by Hunter Shea
“You sure?” he says, looking over at me, the fragile woman who clearly doesn’t understand what’s involved here.
“I’m not, but she is,” Popeye says, jerking his thumb in my direction.
I enjoy watching the two of them wrestle the cow carcass out of the van. They bury the meat hooks deep, grunting and puffing with each step. The kid almost pops a vein in his temple when they drag it onto the table with a heavy thump.
“You shouldn’t leave it out for long,” Popeye says. “It’ll spoil right quick in this heat.”
“I’ve got immediate plans for it. No worries.”
I step out of the RV to inspect my delivery of prime, uncut beef. Samson Butchers is a wholesale butcher over in Kincraig. You can order your meat online, which is proof that there’s nothing you can’t do on the Internet.
“Well, good luck to ya,” Popeye says, walking stiffly back to his van. Bieber Hair gives a quick wave, rubbing his shoulder.
The slab of meat takes up the entire table. Already there are flies buzzing around. The overhang of trees is keeping the sun off it for now, but it won’t come the afternoon.
Good. I have work for Mr. Sun to do.
Three warm days later and you can’t see the meat under the twitching black mass of flies. The stench is what woke me up this morning.
I think it’s ready.
Tossing last night’s sweaty clothes in the hamper, I quickly dress, down a bottle of water along with some supplement pills, jam handfuls of off brand cereal in my pie hole and head outside.
Phew!
It reeks. The buzzing of the flies sounds like something out of one of those devil possession movies. Oh shit, this is the part where the lady gets possessed! You can hear that demon coming!
I’m not ashamed to dry heave.
I should have skipped the cereal.
“All righty, Clarabelle, your timer has popped. Time to get you the hell away from my open windows.”
Dragging out the rolled-up plastic mat from under the RV, I unfold it beside the table. I also grab a pair of hammers from my toolbox. Swinging as hard as I can, I sink the claw ends into the ripe carcass. This causes a cloud of flies to bolt from the body and encircle my head. They get in my nose and mouth, crawl around my eyes. I can’t swat them away because I have to hold onto the hammers.
Spitting a disturbingly large fly from my mouth, I place my foot on the edge of the table and pull with all my might.
Clarabelle barely moves.
The flies, thankfully, leave me to go back to their feast.
They’ve done some impressive work on the exposed flesh. Just thinking of all the maggot eggs that must be gestating under the surface makes me gag. I pull the collar of my shirt over my nose and mouth and try again.
Every muscle in my arms and back stretches to their limit.
But Clarabelle is moving!
Come on, you dead bitch, I scream in my head, afraid to open my mouth and let the flies waltz on in.
Digging my heels in the dirt, I feel the carcass start to tip over the end of the table. I cry out with something that sounds close to labor pains, making one last tug.
Clarabelle tumbles off the table and onto the plastic mat, taking me with it because I’m too dumb to let the hammers go.
My body drapes over the rotting cow. I feel the crush of dozens of fly bodies against my chest and stomach. My face makes unwelcome contact with the whole mess.
And that’s it for me.
This time, my heaves aren’t dry, adding to the wonderful mess. More food for the pests.
I stagger to my feet, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and run to the water.
I do not pass go. I do not collect two hundred dollars.
I dive into the cold water, clothes and sneakers and all. It’s shocking as hell, but I wouldn’t have lasted another second with all of that gunk on me.
Going totally under a couple of times, I pull myself onto the dock, exposed to the warming sun. I’m breathing so hard, I think I might pass out.
“Why didn’t I just have them put it on the dock?”
Because that would have looked even stranger. They can’t know what you’re up to, that’s why.
It takes me twenty minutes to dry off and settle down enough to tackle the second part of the day’s festivities.
This part goes easier.
Since it’s a downward slope to the slip, the mat acts like a sled, carrying Clarabelle to the shore. The damn flies will not stop. I’m going to hear their insane buzzing for the next week.
Lifting up one of the seats on Vindicta, I pull out the commercial strength line with the hook already tied off on one end. The hook is big enough to catch a whale shark. Again, another gift from the Internet.
I drive the hook into the carcass, tying the other end to Vindicta. It takes the slightest bump in the throttle to drag Clarabelle fully into the water. The flies storm off, pissed that I sunk their breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Consulting the map I drew where the TV crew got those sonar hits, I head east into the Loch.
I’ll bet Nessie’s never had a delivery like this before. I’m going out where you can’t get a good curry in under thirty minutes.
Chapter Four
I stocked Vindicta with enough food and water to last me all day. PB&J sandwiches on brown bread (what we call wheat bread on the other side of the pond) and a bag of apples to keep my energy up. God knows I needed it. The struggle with the cow took more out of me than I thought it would.
Some may say I’m guilty of overestimating myself.
But I always manage to get shit done. It’s just not always pretty.
The day passes agonizingly slow. I forgot to bring my book or even a trashy magazine. The boat has a radio, which I keep on low just to hear another human voice.
Slathering on sunscreen, I sit on the end of the boat with my feet in the water.
I wonder how many fish have been nibbling on Clarabelle. I check my own sonar, a Garmin Chartplotter Sounder, one of the best on the market, for the thousandth time.
Just a few little fast moving blips. Nothing spectacular or noteworthy.
Not that I expect anything to happen. Daytime sightings of what the world calls the Loch Ness Monster are rare. If the lake beast, or beasts – since there has to be more than one for it to have survived this long – pop up and break the surface, it’s typically at sunset or full night.
I could have waited until then, but I get impatient. Plus, I know the stink of that carcass isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. That picnic table is toast. I’ve little desire to be anywhere near there right now.
A Loch Ness tour boat glides past in the later afternoon. It’s full of foreigners – some taking in the beauty of the Loch, others hoping to catch a glimpse of the infamous monster.
Nessie has been a hell of a boon for the local tourist trade.
Even when the famous ‘surgeon’s photo’ of the creature, it’s long neck sticking out of the water, equine head in shadows, was proven to be a fake, it didn’t make a dent in the crowds coming to sneak a peek at the most famous waterway in Scotland, if not the world.
I wave to them, proud of their dedication to the truth, even if most of them think it’s all stuff and nonsense.
Stuff and nonsense.
I have been in the UK too long.
Night finally arrives and my senses, dulled by the long day, perk up.
The pleasure and fishing boats of the day have gone home. It’s just me now. I start the engine, keeping Vindicta at a slow pace, trolling the area where I saw those shapes on the sonar.
Now, I know Nessie isn’t predictable. If the creatures were, we would have captured one long ago.
But for the first time since I got here, I know they’re near.
Call it women’s intuition.
That and a solid sonar hit is enough for me.
And the fact that all living things on land and sea are being swallowed into the ether.
“Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” I call out. “Come and get your din-din.”
My sonar shows the uneven terrain of the Loch’s floor several hundred feet below me. At its deepest, Loch Ness is over eight hundred feet. That’s a lot of room to hide.
But I suspect they have other places to disappear into.
“That’s some prime beef down there. I made sure it was nice and stinky so you can’t miss it.”
The moon sliced across the still water, sweeping over Vindicta. The temperature was falling fast. Damn, I forgot to bring a jacket.
All the time in the world to plot and plan and I still forget stuff. Maybe this is why Austin did so well in college, and I clocked in three semesters at Jacksonville University before being respectfully asked to leave.
But I have street smarts.
Just not lake smarts. At least not all the time.
It bothers me that I can’t remember what my parent’s voices sounded like. I have pictures to refresh the memory of their faces, but they weren’t big on making home movies.
Those fucking things took that from me.
I know in the Bible it says to love your neighbor, but I’m pretty sure Jesus was referring to people, not lake monsters. Getting all Captain Ahab on Nessie is something even the big guy should understand. I know people think I’ve lost my mind, or that I’m just a spoiled rich orphan hiding out in Scotland, wasting my life away.
A ripple of waves lap against the pontoons. I teeter a bit, gripping the wheel to keep on my pegs.
I cut the engine.
It’s so quiet out here.
Sometimes, when there’s low cloud cover, the sounds of people talking near the shore can be heard way out on the Loch. It’s kinda eerie, like overhearing spirits conspiring with one another.
But not as eerie as this total silence.
It used to bother me, but I’m used to it by now.
In fact, I prefer the quiet.
I let Vindicta drift in the stillness. I sit back, careful not to make a sound. I don’t want to do anything to break the calm. I close my eyes, picturing Clarabelle below my feet, lazily spinning round and round, shredded flesh dancing in the water.
An hour turns to two, then three, and so on. I check my watch every fifteen minutes or so. I’m so tempted to turn the engine back on because I’ve veered way off course, but then it hits me.
What the hell course am I talking about?
Anywhere on the Loch is the course.
Just sit still and chill.
I dated a guy who was a cop for a year. He was a lot of fun to be around. The man was a roving party. Everywhere he went, merriment followed. He made sure the booze flowed, his jokes getting more and more off-color as the night wore on, but that only made me laugh harder.
He worked undercover for the Vice Squad for a spell. Did a lot of stakeouts. He told me the hardest thing, especially at night, was keeping not only awake, but alert.
I’ve done enough Loch vigils to fully grasp what he meant.
By midnight, I catch my eyelids drooping. In fact, there’s a whole period of missing time. I assume I wasn’t abducted by aliens and just nodded off.
“Fuck it.”
I hope there’ll be enough of Clarabelle left to try again tomorrow. If not, I’ll just order another victim.
Victim is a strong word. The cows are already dead. I’m just trying to make their death a little more noble than being fodder for Shepherd’s pie.
The engine blares like a screaming jet. At least that’s how it sounds to my ears, lulled by hours of silence.
I give Vindicta some juice, anxious to get to my RV now that I’ve decided to call it quits. Hopefully, I can catch four uninterrupted hours of sleep before I sweat myself awake.
On the way home, I take a quick glance behind me. The water, looking black as the ace of spades, tears into a V in my boat’s wake.
But there’s something else there; the ripple of a current coming toward me, not fading away.
“What the hell?”
Oh yes, there’s definitely something following me, just under the water’s surface. It’s not a trick of the moonlight or exhaustion.
I slow down a bit.
Whatever is coming doesn’t.
In fact, it picks up speed.
I barely have time to brace myself.
I watch in horror as it passes under Vindicta. I’m too dumbstruck to do anything but stare with an open mouth like a dummy.
The boat jerks forward with so much force, I almost flip over the back of my seat.
I’m about to cry out with victory, vindication, and any other v-word I can think of when my worst nightmare happens.
Vindicta is pulled so hard, the bow dips straight under the water. The stern does the opposite, the propeller now roaring because it’s in the open air.
It’s going to flip the fuck over!
Chapter Five
There’s literally nothing I can do.
Whatever is under Vindicta, and I’m pretty damn sure I know what it is, has Clarabelle firmly in its grasp. I hope the hook is painfully in its mouth, too. Because if I’m going to bite the big one here, I want it to suffer – maybe get an infection that slowly and painfully kills it while the bits of my corpse feed the Loch’s remaining indigenous fish.
There’s no way I can get to the bow to undue the line connected to the cow carcass. The moment I let go, I’m sliding into the water. Not to mention, the tie line is now under the water and taught as a harp string. My knife, sharp enough to cut through leather, is under my seat. Again, if I try to get it, I tumble overboard.
“I hope you choke on it!” I scream.
The stern rises higher and higher into the air. Vindicta is getting perilously close to a ninety-degree angle.
I hear the snap a split second before the pontoons slam back onto the water.
Just like that, it’s over.
There’s no retreating wake. No sound, other than Vindicta’s engine. I hightail it the hell out of there. Nothing follows me.
Pulling into the slip forty minutes later, I find my flashlight, snap it on and tug on the line. There’s no resistance. Clarabelle is gone.
There isn’t a single known amphibian in Loch Ness that could rip that carcass clean off the line.
“Holy shit. Holy, holy shit.”
I knew they were back. Again, I should have been armed and prepared, but five years of fruitless labor made me complacent.
I look down at my watch. It’s almost one am.
I do a quick calculation. That means it’s seven at night in Chicago.
Running to the RV, my heart having only sped up since I was almost turned into fish food, I barrel through the door. I scoop up my phone, collapsing onto my bed.
The phone goes to voicemail.
I leave a frantic message. I know I’m probably not making much sense, but he’ll get the idea. When I hang up, I can’t even remember what the heck I even said.
“You better call me back soon.”
Somehow, I fall asleep somewhere around the witching hour, my phone still in my hand.
I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. Something crashes on the floor. I take a quick peek. It’s my phone. The glass is cracked right down the middle.
Wonderful.
On the plus side, the sun is out. It’s after seven. I’m still tired, but it’s too late to go back to sleep.
I’m fully undressed when the phone rings. I scoop it up off the floor and see it’s my brother.
“It’s about time,” I say.
“I just got back from this office party,” he replies. He sounds like he’s had a few. “I almost decided to wait until I got some sleep.”
“Seriously?”
“I said almost. Nat, tell me again, slowly because I’m not used to rum, exactly what happened.”
“I will in just a sec.”
Even though he’s thousands of miles away and can’t see me, I feel self-conscious talking to my brother in the nude. I slip
on some underwear and a T-shirt and sit cross-legged on my bed.
I lay it all out for him, going as far back as what I saw with the TV crew. I figure he may not remember when we talked about it weeks ago, considering his current skewed mental state. When I get to the part about the boat almost tipping ass over teakettle, he stops me.
“Did you see anything?”
“I was a little busy clinging for my life. It was too far under the water and too dark out to see.”
“You sure you didn’t just snag that dead cow on something?”
I sigh. “First of all, that part of the Loch is about two hundred feet deep. Ain’t nothing down there to snag on. Second, I watched it come right for me. It was freaking crazy!”
He stays silent for a long time.
Then he says, “I keep waiting for you to say you’re just messing with me.”
“I don’t play when it comes to this. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“I’m sorry. Trust me, I don’t doubt you.”
“The next big question is, when are you getting here?”
“Nat, it’s not that easy. I just got this big project, and they have some new people reporting to me.”
I want to reach through the phone and give him the mother of all titty twisters. “I think this project trumps your little corporate bullshit.”
He chuckles, a big snort cutting his laughter short. “I’m kidding. I can’t stand this job. I was thinking of quitting on Friday. I just went out tonight for the free food and booze.”
“And I’m sure there were some pretty girls.”
“Corn-fed Midwesterners. My favorite.”
“Get some sleep, sober up, and buy a one-way plane ticket. Text me the details when you’re done so I can make sure I pick you up at the airport.”
“I will. I will. I just can’t believe it. I really never thought…”
“I know. I kept hope alive for both of us.”
He yawns into the phone, which makes me realize I’m still pretty sleepy myself. “I may have a surprise for you when I get there.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a little ‘just in case’ something I worked on some time ago. Don’t ask me anymore because I won’t tell.”