Mount Misery

by Angelo Peluso

  This book is a complete work of fiction. Any similarities between characters, places, and locales mentioned in this book are purely coincidental. Although some real places are referenced throughout the story, like the Long Island Sound, those places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this book are creations of the author’s imagination.

  Copyright © 2014 by Angelo Peluso

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014947755

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Cover photos: Thinkstock

  Print ISBN: 978-1-940456-13-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-940456-18-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Mother Ocean and all her creatures . . .

  known and unknown

  CHAPTER 1

  Alessandra stood naked in waist-deep water, her body framed as a silhouette against the moonlight, as Jorge took off his clothes and walked from the beach to join her. She spread her arms playfully and invited him to move closer. The lovers embraced and kissed, slowly at first but then more passionately. Jorge nibbled at Alessandra’s neck and she closed her eyes. The inner warmth of arousal blended in striking contrast with the cool water of the Long Island Sound. It was a nice feeling. Alessandra turned her head and for a moment opened her eyes. As she looked west down the beach, she saw what appeared to be many small yellow orbs moving erratically in the water, all headed in her direction. She thought that odd, but nighttime has a way of playing tricks with the eyes and the mind, and Alessandra had a vivid imagination. She closed her eyes, re-opened them, and the yellow orbs were gone.

  Alessandra then let herself succumb to Jorge’s touch and again closed her eyes. As the two moved in the water, the yellow orbs homed in on the vibrations caused by their love making. The orbs moved closer until they were just a few yards from the couple. An eerie illumination surrounded Jorge and Alessandra. She was the first to feel the presence of something unusual: a welling up of water that pushed her off balance. Jorge felt it too. It was like a wave. Alessandra opened her eyes. Her shriek startled Jorge. And then he saw the ghostly luminescence within which they appeared trapped. Instinctively, he knew they had to exit the water. He took Alessandra’s hand and walked toward the beach. But there was no escape route.

  The attack was astonishingly swift and merciless. The killers tore and ripped flesh from their bodies. Jorge died first. His feet were severed just above the ankle bones and both hands were bitten cleanly off. He bled out in seconds. Alessandra tried screaming for help but a fatal bite to her neck had severed her vocal chords. She was dying and being eaten alive. Her body went into shock. The final blurred memories of her short life were all that comforted her. As the last drops of her blood emptied into the Sound, her killers continued to feed.

  When the attack ended, the only evidence of their existence was clothing strewn about the beach and a small, tattered knapsack. Alessandra and Jorge weren’t missed until the following day when they failed to report for work at the local vineyard. A lifeguard found the clothing and old backpack and put them aside in the lost-and-found locker.

  CHAPTER 2

  Two days later . . .

  A dory drifted quietly along an outer edge of Mount Misery Ledge in the central Long Island Sound. Two fishermen sat inside the rented dory patiently awaiting the next fish to bite. It was just before noon on a calm and sweltering dog day of late August. A slight wind wafted out of the southwest and the tide ran strong west to east, energized by the extra pull of a growing full moon. Building clouds were a sure sign of an impending late afternoon thunderstorm.

  The 17-foot boat was seaworthy, a hull design that had endured for centuries. A 9.9 horsepower Mercury outboard engine sat securely on the dory’s transom. It was more than adequate to move the two anglers efficiently from spot to spot until they found fish. Under average sea conditions, the rig could be trusted to get fishermen to the fishing grounds and then safely back to port. The boat and motor could well handle much of what the Long Island Sound was capable of dishing out and almost anything but the most unusual circumstances.

  Tomas and Salvador rented the dory from The Fishing Shack, located off the main launch ramp in downtown Port Roosevelt. The Shack has been a local institution since 1911. Its fleet of rental boats provided many casual and weekend anglers with the opportunity to get out on the Long Island Sound and enjoy a day of fishing. With the rental arrangement, the proprietors of The Shack did all the work and the renter had all the fun. Some regulars often drove out from New York City to escape the metropolis mayhem and oppressive summer heat to cash in on the bounty of fish species roaming the waters of the central Sound.

  So it was with Tomas and Salvador. They made the trip east from Queens during predawn hours and were first in line when The Shack opened for business at 6:30 a.m. sharp. Once they arrived, others slowly followed; many more than there were dories. Some were in line for bait, some to buy ice or other various fishing essentials like hooks and sinkers. Several small groups were there to rent boats.

  Theo and Cindy, the husband and wife team who owned The Shack, were punctual. The door to the building always opened precisely on time. They had been in the fishing business for all their married years and they loved it. The two especially enjoyed meeting new people. The Shack was, above all else, a democratic place, a true melting pot where fishermen of many ethnic origins would visit and congregate, simply to share in their passion for fishing and tell a few lies about the big ones that couldn’t be conquered. As Theo prepped the dories, Cindy held court as she sold bait and ice to customers. She always dispensed timely and friendly information about where the best fish bite was happening. She told Tomas and Salvador that if they wanted porgies to anchor up on one of the rock piles just outside the harbor. “But if you want big striped bass, head for the northeast corner of Mount Misery Ledge.”

  The two fishermen were thankful for the advice. Cindy never steered them wrong. They paid the dory rental fee, stocked up on bait and ice, and made way to the fishing grounds. After exiting Port Roosevelt Harbor, they cast anchor at a submerged rock pile slightly west of the harbor entrance, paying out rope until the anchor caught and the dory came to rest. Fish of all varieties and sizes like bottom structure, especially rock formations, and porgy are no exception. A large school sat directly above and around the submerged boulders. Porgies are pan-sized fish, prized for flesh that delights the taste buds of both fisherman and large predatory fish. Using small pieces of clam as bait, the fishermen caught one porgy after another until their arms ached. They enjoyed a good day of fishing, one of the best all summer. Such was their success that they couldn’t close the lid on their cooler for all the fish piled inside. The two fishermen would later use some of the porgies as bait, hoping to entice a large bass.

  Tomas sat in the stern of the boat and pulled on the motor’s starter rope; the small engine immediately came to life. He aimed the b
ow of the dory toward the shoal and twisted the handle throttle full speed ahead. Once upon the shoal, he cut the engine and the dory drifted with the current. The duo talked, joked, and ate cold pork sandwiches. They drank a couple cold beers. Cold beer, stored on ice along with the dead porgies, was just what they needed to crack a nagging thirst from the heat and to wash down the leftover pork. They didn’t mind in the least the taste of fish that rimmed the necks of the beer bottles. Hardcore fishermen get used to the constant scent and taste of aquatic creatures.

  Like many weekend fishermen, Tomas and Salvador didn’t understand the hydrodynamics of the shoal they drifted over, and they really didn’t care to. All that mattered was they were told it held big bass. But others who fished the area regularly and studied it knew exactly why it was a productive fishing hole. Baitfish of all types would congregate on the shallow portions of the shoal only to be swept off as currents accelerated during tidal changes. At times during the season, sand eels, menhaden, butterfish, Atlantic silversides, and anchovies would congregate in mass on Mount Misery Ledge. Larger, more predatory fish, like striped bass and bluefish, recognized this pattern and had become conditioned to wait along the deeper edges of the shoal to intercept and attack the hapless baitfish as they swept into deep water and turbulent rip currents. With the tide now being pulled east in the Sound, bait would flow with the current and get deposited off the northeast edge in ninety feet of water. This was a perpetual process, one repeated for as long as life inhabited the Long Island Sound. On this day, big fish would indeed be waiting.

  The fishermen drifted repeatedly over this precise location and waited for a coveted striped bass to strike their baited hooks. The dory would flow off the shallow part of the shoal until it moved well into deep water. Since the pair didn’t have an electronic depth recorder, they could only guess at the water’s deepness. Cindy told them to drift for about one hundred and fifty to two hundred yards once they passed navigation buoy number eleven. They followed her instructions. She was right on the mark with the porgy fishing advice so catching bass would hopefully follow.

  The dory would be taken with the tide and with the flow of baitfish, a drift repeated for as long as it took to get a bite. As each drift approached the terminal point, Tomas would start the outboard motor and reposition the boat well up onto the shallow part of the shoal. The outgoing tide was running fast, moving the dory rapidly through the fish zone. They made frequent moves.

  Putting fresh-cut pieces of porgy on their hooks and tossing the chum bucket overboard, the hopeful anglers endeavored to excite the feeding senses of any cruising stripers. A keeper bass would make their day. Two big keepers would be a Godsend. They had made more than a dozen drifts without so much as a touch. But their luck was about to change. Approaching the dropoff point between shallow water and the ninety-foot ledge, both fishermen felt something take their baits. They were patient as line slowly moved off from their reels. “Count to ten,” Salvador said, “and then set the hook.” First one and then the other had strikes from powerful fish. They both hooted and hollered and proclaimed victory over their hooked adversaries. Steadily, they reeled in line and brought the bass closer to the boat. And then it happened. Both rods slammed down violently and with alarming force onto the gunnels of the dory. “What is this?” Salvador said.

  “I have one too, mi amigo! A big one.”

  Both were indeed large fish. The fishing rods were doubled over, bent close to the breaking point—straining in wide parabolic arches as both fishermen pulled back against the weight of two seemingly immovable objects. Big, wide smiles set upon their faces until both realized something odd had happened. The big fish swam toward each other and began pulling away in unison, like two Clydesdales. Neither fisherman had ever felt such strength. The fish pulled as if their entire existence depended on it; the fishermen held on not realizing it was their lives that were in peril. Reeling lines in against the pull of the fish’s weight was futile. It was as if the quarry had caught their pursuers. The combined strength and speed of what was now attached to the ends of the super strong braided lines was enough to overcome the weight of the dory, the motor, and the anglers.

  The fishermen were certain two monster bass had taken their baits, even though they had no idea what large bass felt like. Were these the trophies they had anticipated? No, they had to be much more. The fish fought ferociously for their freedom as dogged and powerful headshakes transmitted power up the line, through the fishing rods, and into the hands of the fishermen. Tomas and Salvador didn’t realize they were completely overpowered and overmatched by what had taken their baits. In ignorant bliss, they cheered and howled as the fish gained dangerous advantage. But their expressions of joy quickly turned into grimaces of concern. The fishermen tried, to no avail, to gain control of their catch. These fish were big and meant serious business. The fight was intense and furious, like nothing they had ever before experienced. Neither had ever caught anything larger than a seven-pound tautog, or blackfish by its more common name. These fish were no ‘tog. The two perplexed anglers held tightly to their rods but their captors were in total command. The fishermen again tried reeling in the lines against the pull of the fish but that was not to be. The applied force of what was now secured to their hooks was enough to completely overcome the boat’s inertia.

  The dory began to move. Slowly at first, but then accelerating as if the engine was in gear and the throttle had been pushed forward. The dory left an impressive wake, much to the bewilderment of other boaters, who looked on in astonishment—some foolishly cheered and offered encouragement. None were more bewildered by the events taking place than the two anglers connected to their unknown prizes. Tomas yanked on the motor starter rope while maintaining a death grip on the fishing rod. The motor coughed to life as the fish pulled the small boat up on plane. Putting the engine in reverse did nothing to halt the dory’s forward progress. It was as if they were being drawn through the water on a sleigh. Their joy at hooking two huge fish turned to pure terror. As the dory passed Mount Misery Inlet, more than a mile from where the fish were first hooked, it came to an abrupt halt. The sheer power of the beasts snapped the strong lines that bound them.

  The fishermen spat Spanish curses at losing their keepers, but quietly they were each relieved to be detached from their now-lost trophies. As quickly at the battle had begun, the pulling ceased. The fishermen looked at each other in disbelief and puzzlement.

  “What was that?” Salvador said.

  “I don’t know.” Tomas didn’t know what had happened either. Both fishermen no longer felt resistance against their rods. They reeled in their lines, which gathered easily onto the spools.

  “Shit,” they said in unison. “Go to hell you bastards!” But that’s exactly from where these fish had come.

  The two sat sulking with bowed heads as nervous water moved undetected toward the dory at an alarming rate. Dorsal fins broke through the surface. Salvador was seated in the front of the boat and had begun winding the remainder of slack line when the first fish struck the chum bucket with a force that knocked both men from their seats. The fish ripped the bucket from the cleat that secured it, and then ripped the stainless steel cleat cleanly from its anchor point. The creature rolled, an enormous forked tail emerging from the water. The fishermen did not see it since both were lying flat on their backs. They tried regaining balance and composure by gripping the gunnels and pushing themselves upright—only to be knocked down yet again by a second torpedo-like blast that hit the dory off the port-side bow. Salvador stood fore of the dory’s mid-line when the jolt caused him to fall forward violently. As he stumbled and fell, his head hit the front seat, his right arm snapped as it lodged between the seat and the cooler. The weight of his body was just too much for the aged, brittle ulna and radius bones. The sound was like a rifle shot. The scream was blood curdling. Tomas righted himself and tried starting the motor. In haste, he over-choked the carburetor and the engine coughed as the starter rope was
pulled. He tried another pull but froze in disbelief as the largest fish he had ever seen clamped its huge maw on the engine’s entire lower unit, propeller and shaft. It shook its head ferociously as if trying to rip the motor from the dory's transom.

  The entire boat shuddered, on the brink of being torn apart. The fish’s long and muscular body quivered in violent spasms. The fisherman gasped. If this wasn’t bad enough, many other large fish now circled the dory. He had no idea what they were. His body trembled uncontrollably. Salvador pleaded in agony to the heavenly Father as he became aware of the compound fracture to his arm, bone protruding through flesh, blood pouring from the wound. “Please God, help me.”

  His appeal was answered almost instantly. The attack ceased as quickly as it had begun.

  CHAPTER 3

  Just before dusk that same day, Mimi Vandersleet walked with her standard poodle, Pisces, along a beach that lead from Boulder Point to Plover Dunes, two towns located east of Port Roosevelt. It’s a nice stretch of coarse sand and pebbles and, in late summer and early fall, it is usually devoid of large crowds typical of most other Long Island beaches during the high season. North shore beaches are not as popular as south shore areas like Jones Beach, Robert Moses, and the Hamptons. Those beaches are more suitable for comfortable sun bathing, having finer sand and larger waves; beach goers who preferred lying on soft sand always headed south. North shore beaches that face the open Sound are strewn with pebbles, rocks, and even small boulders, remnants of the terminal Hither Hills glacial moraine. That geological formation was the result of the Wisconsin Glacier coming to an abrupt halt more than twenty thousand years ago. The movement of the ice sheet carved out the land that is Long Island and gave the north shore its harbors and beaches, lumpy and bumpy as they are.

  But Pisces had no such bias against rocks. He loved running that beach with his owner and taking an occasional swim. Standard poodles are known for their love of water since their roots extend back as gundogs for German water fowlers. Pisces was no exception. He was a big dog, about seventy pounds, and he loved playing in the surf. Pisces was especially partial to swim and retrieve games. Mimi always carried a rubber training dummy with her on their walks, tossing it out into the Sound and delighting in Pisces’s willingness and ability to retrieve. She’d toss out the dummy as far as she could, signal Pisces to fetch, watch him swim out to retrieve the object and then return it to land. This game went on for a mile as the tide ebbed, receding to toward low water.