Dead River

by Cyn Balog

  “Spencer who?” I ask, but then I see it. Peaks of white on the river ahead. At one point, the rushing water seems to disappear into a void, only to show up farther downstream. A waterfall. I want to hide at the center of the raft, but instead, I follow Michael and just brace myself as we dip into the wave. A wall of icy water hits me square in the face and I bite my lip, tasting grit. Angela lets out a shriek—not of fear, knowing her. And I’m right, because two seconds later she shouts, “Awesome!” I swallow, thinking that this is how different my cousin is from me; never in my life could I consider eating dirt to be awesome. I don’t think my paddling does much, but I keep doing it, because everyone else is, and what if it’s all that’s keeping me from an icy swim in the Dead?

  A few tense minutes later, the river evens out. I exhale slowly and Michael looks back, smiling. “No sweat, right?”

  Justin claps me on the back. “You did it.”

  I did it. Yes!

  Michael relaxes and says, “So, as I was saying, this job is crazy. That was the first of many, shall we say, interesting excursions on the Dead.”

  Now I’m all ears. Almost relaxed, even. “Like what?”

  “Well, there were the dudes who insisted on rafting completely naked, except for their helmets and paddling jackets. And the ladies who were part of a reality TV show. They thought it was a sightseeing tour of the river. One of them chipped a nail and all hell broke loose.”

  I laugh.

  “Yeah. Robert was all like, ‘Put a sock in it and get your arses on the raft.’ And he took out a knife and started waving it at them.”

  “Robert?” I ask. “You mean Robert Skiffington? Pat’s uncle?”

  “Yeah. He’s crazy. He used to jump into the river in the winter without a wet suit. And after the ride, he’d run around base camp screaming and laughing and peeking in the tents of the female campers.” He laughs. “The Australian outback must have fried his brains, man.”

  I stare at him for a second. Something clicks in my mind. “Robert Skiffington was Australian?”

  “Well, no. He was born here. But he lived there awhile or something.” He laughs. “Man, I miss him. We keep wondering when he’s coming back.”

  Somehow, even though a thin drizzle is still falling, I see the early light of dawn poking through the trees behind the Outfitters office building. I see a wiry man, setting off with hiking boots and a backpack that is half his size slung behind him. I see him stop to gaze out on the river as the shadows of the trees stretch in the new pink-orange light. His eyes mist over. Well, I’m not going to be seeing you, my dear, for a while.

  And then, not a moment later,

  What the devil is that?

  And suddenly I know something, almost as sure as I know my own name. I know that two years ago, Robert Skiffington left with his pack, hiking up toward the Appalachian Trail. I know that he saw a cold white hand protruding from the water in the shadows of the dawn. I know that he said What the devil is that? before sliding down the embankment, his head thudding against a log with a sickly crack as his hand reached for that white limb, only to find the solid, completely inhuman material of a mannequin form, before he faded out of consciousness.

  And I know he’s not coming back. Because the truth is, he never left.

  Chapter Seven

  Okay, I tell myself. Breathe.

  This has got to be my imagination. Robert Skiffington is very much alive, hiking the Appalachian Trail somewhere miles away from here.

  Isn’t he?

  I exhale as the vision subsides, but my eyes immediately dart to the side, to something I know does not belong. There, sitting where Angela should be, and wearing a prim white gown, is Lannie. She smiles through her tears. “Remember me, Tootsie?”

  At first I’m surprised I know her name, know anything at all about her, but then it all comes flooding back to me. She was one of my friends, one of my constant visions when I lived on the Delaware. She was always there with me, telling me stories about the summers she and her sister spent on the water. They’d go tubing and have picnics by the river, and it all seemed like so much fun. Lannie was the daring one, jumping into the river without a second thought, laughing endlessly at me whenever I tried to take things slow. I always wished she was my sister, because there were no other children where I lived and I desperately wanted other kids to play with. She was my one and only friend. My imaginary friend.

  “You’re not—Why are you—” I sputter, and then all at once she disappears and is replaced by that girl in the pink party dress, her eyes dark and hopeless.

  I’m snapped back to reality before she can open her mouth and spew mud. The waves churn around the raft, matching the tumult going on inside me. “What are you doing here?” I ask her, but by that time, she’s gone.

  Crack. I hear it again and again, that sickening sound of Robert’s skull smashing against a rock or a log or whatever. Always What the devil is that? followed a minute later by that horrifying sound that can only mean the end of Robert Skiffington’s life. He’s dead. Gone.

  And somehow, I’m the only one in the world who knows it.

  The whispers start. At first I think it’s nothing, the new spring leaves rustling gently around us. But eventually I can make out actual words. So many different voices, speaking at once. Asked … devil … you … A whirl of words, nonsensical ramblings, growing louder and louder, until they drown out all other sounds. Pain blooms in my forehead and doesn’t subside when I press my hand against my temple. Instead, the voices only grow stronger. Now I can almost make them out. I know that if they get any louder, my head is bound to explode.

  I turn around, still clutching the paddle. “Justin,” I whisper, trying to catch my breath. Somehow, though we’re in the outdoors, it feels like there are walls closing in on me. Walls of water, bearing down on me, waiting to sweep me downriver. Justin is only an arm’s length behind me, and yet it seems like he’s a mile away. “I need to get out.”

  I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s hoping I’m kidding, because I know there’s no way I can simply get out. Instinctively he moves forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “What? What’s wrong?”

  By now the voices are screaming in my head.

  I did everything you asked of me.

  “I can’t—” I swallow. “I can’t breathe.”

  He’s the one. Get him.

  Justin scuttles to my side, grabbing the paddle from me. “Calm down,” he says. “You’re okay.” But I’m not. My heartbeat is thudding in my head. My mind, my ears, my entire body is pulsating, filled with echoes. Echoes of the dead.

  The girl in the pink party dress, filth spurting from the open crevasse of her mouth, reaches for me first. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I see them all perfectly in the darkness. When I force my eyes open, everything is swirling. Masses of pine needles look like matted human hair, and branches like brittle brown bones, churning in white foam. And then suddenly, from the foam, I see the hands. Ghostly fingers reaching up, sliding along the edge of the raft. Reaching for me.

  “Oh my God,” I manage. Is this what my mother saw before she … Suddenly I’m screaming. Angela’s now looking at me, launching into Florence Nightingale mode. I hear her voice among the others, distorted like a record being played at too slow a speed, What’s wrong? Ki, what’s wrong? But the only thing I can get out is “Justin” as I claw at him, grasping for him desperately.

  He’s like an image in a dream I keep running to, though every step closer brings me one step away. Though his arms are around me, they’re not keeping me safe. It’s almost like they’re pushing me toward the waves, too. I try to wrench myself free and move to the center of the raft, but everything is forcing me toward the water. Or maybe it’s just that the river is pulling me to it, wanting to hold me closer. Another wave kicks up and splashes us, jerking the raft to the side. We’re in another rapids, and suddenly I’m over the edge and Justin is holding me by the arms. My body is in the water, and, strangel
y, it’s not bitingly cold. It feels warm, almost inviting, but I still clutch for something to get me out. Michael reaches over the side, trying to pull me back, shouting, “Hold on! Hold on!” Someone calls, “What the hell is going on?” I can tell that nobody knows what’s happening. I feel the pressure on my legs, under the water. As strong as Justin and Michael are, they’re no match for the hands that are under the water, clutching me. Pulling me down.

  “Don’t let me go,” I whimper to Justin, and he strains to say “I won’t,” but I can tell he’s confused, unsure as to why he can’t hoist me back into the raft. I weigh half of what he does. He obviously can’t see what I can feel. The dozens of hands on my legs and waist, pulling me down until I can’t fight anymore. Slowly I let go and take one last, strangled breath before sliding under the surface.

  It’s strange: once the water wraps around me, even the rush of it around me sounds like only one word, being whispered in my ear over and over again. Welcome.

  I’m drowning.

  In my head, I’m screaming. It feels as though I’ve been launched through a pinball machine. Like my body is careening at breakneck speed, being tossed every which way, and I have no control. I try to move my arms in another direction but I’m beaten into submission by a force much more powerful than me. Something jams against my cheek, pushing my head back so far that the bones of my neck grate against one another. I try to force it away, flailing my arms wildly, but then I hit against another hard thing. Everything is rocketing in only one direction, and I have no idea what lies at the very end. I don’t think I’ll find out. I know that before I reach the end, I’ll be dead.

  My lungs are beating against my chest, exploding. My heart thuds in my ears. I look up, toward the ripples of sunlight. They’re just a blur now, because I’m moving too fast. I need to get there. Somehow. I reach my hand out, but instead of propelling myself upward, all I do is bring back a handful of soft, mucky stuff, like a tangled mane of hair. Like my mother’s hair. I make another attempt to scramble upward but I find myself just sinking deeper, and the lights above begin to fade with the burning sensation in my lungs.

  The last thing that enters my mind is that it’s funny how we try so hard not to be like our parents, because that never works out. I’m going to die here, in a river. Just like her.

  Chapter Eight

  First there are the whispers.

  I did …

  What the …

  That’s the …

  I keep still, listening, but the words never come together to make sense. They’re just words, as if read from a dictionary, phrases that never mean anything. The morning’s biting cold stings my cheeks. I’m still wearing that impossibly uncomfortable wet suit, but instead of being near-frozen, I’m sweating underneath the layers of wool clothes. I open my eyes, and all I see is the gray, sad sky and black, bare branches above me. A large crow glides overhead, cawing ominously.

  I’m alive. Amazingly. I must be. If I were dead, my head wouldn’t hurt as much, would it?

  I sit up. As I do, my head throbs, begging me to rest, but I push against gravity and straighten. When I’m erect, my hair whips over my eyes. I pull it back, but it’s slimy in places, gritty in others, and knotted like seaweed. Where is my helmet?

  The whispering continues, which is odd because I’m alone. But then it changes somehow—was it not whispering but the sound of rushing water? I look around. Water moving everywhere, all around me. No, no, not more water! I want to retch at the sight of it. When I swallow, there’s something thick and gritty in the back of my throat. The water laps at my toes, almost as if it’s trying to touch them, to grab me and pull me back toward it. I’m sitting on a small island right in the middle of the river.

  I scan the horizon for cheerful yellow rafts. When we set off, there were dozens. Now I can’t see a one. I search the riverbanks to either side of me, but the only witnesses to my peril are tall pines, bowing to me in the stiff wind. I curl my knees up to my chest and hug them. Where the hell is everyone?

  I crane my neck to scan the island, but it’s just brambles, moist sand, pieces of driftwood that have found their way here on the waves. One lone, bare tree with sprawling branches and a trunk the size of a small car sits behind me. It takes up most of the real estate on the island. Other than that, nothing. My backpack is gone. There’s a draft on my back now and I tenderly bring my fingers there, running them over the neoprene. Great. There are slashes all down my wet suit, almost as if I’ve been mauled by a bear. I probe around with my finger and find blood. My hand is covered in blood. I turn around and there’s a small puddle of it under my backside. Suddenly I’m aware of the sting.

  Frantic, I search the river again. Nothing. No one. I’m alone, in the middle of the rapids, bleeding. No. This is not good. My heart begins to pound so hard, I can almost hear it.

  “Well, look who’s wandering among the living.”

  I jump at the voice. Not that it’s scary—it’s just that two minutes ago, when I surveyed my surroundings, I was alone. Or at least I thought I was. The tree, though, has a large trunk, so maybe he was behind it. Yes, of course. Plus, my head hurts, so maybe I have a concussion and am not seeing things clearly. I turn, and a boy is loping toward me, easy, like he hasn’t a care in the world. His light brown hair is falling in his face and he has this sheepish grin, like he’s up to no good.

  He sits down beside me and begins to pick at the line of white pebbles left by the tide. Those pearly little pebbles, the damp sand, our feet side by side at the water’s edge—something about this scene gives me an instant shot of déjà vu that almost sends me reeling, like I’m falling through time and space. I catch myself, and by then he’s studying me, that quirky smile melting into amused curiosity. “You talk?”

  The voice. It’s unsettling. Something is not quite right about it. It’s an easy drawl, nothing like Justin’s or Hugo’s or that of any of the guys I know, and yet it sounds familiar. Anyone in this predicament, stuck in the middle of a river, would speak with a little bit of urgency. But then again, he’s not the one who’s bleeding.

  My lips are so cold they tingle to life when I open them to speak. “I’m … hurt.”

  He nods and inspects the wound on my back. “Sure are.”

  He reaches out to touch it and I squirm a little when he comes in contact with the wound. “Ouch.”

  He doesn’t apologize. “Tore up that little monkey suit of yours, too, huh?”

  “It’s a wet suit,” I say miserably. “And a rental. I’ll probably owe them an arm and a leg for it.”

  He’s still inspecting it. There isn’t a look of disgust on his face, or horror, so maybe it isn’t that bad? I can feel his fingers stroking the fabric, which is really awkward, so I flinch away just as he says, “For that thing? Wouldn’t trade you a piece of steamin’ horse manure for it.”

  I stare at him. Who the hell talks like that? And weirder yet, why does it seem like I’ve heard this all before? “Wait. Do I know you?” I ask, but I already know that’s impossible. He couldn’t have been on the rafting excursion with us. All of the other people were older, and he’s probably no more than twenty. He has a cologne-ad-pretty face with perfect features, just the right amount of stubble, and long eyelashes—a face that’s hard to stop looking at, and even harder to forget. And he’s not wearing a wet suit. In fact, he’s not wearing much at all. Faded, ripped jeans and a worn plaid shirt, open, untucked, and with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He’s not wearing shoes. No shoes. It can’t be more than forty degrees out today. Even Justin would have a hard time with that. “Aren’t you freezing?”

  He laughs. “No on both counts, kid.”

  At first I’m like, Yeah, he’s right, I’d remember a dude like him, but the second he calls me “kid,” the feeling hits me stronger than ever. I try to find the connection but my head is throbbing, making thinking impossible. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re in the middle of a river, I’m gushing blood all over the place, an
d maybe the tide is changing and this little island won’t be here an hour from now. “Look. I’m a little freaked out. I don’t know where I am or where my friends are. You wouldn’t happen to have a boat, would you?” I ask.

  He grins at me, a slow grin. Why does he do everything slowly? And of course he doesn’t have a boat. He doesn’t even have shoes.

  All right. Think think think. “How did you even get here, if you don’t have a boat?” But I already know the answer. I echo him as he says, “I’m a powerful good swimmer.”

  He grins, and that’s my cue to freak out. How did I know that?

  “So, wait. I do know you?”

  He shakes his head. “Listen, kid, you’re wound up tighter than an eight-day clock. Relax for a minute.”

  “Relax!” I start, but then I stop. No, I don’t know him, of course; I just hit my head or something and I’m not thinking straight.

  He leans back, digging his palms in the dirt behind him. He’s tall, like Justin; he stretches out with his legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, and his feet touch the water. Unlike me, he doesn’t recoil from the cold of the river. I notice that his toes are a rather pleasing shade of brown. He has a tan. How can a guy in Maine in May have a tan? He doesn’t look like the type to frequent tanning salons; he looks more like Justin in that regard. The manly-man type. But even the manliest of men can end up utterly screwed by nature. Rule number one: Nature always kicks ass.

  “Um, look. I can’t relax. You may be a powerful good swimmer, but I’m not. I’m hurt, and freezing, and I’m sure my friends are looking for me, so I need to get back to them. Can you help me?”

  “Sure thing.” Then he grimaces. I look down and for the first time I notice he’s holding his arm, limp in front of him.

  The blood is all over his hand. My blood? I lean forward. No, there’s a massive gash on the top of his forearm, stretching almost from his elbow to his wrist bone. It’s deep, too; the blood is a dark, thick purple. I gasp. “Oh my God.”