by David Boyle
“The raft shifted and the valve is jammed to where I can’t get to it.”
Hayden found a twig. “Here, see if you can pry it open with this.”
“Weren’t you listening? I said I can’t get at it!”
Mark dug through his fanny pack, and a moment later the raft popped and went flat.
“What the hell…?”
Mark slipped his hunting knife back into its sheath, Ron staring with a flustered expression. “You won’t miss it so long as you don’t flip the boat.”
They were on the water, minutes later, their captive secured in the pocket amidships created in Ron’s canoe. “Stay together,” he shouted. “Prentler, Bennett, get moving. And make sure we can all stay out of trouble. We’ve got to make time.”
They paddled as if their lives depended on it, their singular goal to reach the truck before nightfall. The shorelines whisked by, anxious eyes watching the hillsides. And with each passing mile their confidence grew that the alien ship, even given that an alert had been sounded, would by now be forced to search such a wide area that finding them was unlikely. Hayden kept track of their progress, pointing out their planned campsite and, shortly thereafter, the two unnamed creeks that Ron and Charlie had intended to hunt. The few Class II’s were traversed without difficulty, their spirits soaring when Hayden announced the passing of the halfway point to their take-out.
“We keep this pace,” Hayden mentioned to his partner, “and we’ll get to the take out with daylight to spare.”
Mark nodded, steering left around a rock. “Anything major coming up?”
“Yeah, two sets. The river splits around an island a mile or so ahead.” Hayden took a stroke. “The left channel is a no-go; the right I’ve got marked Class II-III. After that it’s clear sailing except for a long Class II upstream of the take-out.”
The river narrowed. The forest fled to the heights. And as Hayden had predicted, boulders were soon sprouting everywhere throughout the increasingly fast current.
A boulder kicked the bow sideways. “Go right!” Ron shouted, hanging out in a brace.
“I’m trying,” Tony yelled.
“Yeah, well try harder.” The boat was fast approaching a ledge, the wave curling below it far bigger left than right. “I didn’t mean later. Do it now!”
Working frantically to keep the boat upright, Tony missed the cut and the Tripper nosed into the hole. The backroller crashed like an icy fist over the bow, slamming Tony back on his seat before pouring in over the gunnel.
And over their captive….
*****
The alien twitched, the movement of limbs unnoticed amidst the pounding. Yet already he had made progress regaining consciousness, the icy inundation but a spur to his prior slow recovery.
The eyes flicked open, the glimpses of spray and blurred vegetation only dimly comprehended. He focused then, the images lingering, and gradually resolved the sounds perceived initially as static as that of fast running water reverberating from hard surfaces. He became aware of the chaotic undulations and the cold wetness sloshing across his body. A localized rumble rose in intensity, the impression of confined transport in a watercraft confirmed when the roar reached a crescendo and the vessel dropped and rebounded.
He jolted violently sideways. Water splashed down, the roar barely receding when cackles erupted from a position beyond his head.
Voices….
He listened carefully, guarded and now fully alert.
The vocalizations were clearly distressed, and recalling playbacks studied prior to ship’s entry, he recognized them as one of the primary Ulaxiyatian languages. He peered cautiously, and seated beyond his feet saw a creature wearing yellow headgear and a thick yellow jacket furiously plying the turbulence with a pole flattened on one end; the creature’s companion—its commander?—streaming cackled instructions from a position immediately aft.
His prisoner status confirmed, he cautiously attempted to reach his collar, timing his efforts to coincide with the shuddering jolts of the watercraft. Prohibited by the restraints from doing so, he began working his hands slowly toward his thigh.
*****
Mark and Hayden maneuvered through the froth, scanning to where the river turned sharply right behind an outcrop. Mark feathered his paddle, craning up on his knees and listening as the hiss drifting around the curve edged toward a roar. “Sounds serious,” he said, already working to slow the boat; his partner bracing as the current carried the Discovery into the gorge.
The river ahead was a jumble of white, the rapid a seething rival to Hell’s Gate. “Yeah, looks tricky,” Hayden shouted above the din. “Watch for eddies. This one we need to scout.” He signaled to the boats following, then steered river-right to shore.
“How ‘bout that one?” Mark yelled over his shoulder.
A pocket of black water showed beneath a piney overhang. “If it’s big enough to hold us, yeah, grab it.” They slowed the boat, Mark reaching behind the boulder and hanging on the backflow while Hayden swung the stern around.
Mark ducked beneath the boughs and snagged a root alongshore. “Okay, we’re in.”
Hayden motioned to Ron and Tony, the Tripper closing fast. “Think you can catch them using only one hand?”
“I got a choice?”
Hayden glanced at the tumbling fury downstream. “Not really.”
Mark saw the white-knuckled fists. “You got it, Delgado. That’s it… hold it, hold it… now turn!” Tony grimaced, his arms quivering when the Tripper thudded along the boulder. Mark reached out, “Gimme your paddle!” then held on while the Tripper swung in alongside.
Mark smiled when he saw Tony shaking. “Who says you’re not getting the hang of this?”
Chilled, drippy, and kneeling in a puddle, Tony saw immediately that it was his turn to play catcher. Charlie shoved his paddle forward, water growling around the shaft when he clipped the boulder, Tony, then Ron, grabbing hold as the Grumman settled into the eddy alongside.
Charlie ripped at his chin strap. “Holy shit!” he said, then jacking a thumb at the rapids downstream. “What the hell’s that all about?”
The roar was near-deafening.
“I thought you said there weren’t any more like this!”
“Don’t blame me, McClure. I told you it was an old map.”
Charlie looked back. Swallowed. With no way to change places, it was clear to everyone that this time it was him who’d be leading.
“You’re a good paddler,” Tony said above the roar. “You can do this.”
Charlie was in no mood for a pep talk. The channel upcoming was choked with boulders, especially on the right shore, the only runnable chute a dark tongue of extremely fast water that ran along the far bank before corkscrewing off the side of a rock, then left again through a twisty set of glistening haystacks.
“I hope you’re right, Tony, ‘cause this one looks like a mother.”
Mist wafted across the water. Thunder filled the air. And though Charlie had already expended long minutes bailing, no one was urging him to hurry. He checked the route again, then turned back and buckled his chinstrap.
“Be careful with that curler,” Ron warned. “Bastard looks pretty mean.”
Charlie went to his knees. “Tell me about it.”
“And eddy out when you get to the bottom.”
“Sure thing…,” Charlie said with a swallow. “If I make it there alive.”
Charlie drove clear of the overhangs, the sun glinting from his paddle, and, once across, switched sides and nudged the nose around. Fast water sheared along the keel, Charlie bracing to counter, the Rockfinder fast gaining speed as he headed for the shallows. Wary, still closing, he switched again when his paddle scraped bottom and shifted hard into reverse.
He searched for the cleanest routes ahead, turned slightly, and plunged over a drop. Water curled over the bow. Boulders sizzled past. Big pines reached out over the river, a few with branches scraping the water. Charlie barely noticed.
He couldn’t afford to. Ahead was the tricky part where a boat-eating tube of white thunder charged off the side of a ledge. Upwelling currents jostled the boat, bubbles swirling as he jockeyed between a series of boulders. Cut the drop early and he’d end up sideways; cut it too late and he’d fight his way through the curler. Either way and he could end up swimming, through the haystacks for sure, and possibly the rapids beyond.
He studied the current lines, stroking to position the Rockfinder before going over the drop. His paddle chattered; the hiss of the curler ever louder. The keel started nicking the bottom, his heart racing as he worked to keep the boat from snagging. Knees pinned, his focus on his point of entry, he watched as the ribbon he was riding rushed toward the wall of angled granite.
A few yards was all he needed. The curler loomed, the current quickening. He sucked in a breath—Okay, fuckhead, let’s see whatcha got—and turned sharply over the ledge. The bow kicked hard left, Charlie crouched and bracing as the canoe charged into the spiral. The boat shuddered, the roar ringing in his ears as he powered through the curler, water draining off the tarp as he worked to change course.
Swamped but upright, Charlie rode the standers through the field of boulders, easing slowly back and onto his heels to enjoy what remained of the rapid. Deep water swirls soon bloomed along the surface, the mountain air still throbbing with the rush of the rapids when he checked the shorelines. River left held the best eddy.
Watching Charlie helped settle everyone’s nerves, and even Tony managed a smile when he spotted the twirling paddle.
Hayden had to chuckle. “Always the hotdog.”
“We make it down as well as he did… and that’s gonna be me,” said Mark, clearly impressed. “Picked a really good route from what I could see.”
“That’s what I had my eye on.” Ron wedged the bailer under his seat. “Catching the chute could be a bitch. Still… does look like the way to go.” He grabbed his helmet. “Tony….”
“Yeah?”
“That’s where we’re headed. Along that wall. And no matter what that curler looks like, don’t go skipping out on me until I tell you.”
“Sure thing. Just don’t wait like by the falls. There’s just so much of this my heart can take.”
Hayden held the boat while Ron settled on his knees. “How’s our friend doing?”
“Out like a light. The way Bull labeled him with that rock, I wouldn’t be surprised if he never wakes up.” Ron freed his paddle from alongside the packs. “Give us a head start and you can head down when you’re ready.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Hayden said.
“Tony?”
Tony hunched forward, knees locked, paddle out. “Ready when you are.”
Mark let lose when Ron drove the boat forward.
“Keep it straight. No, not….” Ron jockeyed the stern left, then to a slight angle across the current. “Okay turn. Yeah, that’s good.”
Hayden watched as the canoe wheeled around, Tony especially. In water this fast there was always…. “Darn it, Tony!”
The root was slippery and Mark nearly lost his footing when Hayden goosed the stern over. “Watch it there, Prentler. We’re tied in here, remember?”
“Yeah, well, then you need to untie us,” Hayden said, zipping up his life vest. “Tony missed the cut.”
Mark glanced at the Tripper. “Again…?” he said, reaching for the painter.
Ron had a tendency to rudder when he wasn’t supposed to, though the longer Hayden watched the more he felt there was something more going on. Mark had the rope loose, and was busy coiling. “Leave that and get your helmet on. We need to get moving.”
A wave slopped in over the gunnel. Tony reached out, gritting his teeth, and dragged the bow wide of the latest boulder. Three trivial ledges and already the water was over his ankles.
“Tony!”
They were on a good line, and with the worst of the run yet to come, Tony wasn’t interested in listening to Ron bitch about his paddling.
“Damn it, Delgado!”
A wave splintered across his lap. “I’m busy, McClure! Can’t you see that?”
“You’ve got to stop him!”
Rocks scraped the port side hull, waves burping in on the other as Tony frowned over his shoulder. “What are you…?” The thing in blue was clawing at its leg—a wave jolted the Tripper onto its side—a dark shape poking from the bulge on its thigh. He blinked at his partner, the approaching Discovery all but unnoticed.
The river exploded around the boat, Ron steadfast in his brace. “Stop him!” A surge washed along the boat. “Damn it!” he yelled as the wave shattered across his chest. “I mean now!”
The Tripper wasn’t anywhere near the slot he’d taken, the bow more punching the waves as opposed to going over. Flooded most likely, Charlie thought, holding his breath, watching, waiting, and breathing again when they blasted clear of the curler and started toward the standers. A good thing, except that Tony was missing, his eyes scanning the turbulence near the boat when he caught a glimpse of yellow.
Okay, so he hasn’t gone swimming. So far….
“Come on, Tony. Get your ass back on that seat!”
The extended wave train stood waiting.
A twisted wrist? A busted paddle? Charlie powered forward, still wondering, the Discovery starting its run when the Tripper hit the first haystack. The canoe punched through at a crazy angle, Charlie certain he’d be rescuing swimmers when Ron righted it with a world class brace. “Holy shit! Great catch, McClure!” he shouted, steering to intercept.
The Tripper lumbered through the standers, a leg, and sometimes two dangling overboard. “What are you waiting for? Get back in already! Can’tcha see there’s more comin’?” Whether he could or not, Tony wasn’t getting back in.
Hell, the guy wasn’t even trying.
Tony had a death grip on the gunnel, the alien scrunched against the hull when a wave slammed the canoe. Ron was shouting at Tony; Mark and Hayden urging Charlie to hurry as they closed on the Tripper. The Discovery drew alongside, spray shooting up like geysers from between the hulls when Mark reached over and snagged the other boat. The canoes bucked, side by side, spray flying in every direction as he worked to pin his paddle under the bungee cords.
The river splintered around a boulder. “Help Delgado! Stop him, whatever he's doing!” Ron shouted, working in conjunction with Hayden to avoid the rocks, the canoes slamming one against the other through and across the waves. “And watch your fucking hands!”
Tony was sprawled with one foot under his seat and the other dangling overboard while struggling with the alien. Mark stretched across the gap despite the waves pounding his chest. But there were limits. “I can’t reach that far,” he sputtered. “And Tony’s in the way!”
Hayden looked over. “How'd he get loose?” he shouted.
Ron shook his head. “Not a clue,” he shouted back, a wave bursting along and between the boats. “Caught him trying to sneak his hands into a pocket, and I told Delgado to stop him.”
Tony ripped at the alien’s fingers. “I can feel the thing! But I can’t… I can’t get any leverage….”
The canoes punched into the latest stander, water surging across the tarps while Ron and Hayden struggled to keep the pair from both splitting apart and capsizing. “Hang on, Bennett! Don’t let go whatever you do!” Ron motioned frantically to Charlie. “Get over here already!”
Tony tugged, and the alien tugged back, fingers scraping fingers. Kicking, squirming, Tony finally managed to pin the alien’s arm with an elbow. His fingers raked a dimpled surface, the device slipping free of its pouch when an impact jolted the boat. The alien stared—lights were on across the device, a ruddy glow showing along its side—then clawed more fiercely than ever to gain possession of the thing.
“Hurry!” Tony pleaded when the Rockfinder thumped alongside. “I can’t hold him off anymore!” A singular tone issued from the cylinder, the sound like a whistle far off in a tunnel and
coming fast. Charlie grabbed hold of the gunnel, a baffled look on his face.
Ron was stretched out over the side, bracing, the Tripper long since flooded to overflowing. “Stop him! Shoot the fucker if you have to!”
Charlie stowed his paddle, the shrill ever more piercing. Tony was fading. “I… I can’t do this anymore!” he squealed, swiping feebly at the alien before beating his wrists against his forehead, Charlie crumbling seconds later and wrapping his arms around his helmet.
And still the tone blared on, the noise rising in intensity until it felt as if ice picks were being driven into each of their skulls.
An agonized voice cried out: “Make it stoooop!”
5
The tone fell silent, a tinny ring lingering in their ears as arms uncoiled and heads started shaking, eyes searching the dark and all-encompassing mist.
Ron reached out, groping for the Discovery, and through the gloom spotted a bearded phantom. “You okay…?”
“I… I think so.” Hayden shook his head. “What just happened?”
Ron snorted. “Hell if I know.” He swiped at the mist, staring, and eventually made out the curved profile of a boat, and finally, Charlie. Screeches sounded in the distance, and he was turning to listen when the boat quivered and Tony pushed up onto his knees.
“I almost had it,” he whimpered. “I tried guys. Honest, I really did. But once the lights came on—”
“Forget it, Delgado.” Mark squinted at the brightening haze. “Whatever happened, happened, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” Vague contours were forming beyond the haze, as was a queasy knot in his stomach. He frowned when he listened closely to the cackles. “Those sound like birds to you?”
Charlie smacked the tarp with his helmet. “Birds…? Look the hell around, would ya! What happened to the rapids?”