Glimpses

by J. E. Taylor

  My boat lurched on the choppy seas but we made it to the mark on the chart and dropped anchor in the path of the Gulf stream leading out into the heart of the vast Atlantic.

  “Here’s to crazy fishing!” Rob opened his first beer and tapped it against mine.

  From the first cast, the fish were biting. Crazy fishing was dead-on and by late afternoon, we had a cooler full to prove it. Between the beer, shooting the shit, and the heat of the afternoon sun, we lost track of time. It wasn’t until the first crack of thunder reached my ears that I turned toward the open sea.

  The magnificent sunset painted the clouds with broad brushstrokes of yellow, orange, magenta, and purple, bouncing colorful reflections that mixed with the whitecaps. In the distance, dark clouds lined the cold front overtaking the sky, rolling across the waves at a pace I knew I couldn’t outrun. Lightning crashed to the ocean like a stealth strobe crawling closer and closer with every breath and I swallowed hard, the bitter taste of beer lining my throat.

  I glanced at my best friend and then back at the closing storm, regretting the decision to take my used fifteen-foot speed boat out on the open ocean. It was made for river and lake cruising, not for outrunning a violent thunderstorm churning the seas. The crappy engine topped out at twenty-five miles an hour on a good day on the sedate York River, but I’d be lucky if I hit fifteen miles an hour on a rolling ocean.

  “Shit.” Surveying the seascape, I realized just how far we drifted. The rope to the anchor wasn’t very long. Certainly not long enough to drag on the bottom and stop us from drifting. When I dropped anchor, Boon Island had been within a mile of where we sat and now I estimated the distance closer to three miles.

  Maybe we’d be safe if I could reach the pile of rocks housing the lone lighthouse.

  Maybe.

  “I don’t know, Rob.”

  “No way to ride it out?”

  I laughed. “Not in this piece of shit. We’d be instantly fried.” Looking toward land, I could barely make out the Maine shoreline through the thin layer of fog that cropped up. “We might be able to make Boon Island.”

  “That’s nothing but a bloody rock.”

  “I know, but it’s either that or the storm.” I turned, pointing at the fast approaching lightning. A bright bolt with spindly arms reached from the cloud to the surface of the water. The crack of thunder reached us and we exchanged a glance.

  “Those options suck,” Rob muttered and dropped his empty in the beer cooler, rooting around for another one.

  “No shit.” I grabbed the rope and started coiling it on the bottom of the boat, hauling up the useless anchor.

  “Lot of good that thing did.” Rob pointed and tipped the newly opened beer to his lips.

  Shrugging, I dropped the anchor in the middle of the coil. “Yeah, well, at least we got a good run of fish.” I leaned one knee on the driver’s seat, flipped the ignition key and blew out a stream of air at the rough putter of the motor. I turned the bow toward Boon Island.

  I glanced back at the storm and my mouth went dry. Fierce gusts of wind blew my hair into a frenzy, the edges whipping at the corner of my eyes, and I wished I had listened to my dad and gotten a damn haircut. Thunder boomed with a baritone quality that resonated through the frame of my boat and the electrical current in the air left a bitter metallic tang in my mouth, making me crave another beer.

  I had just a little under a mile to go and I pushed the small engine, revving it to the point it screamed over the now constant rumble. Another quick glance over my shoulder told me what I already knew. The storm was faster than my boat, but I was determined to get us to the rocky island before we were fried by a bolt of lightning.

  “You might want to put on that life vest.” I pointed my chin toward the neatly stowed vest, sounding much calmer than I felt. My heart raced in my chest, pounding against the security of the life vest encasing my torso. My palms slid on the steering wheel despite the death grip I had on it, and I met Rob’s questioning stare. I never went out on a boat unprepared and Rob never ceased to rag me about any of it either, but now I saw a fragment of regret in his eyes just before he turned aft.

  “Holy shit!” Rob’s reaching hand shot faster toward the life vest, his exclamation driving my gaze to the back of the boat.

  A wall of water headed toward us and my eyes nearly shot out of my head. “Oh fuck!” I yelled, feeling the stern dip a few feet into the curve of the wave.

  Time halted, transitioning into the sluggish slow motion of a nightmare.

  The back of the boat lifted into the body of the wave and both coolers tumbled over our heads. Empty cans of Budweiser scattered on the water in front of us before being sucked into the crest. The fish cooler dropped like a hundred-pound weight, barely missing Rob as he frantically tried to get the life vest unzipped and over his head.

  He held onto his seat with one hand, screaming like a girl as the boat rose toward the crest. It struck me funny until the anchor whipped into the air and hit him in the forehead, leaving a bloody welt and knocking him out. He slumped and his body tumbled from the seat, suspended in the air for a brief instant.

  My laugh turned into the same high-pitched shriek and I let go of the seat reaching for him, the fabric of his t-shirt grazing my fingertips before gravity yanked him away. He fell over the bow into the water and my head snapped around, focusing on the rogue wave, my scream dulled by the roar of the thunder.

  Gravity won the fight with my boat and it plummeted bow first before capsizing at the base of the wave, plunging me headfirst into the icy ocean. I had the presence of mind to close my mouth shut before it filled with cold sea water.

  The pull of the wave tugged at me as it sailed over the capsized boat. The motor sputtered and died from the rush of saltwater entering the engine, yet I still had the steering column in my grasp. The white rope attached to the anchor dangled into the blackness below. Drifting down beside the rope was Rob’s body; his eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted, leaving a thin trail of bubbles as seawater replaced the air in his lungs.

  Fear and the buoyancy of the life vest kept me pinned to the seat. I let go of the steering wheel and terror swept through me. I tried twice to reach Rob, but my life vest stunted my progress and taking it off in the rolling waters wasn’t an option my panicked brain would entertain. My lungs burned, and if I didn’t get to the surface soon; I would give in to the need to take a breath.

  I kicked hard, feeling a twinge in my calf as I pushed to get clear from the tumbling boat. I headed for the last slivers of light reflecting off the surface before the storm stole them from me.

  Surfacing, I gasped, drawing a deep breath of air along with a stream of salt water. I sputtered, coughing, spraying water from my mouth and drew wheezing air into my lungs. I bobbed in the rough waves, trying to get my bearings. Thunder pressed against my eardrums, even though the heart of the storm was still close to a mile away.

  The shakes gripped me and a sob escaped. Frantic, I dove in the water, trying to kick my way down again, trying to reach Rob, to save him but I didn’t have the strength and the life vest pulled me back above the surface.

  Rob’s death crashed into me harder than the wave that capsized my boat. Yeah, Rob could be a pain in the ass, but he and I had been best friends since the second grade. “Sorry, Rob,” I sobbed and the survival instinct took over, shaking the grief out of my head before it yanked me under and left me for dead.

  I turned in a slow circle and spotted Boon Island a few hundred yards to my right and started a slow crawl stroke, trying to get to the rocks I could see jutting out of the ocean. Harsh sobs hitched in my chest, drowned out by the thunder overhead.

  The cold water bit my skin, draining me of heat, draining me of energy, and I cursed, pushing myself forward against the battering of waves and the urge to give up. By the time I edged onto the rock, my fingers were frozen in stiff claws, too cold to bend or straighten without shooting pains and my toes were as good as gone. The stiffness c
rept along my limbs, throbbing all the way to the bone and I figured it would take years to feel warm again.

  I crawled toward the safety of the granite lighthouse; the driving rain pelted my back as I made my way forward, stinging my semi-numb skin. The bitter wind raked over my body, making me colder than I thought possible. Being struck by lightning was a distant thought surrounded by the very real possibility I might freeze to death instead.

  A small patch of soft sand sat next to the base of the lighthouse and I inched onto it. A sliver of radiant warmth still locked in the grains caressed my cheek and I closed my eyes. I don’t know how long I lay like that; I think I passed out because when I opened my eyes again, all was quiet except for my chattering teeth.

  The storm had passed and the deep clear night sky filled my vision. I could see the Nubble Lighthouse and all the tiny lights along the southern coast of Maine.

  My breath came in plumes of white fog on the cold air, I tried to push myself to my knees but my muscles seized and I groaned, falling back onto the sand. I rolled onto my back, digging my hand into the damp pocket of my jeans.

  “P-p-please God, p-p-please don’t let the battery be dead.”

  I shimmied the bag out and my hands shook so bad it took me three tries to open the zipped bag. Finally, my numb fingers wrapped around the phone and I pulled it out, flipping it open.

  My chin trembled and my eyes blurred with tears. The display showed bright in the darkness and I had never been so thankful to see the two slim bars showing I had service. I dialed home, sobbing as my mother picked up the phone.

  “JESUS MATT, WHAT THE hell were you thinking?” my father ranted in the hospital room even before they took the warming blankets off. My teeth still chattered, and my burning eyes swung from my angry father to my crying mother.

  “Stop it John. He’s lucky to be alive.” My mother sniffled in his direction.

  The nurse said it was a miracle I survived, that I hadn’t bled to death or died from hypothermia. Under the blanket, my leg throbbed to life, the stitches coming alive, morphing to a burning pain lining my calf from ankle to knee where the engine blade sliced to the bone. The cold water stunted my circulation enough to slow the bleeding and kept me alive long enough to be rescued.

  “I know he’s lucky to be alive but it was still irresponsible to take that boat out as far as he did alone.”

  “I wasn’t alone.” My voice rose above the pending argument and both their heads swiveled in my direction. Tears brimmed before I could find the rest of the words.

  “Ah, Matty, what have you done?” my mother asked.

  EVERY DAY, THE SOFT whisper of the water lapping the rocky shore reminds me that I killed my best friend. Whenever I close my eyes, I still see him falling into the abyss with bubbles drifting from his mouth.

  In my nightmares, he’s pulling me down with him.

  I haven’t been in the ocean since.

  The End

  Thank you for reading ABYSS. If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review.

  Grayson House

  Silence encompassed the cul-de-sac where the Grayson house sat. No one in the yard moved, and the surrounding twenty acres of dense forest felt unusually still. Nothing we would have expected for our annual neighborhood Halloween bash, even for the pre-party setup, which in the past, rivaled the noise of the actual party.

  We were late. The rest of the neighborhood committee had gathered a couple of hours ago to begin setting up but I got held up at the station. Linda, my wife, wouldn’t go down to the Graysons’ without me, not since the episode with the Graysons’ son last year. He freaked her out, decorating the lawn with wax creatures that scared the crap out of all our children. I almost arrested him for the temper tantrum he threw when we made him put the figures away. To this day, Linda swears one of the statues was our neighbor’s dog that went missing a few weeks before Halloween, but I never found proof to support her theory.

  Linda and I exchanged a glance as I stopped half a block away. The clumps of unmoving bodies coupled by a distinct odor hanging in the air sparked my intuition. The scent was familiar and it took a moment to pinpoint what it was. Instinctively, I reached for my Glock, but instead of the reassuring metal, my fingertips grazed my shirt.

  Shit.

  My gun was at home in the safe.

  Maybe it was just a dead animal. Either way, I didn’t want my children to see the source of the odor. “Take the kids back home,” I said.

  Linda grabbed Alex and Alyssa’s hands, turning them away.

  Alex yanked his arm, trying to break Linda’s grip. “But I want to go to the party!”

  I forced a smile and crouched down to his level. “We’re a little early. I’ll come get you when everything’s ready.”

  The crease between Linda’s brows deepened as I stood back up. Her eyes pleaded with me to accompany them back home. I held her steady gaze, and after a moment, she gave me a slight nod.

  “But Dad?” Alex and Alyssa both began.

  “Go,” I said, pointing back toward our house. “Or no trick or treating tonight!” They stopped struggling and I watched them trudge back the way we came. Before disappearing around the corner, Linda shot me a worried glance over her shoulder.

  I turned my attention back to the Graysons’ yard. Still, no one moved from their places on the front lawn. As I moved closer, the breeze shifted and the scent of spoiled meat became thicker.

  I halted in the middle of the street, my mouth suddenly so dry my tongue stuck to the roof. It was definitely more than just a dead animal but the ancient oak tree at the end of the driveway blocked most of my view. I inched forward, pulling the phone out and dialing 911.

  “This is Trooper Josh Reynolds with the state police...I, uh...,” I trailed off as I approached the yard, my brain unable to wrap around what I was seeing. This year, it wasn’t wax figures propped in front of the house. I took shallow breaths but the stink still permeated into my mouth, leaving a vile taste at the back of my throat.

  “What is the nature of the emergency?” the operator asked reminding me that I had placed the call.

  “Drop the phone.” Paul Grayson, a six-foot-three, two-hundred-pound teenager stepped into view with a rifle pointing at my chest.

  I moved the phone away from my ear, holding both arms away from my body. “Easy,” I said, but I didn’t close the cell phone.

  The rifle report broke the silence. My phone flung away in pieces, the bullet tearing it out of my hand, leaving a bloody trail across my palm.

  “Shit!” I yanked my hand to my chest. “What the hell are you doing?”

  A small chuckle erupted from Paul as he centered the gun on my chest. He gave a nod toward the front yard. “Like the art this year?”

  I turned toward the carefully propped bodies. The putrid stench radiated from his dead parents. They were positioned at a small card table with empty plates sitting in front of them. Each body held a fork in one bloated hand and a knife in the other. The serving plate caught my attention. Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed hard, forcing it back. The head of Paul’s younger sister, Mabel, sat in the center of the serving plate with a dead black bird stuffed into her gaping mouth.

  Beyond the Graysons were the members of the setup committee and this time I wasn’t able to stop the vomit from escaping. I turned and spewed on the road. Paul skewered four entire families into the ground, posing them into warped adaptations of Hansel and Gretel, Billy Goats Gruff, Rumpelstiltskin, and Little Red Riding Hood and my family would have been added to the grand spectacle had I not been running late.

  When I finished emptying the contents of my stomach onto the asphalt, I spit and wiped my mouth on my sleeve, straightening up. “You’ve been busy.” My voice shook, despite my attempt to control it.

  “And you ruined my fun.” Paul stepped further into the open, the rifle still trained on the center of my chest. “You were supposed to bring your family with you.” He moved the rifle slightly to h
is right and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet tore through my left shoulder, knocking me to the ground.

  Harsh sounds came from my chest as I caught my breath and scrambled to my feet, holding my ruined shoulder. I attempted a round house kick as he crossed the distance, but he sidestepped and jammed the rifle barrel into my thigh, pulling the trigger again. The round was muffled, but my scream wasn’t. I collapsed on the ground.

  Paul grabbed the back of my shirt, dragging me down his driveway toward the garage as he whistled a tune from Snow White.

  Slaughterhouse was the first thing that popped to mind as he dragged me inside. Blood dripped from the ceiling, streaking the walls. The floor was covered in a slick layer that he navigated easily in his work boots. Multiple chairs were arranged around the biggest pool of blood and he yanked me through it, hauling me into the farthest one.

  “You made me take down the fairy tales last year,” he muttered, binding my arms behind my back and ignoring my shriek of protest.

  When he moved in front of me, I kicked him in the shin. Paul rammed his fist into my bloody thigh and I howled in pain and frustration. He shoved a bloody rag between my lips, muffling my angry outburst. I gagged as the coppery taste filled my mouth.

  “No one’s telling me to take them down this year.” He tied my good leg to the chair and stepped away, lifting his phone to his ear. “Mrs. Reynolds, hey, it’s Paul Grayson. Your husband asked me to give you a yell to ask if you wouldn’t mind bringing a salad bowl down.” Paul cupped his hand over the phone’s microphone, cutting off the muffled noises I was making behind the rag. “He’s outside helping my parents tap the keg. Okay. I’ll tell him. See you in a few.” He folded the phone, smiling at me.