m done.” Joel stared down at him for several long and quiet moments, fantasizing about putting Wilkow on the hook instead of the beef.
“Keep it,” Joel said.
Sydney and Meya walked toward the lot. The air freshened and cleansed their nostrils of the foul stench. Meya glanced down at Sydney’s injured leg. He wasn’t limping as bad, but it was still apparent.
“Maybe when this is all over, we’ll get you a new appointment,” she said. Sydney put his hand over the area of the injury. He wanted to shrug it off, and claim the pain didn’t bother him, but knew she would see through the lie.
“To do what?” he said. “Put the muscle back in?” He made a small chuckle.
“No,” Meya said. “However, there are other techniques we can do, and better medication. And one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“This time, I’ll be around to help you through it,” she answered. They shared a brief glance at each other. Though unspoken, Meya could read through Sydney’s eyes that he would gladly accept her offer.
Their moment was cut short when they heard the sounds of yelling from the vehicles. Their attention turned to the source, and they continued walking. The yelling did not sound to be caused by panic or shock, but anger. They recognized the two voices; clearly Mayor Greene’s and Sheriff Logan’s. Sydney and Meya stepped around the front of Joel’s van, and saw the two bickering by the sheriff’s vehicle.
“I don’t care,” Greene said. His white shirt showed many signs of wear from the day. Dirt stains were plastered all over it, and the top two buttons had popped off. The tie had been removed, only to be lost in the day’s confusion, and his trousers looked equally as bad. Worse was his temper. “Get somebody to do it!”
“Damn it, Mayor, I don’t HAVE anyone else available,” Logan said. Sydney and Meya quickly approached.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Sydney called their attention, as if breaking up a brawl. “What’s going on? What’s the problem?” Logan took a breath and tried to regain his composure.
“Our fucking pilot backed out,” he said.
“Huh?” Sydney said, flabbergasted.
“Yeah,” Logan said. “He strictly refuses to do this. Apparently, he thinks the fish will grab the lure and pull the chopper down with it.” He turned around and angrily kicked his vehicle tire.
“Well, it is a genuine concern,” Meya said.
“More to the point is that he doesn’t trust the sheriff’s judgement after last night,” Greene said. He noticed the sheriff shoot him a glare. “It’s not a personal jab, Sheriff, it’s just the truth of the matter.”
“Yeah, and you’re blaming me for it,” Logan snapped. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Get us another pilot,” Greene said. Feeling his muscles tense with anger, Logan turned to walk away, only to turn back once more. His face had nearly turned beat red, through his dark complexion.
“We don’t have one!” His voice came out as a hiss, resulting from his struggle to keep from shouting once more.
“You don’t have any other certified pilots?” Sydney asked.
“No,” Logan said. His defeated expression returned, after having lifted during the day’s work to set up the operation. “This guy was our last. We had another, but he…” Logan’s voice trailed off into a long, drawn-out sigh, “…he was one of our men who was killed last night.”
“So now what?” Greene asked. The question was clearly directed at Chief Sydney. “Could we just use the bait on the crane’s hook and see if the bass will still come?”
“We could try,” Sydney said, “but it’s a big lake, and if that fish isn’t in the immediate area, it won’t pick up the scent. That’s why we need the chopper unit to lure the fish in.”
“Except now we don’t have a freaking pilot,” Greene said. He clapped both hands and held them out, palms facing up. “Well, I’m out of ideas.”
“Like you had any to begin with,” Logan mumbled, just loud enough to barely be heard. Greene’s eyes turned to the sheriff and stayed locked on him as Greene mentally eased his temper.
“We have a pilot,” Meya said. All eyes went to her.
“Huh? We do?” Greene said. Sydney’s eyes went wide, and he stepped in front of his ex-wife.
“No, no, no,” he said. “I already know what you’re about to suggest.”
“What is she gonna suggest?” Logan asked. They ignored him.
“Morgan, we don’t have many other options,” Meya said to Sydney.
“It’ll be dangerous out there,” Sydney said. “We still aren’t completely sure of what else that thing’s capable of.”
“Who’s the pilot?” Greene cut in. Like Logan’s, his question was ignored.
Meya placed her hands on Sydney’s shoulders.
“I’m well aware of the risks,” she said. “I’m also aware of the dangers of leaving that thing to roam out there.” Sydney looked out to the lake, begrudgingly listening to what she was telling him. He didn’t want to give in; he had just gotten her back, and though he wouldn’t say it, he did not want to suffer losing her again. Worse, he didn’t want to mourn her. Meya put a hand on his face and redirected his gaze toward her. They locked eyes. She knew what he thought. “I can do this,” she said.
“If this doesn’t work, I’m gonna hunt that bastard ex-boyfriend of yours down,” Sydney said. Meya smiled.
“It was really just a few dates,” she said. “It didn’t really go anywhere, so you don’t really need to be jealous.” Sydney tried not to show it as he felt a swell of relief wash over him. The thought of her with someone else did not sit well. However, his concern for her safety was still present, and would continue to eat away at him until she completed the task unharmed.
“What are we talking about?” Greene called out. Sydney and Meya continue looking at each other. Finally, he turned away.
“Meya can fly a chopper,” he said. His answer served both as a direct response to Greene, while simultaneously vindicating Meya’s choice to pilot the chopper. Greene clapped his hands and looked to the heavens.
“Oh, thank goodness!” he exclaimed. “Wow, ma’am, you are a lifesaver.”
“I’m most familiar with the hospital’s helicopter,” Meya said. “I’ll use that one. Morgan, if you could take me there, we can hook up the lure and then I’ll fly it back here.”
“Then we’ll commence once you arrive,” Greene said.
“I would get started soon,” Logan said. “We only have a little bit of daylight left.” Sydney did not share their enthusiasm for the idea; rather, he almost resented it. Suddenly, the dangers of the chopper pilot’s position suddenly felt more real, and a hundred times more dangerous. With the chopper lure being his idea, he now hoped everything would go perfectly well. If not, he would never forgive himself. He snapped back into reality when Meya tapped him on the shoulder.
“Would you drive me to the hospital?” she asked him.
“Alright,” he said. He regained his composure and looked at Greene and Logan. “We’ll take the truck and attach the lure to a cable. When we get back, we’ll begin.” He looked at Meya. “Don’t fly over here too quickly. I’ll need time to get back here.”
“Don’t worry,” she said.
“Alright. Let’s get moving,” Sydney said. With Wilkow’s help, they moved the lure into the bed of the truck.
Both Sydney and Meya partially regretted their idea to attach the lure themselves after getting another whiff of the smell. Wilkow climbed into the bed of the truck to continue applying more of the bait mixture. Normally, Sydney wouldn’t allow this, but understood it needed to be done.
He glanced one last time at Meya, who looked back at him. The smell crept in, and spoiled their moment.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get going.”
“Please,” Meya said, pinching her nose shut. Sydney started the truck and drove them out.
CHAPTER
27
Dave Culverhouse sat in his parked truck, hidden behind a thick wall of trees. Through the brush, he watched the local boat dock, waiting for the two RPD patrol officers to move along. For the past twenty-four hours, the officers kept constant watch over the lake to prevent people from going out on it. The officers moved on foot, and moved dreadfully slow. They stood at the dock, chatting with one another for what seemed like forever. Dave found himself starting to lose patience, until they finally moved out of sight.
He looked around for anyone possibly nearby before slowly moving his truck closer to the lake, with his boat in tow. The area was guarded by woods and created a narrow road to the dock. He maneuvered his truck to back the boat into the water. Before backing it all the way in, he stopped the truck to check his assortment of weapons. He packed his 500 Mossberg Shotgun, AR-15 6.5 Grendel, and his trusty Smith & Wesson 686 revolver. The sound of a vehicle engine caught his attention. He briefly froze in worry that it would be someone who would report him. That concern quickly went away after he recognized the rusty grey Dodge pickup.
“Oh great,” Dave said as Luke parked his truck next to his.
“Hell yeah,” Luke said.
“What are you doing here?” Dave asked. He already knew the answer.
“Gonna kill me some fish!” Luke proclaimed. He pulled a rifle from the back seat of his truck and lifted it proudly into the air. Dave squinted as he looked at the brown Ruger compact rifle. His jaw lowered with awe.
