Creature From The Crevasse

by Michael Cole

  CREATURE FROM THE CREVASSE

  Michael Cole

  Copyright 2018 by Michael Cole

  CHAPTER

  1

  Bob Ferguson felt the familiar pull of the 8-pound test line against his left index finger. It was a strong, steady tug; a classic example of largemouth bass. It was his first cast of the early morning, and the crawler harness had only been in the water for a single minute before the bite. With a complete grip of the handle, he jerked the pole up at a forty-five-degree angle. Not too gently, or else he wouldn’t place the hooks. Not too hard either, or else he’d yank the harness right out of the trophy’s mouth. It was just right. The line suddenly tightened, and the pole bent into a curve. The fight was on. Bob stood up at the center of his twelve-foot rowboat, hanging on tight as the bass went for a deep dive. It was a feisty one, and it had no intention of coming quietly. He didn’t reel in. That would simply create extra tension on the line and possibly snap it. The goal was to let the fish wear itself out. After about a minute of continuous tugging, the exhausted bass quit its attempt to dive deep. Bob felt the tension on the line ease up, and seized the opportunity to begin reeling in. By the weight at the end of the line, it was obvious that this was at least a fifteen-inch bass. The fish attempted to resist by swimming to the side, but was still being dragged by this force unknown to it. By instinct, it went in the only other direction to escape the clutches of this predator: up!

  Bob laughed out loud when the largemouth broke the surface, flailing its body three feet over the water. A large splashed followed its reentry, and Bob quickly reeled in the several feet of slack in the line caused by the jump. The fish went for one last dive. Bob could tell the fish was determined, because his pole had bent at a near perfect ninety-degree angle. It wasn’t going to bend any further. The fish wiggled toward the shelter of the weeded floor of the lake, but it wasn’t gaining any distance. Once again, its energy levels were depleted by the effort. Bob pulled up on the line, and reeled in the slack he created. He looked over the side of the boat and saw the bass coming up to the surface. The fight was over. He raised it out of the water and swung it over the side of the boat. It flopped along the floor, nearly crashing into an open tackle box. With his thumb and index finger, he gripped the fish by its lower jaw and lifted it, a technique that would paralyze it until he let go. Holding the fish in this manner, he pried the three crawler harness hooks from its mouth. The worm was completely gone, either eaten by the bass or shaken loose during the fight. With the fish unhooked, Bob took a minute to admire his catch. It was a sixteen-inch largemouth, and he figured it weighed at least a couple of pounds. Not bad for the first cast of the morning. He pulled the live basket from the water where it was chained at the stern and placed the bass inside. It splashed briefly as he lowered the basket back into the water. When fully submerged, it began pumping water through its gills and prodding its nose against the sides of the basket, unaware that it was now being stored for its captor’s dinner.

  “Hell to the yes,” Bob said out loud to himself. He couldn’t imagine a better way to start the trip. Every so often he’d come to this lake, usually by himself. It was a perfect escape from normal life. Not that life was bad; he had a well-paying job, caring wife, two grown kids at age eighteen and twenty-one. But a man even needed an escape from that once in a while. With his dirty blue jeans, white T-shirt, muddy boots, and three-day beard, he looked like a simple hillbilly. In actuality, he was formerly an assistant college professor of math and computer science at Washtenaw Community College in Ann Arbor. Five years ago, he was promoted to Dean. It was more administrative than it was educational, but the pay was a significant increase, and the hours were focused during the day. Also, a career there meant being grandfathered into a pension plan with good medical benefits and a free two-year education for his kids. The twenty-one-year-old had no problem taking advantage of that, and graduated with an Associate’s Degree in Applied Sciences. The younger child had just graduated high school, and expressed no interest in furthering her education.

  Bob gazed out onto the water as he began setting his crawler harness. The sun was just starting to come up over the tree line that seemed to encompass the entire lake like a prison fence. Streaks of light stretched over the flat surface of water, making it appear almost like a mirror as it created a reflection of everything above and around it. Looking dead ahead at a cove, he could see his camper inland, just beyond a stretch of water lilies that covered the shore. He had arrived the previous evening, cooked a couple of burgers on the charcoal grill and went straight to sleep, knowing he wanted an early start this morning. The grill was where he left it, and he looked forward to heating his bass fillets on it.

  He grabbed a fresh nightcrawler from a blue tub. The slimy purplish-pink bait squirmed within his fingers as if it knew what was in store for it. He pressed the first hook through its purple head, the second through its midsection, and the third through its pink tail. It was a hot summer, which caused the fish to go deep. Bob cast the line out further into the lake, watching it splash about fifty feet from his boat. He reeled in the unwanted slack and patiently waited for the next bite. His eyes scanned the lake. At least in this portion of the large body of water, he appeared to be the only one out.

  Fine with me, he thought. His attention returned to the pole when he felt that jerk of the line. It was a quick one, possibly from a bluegill. Usually, bluegills didn’t typically run this deep, but it certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Another minute passed. He stood up onto his feet. Another jerk of the line triggered his senses. This one was definitely a harder pull, rather than a brief tug. He yanked back on the pole and quickly reeled in the bit of slack he created. The pole bent again, and the line went taut. Definitely another bass, or the granddaddy of all bluegills. The battle went through the normal motions. The fish attempted to go deep, only to be exhausted by the effort. When it eased up, Bob took advantage of the opportunity to start reeling it in. It fought back by pulling from side to side, and finally it went airborne, flipping wildly above the water before crashing down roughly thirty feet from the boat. It attempted to reverse, creating a brief standstill while it tugged in the opposite direction it was being pulled. The maneuver didn’t work, and Bob joyfully watched at as fish prepared to make a second leap. The fish broke the surface and writhed at least three feet above the water. Bob began to happily laugh at the occasion. That mirthful laugh suddenly turned into a loud, startled “Sweet Jesus!” when a second enormous splash engulfed the area his fish had jumped. It wasn’t some small spray; it was an enormous upward eruption of lake water, as if a grenade had detonated beneath the surface. Bob fell backward onto his seat from the shock, his eyes still fixed on the event. Something huge emerged from the surface, mostly concealed by the blast of water. Whatever it was, it had a dark, scaly exterior, and had a very bulky mass. It crashed down into the water, creating another huge splash. Bob nearly yelled out as his pole was suddenly ripped from his grasp, disappearing under the churning water. Large waves rocked his boat like a bobber for a long minute. Once the water settled down, Bob silently stared at the surface. It was a mixture of shock and awe. He had no rational idea of what he just experienced. He swallowed hard, and then succumbed to his natural instinct of looking over the edge of the boat. All he could see was his own reflection on the glassy surface. He didn’t realize his own face was the last thing he’d see. The water beneath him exploded upward, and he felt himself lifted off his boat. The motion was so fast, his brain couldn’t register the fact that he was midair, and gripped in a powerful set of vicious jaws. There was another crash of water, and as quick as it all started he was underwater. He instinctively gasped, accidentally fillin
g his lungs with lake water before the jaws crushed down on his back, rib cages, and breastplate. Blood spewed from his mouth and nose as he was driven deeper. The jaws opened and extended and then shut again, suctioning Bob further into the mouth of the predator. A few bloody air bubbles squeezed out from a set of gills behind the jaws as Bob was swallowed whole.

  At the surface, the bow of the rowboat had been dunked into the water after the creature had crashed down. Water flowed over the submerged edge, filling the space between the seats. The stern rose slightly higher as the water drove the metal contraption further beneath the surface. After about thirty seconds, the rear of the boat vanished beneath the water. The ripples cleared and the lake returned to normal. The glassy reflection of the tree line returned to the flat, calm surface. It appeared like a peaceful, perfect summer morning.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Sunrise in middle Michigan usually came around six in the morning during the month of July. For the small town of Rodney, it happened at precisely 5:59 a.m. It was around this time that the initial early morning traffic would commence, typical for a Wednesday morning.

  Rodney was a small, hexagonal-shaped area of 28.3 square miles and a population of 19,879 residents. Named after Rodney Earl, believed to be one of the greatest bass fishermen ever, Rodney was most famous for the large lake that rested dead center its map. Shaped like a capital “T”, Ridgeway Lake was one of the larger regular lakes in Michigan. With the vertical stem of the “T” slanted slightly toward the west, the lake was three miles long, and two-point-three miles wide at the upper cross. The lake contained fish such as largemouth bass, walleye, pike, crappie, bullhead, perch, bluegill, and other panfish.

  The northern segments of Rodney were composed mainly of residential communities, while the western side of town contained a large market area where residents and visitors could do their shopping. The number one source of revenue for the town was Birchwood Lodge, located on the western side of the lake where the north and south sections of the lake intersected. Throughout the lakeside were several cabins owned by this lodge, and during the summer, these cabins and campsites were usually completely booked.

  The largest complaint from both the residents and tourist population were the blasts coming from Corey Mine, located east of the lake. Each day, dynamite blasts sent tremors through the earth, disturbing the fishing community. Equipped with a large crane and heavy-duty equipment, workers hauled minerals out of the deep pit from early morning to late evening.

  In the southern part of town were a small hospital, a public school district, a fire and EMS station, and the most recently added addition being a police headquarters. For most of its history, the town of Rodney relied on the County Sheriff’s Department for law enforcement services. However, during recent years, response times had increased significantly in town. People needing police reports for traffic accidents reportedly had to wait over an hour for a law enforcement officer to appear. With a lack of police presence in the area, petty crimes increased drastically, which then led to a higher rate of misdemeanors. Stores in town dealt with a string of shoplifters, who had no fear of being arrested, and often the business owners would have to wait long periods of time for police to make a report.

  The final straw for the town had taken place over a year ago, when a robbery occurred at the local bank. Several gunmen stormed the building and immediately fired two shotgun blasts into the ceiling. After ordering everyone to the floor, they made off with several thousands of dollars. Two of the suspects were eventually caught months later, not by the Sheriff’s Department, but by Michigan State Police near the Ohio Border, where these individuals were attempting another armed robbery. Although there were no physical injuries, the robbery left a mental scar on the clients and employees, and the town in general which rarely saw violent crime.

  Tired of the worsening situation, residents of Rodney pressured the mayor to take action to ensure safety in the community.

  In direct response, the town officials initiated a process for the town to have its own small police force. Thus, the Rodney Police Department was formed.

  ********

  “He’s pulling in now,” Officer Tim Marlow announced to the police staff. He was standing near the edge of the front window in the intake lobby, keeping a few feet back to not be clearly seen from outside. Behind the intake officer’s desk were several uniformed officers waiting near a hallway. Most of these officers were first-shift personnel, waiting to get an impression of what kind of day they were going to have.

  “How’s he look?” one called back. The five-foot-seven, twenty-three-year-old scrawny officer didn’t answer right away. Tim raised his hand toward his co-workers as a way of asking them to be patient. From the window, he watched the grey Jeep Rubicon park into its designated parking spot. The driver door opened up and its operator stepped out. Marlow immediately recognized the slouch in his figure and the grimace on his face.

  “We’re in for a rough one today, guys!” he announced. He hurried across the lobby toward the hallway. The other officers had already made way to the briefing room and took seats, appearing as if they had been waiting there for several minutes. It was a tradition well practiced over the course of many months. As Marlow hurried down the hall, he could hear the familiar squeak of the front entryway.

  Chief Morgan Sydney retained the pained scowl on his face as he entered the building. He stepped into the lobby and carefully shut the door behind him, rather than carelessly let it swing shut. Such discipline was something drilled into him from the early days of the Michigan State Police Academy, and it never wore off.

  The smell of minted freshener immediately filled his nose, with the slight smell of fresh paint. Even after six months, he was not used to a police station being so clean, much less the intake area where suspects were usually brought in for booking. Usually, there’d be tobacco stains, wads of spit, food crumbs, and even sometimes urine on the floors and seats. Almost every department had this issue. But this building was relatively new, and maintained the cleanliness of a new facility.

  Before walking into the briefing room, he paused in the lobby. He stood as a six-foot-two, lean built, clean-shaven man of forty-five. His weight shifted to his right leg to ease pressure off his left. He rubbed his hand over his left quad. Under the fabric of the black tactical pants was a leg whose muscle tissue had been mangled from a shotgun blast at ten yards. As a lieutenant in the state police, he was leaving a courthouse after a testimony. Upon returning to the station, dispatch had reported gunshots at a gas station near his location. He had located the vehicle with the given description and managed to block it into a corner with ease after a brief chase. Standing out of his service vehicle with his Glock 17 drawn, it had appeared both suspects were surrendering. Unknown to him, however, there was a second vehicle in the robbery. A Dodge Charger unexpectedly sped up, a Remington R12 Autoloader extending from the passenger window. The deafening blast from the barrel coincided with a sudden agonizing pain in his left leg, which dropped him to the pavement.

  Three weeks and two surgeries later, Morgan Sydney was released from the hospital. Although repaired to the best of the surgeon’s abilities, the thigh muscle was left ravaged, and Sydney subsequently was in perpetual pain. Although given accolades for his service and sacrifice, the state forced him into a medical retirement. Over the next several months, he attempted to find work in other police departments, only to be turned down for fear that his injury would limit his abilities. His luck would change when he discovered the opportunity in the small town of Rodney. After a series of interviews and a detailed presentation, he was offered the position. It was clear to him that the mayor thought of his position as more of an administrative one, therefore not having any concern of his limited ability to do “police work.” But it was a job, and it was a peaceful town; an environment he wished to live in for several years.

  He made his way through the small empty lobby, waving hello to the intake officer. Sh
e waved back, pretending not to notice his limp. The officers always paid attention to his physical state each morning. If he didn’t limp too badly, the pain was kept at bay and, therefore, he would be in a good mood. Work on these days was fairly laid back and pleasant. If there was noticeable discomfort, it meant he’d be irritable and unpleasant. There’d be no room for error on the officers’ part. On these days, he’d be highly critical of their work performance, leaving zero room for error. It was a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde scenario.

  Marlow knew this was the kind of day they were in for as Sydney entered the briefing room. Seated in arranged desks were ten officers and a sergeant. Seven of them were about to begin their shift from 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., while the remaining three and the sergeant were wrapping up from the midnight shift. The midnight crew sat in the back of the room, waiting for the clock to strike 0700. The sergeant stood at a podium at the front of the room, waiting patiently for the chief to enter.

  “Good morning,” Sydney said, clearing his throat. He looked to the sergeant. “Go ahead with it.” The sergeant proceeded with the rundown.

  “0039, Traffic stop at the intersection of Meyers and Baker Street, doing fifty-five over forty. At 0408, we had an arrest of two disorderly drunks at Gamby’s Bar. They’re sleeping it off in the holding cell. Owner not pressing charges for damages. At 0545, we had a traffic stop at Monroe Street, doing seventy in a fifty. Then at 0615, a traffic stop on Selene Road. Sixty in a forty.” The sergeant put away his notes, eager as his staff to leave for the day. “That concludes our debriefing.” The clock struck 0700 and the midnight officers did not hesitate to punch out and exit.

  Sydney took to the podium, doing his best to hide his limp. He felt himself growing ever-more bitter with the throbbing pain. Looking at the seven officers who watched him at the start of each shift, he knew they questioned his abilities. Like the mayor, they only saw him as an administrator rather than a cop.