Baked Scribe Flashback : In Deep
Tyson doused the lantern and looked out over the darkness of the lake. He eased back into his seat and waved the pole from side to side, dragging the bait through the water, trying to entice a bite. He would have to remember to tear Ricky a new one for recommending this new model of lure. One fish in the bucket was not his definition of success.
It was still peaceful to be out here, though. It centered him, sitting under the nighttime illumination. The lake was like a shimmering void that he floated across, going only where the current and the wind took him.
His mind was wandering, so he didn’t hear the sound at first, but when he did, he sat up, glaring at the deck underneath him.
Something was scratching at the bottom of the boat.
He was too far away from shore for there to be any undergrowth. He fished these waters enough to know, almost down to the foot, how deep the water was underneath him. Someone must have dumped something into the lake that was now floating underneath the boat. Idiot kids pitching God-knew-what out of the windows of their cars.
Whatever it was, the sound ceased as the boat passed over it. Tyson picked up another can of beer and cracked it open, savoring the popping of air being released and the smell of hops that wafted up over him. He let his attention drift back to the line again, and tried to clear away the pointless speculation.
Movement along the shoreline caught his attention and he looked to see that a small pack of wolves had come up to the water’s edge. They paced back and forth, staring out at him with eyes that glared in the moonlight, moving with a frantic, nervous energy. In his entire life he had never seen a wolf around here, let alone a pack like this. They looked nervous, like some unseen threat had put them close to bolting. Even out here on the water, he could hear their ragged breathing, see the mania in their eyes, and for the first time, he found himself contemplating the rifle, stowed underneath the bench. Before he had the chance to reach for it, one of the wolves yelped, as if in pain, and the pack ran off together.
Tyson lifted the can and took a long drink. He noticed that his hand shook slightly, and clenched his fist to keep himself from having to see it. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to drop the line and make for land, to turn the light back on and call it a night. His pride kept him from doing any of that.
He shivered as a cold breeze came in over the boat, and the silence was cruelly broken, by the sound of an animal shrieking, likely meeting its end out there somewhere in the woods. Needing a distraction, he reached down and twisted the knob on his prehistoric radio. The tinny sound of big band jazz came filtering through the tiny speaker. At least it gave him something to focus on.
Something, that was, other than the sensation that the boat was being pulled, taken out, away from the shore. There was a thin line of wake left behind as the boat cut through the water, no longer under his control. The water around him began to roil and steam. The boat started to roll along with the newly increasing wake and before long, he was being rocked from side to side, having to brace himself against the sides to keep from falling.
The boat rolled, flipping him over as well and, in a heartbeat, it was upside down, with him holding on to the bench, trying to keep his head above water in the pocket of air that had formed underneath. He looked down, as he treaded water, into the darkness below and saw the thin shapes of something starting to clarify as they rose from the depths.
He saw legs.
They looked like elongated spider legs, rising up, towards him. They reached up for him and far beyond, still rising up from the murky water below, he could make out twin, glowing red eyes as well. Before he could react, the legs snaked up to take hold of him and pulled him down.
His lungs burned, and the water stung his eyes as he opened them, the full moon providing just enough illumination that he could make out the thing hovering in the water in front of him. It was the size of a pickup truck. The dark skin undulated in the water with the dozen or so legs protruding from the spherical body. Scaly legs gripped his head and began to force his mouth open. He cried out and began to choke on lake water as he felt the pain of multiple puncture wounds up and down his arms and legs.
He had read about how drowning felt like falling asleep and, as he saw the widening mouth of razor sharp teeth coming at him, he welcomed the sensation of ebbing weightlessness, and gave in as his eyes began to slide shut.
Waking up was not something he was prepared for.
He was lying on his back on the boat, the case of beer bottles, now mostly empty and rolling around his feet. Tyson shook his head and sat up, admonishing himself silently for not knowing better. Once he got started with the booze, there was no stopping, and the result had been passing out and having one of the worst dreams he could have imagined.
He scratched at his arm as he reached back to start the motor, noticing for the first time the rash that was breaking out on it. The itching was getting worse. He scratched harder, only vaguely worried about cutting through the skin in the process.
As the itching grew more intense, it felt like his skin was on fire. He saw that a blister was starting to form as well. He moved to touch it and drew back as it started to swell, as if air was being pumped into it, causing it to inflate. It had grown to the size of a golf ball before he raised a hand to slap at it.
Before he could, the skin ripped down the middle, like a shirt bursting open. Tyson yelled out as pain flared up his arm and from the blood, now gushing from it, a dozen tiny spider like legs burst out of the wound, followed by a round, dark colored body, a miniaturized version of what he had just seen in his dream. He swung a hand across and knocked the thing off his arm. It hit the bottom of the boat and slid all the way to the bow.
His left arm began to burn, and already another blister was forming. Skin along the base of his neck tore open and another one of the things scampered up onto his head. He swatted at it, felt the tiny body crush, followed by blood trickling down his neck and back.
His tongue had started to swell and, in an instant, he tasted blood, flooding into his mouth along with the clambering of legs, against the inside of his cheeks, crawling out through his lips, while another began forcing its way down his throat.
He fell back off the bench and tried to scream, but his throat had started to swell, constricting any kind of vocal response. He thrashed from side to side, clutching at his throat. Insect legs began to claw their way out from his ears and nose, pushing out from underneath his fingernails. He felt the skin tearing along his arms, legs, up his stomach and across his face. He collapsed, seeing that the bottom of the boat was now covered with the things.
In his dwindling moments, he saw the full-sized legs from his dream, emerging from the water. They dropped down onto the boat, taking up the tiny versions of itself in wide swipes. The thing carried its children from the boat, and to their rightful home deep down, below the water’s surface.
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