THE BOATMAN COMETH

by Aaron Pfau
 

"CHRIST, WOULD you believe that!”

“What?”

That!

Rachel Torres lifted her head from the inflatable kayak she was reclining in. Her strained ears picked up the hum of a motor beneath her husband’s complaining, a low rumbling sound. She tipped the brim of her straw sunhat over her eyes and saw a white and blue speedboat tearing circles in the distance, spitting up large foam jets in its wake.

She eased back into the plastic PVC boat, gently rocking with the waves cast by the careening craft. “It is a public lake, you know?” she sighed.

“Yeah, but it’s a big lake,” Dan continued to grumble.

As his wife buried her face, already protected from the sun’s unremitting glare by the hat and a pair of sunglasses, in the folds of a Newsweek magazine, Dan also reclaimed his place at the bottom of the inflatable kayak. His motions were less graceful and caused it to rock further. Rachel cleared her throat as she flipped a page to show her displeasure. However, Dan didn’t notice. He was still frowning at the speedboat many yards away.

“Can’t you just try to relax?” his wife prodded.

Dan jabbed an angry thumb at their incessantly romping neighbour. “How can I when Cristopher Columbus over there has to explore our part of the lake?”

“It’s not our part of the lake,” Rachel returned, pitching her voice low in a mocking imitation of her husband’s.

“We were here first,” Dan muttered under his breath. Dipping his feet into the cool water, he rested his head on the synthetic tube and tried to recapture the sleep that had been so rudely taken from him by this unwelcome guest.

The couple, both in their early thirties, lounged in the bright yellow kayak bobbing lazily on the surface of the lake, their legs crisscrossed to conform to the cramped space. As the speedboat bounced, producing a fresh crash, Dan resumed fuming.

He didn’t necessarily expect to have the entire lake to himself, even though the season for boating was well past its prime. He knew there’d undoubtedly be a few early-autumn stragglers making the most of their last opportunity to soak up the waves. However, there was no good excuse for the lake’s only other occupant on this sunny September morning to be doing circles and making a commotion in the sole inhabited part.

Crystal Cove Lake is a 420-acre extension of a sizable public park. It’s a sprawling affair consisting of many twisting channels and inlets hidden from sight by clusters of tall islands. The park itself is home to over 2,600 additional acres, offering numerous trails, fishing docks, picnic grounds, and a sandy beach boarded by lush green grass. From the boat launch, which is located on the park’s north-eastern side, one gains access to the lake.

Even during the peak summer season, overcrowding is never an issue. Those seeking privacy merely have to navigate to the lake’s further regions sheltered by high peninsulas of eroding land. It’s possible for dozens of boaters to be out and never meet.

Which is why Dan struggled to fathom the motives that brought the lake’s only other resident into such close proximity to himself. The speedboat was nearer now. He squinted to read the name of the craft printed on its sides in big, aquamarine letters.

ABOAT TIME

Hardy fucking har, he thought. We’ve got a real funny guy over here. He rolled his eyes back in his skull and let out a loud groan.

Rachel exhaled a deep sigh that fluttered the magazine page she was reading. “Are you still worked up about our friend over there?”

“That son of a bitch is getting closer.”

“Shh, he’ll hear you,” she scolded. “Sound travels across water.”

This produced a scoff. “I can’t hear myself think over that racket!” Dan said. “I don’t know how you can sit there and read.”

Sensing that her husband’s wrath wouldn’t be placated until he had an ear to vent to, she laid the magazine in her lap and looked at him through the tinted frames of her sunglasses. “You’re really letting this guy get under your skin,” she said. Her lips twisted into a playful smirk. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” This elicited from him the hollow mockery of a laugh. “Come on, honey, get real. What on earth do I have to be jealous about?”

She shrugged. “Boat envy?”

He laughed again. “You’re crazy, you know that? You’ve been reading too much of that women’s lib garbage. Just because Mr. Show Off over there wants to prance around in his speedboat doesn’t mean I’m going to turn this into a pissing match.”

“That sounds exactly what you’re turning this into.” She clasped her hands together and squealed, a shrill sound amplified by the surrounding water. Beneath the black fabric of her one-piece swimsuit, her breasts heaved with amusement.

“Oh, knock it off.”

Dan rolled onto his side away from the rollicking speedboat, sulking, hoarding his anger to himself. The sun beat down upon his pink skin, already showing signs of burning. The water drifting past the kayak threw blinding rays into his eyes. He closed them, wishing that he could close his ears to the noise as well.

After a while, he heard his wife pick up her magazine and continue reading.

“What’s going on in the world?” he asked without budging.

“Hmm?”

“What are you reading about?”

She turned a page. “Ukraine.” Then another. “The Russians bombed a theatre in Mari-poolMari-pole… I don’t know how to pronounce it.”

Dan rolled over to look at her, shielding his eyes with his hand. “I thought we agreed to leave our phones in the car to avoid doom surfing?”

“You’re right,” she admitted. “It’s too nice a day.”

She discarded the copy of Newsweek in the bottom of the kayak and rotated her shoulders to massage the stiffness. Then she exercised her arms above her head, forcing out a pleasurable moan. She sank further down, sliding into Dan’s lap, resting her feet on his shoulders, allowing the side of the craft to push the wide sunhat over her face.

The incessant hum of the speedboat grew louder. Staring over the top of his wife’s left foot, Dan saw that it had stopped doing circles and was now accelerating steadily in their direction, coming on fast, its powerful twin propellers churning the water.

“I wish Putin would drop a bomb on our friend over there,” Dan muttered.

“Who’s not funny,” came his wife’s voice from beneath the straw hat.

“He’s getting closer.”

“Just ignore him.”

“He’s coming our way.”

“Maybe he heard you call him a son of a bitch.”

Dan squinted hard to get a look at the pilot sitting behind the enclosed cockpit. A glare on the windshield prevented his seeing inside. The deck was otherwise empty. There was no one else onboard. Despite now being only thirty yards away from the diminutive floating kayak, the pilot did not alter his speed or course. Each time the hull smacked against a wave and came crashing back down brought it that much nearer.

“Hey, honey, he’s getting awfully close,” Dan said, “and he’s going pretty fast.”

Rachel cocked her head. “What did you say?”

She felt her husband slide into a sitting position. Her feet sagged to the waist of his blue swim shorts. The plastic sides of the kayak squeaked as his palms gripped them. There was something of fright in how slow and apprehensive his movements were.

“Maybe he doesn’t see us,” he said.

“This thing?” She slapped the bright yellow inflatable. “You can see it a mile away. He’s just trying to make you flinch. Don’t let him get your goat.”

Dan shook his head slowly from side to side. “No, I don’t think so.”

The boat stayed its course with no change in speed or direction. As it cruised nearer, a single, terrible thought suddenly crowded all others from his mind.

What if there’s something wrong with the boat? If the throttle’s stuck or the wheel’s jammed the pilot may no longer have control of his vessel.

An even more terrible one hit him simultaneously.

Or what if there’s something wrong with the pilot? Maybe he’s had a heart attack or a stroke or some other medical emergency that made him lose consciousness.

“HEY! HEY!” Dan hailed, waving his arms about.

Rachel sat bolt upright, startled by the alarm she heard in her husband’s voice. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

Dan’s face had a strange look on it that she had never seen there before. A frantic, deer-in-headlights look. “Jesus, he’s right on top of us!” he cried.

Rachel turned her nose slowly in the direction indicated by her husband’s panic-stricken eyes. The blue water and cloudless sky were both blotted out by a gigantic white object. It took her a full second of open-mouthed gaping to recognize that she was looking at the hull of a boat, no more than three yards away and closing the distance very quickly.

“We’re going to have to jump!” Dan yelled.

Rachel failed to hear the command. Spellbound by the image that her brain hadn’t yet comprehended, she was able only to sit and stare in mute awe. The thunderous roar of those massive twin engines drowned out all else.

For Dan, things got real quiet real fast. In slow motion, he saw the angled bow of the boat barrelling toward them. He saw the two propellors effortlessly dicing the water like the blades of a lawnmower. He saw the dreamy inertia on his wife’s face. In one fell swoop, his escalating terror dropped like a cloak, and he leaped into action.

“For God’s sake, woman, jump!”

He clutched blindly for his wife, seizing a handful of her long brunette hair between his fingers. Without wasting another moment, he removed himself from the kayak by diving headfirst into the water, dragging her unceremoniously behind him.

Rachel was jerked from her paralysis by a burning pain on her scalp. In another instant, she felt cold water splashing across her face, over her shoulders. It was by slow degree that she became aware she was submerged in it. In her clumsy exit, her feet had toppled the paddle resting across the kayak’s sides. It bumped her legs as it sank further down. Then she opened her eyes and realized where she was being pulled.

Down.

She pinched her lips to hold her breath. Through a film of murky water, she saw the soles of her husband’s feet kicking them deeper and deeper toward the sandy bottom. From somewhere above, a reverberating grrrrrrRRRRRRrrrrrr sliced across the water; gradually increasing and decreasing in intensity.

Dan had been in some measure prepared for his wild plunge into the lake. Rachel had not and lacked a store of oxygen to sustain her for very long. Choking and sending up bubbles, she struggled to free herself from her husband’s grip; he seemed possessed with the idea of swimming as far down as he was able to get.

Oblivious to his wife’s perilous condition, motivated only by the desperate urge to put as much distance as possible between himself and those mangling propellors, Dan’s rigid fingers didn’t give up their hold. She had to wrench each individual one from her hair before finally coming loose. Even then, Dan continued his descent, unaware of her absence.

Suffocating, her lungs depleted, Rachel kicked her legs and shot up to the surface. She emerged gasping for breath, heaving in big mouthfuls of air. After she inhaled her fill, she smoothed back the matted hair sticking to her face and glanced around.

In the white frothy wake of the departing speedboat floated the evidence of its destructive power. Patches of yellow plastic, shrunken to minuscule size, drifted on the waves that their inflatable kayak had just moments ago rested on. Pages of the magazine she had been reading, shredded to confetti, bobbed amidst the devastation.

Waving her arms to stay afloat, she looked down at one such article and recognized the picture she had previously studied of the bombed-out theatre in Ukraine.

“Christ Almighty, he’s going to crash!”

Dan’s voice, coming from behind. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he had also emerged and was staring at the vaulting speedboat through splayed fingers. She followed his gaze that realized that he was right.

The boat was cruising directly toward an island of land with a steep, rocky shoreline some distance above the water’s surface. Rachel snapped her eyes shut and braced for the inevitable impact. But it didn’t come.

Through his fingers, Dan watched in amazement as the speedboat very skilfully and very deliberately swerved away at the last second, perfecting a complete U-turn and riding its own wake back in the same direction it had gone.

He’s coming back for us, thought Dan. He’s realized his mistake and he’s coming back to pick us up! Mistake? Which is the understatement of the century. Dan supposed he should have harboured more anger at the careless sailor who almost ended their lives and certainly ended their peaceful day of relaxation.

Remarkably, he felt only relief that the dire situation they had all been briefly but frighteningly engaged in was resolved without injury.

“He’s coming back for us,” Dan said out loud. “HEY! OVER HERE! HEY!”

“Why isn’t he slowing down?”

A second glance revealed that his wife was correct. The boat was approaching at full speed without showing any signs of slowing.

“What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Dan demanded. “Is he out of his mind?”

“I don’t know,” panted Rachel. “But if he doesn’t slow down soon, he’s going to turn us into mincemeat just like our kayak.”

As the boat drew nearer, advancing precisely toward the drifting swimmers, Dan cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “STOP! STOP!”

“Honey, I don’t think he’s going to-”

“STOP!”

Dan looked at his wife and saw the confusion on his face mirrored in her eyes. In a mousey little voice, she asked, “Dan, why isn’t he stopping?”

He could only shake his head in silent bewilderment. He had no way of explaining the strange behaviour of the pilot. Nor did he have time to meditate on it.

“He’s headed straight for us!” he cried. “GET DOWN! GET DOWN!”

Both sucked in large gulps of air before disappearing under the water. The speedboat tore across the spot where they’d been, beating the lake into white swirls with its two slashing propellers that hung low and missed the couple’s diving feet by mere inches. Again, there was a reverberating grrrrrrRRRRRRrrrrrr as the boat passed above like a shadow, momentarily blocking out the sun and darkening the sky.

Dan emerged first, panting, filling his chest. The stern of the speedboat bounded over the patch of water his wife had been floating in moments ago, and where the ripples indicating her descent could still be seen. Emblazoned on the back of the boat was the same moniker that was printed on its two sides in big, aquamarine letters: ABOAT TIME.

Rachel resurfaced with a splash and a gasp. “We’ve got to get out of the water!” she cried. Her voice was shrill and desperate. “We’ve got to get help!”

“He didn’t even slow down,” Dan murmured to himself.

Rachel saw the look of slack-jawed disbelief on his face. She swam over and gripped him by the shoulders, attempting to shake him from the lethargy that held him immobile. “Of course, he didn’t slow down!” she shouted. “He crashed into us on purpose. He’s trying to hit us. Don’t you see? Can’t you understand that?”

Can’t you understand that?

How could she expect her husband to understand what she could barely grasp herself? It defied all logic and reason. There was no sense to it. No motive. Why would someone decide to terrorize two complete strangers in the middle of broad daylight at a public park? Everything pointed to a colossal misunderstanding, a convoluted series of events that she had somehow misinterpreted and distorted into something sinister.

Dan likewise racked his brain for some defence to protect himself from the horrible truth unfolding before his eyes and becoming increasingly difficult to deny. He could think of none, and as the speedboat completed another U-turn and began accelerating again in their direction, he felt more than just the chill water nipping at his vitals.

All at once, the wall he’d built to shield his fragile ego crumbled into tiny pieces. “He’s got to be psychotic,” Dan blurted out. “There’s no other way to explain it. He could have hit us. Hell, he could have killed us. He’s fucking nuts!”

“What are we going to do?”

Rachel searched her husband’s features for the look of quiet determination she sometimes saw reflected in those moments when she lacked the courage to nurse even a spark of hope. When they were drowning in debt and so choked by the mortgage on their house that they seemed certain to lose it all. When the large oak tree in the front yard was struck by lightning and fell into their roof, demolishing the entire living room and dining area. In those awful moments, it was Dan’s strength and determination that pulled them through.

The lack of expression on his face was almost more frightening to her than the words that presently came from his mouth. “Listen to me, honey. He’s coming around for another shot. We’re going to have to dive under again. When you come back up, swim as fast as you can toward the shore. If we keep going like this, we’re going to drain our energy and drown before that lunatic has the chance to slice us into ribbons.”

An adequate swimmer at best, Rachel glanced with uncertainty at the distant shore that seemed very far away. They had been lounging in the middle of this further region of the lake and were a good distance out in any direction. She blinked at her husband and said, “Dan, I don’t think I can swim that far. I can’t—I can’t do it.”

He heard a note of hysteria in her voice and softened his own in reply. “If it comes to it, I’ll swim for both of us. What’s important to remember is not to waste your energy doing a frantic dog paddle. Go fast but steady. Long strokes and take plenty of breaths. All you need to do is get close enough until you can touch bottom.”

She nodded weakly. “Do you think it would do any good to shout?”

In answer to her question, Dan glanced around at the high peninsulas of woodland surrounding them on all sides, each devoid of any trace of life.

“Who’s going to hear us?” he challenged. “The parking lot was empty when we pulled in and we haven’t seen a single person since.”

Rachel refused to give up on this last refuge of hope. “Someone might hear us,” she ventured. “It’s like I said, sound travels across water.”

“We don’t have time. Look, here he comes. Take a deep breath and get down!”

If Rachel needed any further convincing that screaming her lungs out would accomplish nothing more than wasting precious breath, she got it when she ripped her eyes off Dan and saw the speedboat charging at them. Before disappearing under, she let out a petrified shriek that even she was unable to hear above the engine’s roar.

Her ears were still ringing with its residual echo as she dropped beneath the surface after a last-second gulp of air. As she swam deeper down, her left foot actually kicked the hull. The twin propellers repeated their murderous chopping of the water above the young couple with the same rising and falling
grrrrrrRRRRRRrrrrrr.

When she floundered back up, she saw that Dan had already begun his swim toward the shore. Nearly two yards away, he was feverishly stroking his arms as if clutching for some out-of-reach object, his feet thrusting him on.

Rachel swivelled her neck this way and that, trying to get her bearings. The speedboat was gaining distance in preparation for another strike. As it retreated, she caught a single glimpse of the pilot sitting behind the cockpit. For indeterminable seconds, the image held her too mesmerized to move. A bald head above a bright yellow raincoat. From her vantage point, she could see no more. However, this brief glimpse filled her with a nameless dread for the sole reason that it put a very real and very human face on her assailant.

“For the love of God, SWIM!”

Ceasing his efforts, Dan cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted at his wife, who was bobbing motionlessly in the water like a buoy. She snapped back to reality and started wildly to swim. Her technique was clumsy and awkward. Her palms paddled the water in the same inefficient manner her husband had warned her against. Her feet flopped up and down with a plunk, plunk, plunk that sent up splashes.

Dan quickly recognized that, at this rate, it would take her over half an hour to reach the shore, if she’d ever reach it at all. He didn’t think they had half an hour. Not if they had to keep stopping and plunging underneath every time the speedboat made a killing circuit in their direction. Something floating on the surface of the lake suddenly caught his eye. To his left, perhaps ten yards away, the weeds rose in a thick jungle of green.

If he could lure the pilot to that spot, it was possible they may tangle up his propellors. Of course, a quick, hard blast of reverse could easily clear the blades. However, such a manoeuvre would take a few seconds to complete. During that time, he might feasibly be able to resurface, grab a hold of some part of the vessel, and board it.

What would happen next, he hadn’t the foggiest idea. He was startled to find the train of his thoughts shifting from that of self-preservation to that of combat. In no realm of the imagination had he humoured the notion that his peaceful early-morning kayaking trip would end in a fight for his life. There was scarcely a chance for total success. He knew all too well how powerful and sharp those twin propellers were.

Even if the gnarled weeds did cause the engines to stall, admission onto the boat would only invite a host of further dangers. All of this was assuming that they could make it to the territory choked by seaweed and that the bloodthirsty pilot would follow them into the trap. There were a lot of variables, much more than Dan liked.

The chance his plan would work was slim at best, even given its most favourable turns. However, the way he saw it, it was the only chance they had.

“FOLLOW ME!” he cried to his wife, but without giving an explanation. Then he started swimming straight for the weeds.

Rachel obeyed, aware that the receding sound of the speedboat had grown much louder. Shooting a glance over her left shoulder, she saw that the pilot had performed another large, sickle-like turn and was coming fast in her direction. Her terror exploded into something primitive. The motions of her limbs became the wild and desperate motions of an animal caught in a snare trap. Her panic was the trap that held her inert.

After seven broad strokes, Dan permitted himself a backward look as well. What he saw caused his heart to leap into his throat. His stomach churned with dread as he realized that the pilot wasn’t pursuing his course but was instead swerving in the direction of his wife, who was lagging a few yards behind and struggling to keep afloat.

From a distance, he was able to evaluate the horrible scene as an abject spectator. Either through mental or physical exhaustion—or perhaps a deadly combination of both—Rachel floundered helplessly about in the water as the pilot steered his vessel with cold calculation and lethal accuracy toward this proverbial sitting duck.

“I can’t-” Rachel gurgled as her head bobbed under and back up. “Dan, I can’t swim anymore! I can’t—I can’t do it!”

“Hold on, I’m coming back!” Dan shouted. With heavy strokes, he swam away from the weedy spot he had just reached toward his wife.

Also setting his sights on the frightened woman, the pilot jammed the throttle to its highest gauge. The speedboat’s velocity increased. The hull broke the waves created by its previous attempt with a resounding CRASH as it hove closer.

For an instant, Dan found himself engaged in a frantic race that he knew he was destined to lose. “OVER HERE!” he cried in a futile effort to draw the pilot’s attention to himself. “OVER HERE, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

“I can’t swim!” Rachel repeated, sobbing hysterically.

Dan swam faster. “I’M COMING, BABE!” he yelled.

“I can’t do it!”

“GET DOWN! HE’S RIGHT BEHIND YOU!”

“I can’t-”

“GET UNDER THE WATER!”

Rachel spun around and saw the bow of the boat approaching with callous and inhuman cruelty. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” she shouted to the bald man in the yellow raincoat she knew was behind the tinted window of the cockpit. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US? WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LEAVE US ALONE?”

“DAMN IT, HONEY, GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET-”

At the very last moment, Rachel plunged beneath the water. Dan exhaled a sigh of relief through tight teeth. In the blink of an eye, however, she shot back up to the surface just as quickly as she had disappeared under, her wide open mouth sucking in air. Again, she sank below. Something about the way she moved struck Dan as unnatural. When she sprang up a second time as if jerked by an invisible string, his blood froze in his veins, for he now realized that her lips, twisted into an expression of supreme agony, weren’t gulping for air but emitting a silent wail muffled by the roar of the boat’s engines.

Another second of perplexed staring revealed the awful truth. With it came a flood of nausea that almost caused the dazed husband to faint dead in the water. The world faded to a senseless blur before his eyes as he pieced together what had happened.

When Rachel, who continued to dunk in and out of the lake like a bobber whose hook is being nibbled on, dove underneath to evade the incoming vessel, she apparently hadn’t dived quick enough—or deep enough—to escape the low-hanging propellers.

For clumps of her long brunette hair were tangled in their swirling blades, which yanked her head up and down with each spinning circuit.

Dan couldn’t hear his wife’s screams as the speedboat sailed away, all the while dragging her behind like an abused ragdoll, but he could hear his own. They echoed hideously in his ears. At one point, he sank underwater from lack of kicking. The bubbles that floated to the surface gave testimony to the anguish of the sustained howling beneath.

When he did manage to splash back up, he witnessed a fearsome sight.

Rachel saw nothing but the blades spinning nearer and nearer to her face each time her hair was pulled tighter around. Rushing water pounded every part of her body. Her torso skimmed parallel across the waves like a paddle board being towed along. The opposing force added tenfold to the pain on her scalp, which was being slowly ripped from the top of her head. She reached down and clutched at the knotted mass of hair in an effort to free herself. With fluid ease, the propellers diced off all of her fingers.

She held her hands out before her and gazed with petrified wonder at the white knobs of bone spewing red blood into the air.

Soon there was no hair left to twirl, and the maiming fins were at her face. The deafening bellow of the engines faded to mono as her left ear was severed. Her lips were sliced into a gruesome smirk that extended across her right cheek. She was sucked headfirst into the razors and pummelled like a piece of fruit in a blender. From front to back, the skin on her skull was peeled off like an old carpet being pulled up.

Dan heard the repulsive RIP in his imagination only, but it was enough to make him puke his guts into the clear water. The red trail the speedboat left in its wake allowed no room for speculation. Nor did the way his wife’s body bobbed facedown and unmoving in the lake, scalped like an Indian from a John Wayne western.

Dan retched again. The water around him grew foul with his sick. Fish appeared to nibble at the floating chunks. He threw his head back and let out a low moan. The hollow echo of his wail filled the sky, and he realized that the lake had grown quiet. Still sobbing, he whipped his head forward and saw that the speedboat had come to a stop. The engines hummed in idle. The twin propellers ceased their relentless spinning.

He glared at the silent vessel with a species of mixed hatred and astonishment. His teary eyes fixed themselves on the windshield of the cockpit, trying to penetrate the tinted glass and identify the human face of his tormentor and the killer of his wife. He was unable to distinguish any definite shapes, but he did see movement behind the window.

His anger boiled over, and he hurled a battery of curses against the unseen menace. “I’LL KILL YOU!” he shouted. “GET OUT HERE AND SHOW YOUR FACE, YOU COWARD! I’LL KILL YOU! I SWEAR BY GOD, I WILL! I’LL— I’LL— I’LL-” He broke into a series of hitching sobs. “Oh Lord, why? Why her? TELL ME WHY?”

There was no answer from the pilot, who gave a quick, hard blast of reverse to detangle Rachel’s hair from the propellers just as Dan had suspected he would the weeds. Then the speedboat clutched out of park and began another one of those wide, spacious turns that he recognized all too well as the prelude to an assault.

In spite of his sorrow, Dan hadn’t forgotten his plan or forsaken all hope that it could still be accomplished. He no longer cared if he lived or died. Only the thought of boarding the boat and confronting his wife’s murderer spurred him. With this in mind, he turned and swam to the spot where the weeds grew thickest.

This he gauged by the fact that kicking became an almost impossible task. The long groping plants reaching up from the lake’s bottom coiled around his calves, arresting, and nearly threatening to drown him.

It was with terrific difficulty that he managed to shake them off and resume. He wasn’t so much swimming anymore as he was crawling through the dense jungle of green growths, struggling merely to keep his head afloat. They continuously clutched at his arms and legs, wrapping themselves around his waist. He had the strange feeling as if he were wading through a sea of velvet curtains. He kept care not to allow himself to sink. If he did, he knew, there was a very real chance that he might not be able to make it up again.

Suddenly, he came upon an obstacle in the pulpy, tentacle-like mass. It jabbed his chin, causing it to bleed. Shaking fresh tears from his eyes, he yanked handful after handful of slimy clumps away to reveal a protruding log breaking the surface of the lake. It evidently belonged to an enormous fallen tree that lay somewhere beneath and didn’t drop as he shifted his entire weight on it for support by wrapping his arms around.

Stopping to catch his breath and rub his wounded chin, a thought came to him. He could use the log to his advantage. Assuming the bloodthirsty pilot would pursue him into the weeds for a chance to mow him down—a thing he already considered established by the way the speedboat was now gliding fast in his direction—he might augment the ruse by diving underwater just near the hidden projection. Even if the plants didn’t succeed in knotting up the twin engines, the sturdy log might damage one or both of them.

The pilot affirmed his intentions by punching the gauge into full throttle. The large foam jets the powerful propellers sent soaring into the air cast doubt in Dan’s mind that the weeds would have any effect on them at all. He clung close to the spar, acknowledging it as his best chance at success. His heart hammered in his ears, stifling even the approaching speedboat’s rising hum. Every muscle inside his body tensed in anticipation.

He set his teeth together and muttered, “Come on, you bastard, give me everything you’ve got. Don’t hold back.”

Confident in the capability of his craft and the certainty of his kill, the pilot did not alter his course. The image of that demon bow barrelling toward him at top speed caused Dan’s pulse to stop and he had to check his fright at risk of making a premature dive. When the familiar aquamarine inscription, ABOAT TIME, flashed across his strained retinas, he knew that his was surely up. With a gulp of air, he plunged beneath.

Using the moss-grown log as a lead, Dan descended deeper and deeper into the murk. His ears heard the muffled grrrrrrRRRRRRrrrrrr of the speedboat passing overhead. This time, however, it was halted by the explosive CRACK of splintering wood, followed by a mechanical rattling that reminded him of the noise a garbage disposal makes when a piece of silverware is caught in the blades. Then there was silence.

After an adequate space of time elapsed, he climbed cautiously again to the surface. Upon grabbing the top part of the branch, his fingers discovered that the formerly smooth and slime-covered bark was now rough and gouged as if from many axe blows, and he knew that his plan must have been at least a partial success.

He lifted his eyes above water and swivelled his head like a periscope. Only a few yards of oily water separated him from the speedboat, which bobbed motionlessly in place, humming in idle. The pilot revved the engines. There was no effect. The useless mechanical whirling coming from the propellers told Dan that either the weeds or the log had put them momentarily out of commission. But for how long?

That was the question. Fearing discovery before he had the chance to make a move, he wasted no time in springing into action.

With an intake of air, he dunked back down. A few powerful strokes brought him within grabbing distance of the boat. His fingers closed around the first object they fell upon. Horror flashed over him as he realized that it was one of the propeller blades choked by weeds. The pilot shifted gears for another hard blast of reverse.

He quickly removed his hold and pushed away. When he floated up, he found himself on the starboard side. The white and blue hull towered above him. From the stern, the propellers were emitting a high-pitched screech. Based on the lack of movement, Dan concluded that the log must have bent their fins, rendering them unable to spin.

Next, the vengeful husband searched the dormant vessel for means of an entrance. The high deck was well out of reach. However, halfway up, a yellow nylon rope ran parallel across the side. He sprang from the water and seized it with both hands.

Pulling himself out of the lake, he clung to the edge and made a brief canvass of the boat. Not daring more than a peek, he raised his eyes over the rail and saw that the pilot was still hidden behind the cockpit. All he could see from his position was an elbow clad in a yellow poncho cranking the throttle back and forth.

But that wasn’t all. In that single frightful glimpse, his ears picked up a sound that was, in a way, more dreadful to him than anything his eyes observed.

Humming.

Not the hum of disabled engines but the careless and easy-going hum of a human throat. Yes, despite the carnage he had just wrought, despite the perilousness of his own condition, the man behind the cockpit was humming a cheerful tune, possibly a lullaby. Somehow, this sent Dan’s skin in gooseflesh. His fear vied with his anger. However, one look at his wife’s body and all the rage came surging back to conquer the terror that had softened it. His pruned fingers tightened around the rail they hung from. Grinding his teeth together, his bloodshot eyes searched the deck for any available weapon near at hand.

His vision landed on the only object in sight. On the other side of the rail and fastened to a convoluted coil of rope, was a steel anchor. He froze indecisively. True, the pilot’s back was turned to him, but Dan had no way of knowing if he was armed. It would take time to wield the heavy anvil. An entry onto the boat could hardly be carried out noiselessly. If his adversary did have a gun, he’d blow his brains out before he had the chance to bash his in.

His only chance lay in timing his siege with another one of those propeller blasts. Maybe, just maybe, the sound would conceal his footfalls. As he set the soles of his feet on the nylon rope in preparation for a leap, his heart tallied the excoriating seconds that passed as the pilot fidgeted with the controls, all the while humming that sardonic lullaby. There was a mechanical grating as he raised the propellers above water, and Dan knew that the pilot’s next objective would be to come back and check them out for himself.

He had not a second to lose. In an impulsive, last-ditch effort, he dragged his body over the side and cartwheeled onto the deck. The continuing raising of the propellers reassured Dan that he had not been heard. He gripped the hooked anchor and tugged. He had vastly underestimated his remaining strength and found that he could barely lift it. With another mighty heave, he did manage to raise it to chest level.

Slowly, he inched his way over to the open cockpit passage. The weight in his hands was nothing compared to the weight in his heart. His feet trod the beige-coloured carpet without making a noise, and he was thankful that the floor had been fitted with carpet instead of vinyl or wood. The goosebumps covering every part of his body, the tightness in his balls, the way the hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention, none of this had anything to do with the cold water dripping down his neck, his back, his legs, leaving wet footprints to mark his progress. Two more paces and he was able to see the cabin’s interior.
In a leather captain’s chair sat a bald, heavyset man in a yellow poncho whose sleeve Dan had glimpsed. He was hunched over a dashboard of many knobs and dials. The grey-stubbled face with piercing black eyes mirrored in the tinted windshield showed a man of middle age. However, Dan had no time to study his features in detail, for, in another moment, those dark eyes fixed themselves on his reflection in the glass.

Drenched to the bone, wearing only a pair of sodden swim shorts, and cradling the bulky anchor in his arms, he thought that he looked like a neanderthal caveman on his way to kill some primitive woolly beast with a heavy rock.

The pilot stood, swivelling the chair as he turned to confront his would-be victim. There was a squeak as his palms slid up the leather armrests. He stopped humming. Then there was silence. Silence as the two men regarded each other; Dan wearing an expression of quiet hatred, the pilot’s blank features revealing nothing at all.

Blocking the passage, Dan brought the hooked anchor above his head. He badly wanted to speak, to curse, to shout, but was at a loss for what to say. In a voice shaky with restraint, he managed to force out one, simple word.

“Why?”

The pilot chewed his bottom lip. He seemed to be contemplating this. At length, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Why not?”

That was all he said. It was all Dan needed to hear.

He lunged swinging. He screamed.

The claw on the end of the anchor swept through the air with a woosh. The pilot dodged the blow. It tore into the captain’s chair, puncturing the leather and digging into the foam cushioning. Dan had put everything he had into the strike. The heavy anvil vaulted him across the cabin and onto the dashboard. His hip struck the wheel.

The pilot snapped the door open to an ornate wooden cabinet that had been installed on the opposite wall and removed something from inside. Struggling madly to pull the bowed anchor from the chair, Dan looked over his shoulder and saw with fresh panic that it was a pneumatic harpoon gun, an almost comical sight, like something you’d expect from a Jules Verne novel. Nevertheless, it increased the urgency with which he yanked. The anchor was dug deep and didn’t budge no matter how hard he pulled.

The pilot rammed a spear down the gun’s barrel.

“COME ON! COME ON!” shouted Dan.

He snatched the length of rope tied to it and pivoted his whole body back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. At last, he did manage to free the blunt object. It clattered to the ground with a dull thud. Too late. The pilot had already primed his weapon for use. He aimed it at Dan’s heart and pulled the trigger.

There was a hiss of compressed air being released. Dan saw the spear javelining at him in slow motion. He sprang forward in a clumsy somersault, coming up on the other side of the cramped cockpit. With an explosion of glass, the harpoon hit the dashboard, shattering the instruments, and wedging itself in the speedometer.

The pilot’s blank expression didn’t falter as he enlisted another spear from the cabinet and stuffed it down the shaft. Dan climbed to his feet, still clutching the anchor’s rope lead between his fingers. He wrapped it around his fist once, twice, three times. Retreating a few paces to put more distance between them, the pilot stood silhouetted in the open passageway. He pointed the firearm at Dan. His finger found the trigger.

With a battle cry that sapped him of his surplus strength, Dan swung the leash and tossed the anchor like a shot put. It struck his adversary square on the chest. The gun sailed from his hands, discharging its spear through the tinted window, which mushroomed into hundreds of tiny shards. The impact caused the pilot to stumble backward out of the cockpit, onto the deck, against the railing, and then overboard with a splash.

For a while, all Dan could do was gape, too stiff from exertion to even move. Everything was strangely quiet. He hurried out and peered over the side.

Tangled in a complex network of weeds and rope, the pilot thrashed about in an endeavour to free himself. Weighed down by the cumbersome raincoat and by the heavy anvil pressing on his chest, he sank further and further into the gloom. In the final throes, those black, lifeless eyes blazed with their first hint of genuine emotion.

Fear.

Soon there were only bubbles to mark his descent. Then they disappeared, too.

It was at this point that Dan’s exclamations of triumph gradually gave way to shrieks of terror, and then to peals of hysterical laughter.

He fainted.

Two hours later, an alert parkgoer cruising in his pontoon spotted the derelict vessel, and, after failing to rouse a reply from anyone onboard, hove beside to investigate. It was he who found the uncommunicative madman rocking to and fro on deck, and it was he who called the authorities after a secondary search yielded evidence of violence in the cockpit.

A woman’s mutilated body was located bobbing in the water nearby. Not being able to extract anything from the sole survivor except incoherent ravings, they drew their own conclusions. Obviously, a boating accident had occurred. The young woman, who must have been lounging in the inflatable kayak whose existence the floating pieces of yellow plastic verified, was hit by the distracted or reckless speedboat pilot.

Overcome by grief, the guilt of playing an unwilling role in the woman’s murder clearly caused the breakdown that led to his present condition. Without a witness to corroborate this theory, and the only living party in a very bad mental state, the scene was treated as a tragic misfortunate. The discharged harpoons in the cockpit they chalked up as the result of a half-hearted suicide attempt by the distraught manslayer.

Matters were greatly complicated when future inquiries revealed the astonishing fact that not only were the young couple married, but that the speedboat did not belong to them. No record or trace of its actual owner was ever found. As for what really happened on Crystal Cove Lake that sunny September morning, no one has ever been able to explain.

To this day, Dan Torres has uttered nothing intelligible, even to the staff of Dr. Waite’s hospital, where he currently resides and is being treated for the psychological shock he experienced. Only one thing is certain, his mind has not been right since.

The last image he glimpsed before going mad was that of his wife’s killer being pulled to his watery grave by the jungle of groping plants. He might have held onto his last, remaining fragment of sanity had it not been for what he saw—or thought he saw—next. He might have stayed sane, I say, if he hadn’t imagined that he saw many pairs of hands—rotten, decayed, and caked with moss—pulling among the weeds.


Modify Website

© 2000 - 2023 powered by
Doteasy Web Hosting