Takaashigani

by Justin Hunter

  The old mystic who whispers among the pine trees (and sometimes whispers right inside her confusing thoughts, as well) warned her about such violent behavior. He said that if she feasted without care, and without limits, they would stop coming. She would grow hungry and eventually die. Feast leads to famine, and so it repeats for all beasts, great and small.

  Rolling over on her side, she feels the sand shift around her sleek body. The texture is comforting. It would be even more comforting if she wasn't starving to death. She feels as if her tight, emaciated frame will allow her faster swimming, although she hasn’t the energy to test it out. She gains nothing from eating her buried, rotting store of two-leggers. The occasional frog or turtle comes close to her home and she snatches it, emerging from the sand lethargically, but still feverish enough to snap their necks in one shot.

  She never hungered like this before, but in the past she only took three per season.

  Her body was transforming. Tenderness throughout, sensitivities that she’d previously felt only once before. Her hunger is insatiable, and she groans when she considers it. Since last season, three seems like only a nibble. Her hunger knows no bounds, as the old man in the pines cries over and over again, neutered by the powerful beast she’s become. He is only jealous of her. She is sure of it.

  Every once in a while, the old man who whispers among the pine trees will return and take over her body, trying to usurp control, but failing miserably. When his words and actions come into her, invading every muscle and tendon, she will often dismantle herself from the silent dunes, leaving behind the booty of putrid snacks, and go for a swim in the cool river. That seems to calm his spirit. It has been a long winter for them both. The old man seems to enjoy these escapes, especially when spring comes, and he can fill her being wholly. Something about the new season, for longer than she can remember, invigorates the sad-mouthed old man.

  He is impotent. She is anything but.

  Sustenance comes in ebbs and flows. Snakes, frogs, and terrified fish serve to keep her body functioning, though just barely. There's no thrill in that either. She likes the ones with meaty legs most of all. The ones that can make noises with their mouths (though she can make some noises herself, she is quite limited in that regard). She forever desires the ones in vessels that float down the river. The ones that make more noise than they ought to. The ones who stumble around in the sand, bouncing balls back and forth and reveling in the sun. They are tourists, and nothing more.

  How she wishes they would return.

  The silence of the river troubles her, but she wonders how much of that is in her aching gut.

  She's considered moving a ways down the river, to see if there are different spots available for a creature of her stature, but the old man says she cannot leave, that she belongs just where he is. She pretends to believe him, but knows that she cannot be shackled. She figured that out last summer when rage overtook her.

  The old man, after all, is her creator.

  Respect is deserved, if not required.

  She nuzzles her greasy head out the sand, feeling the warm sun above. It seems to radiate stronger than she remembered from last season. In the distance, dragonflies drift along the surface, dancing merrily. Their energy enlivens her to wiggle free of the sand pit and explore, if only to feel alive again, if only to pray for the noisy, meaty beasts to return to her lovely world.

  It's pleasant to be away from the stench of rotting food. Their lifeless nature bores her.

  The water is cool. It feels the same temperature as it was during the last harvest, ‘Many moons ago,’ as the decrepit old man in her thoughts might say. If another harvest comes, she promises herself to heed the wisdom of the man in the pines. She will show restraint, though it will be difficult to do so.

  But that boy.

  That boy returns. He intends harm. He intends battle.

  As she submerges her entire body, she stares into the murky abyss of the river, propelling herself at her top speed. The fish scurry out of her way, fearful of the quickening wrath. It feels good to be at one with the water, even if it is stagnating from a lack of fresh meat.

  She doesn't belong here. They know that, and that's the most terrifying part for them.

  She’s an invader.

  It's an uplifting feeling… to be the largest beast among thousands. It's almost as satisfying as plucking fresh meat from the floating vessels. She doesn’t belong here, but still she endures. She is hungry, but she will endure.

  Though she is exhausted, starving, and weary, she swims.

  She dives.

  She hunts.

  She prepares.

  PART I- Shame, The Black Rider, Saco Sam

  Chapter 1

  The Black Rider turned off the television, picked up a cup of lukewarm coffee, and slugged down the remainder. His gut protested, sending a gurgle up his throat. The doctor at the free clinic told him he’d worn his body down to what amounted to a piece of chewed up bubble gum, but what the fuck did they know, anyway? He wasn’t dead yet. He was cancer free, with perfect blood pressure, but he often felt broken and wheezy from decades up sucking down cigarettes. He’d quit them, but the damage was still reversing itself.

  With a lurching cough, The Black Rider stood from the sofa, feeling a loose coil digging into his hip, and snagging the belt loop of his cargo pants. A light bulb swung back and forth from a stiff summer breeze that kept invading his third floor apartment, illuminating a picture he’d painted as a child.

  The picture hung above his television as a constant reminder of the beastly nature of the universe. The drawing was of a whale. It had an unusually oblong head, sort of like the horse-plastered wall that it was taped to. It had big white teeth with splashes of blood on them. The Black Rider had always been a sort of sick bastard, even when he was six years old. At an early age, he respected the deadliness of nature. He was the proud owner of the laser disk version of Orca. He watched it every Sunday, and it got better with every viewing.

  His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten since the night before, just after midnight. It was nothing more than some lightly salted almonds and a slab of chewy jerky (so chewy that he had to rub steak sauce on it so he could force it down his throat). It was rare that he ever filled his belly, but he at least half-attempted to prevent dying from malnutrition. The Black Rider was quite aware of his ghastly looking nature, gaunt and withering, but he did little to change it. The Black Rider wasn't a big fan of taste, especially in foods and drinks. He liked meat and some cheeses. That was about it though. One of these days—he always told himself—he would gain a few pounds, maybe even pack on some muscle mass in the process.

  Fifty-five years old and tick-tick-ticking his way to fifty-six. It wasn’t a time to start over again, even if he told himself that it was required. Rebirth wasn’t an easy thing to do, and The Black Rider was well aware of this fact. A thousand alcoholics and drug addicts could attest to that. At least he’d kicked the cigarettes, he told himself. He abused his body in every other possible way, but at least he was going easy on his lungs.

  “Goin’ on a trip,” he said to his pair of goldfish, Bronson and Eastwood. They circled in a fervent feeding frenzy as he dumped an extra toss of light brown flakes into their tank. “Eat up, ’cause Miss Hamlin won’t be here until Sunday. I left her a note and my key, so if the Alzheimer’s don’t get the best of her, you’ll be snackin’ again soon enough.”

  Miss Hamlin, who lived in the next apartment, was always good about feeding his fish when he was away. She’d become forgetful as of late, so he was playing with a loaded gun. He didn’t expect the expedition to last more than four days, and his little fellows could survive until then, but not if he ran into unexpected consequences. “Not to mention the old bag might drop dead. That’s a possibility, so don’t start eatin’ on each other if that happens. Papa will be home real soon.”

  The Black Rider licked the fish food flakes from his fingers and sat down at his computer, which whirred lo
udly. Some tech geek from the big box store told him his hard drive was failing, whatever the fuck that meant. He’d stashed some money aside for one of those fancy new laptops for when his computer shit the bed, but he planned to ride it until the wheels fell off. Wiggling the mouse back and forth, the monitor flickered to life, releasing a brash wakeup sound affect similar to a three year old mashing their fists against a keyboard. He started typing ‘WorldTube’ into the address bar, and the video's address auto-filled. The Black Rider hit the enter key.

  He re-watched the video his new employer, a guy named Bernie, had sent him. He'd seen it many times on the internet, not fully subscribed to the validity of the thing. He’d watched the video even before Bernie had sent the link. More than seven million views thus far, and it had only been posted online for about a year.

  If the video was genuine, then The Black Rider would die a goddamned legend. His ugly mug would adorn the front page of every major and minor periodical in the nation. They’d make a documentary about him. They’d honor him at The Fisherman’s Ball, if such a thing even existed. Hell, they might even give him an honorary visit to the White House to meet the current Commie-In-Chief. If he killed the beast from the video, he’d have an action figure made in his likeness.

  A Black Rider action figure.

  The image made him chuckle hard. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, but didn't light it.

  What kind of accoutrements would a Black Rider toy have?

  A Battle Action Harpoon.

  A bottle of Triple-X Homemade Hooch.

  Would they fix up his teeth and his gaunt, stretched face? Would they make him look like a hero? Would they sculpt him with a broad chest and six-pack abs? Would they make him so he spoke when you pressed a button on the back?

  "Get out of the hunt if you're sportin' a cunt," he said out loud, mimicking the raspy, mechanical voice that an action figure might possess. "Vegetables are for pussies… Don’t shit where you eat… Get out of the way when I gotta spray."

  He'd have to work a bit harder on his catch phrases.

  But who was he kidding?

  It would be the same as every hunt—without glory and full of mosquito bites. He'd get a sunburn, something that would take weeks to peel away. He'd get some raw blisters and lacerations on his hands from the rod and reel. He'd get tired as all get-out and then a second wind would kick in, lofting on a western wind as he scoured the shore for his beastly target. He'd become nearly comatose from exhaustion and then feel the effects of a third wind. This would repeat over and over, until he gave up completely or killed the bastard.

  He was going to scout the area a day ahead of time. From southern Boston, it would take him a couple of hours to get to the White Mountains, particularly the Saco River region, right near the New Hampshire and Maine borders. He'd have to stop for a leak maybe once or twice; his bladder was aging faster than any of his other vital organs, at least according to the dipshit doctor from the clinic.

  The Black Rider was a man of the sea. A man of the woods. A man of the world. He was a survivor, built in a time when men acted like men, and knew their place in the world. But he was also a broke ass S.O.B. with a bad attitude, three ex-wives, and a failing hard drive in his computer.

  So it goes.

  Then why, oh why, he continued to ask himself, would he do this job for free? What would entice him to be so stupid?

  The fame, dummy.

  The potential for unlimited fame would not allow him to sit idly on the sidelines, letting some other hunter-for-hire work his way into the record books. The Jack Cousteau of Hunters– that was the ultimate goal. He knew it might never come, but he'd die trying. Even if he never saw it happen, in the corporeal sense, he’d come back as a ghost to revel in his everlasting glory.

  Even the hippies from PETA would be bending over and kissing his ass if he pulled this one off, for taking care of something so deadly and virulent to the environment. He'd been taunted by those hippie dumbbells enough in his life. And for once, he wanted one of them to treat him with some goddamned respect, if only for ten minutes.

  The fame, he thought to himself again. Like that shitty song from that shittier television show: Fame… I’m gonna live forever… I’m gonna learn how to fly… FAME!

  He opened the door, holding his stance for a deep breath, looking at the pathetic hovel he called his home—torn and molded—wondering if he'd ever see this place again. He whispered a goodbye to Bronson and Eastwood, tapping on the glass and offering a salute, “Carry on, soldiers.”

  # # #

  Bernie could still hear their piercing screams, echoing across the lazy river like they might go on and on forever. It was as if they had died and continued to die over and over again inside of his mind. It was the only way he could remember most of them now—running, scrambling through the sand in total desperation, hoping to survive something that they knew they couldn’t possibly.

  He'd been spared by the beast, but was he deserving of that?

  Being the only survivor was not luck. The reason was absurd, something almost laughable in hindsight. Laughable, that is, if all his friends hadn't been ripped to shreds by the monster. There was no laughing about that, no matter how hard he tried to bend the truth of that fateful day. They were dead, and that was the most permanent feeling he’d ever experienced.

  He’d survived. With that came a heavy shame that he wouldn’t release.

  All because of a technicality. Fine print at the bottom of an unwritten contract between the beast and its potential victims. There was more to it than that, though. It was all speculation, as Bernie couldn’t sit down with the beast over a cup of cappuccino and discuss his (or her?) motives.

  Squandro. The name gave him chills whenever it ticker-taped across his brain. Squandro, long dead and buried but still very much causing trouble, had ruined has life, even more so than the beast itself.

  Bernie clenched his eyes shut, feeling the gloomy clouds above him, taunting him and reminding him of what had become of their well-intentioned river ride.

  Somewhere on this very river, almost one year ago exactly, Matty had belched in his ear, having consumed more beer than was prudent for any human being, calling out to the heavens, "Saco River, two thousand and twelve!" The other comrades churned and hooted, and with unbridled delight, splashed their paddles in the water. Matty followed up in his most boisterous voice, "We're gonna fuck this river up, and then we're gonna let it fuck us up!"

  Those words stuck to Bernie’s mind like a super-glued Post-it note. How true that statement had turned out; the river had fucked them up all right.

  They had all cheered at Matty’s delightful revelry. Matty (they’d always called him Matty, never Matt or Matthew) had been reading them river tourist reviews from a website that specialized in natural, outdoor adventures. As he read from the tiny screen of his phone, Matty informed the other canoeists, “Listen to what this lady wrote about her experience: My husband and I went for a family canoe-slash-camping trip this past weekend. Unless you want to be horrified by hordes of drunk and defecating, yep yep yep, defecating in the river, teenagers and college guys, then look elsewhere if you want to keep your sanity. Every sandbar was totally strewn with intoxicated, swearing, rowdy packs of hooligans that ought to wash their mouths out with soap and call their mothers once in a while. They had these firework cannons, shooting them off in the middle of the night! And air horns. AIR HORNS EVERYWHERE! Every single stretch of the river was littered with beer cans, bags of garbage, and vomit. The bugs were pretty bad, but nothing beats the horror of paddling through human waste. Why the towns around these rivers have allowed this frat party to exist boggles my mind. Unless you are a drunken frat boy or girl with no shame, please please, for the sake of your family, for the sake of your soul, for the sake of Jesus Christ, stay away from this wretched hive of scum and villainy.”

  “That lady just quoted Star Wars and Jesus Christ in the same sentence. That’s kind of cool, right?” asked Bernie, br
inging out a few laughs from his canoeing comrades.

  Jimmy Randall had then stood, throwing his hands in the air, responding to this with great ferocity, “And all those complaints right there are why this weekend is going to be fucking awesome!”

  But the scantily clad women and firework-shooting hooligans had never actually appeared.

  It had stalked them all the way down the Saco River.

  They had started out the day with eight canoes tethered together, but it had ended with just one, with Bernie as the sole paddler. He could remember their reaction when they first saw the river monster, suddenly turning frantic in their paddling. The girls sobbed. The men panicked, trying to protect the girls though they knew they couldn't even protect themselves from what they had just glimpsed.

  Bernie remembered the way it looked. He’d never scrubbed that ghastly thing from his memory. Those vapid, distant eyes seemed to show no soul at all; mirrors, looking out of the abyss. The slender body, gliding through the water and up on to the sand, and then fumbling back into the cool water once again, over and over again, all the way down the bending river.

  And the teeth.

  Good Lord, thought Bernie... the teeth. Crooked and tan, pointing in nearly every direction.

  Their horrified, muttering prayers would haunt Bernie for the rest of his days. He'd been spared, while fifteen of his dearest friends (well, not all dear—their crew was peppered with some friends of friends) had fallen into the clutches of hell.

  When Bernie would wake up in the night, sweat clinging to every inch of his skin, he would picture their faces. He would silently relive their violent deaths, one by one like a goddamned Agatha Christie novel, and he would picture the ugly blood and tendons, mixing with the sand, freshly hatched mosquitoes circling the carrion, enlivened by the smell of fresh blood spill.