by Michael Cole
As they emerged into the clearing, out from under the treetop canopy, there was only the top half of the sun still visible. It had begun its descent, sinking behind the mountain range. The humidity was thick. Sweat dripped from their brows. Their otherwise taut, dark, and weathered skin was red and clammy. When they reached the riverbank, they set down their buckets and walking sticks. There was time to walk knee-deep into the river. Splashing water onto their arms cooled their bodies immediately.
Oom cupped his hands and scooped up water. He washed sweat off his face and poured some over his head, wetting his short, straight, black hair. Kota did the same, but then dove head first into the river for a quick swim.
In an instant, the water churned and bubbled. Even with the sun nearly set, Oom saw the water had turned red. He thought a crocodile attacked. He saw dorsal fins. More than one.
“Kota! Kota!” Oom looked around. Kota had not resurfaced. His heart sank. Every instinct told him to turn and head back for the banks. Getting out of the water made the most sense. Instead, he pushed forward in an attempt to run toward the bubbles against the current.
However, the bubbles stopped.
The red in the water was swiftly carried down the river. Oom stood still. Waited. Listened.
“Kota?”
A hand shot up from the now murky depths.
Oom latched onto it and pulled. He used all of his strength to get Kota back onto land.
Placing his friend on a bed of plant leaves, Oom thought he might vomit. Kota’s body looked hacked. Chunks of flesh were missing from his thighs and gut. One arm and a foot were gone.
Blood and water seemed to ooze out of each wound.
“Oom,” Kota said. It came out in a whisper. His eyes were open but looked suddenly clouded over and lifeless.
Oom looked at the river and shivered. Something was in the water, something dangerous. Something that had now eaten out the soul of his friend, his brother.
CHAPTER 1
1982. Rochester, NY
Rick Stone entered the kitchen, pulling the collar down over his necktie. “Coffee made?”
Karen turned away from the stove. “Gee. If there were any coffee at all, where might it be?”
Rick tried to smile. He took a mug from the cupboard. “Found it. Right here in the coffee pot,” he said.
“That’s where I was going to suggest looking first. You’re too smart for me, Rick.”
“You making eggs?” As soon as he said it, he regretted it.
“Are you kidding me?” Karen held up a frying pan. Scrambled eggs.
Rick sat next to Jared, who was in his highchair. He watched his son grab and fumble over the dry Cheerios in front of him. “We have to fight every morning?”
“This is fighting to you, Rick? This is fighting?” She sighed. “You don’t fight. You never fight.”
He closed his eyes and placed the palm of a hand across his stomach. “I don’t need to get aggravated, not with the meeting this morning.”
“You going to wear that tie?”
Rick took a sip of coffee. Bitter. He ruffled his son’s hair. He ignored the dig. “I’m kind of nervous. The network hasn’t asked for a meeting like this before. Not since we were in talks with them for the show.”
“You’re nervous because if they cancel the show that you’ll have to get a real job.” Karen used the spatula to scrape burnt eggs onto three plates. She snatched two slices of toast out of the toaster, plopped in two slices of bread and lowered the level. “Want to butter these?”
Rick stood up. “I’ve got it.”
Karen carried the plates to the table, set hers down and then Rick’s, and fork fed Jared from the third plate. “Do you think they’re going to cancel the show?”
Rick pretended he’d heard concern, if not sympathy, or at least empathy, in his wife’s tone. He was fooling himself. It wasn’t there, not toward him, anyway. Not in regard to his career. “We’ve had three pretty good seasons.”
He had no idea how the last two fared.
Rick finished buttering the four slices of toast and set two down for his wife and two onto his plate. He looked at his watch. There was plenty of time until the meeting. When Karen was in one of her moods, which was more and more frequently, he just didn’t want to be in the house any longer than necessary.
“Of fishing. A TV show about fishing.” She wasn’t asking. She was merely stating. She did it regularly. It humiliated him, and she knew it.
Jared pushed the fork away from his face. His mouth shut tight.
Rick salted his eggs. “I don’t think he wants the eggs.”
“He likes eggs, Rick.”
“I didn’t say he didn’t like eggs. I said, ‘I don’t think he wants the eggs.’” Rick looked at his wristwatch again. “I better go.”
“Yeah. You better go.” She waved a dismissive hand at him.
Rick scraped his eggs off his plate into the garbage and almost cringed. She’d just made them for him, and he was throwing them away. Jared was right. Even with salt they tasted burnt. Too late now. He picked up his briefcase by the kitchen door, and stopped. Karen wasn’t even looking at him. She continued trying to feed their son. “I wish we could fix things, Karen. I don’t know how it got like this.”
“Got like what, Rick? Like what?”
She wanted to fight, always looking for an argument. Rick pursed his lips, hoped it resembled a smile. He knew it didn’t. “I’ll let you know how the meeting turns out.”
“You do that.”
Rick kissed the top of his son’s head.
“Dada,” he said.
“See you tonight, buddy.” He moved to kiss his wife. She lowered her head, stabbed a fork into eggs. Rick smoothed his tie with the palm of his hand as he stood up straight. He left the house without another word and walked to his car, contemplating.
It was hard to put a finger on when the marriage began hemorrhaging. Karen hated his job, that was a given. When they met, he fished as a hobby, spent long nights slaving away in a factory. When he won fishing derby after derby, sponsors took notice. Eventually, he was offered a job on television. Catch & Release with Rick Stone.
That might have been the start of the decline. While she knew his dream had always been to find a way to make a living doing what he loved, he suspected she never thought it could happen, and so resigned to marry him--a simple factory worker.
In two months, it would be winter. He didn’t work winters. They filmed twenty-four shows per season. He was paid weekly, the checks spread out over fifty-two weeks despite being for the most part unemployed from December until April.
It was possible the four and a half months he was home every year bothered her. She often said she felt smothered, that he was always around, and she had no time for herself. That hurt. Before marriage, they could not find enough hours in a day to spend together. Things changed. People changed. Life happened.
Blood River is available from Amazon here!
