Dead Bait 4

by Weston Ochse

  As the day wore on, the tides dragged in and vanished the accessibility of the potential areas to dig clams. Roy stuck to the shore, plucking through weed and ropes on his way. He hit a patch of quahogs and filled a bushel fast, then another, and two more. On the fifth, he dug a broken shell and happened upon an odd sight.

  Set deep in the shell of tan and white was a beating red and orange body. Roy, unafraid, reached into the crevice and squeezed it between two fingers. It was soft and oozed liquid that was like water, but slick as oil. He teased it between two fingers, finding no identifying characteristics or truly distinguishable features—other than the tiny dimples set into the exterior. Roy pushed it inside and closed the shell.

  He put it in his pocket and finished gathering the bushel. None of the others had such a sad looking and lazy hinge. They remained closed and airtight, alive. Roy thought of what was in his pocket as he packed the gear into his truck’s cab, how he’d never seen something like it in all his life, especially inside of another mollusk. It seemed almost parasitic.

  His fingers stung where he’d touched the creature. Roy dipped his two fingers in the gentle sea and let whatever oil was collected there drift casually back to where it’d come. The residual effect persisted and needled and stuck with Roy as unnatural, something that had great potential for horrific damage.

  When he got back into town, Roy dipped into Pratty’s C.A.V. to score a few drinks. The bartender, a short squat guy with a beard, named Oscar—poured him a few fingers of Turkey Hill in the glass at the edge of the bar, where Roy always sat.

  Roy took a seat next to Tom Stoughton. Tom nodded and raised his own snifter. “Good day out there?”

  Roy took the ball cap from his head and placed it on the oaken bar. “Hell of a day.”

  Tom eyeballed the hat sitting before him. “Christ, do you ever wash that thing?”

  Roy chuckled. “Not since before the war.”

  “I only hauled a few hundred yellowtails and a couple boxes of blackbacks. Fuckin’ Irish herring boats killed the ledges.”

  “You say Irish like you ain’t one.”

  “Eh, shut up ya Wop bastard.”

  Oscar poured Tom another snifter, which he picked up with liver-spotted fingers. Tom laid a twenty down on the counter. That would keep them going a few rounds.

  “You hear about Loopy?” Tom asked.

  “Nope, what about?”

  “Got his leg caught on a rope last night, diving, out fixing his hull in the early mornin’...”

  Roy gulped at the Turkey Hill and slammed the glass so that Oscar’s attention would be upon him. The bar hand filled the glass in silence and went back to watching the Sox game.

  “Holy hell,” Roy said. “What about the boat?”

  “Found sittin’ in the harbor.”

  “Who found him?”

  “Coast Guard, trolling Ten Pound Island. Said he was half-eaten, blue in the face.”

  “Not how I wanna go. That’s brutal.”

  “You dreamin’ about it?” Tom asked, nudging him with an elbow.

  “I’m gonna tie dynamite to my chest and walk to the end of the pier...let the seagulls gobble me down and shit me out all over Gloucester.”

  “That’s fuckin’ romantic, Roy. I can see it now. The mayor would have a ball with that one.”

  They drink together.

  “On my terms, ya know.”

  Tom tilts his head to indicate that he understands.

  “You guys see this,” Oscar interrupts. “They’re trying to make Pedey the new captain. I never much liked him. Overrated.”

  “Pud,” Roy says, “He’s the best second baseman in the American League. Four MVPs, been on the team longest. Who the hell would you pick?”

  Oscar waves him off. “Mookie.”

  Roy turns to Tom. “You hearin’ this garbage? Mookie?”

  “Every day o’my life.”

  “We need a better place to hang out.” Roy rings his hands under the bar.

  They sit in silence, drinking, for a few moments. Oscar refills their glasses yet another time and paces behind the bar as more talk of New England sports gets underway on NESN.

  Roy takes the clam out of his pocket and places it on the counter. He pushes it to his old friend. “Ever see something like this?”

  Tom rolls the clam shell in his hand. “It’s a littleneck clam, of course I have.You know I always thought it funny...a good clam smells like a bad fart.”

  Roy laughs out loud. “You’re damn right. What about what’s inside there, though? Ever seen something like that?”

  Tom sighs and cracks it apart, pulls out the red and orange sponge. Black appendages had started to grow out of the body; they slithered like worms and grazed Tom’s hand, making him drop it on the floor of the bar.

  “What is it?” Tom asks.

  “Zactly what I’m asking you.”

  Roy held out his two fingers with which he had touched the entity. The skin was starting to curl off like lead paint, beneath it was gangrenous.

  “You better wash your hands,” he said, patting Tom’s back and throwing a twenty on the bar. “Say ‘hi’ to your sister and mother for me.”

  ***

  The following morning, Roy woke with a gasp. He felt tightness in his chest. The dreams from the night before plagued his perceptions—waves rolling over his head, sharks devouring him whole. He hobbled out of bed and made a quick coffee to drown the thoughts and perk him up, though the fear of a heart attack was heavy at hand.

  As he reached for the sugar, Roy noticed the spots on his arms, much like barnacles. Where there should have been flesh, the skin dipped into short canyons. Black dots had formed in each of the dozen or so pockets that spotted his forearm. A sinking tightened his gut. He felt untimely sick. They reminded him of the sores that covered swordfish who had infections. You could pull out worms two feet long, lumps of cancer big as bowling balls.

  He poured some rubbing alcohol on the odd spots and set about to his truck. If they weren’t cleared up by mid-day, he would head to Addison Gilbert Hospital. Otherwise, there was no sense in losing a day’s worth of fishing being holed up the ER, staring at The Price is Right and a room full of slobs.

  Rather than driving all the way to Essex to set out, Roy made for Wingaersheek Beach. It was closer in proximity to the hospital, if the need arose, and also closer to home if the entirety of the situation was overwhelming. The tides were rough, possibly from an impending storm, and as the saying goes: ‘Red skies at night, sailors’ delight; red skies by morning, sailors take warning’. It would be a short day as the beet red dawn spoke.

  He made sure to wash his arm well in the saltwater as he dredged; it was a great cure for ailments or to disinfect. The weeds there were no less of a hindrance by comparison. Roy was ankle deep in tide, hell some of it red tide, drowning his steps and interrupting true progress. The clams might not be good with all the hogwash.

  Along the Eastern bank, he finally struck clams as the tide waned a bit more. Each and every one was full of the red and orange organisms. He threw them in anger above the waves, past foam and the fish below. Roy waded out of the flat unfulfilled. He would alert the town of a possible contamination of red tide, which could in turn force an area closure in the fishery and set him back several days.

  On the dory, Roy started to peel free his gear and saw the collection of bodies sucked onto the rubber of his boots. He quickly kicked them off and pushed the skins down past his feet. They were crawling over his legs and he could feel them crawling under his pants.

  These were matured further than the sponges. Foot long black appendages slithered out of the orange bodies; the tips were stuck into the skin of his leg. The surface of his skin burned. Roy frantically swatted at the creatures—stepping high, kicking, and trying to break them loose. His foot slapped the small dory’s gunnels and Roy flipped overboard, literally head over heels.

  The undertow took him out in seconds. The breath sucked out of h
is lungs. He opened his eyes, but only darkness and brown murk could be seen between thousands and thousands of orange parasites. He managed to kick with his feet and rise to the surface. His boat was a mile back towards shore, bobbing and lonely. A rogue wave struck him from behind, and in his befuddled state he never saw it coming. When he again opened his eyes and gained some form of composure, the parasites were climbing onto his face, sliding the black arms or tongues under his eyelids, into his nostrils. The scream he let out formed a cascade of bubbles that rose over his head and clouded any view of the red sky above.

  ***

  Tom fell asleep in his recliner that night. He left a pile of butts in the ashtray and a plate of spaghetti on the end table. The television blurted out late night ads of made-for-TV products.

  His mouth hung open and a line of drool pasted his shirt and dribbled down to his bicep. The snores of drunkenness filled the small apartment that he rented above the downtown drag. From the dip in his arm, came a slender black feeler. It dug, and dug, unbeknownst to Tom, until the fresh orange body was freed of his skin.

  It crawled silently up the shirt of the fisherman until it was just below his ear hole. It felt with the tendril, and finding the space adequate, managed to squeeze inside and disappear.

  Tom awoke with a jolt. He slapped at his ear.

  Mumbling, Tom said something about spiders and cabbage and passed out in the afterglow of a razor sharp blade that could cut a tomato three different ways.

  It Came From the Sea

  C.V. Hunt

  “I don’t know about this,” I said.

  Teresa dropped my hand. Her shoulders slumped in a defeated manner. She turned to face me. Her expression was hard to read through her sunglasses but I could feel her disappointment. I readied myself for the bout of pleading.

  “You promised,” she said.

  “I know. I know. I just . . .” I eyed the boats tied to the dock. They bobbed in the water lackadaisically. A gull cried out somewhere in the distance. “I don’t know anything about boats and the sea is so endless . . . like the universe. You know, scientists don’t even know everything that’s in the ocean. It freaks me out.”

  “Jessie. Honey.” Her disappointment dissolved. She rubbed my arm to comfort me. “I know what I’m doing. We won’t stray far from the bay. I promise. We’ll stay close enough for you to see land. Would that make you feel better?”

  I made an uneasy sound. Teresa closed the gap between us and set her backpack on the ground. The sunlight made her blond hair shine. She leaned in to kiss me and wrapped her arms around my waist. She tasted like cherry ChapStick and smelled like sunscreen. We both wore shorts and tank tops over swimsuits and her skin against mine felt warmed by the sun. Warmth and lust flooded through me.

  Teresa broke the kiss first. She said, “This is something I want to share with you. You promised you’d come with me when we met.” She gave a small laugh. “I mean, we’ve met each other’s parents. I think it’s about time you met the sea.” She half turned and waved down the dock. “I only sail half as much since you moved in. I feel like I should sell the damn thing.”

  I whined. “No. Don’t do that. I don’t want you to give up something because of me.”

  She took my hand and pouted. “Please try. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I responded automatically. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping it would calm my nerves. “All right . . . I hope I don’t get sea sick.”

  “Did you take the Dramamine?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be fine.” She lifted her backpack, slung it over one arm, and pulled on my hand. “Come on.”

  A sun-weathered man stood on the bow of his boat watching us with an intense curiosity as Teresa dragged me down the dock.

  She stopped in front of a thirty-foot sailboat. Teresa jumped aboard first and then helped me. The boat bobbed unpredictably and walking was disorienting. She showed me around the deck, pointed at things, and rattled off the proper names for items I knew I would never remember. She made sure to show me the lifejackets and the emergency flares and explained how to use them because she knew it would put my mind at ease. Lastly she took me below the deck to the cozy living quarters.

  I was able to get around without stooping in the cabin but Teresa was taller and had to slightly bow. The boat had a tiny kitchen, a table with a bench, and a queen-size bed. The rocking of the boat was more disorienting below deck. Teresa emptied her backpack of the groceries and put the items in their respective places.

  I flopped onto the bed and beckoned Teresa to join me.

  “Oh no.” She grabbed my arm and tried to pull me up. “The sea first.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  I followed her back up the three steep stairs. I took a seat at the back of the boat. I didn’t want to be an obstacle as she ran about to release the boat from the dock. She stopped by the wheel, inserted a key, and pressed some buttons. The motor started.

  “I thought this was a sailboat,” I said.

  “It is. The motor makes it easier to maneuver out of the bay.” She turned the wheel and the boat began to back away from the dock.

  The boat didn’t seem to bounce as much once it was in motion. As she steered through the bay I took the opportunity to enjoy the scenery. I avoided looking over the edge at the water and tried to put my fears aside. Once we were out of the bay the swells grew higher. The bounce of the boat became more jarring. I gripped a rail near my seat, terrified of being pitched over the side.

  A boat passed us, a larger wave sweeping up to our boat. I thought, This is it. I’m going to die. Teresa stood at the wheel with her legs firmly planted. The muscles in her calves constricted as she balanced herself against the motion.

  “This is scary!” I called over the noise of the motor and ocean.

  Teresa looked at me over her shoulder. “It’ll get better in a couple of minutes!”

  “I hope so!”

  A few more minutes into the open ocean and the swells calmed. Teresa slowed the boat and shut off the engine. She bustled around the deck, tying and untying ropes until the sails were lifted and in the correct position. I was amazed at how fast we traveled with only the aid of the wind. Once Teresa was satisfied with our position she lowered the sails and dropped the anchor. The shore was visible in the distance as she’d promised. I timidly gave in to the fear of the unknown and peered over the edge of the boat. I was shocked to find the water incredibly clear. I had imagined an endless void of blackness.

  Teresa disappeared below deck and reappeared a few seconds later with two cans of beer. We stripped down to our swimsuits and sunned ourselves. Once Teresa finished her beer she decided to take a quick dip in the water to cool down.

  I chose to watch her and thought it might set my mind at ease to see someone enter the water and exit unscathed. I stood at the ladder as she began to descend.

  “Come on. It’ll be fine.” She grabbed my ankle playfully.

  “I’m not ready.” I held my hand to shield my eyes from the sun and tried to see if there were any fish near us. “I’m afraid if I felt a fish brush against me I’d panic and drown.”

  “All right. But you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  She bent down, grabbed a handful of water, and splashed me. She turned abruptly and dove into the water. She reappeared shortly, playfully splashed me, and disappeared below the surface. She continued this routine and I didn’t mind the cooling effect of the water on my sun-warmed skin. I grew comfortable with the scenario, my fear of the sea abating some.

  Teresa disappeared below the surface again but something was off this time. She was under longer than the previous times. The fear reared its ugly head and my heart skipped a beat as the microseconds collected and worry poisoned my thoughts. I called her name even though I was sure she wouldn’t be able to hear me under water. Panic coursed through my veins. I dropped to my knees by the ladder. I searched the water for her.

  Suddenl
y she resurfaced a foot from the ladder, gasping for air, panic stricken. She latched onto a rung of the ladder and pulled herself up. I moved out of the way so she could climb aboard.

  Still gasping for air, she shouted, “Something attacked me!”

  “What?” My body vibrated with adrenaline.

  Teresa dropped to her knees on the deck, fighting to regain her breath. She gripped her lower stomach and bent forward.

  I knelt beside her and put my hand on her back. “Are you okay? What was it?”

  “I don’t know,” she panted. “I thought I saw something but then an . . . eel attacked me.”

  “There’re eels here?”

  “I didn’t think the water was shallow enough. I guess I was wrong. I don’t know. It sorta looked like an eel or a snake or something. It was thinner than an eel. It was after my . . .”

  Teresa sat back and looked at her crotch. A little blood ran down her thigh and mixed with the water on her body before dripping onto the deck.

  “Oh my god!” I said. “We have to get you to a hospital!”

  She stood and made her way to the living quarters below deck. I followed her in a state of panic. Her demeanor changed rapidly. Now stoic and calm, she entered the tiny bathroom and shut the door.

  I stood outside the door and said, “I think we should go back.”

  I heard a cabinet open and close, followed by the unmistakable sound of tearing plastic.

  “Teresa?”

  “Give me a second.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I started my period.”

  “Are you sure? It’s a week early.”

  “What do you mean am I sure? I know what a period is.”

  Her retort stung. I took a step back from the door. She sounded angry and we’d never fought. The toilet flushed. I heard running water and the rattle of pills being shaken from a bottle. She opened the door, appearing peaked and tired.