Uneasiness creeping into my mood, I pulled out the new cell phone I had bought with my last two paychecks, intent on checking the weather forecast. But, no matter how I held the phone, I couldn’t get service out where we were. The webpage would start to load, only to get stuck somewhere between opening fully and flipping me the bird.
“Any luck?”
“Nah,” I said, slipping the useless phone back into my jacket pocket. “Too far from civilization, I guess.”
Garrett smiled as he throttled up the boat’s motor.
“Good. That’s exactly where we want to be.”
Chapter 6
It was an impossible choice. This time, Garrett was royally screwed either way. There was no easy out. My friends and I sometimes played the “Would You Rather” game. The idea is to offer up two completely messed up choices, and your friend has to choose which scenario they’d rather endure even though they really don’t want to do either. And I mean really. That’s how you know you picked good scenarios. The one I had just given Garrett was worthy of the Would You Rather Hall of Fame, if someone had the foresight to organize such a thing.
“Damn, Luke, that’s sick,” Garrett said, his face squinched up like he’d just smelt one he hadn’t dealt. As he looked out over the water at nothing in particular, I could tell he was running both scenarios in his head and thanking God that this was just a game. “Where the hell’d you come up with that one?”
I smiled proudly.
“I thought of it in Richardson’s class this afternoon,” I said. Health class was generally a great source of “Would You Rather” choices.
“I don’t wanna do either,” he said, before feigning a gagging sound and clutching his stomach.
We were slowly trolling along the southeastern bank of the lake, about 300 yards from the dam. Garrett was in the back steering the boat, and I was in my usual spot up front in the bow. The sky was still churning shades of grey, but so far had held off spitting any rain down upon us. But, that’s the only luck we were having. When you’re out fishing, a single bite in almost an hour leads you to start playing games like Would You Rather.
“Come on, man, you gotta pick one,” I goaded as I cast out my line. “Would you rather walk in on your parents having sex, or have to drink your own urine to survive?” Now, the last thing teenagers want to think about is their parents having sex. But, to actually catch them in the act? That was everyone’s worst nightmare come true. Nobody wants to see their dad’s hairy ass bobbing up and down as he’s putting it to the saintly woman who brought you into the world.
“Where would I be that I’d have to drink my own urine?”
“I don’t know,” I said, slowly reeling in a neon green spinner bait. “Lost at sea. Stranded in the desert, maybe.”
We continued trolling the bank in a westward direction toward the dam. The shoreline in the area was rough and rocky. Ten to twelve foot cliffs dropped out of the sky, straight down to the water. A rich, dark earth mixed with a little clay was exposed. Up on top, there was nothing but lush, green trees as far and as deep as you could see. Spring’s hard work was paying off, and the lake was certainly the peaceful seclusion we had been anticipating all week.
“Well, I’d rather drink my own urine than someone else’s,” he said, firing up the motor to head somewhere that might be more fruitful. “Does that count?”
“Only if you’re taking the urine drinking option,” I said as I sat there smiling, waiting patiently for his answer. Knowing Garrett’s parents the way I did, I had a feeling I knew which way he was going to go. To hear his sister talk, Garrett’s parents still did it routinely, and I knew the possibility of one of the scenarios actually happening was playing through Garrett’s mind. Which explained the pained look on his face.
Then, the scenarios were suddenly forgotten as the boat started shaking violently, and the motor started making a loud chugging sound.
“Shit!” Garrett cursed. He let his fishing rod drop against the white vinyl seat and made a mad grab for the black hood of the boat’s motor.
“What’s up?” I asked, but then I saw it. The churning water behind the boat swirled with various shades of brown. Long strands of dark green and caramel-colored kelp rose to the surface. We’d run aground in a shallow area of the lake.
Not good.
Garrett shut off the motor and tilted it forward, bringing the propeller up out of the water.
“Shit,” I heard him say again. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
I looked over his shoulder as the profanities echoed back to us from the cliffs, and instantly saw what had brought them on. Where the propeller should have had three blades, there were now only two. A jagged edge, like a toothless grin, was all that remained where the third blade had once been. We’d snapped it off when we’d run shallow. Really not good. A shiver went through me, either from the increasing wind or the suddenness of how quickly our circumstances had changed. More than likely, a combination of both.
“Great,” I said, casting a glance up at an angry sky. “Now what?”
“Well,” Garrett said, standing with one hand on his hip and the other rubbing his temple. “We’re sure as hell not gonna make it back with this.” Then, in an uncharacteristic move, he kicked the top of the motor just above the Mercury nameplate.
I looked in the direction of the launch ramp, but couldn’t even see it. We were a good three or four miles away, and it was getting dark. I remember Garrett saying at one time that it would be a good idea to pick up a spare prop just for situations like this. Leave it stored away on the boat. But, I could tell by the way he was acting that he never got around to it.
“That’s a hell of a long way to swim.”
“You ain’t kiddin’,” he said, balancing himself as the boat gently rocked back and forth. “And this wind is only pushing us farther away. Better drop that anchor. At least until we figure out a plan.”
I got down on my knees and reached into the cubbyhole of the boat’s bow. I pulled out a coil of dirty, fraying rope that used to be white, but was now the color of dirty dishwater. On one end of the rope was an anchor we’d made out of a large coffee can simply by filling it with concrete. I dropped the can over the side and let the rope slide smoothly through my hands as it made its way to the bottom. Awhile back, we’d put black electrical tape on the rope at one-foot intervals. That way we could count them as the rope disappeared, and would know exactly how deep the water was wherever we were. This time, once the can had eventually settled on the muddy bottom and the rope had stopped retreating, seven rings of tape had disappeared. Seven feet. That wasn’t good. The lower unit of the boat’s motor extended below the water’s surface by about eighteen inches. So the water below us being seven feet deep meant that the wind had already blown the boat away from where we’d hit bottom only a minute ago. And blown us that much further from the warmth and safety of Garrett’s truck.
Chapter 7
As we heaved the front end of the aluminum boat up onto a small stretch of sandy shore, lightning splintered the roiling sky off in the distance. It was a miracle we’d happened onto the oasis hidden among the sheer cliffs and rocky lakeshore. Turns out, not only was it our best option, but it was our only option. The homemade anchor had proved no match for the freight train-like wind. Despite the concrete-filled coffee can’s best efforts, the gusts were still blowing the boat toward the shoreline, dragging the anchor across the bottom. The anchor may as well have not even been there.
Likewise, the oars we had on hand didn’t serve us much better. After wasting several torturous minutes and an unknown amount of energy trying to paddle against the current, we found that our best strategy was to simply use the oars to help steer toward this sandy part of the shoreline and away from the large rocks. Eventually, when it appeared as if the wind was intent on carrying us past even the small beach, we got out in waist deep water and waded the last ten yards.
Struggling to hold the boat against the wind and waves was like trying
to fly a 300 pound metal kite. With every gust, the boat swayed in all directions except the one we wanted. Two-foot waves pounded us every step of the way, filling my mouth with lake water more than once. But, in the end, we battled through and won the war.
As we hauled the boat up onto the shore, its heavy V-hull bottom sliced deep into the sand. It tilted to one side as whitecaps curled their way onto land, beating against the back and sides of the vessel. After a brief debate, we determined there was enough of the boat out of the water to keep it in place, or at least keep it from floating away. That was our hope anyway, since there was nothing to tie off to on the empty stretch of beach. Still, before we walked away, Garrett pulled the boat up another couple inches just for good measure.
We gathered up a few of our belongings and secured everything else against the raging wind. We didn’t worry too much about anyone stealing anything since we hadn’t seen anyone on the lake all evening. Or on shore, for that matter. No one in their right minds should have been out in that weather. Apparently, Garrett and I were the only ones who hadn’t gotten the memo regarding the forecast. As nice as we’d thought it would be to get away, I would have chosen to stay in town and play World of Warcraft with Cricket rather than being cold, wet and stranded.
“Something wicked this way comes,” Garrett said in his scariest of voices, while gazing up at the ever-darkening sky. We’d read the Bradbury classic in our 11th grade Lit class. It was okay. I’m not much of a reader, and a lot of what we’d read had to be explained to me. But, like a lot of things in life that you have to endure and just get through, I got through that book and subsequently, the class. Garrett, on the other hand, enjoyed the book thoroughly and quoted it often. Sometimes the title was enough.
Dark and angry clouds churned above us in every shade of grey known to man. I knew it wouldn’t be long now. And as soon as the thought entered my mind, I felt the first drops.
“Looks like wicked’s already here,” I said.
Soaked from our shoulders down, we left the openness of the beach and trudged through a narrow half-sand, half-gravel path that led over the rocky embankment. We had to duck our way under low-lying tree limbs that would occasionally reach out and grab our jackets if we didn’t crouch low enough, as if they were trying to stop us from going any further, or punish us for even being there in the first place. Once out of the trees, we still had to scramble over a collection of Fiat-sized boulders with deep crevices between them, risking both twisted ankles and bruised knees.
Finally, we reached the other side of the embankment, and hurdled a rusted steel guardrail to a not so recently paved parking lot. There was room for five or six cars to park, though currently, the lot was empty except for an overflowing trashcan. A crinkled fast food bag hung out of the can’s opening that made it look like it was sticking a tongue out at us. Taunting us. On the ground beside the can, a cardboard box full of empty beer bottles lay tipped over on its side. It wasn’t clear how close the litterer had gotten to the trashcan before hurling the box in its direction, but a few of the bottles didn’t survive the toss.
Thunder rumbled overhead and large drops of rain hit the ground around us, making tiny splat sounds as they met the pavement. Not a full-on downpour yet, but it was working its way up to one nice and slow, like the storm was toying with us until it grew tired of the game and really wanted to flex some muscle on a couple of punk kids who should have known better than to be out.
Better hurry!
I zipped up my jacket, and without any unnecessary discussion, we started across the abandoned parking lot. There were no other options. No gas stations where we could use the phone. No internet cafes where we could even send an email or instant message. We utilized the little bit of remaining light to sidestep broken glass, blue Styrofoam bait containers and more than one used condom. By all appearances, the empty parking lot wasn’t always this vacant. Just tonight.
Lucky us.
A tree-lined road led us out and away from the lot where the asphalt pavement of the road was just as old, pitted and broken in places. Grooves were worn into it where cars had continually driven on the soft and bubbly asphalt during scorching summers. Judging by the trash in the parking lot, the road was still in use, just not enough to justify doing any real maintenance to it. It proved bad enough that we found it easier to walk in the tall, wet grass, rather than on the road itself.
As the lake and remaining daylight fell farther behind us, the smell of new rain mixed with pine and rot soon filled our nostrils. It hung heavy in the cooling air, replacing the dropping humidity as acres of trees walled us in on both sides. Evergreens and any number of others that Garrett would have had little trouble identifying in the daylight made up the most of it. Occasionally, there were tall, barren trees that hadn’t come back in the Spring, stretching up into the evening sky like the walking sticks of giants. In the diminished light, I could only see a few feet into the thick woods. Cutting through these woods, in the dark, was officially crossed off my list of plans for finding shelter. It was just going be us and the road, no matter where it led.
As the parking lot and all its debris fell completely out of sight, the rain started coming down harder, pelting our skin. Stinging it. Like it was trying to break through. And all we could do was walk.
Chapter 8
“I think I’d rather drink my own urine.”
“Really?” I said, letting out the first laugh I’d managed in half an hour. It was the first reason I’d had, to say the least. We were soaked from head to toe, shivering like Chihuahuas, and with every step, I was growing surer and surer we were the only people in whatever county this was.
“Yeah,” Garrett said, loud enough to be heard over the wind and rain. “I’ve heard of people having to do that before, so it must work. And if it meant staying alive...”
The conversation went on like that for awhile as we walked along the abandoned road that seemingly led nowhere. Ten minutes had passed. Then twenty. Still, we’d seen no houses. No cars had come along. No signs of civilization, period. Only trees and more trees. And with the rain still coming down on us like an unrelenting attack dog, we needed something to take our minds off the fact that we were smack dab in the middle of some pretty screwed up circumstances. And if that something was Garrett’s urine, then so be it. Hell, I’d be happy to talk about it all night long.
Luckily, though, that wasn’t necessary. We’d probably walked a good mile or two when we finally came upon a private driveway, its gravel long since pulverized into dust. The rain was transforming a pothole that stretched from one side of the driveway’s mouth to the other, into a muddy swimming pool. It would have probably swallowed up most economy cars if they’d tried to take it on. Tall weeds surrounded the entrance on both sides, and wilted brown ivy snaked its way up two crooked, black lampposts that were posted like crippled sentries of a surrendering castle. They remained dutifully at their post, despite the loss of their charge.
I knew my low-budget slasher flicks, and every one I’d ever seen flashed through my mind. Unimaginatively, most started with a group of college kids looking for somewhere to party and have unprotected sex. Emphasis on the “unprotected” part, because, in those movies at least, they rarely survived the sex. Insert public service announcement here.
“Jesus,” I mumbled, staring down the winding driveway that seemed to have no end. Tree limbs on both sides created a tunnel that went on forever, and the dirt drive simply dissolved into the shadows with it.
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “I bet there’s a house with a phone at the other end.”
Did I mention that besides being the brains of our little group, Garrett was also the one with the biggest balls? Skeletal hands rising out of a murky lake notwithstanding, I had rarely ever seen him scared of anything. I, on the other hand, was his opposite. Along with clowns and insects larger than my thumb, a dark and foreboding forest rounded out the trio of things that meant nightmares for me.
“Hey, uh, I did
n’t say ‘Jesus’ like it was a good thing,” I said, my head pivoting back and forth. “It was more of a ‘Jesus, this place looks really creepy and we should probably just keep walking.’ ”
Garrett was already shaking his head and smirking. He knew my fears. But, he also knew his power of persuasion over me was second to none. If I wanted to steer clear of whatever was at the other end of the driveway, I had to talk fast.
“Look, I don’t know where it leads,” I continued, practically shouting over the rain. “And I don’t wanna know. Let’s just keep goin’. I mean, seriously.”
The words had barely escaped my lips when the sky opened up, as if Mother Nature herself had decide to chide me for my cowardice. Heavy rain fell in torrents, literally stinging the top of my uncovered head. Cats and dogs had nothing on these raindrops. In no time, a world-class thunderstorm was beating us down, growing more intense by the minute, and adding more weight behind Garrett’s argument for checking out the driveway.
“Come on,” Garrett urged, pulling the drawstring tighter on his red-hooded jacket and making me resent that mine didn’t have one. “We don’t have much choice. We have to get out of this nasty shit. At the very least, there’s got to be some kind of house back there. Some kind of shelter, at least. They don’t just put in random driveways because they think they’ll add to the natural beauty of things.”
He had to shout, even though I was standing right beside him. That’s how bad it was coming down. And that’s how I knew that Garrett was right. We didn’t have much choice. Continuing to walk all night in this weather was neither a pleasant nor compelling alternative. It could be miles before we saw another driveway and we needed to ride this storm out somewhere.
Bone White Page 3