by Michael Cole
“Going for a swim there, Chief?” he called. Sydney looked over at him, sparking a small grin. At least there was one friendly face who didn’t despise his existence.
“I do hear the water’s warm,” he joked. “Actually, I just wanted to keep an eye on things. I figured I better keep my distance though.”
“With that in mind, you might want to wait here in the cleaning station. Tindell might not be too gracious if he sees you. Luckily, he only passes through here when he’s selling something and…well, the whole town’s out on the lake right now.” Sydney nodded and went with Joel’s proposal. After he came inside, Joel went to cleaning the fillet countertop.
“Has it been busy in here?” Sydney asked, simply making conversation.
“In the morning hours, maybe a couple people here and there, but normally quiet. This afternoon though, with everybody and their brother out fishing, I expect to be hustling. They normally come in around noon, but everyone has their knickers in a twist because they think you’re gonna close the lake again. So they’re staying out longer, it seems.” Sydney understood the way Joel spoke as a polite way of trying to find out why he wants the lake closed.
“Well, I guess they have nothing to worry about,” he said. “The mayor and apparently the sheriff have concluded that there is no danger in the lake. Despite the fact that we still have people missing and…ugh, I’m not going over the whole speech again.” He looked over Joel’s station, then at his hunting photos. He saw one of him and a large black bear, another with a lion. “Is that the one that nearly had you for dinner?” Joel turned and looked.
“Oh no,” he said. “That one was much bigger.” Sydney grinned and continued looking at the display. Naturally, he eyeballed the large Bandolero sword.
“I don’t suppose you use that for filleting,” he said.
“No, but I’ve had a few people ask me to,” Joel said. “It was a gift from somebody in the service. We were into knives and guns and stuff. He had it custom made for me.”
“Sounds like a nice guy,” Sydney said. He grabbed the radio microphone. “Excuse me one sec,” he said to Joel and then lifted it to his mouth. “Unit one to Unit Four?”
“Unit Four. Go ahead.” Sydney recognized Tim Marlow’s voice.
“What’s your status? Anything going on out there?”
********
Marlow slowly steered the boat south, keeping a distance from the shallow areas where most people were fishing.
“It’s as quiet as a newborn baby out here,” he spoke into the radio speaker. He waited for a response, but quickly realized Sydney likely didn’t understand the remark. “As in, people are screaming all over. Speedboaters and jet skiers going nuts, fisherman yelling about something breaking their line, a couple people getting busy in a pontoon…”
“Please tell me you asked them to take it somewhere else?”
“Uhh, of course,” Marlow said.
“Alright. Keep your eyes peeled, and keep me informed,” Sydney said.
“Will do,” Marlow said.
“Over and out.”
Marlow set the speaker down. He kept the patrol boat going at a slower pace, actually having to keep an eye out in front of him as there was plenty of traffic on the lake for once. The music on the radio became mind-numbingly repetitive, which worsened his drowsiness. He switched it off, leaving the only thing to listen to was the pinball game that his partner was playing on his phone. The partner sat on deck, biding his time until shift change. Like most of the department, he thought the extensive lake patrols were a paranoid waste of time. This made Marlow feel a bit like an outcast, as he was the only one who trusted the chief’s judgment. The mechanical sounds of the gameplay suddenly stopped, replaced by a downbeat musical score.
“Shit!” the officer said. Marlow looked back.
“Told you, you weren’t gonna beat the high score.”
********
Dr. Wilkow dropped his anchor at the next location. Once again, the previous two were a bust, and he was running out of deep zones in this section of the lake. He tied the anchor down and set up his equipment for what seemed like the hundredth time.
Next time, I’m bringing a pole and bait with me.
His phone vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID. It was the general phone number for the University. It went to voicemail. Although he didn’t want to, he listened to it. As he anticipated, it was Dr. Nevers’ voice.
“I swear to God, Dr. Wilkow, you better have an explanation for this. I got an alert regarding thousands of dollars in charges placed on the college credit card, which interestingly is missing from my desk drawer. I only know one person who would purchase a Gladius 4K underwater drone and a bathymetry chart! And where the hell are you? Get your ass back here STAT, you hear me?”
“Wouldn’t you want to ask that at the beginning of a message?” Wilkow said, expressing his sarcastic wit even with nobody to witness it. He tucked his phone away and returned to his sonar monitor. The fish finder sent a ping to the bottom of the lake, and immediately the colorful images began to arise on the screen. Wilkow looked at his chart to compare the images. Glancing back and forth between the chart and the monitor, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. His heart thumped with intense excitement. The layout of the lakebed showed what appeared to be a deep fissure in the bedrock.
“YEEAAAHHH BABY!” he cheered. The approximate depth of this area was two-hundred-ninety feet. He scooted to the other side of his seat and tore open his other box. He lifted the large, yellow Gladius drone out along with its one-hundred-meter tether. The drone was flat, with a solid exterior for resisting water pressures and twin propellers at the rear. At its maximum depth of three-hundred-thirty feet, it was capable of going at a horizontal distance of five hundred feet.
Wilkow synced the drone’s video feed to his laptop computer. The video came through nice and clear. He held up the drone and turned the camera toward his face. He admired his own image on the monitor screen before activating the recording device.
“Hi! I’m Dr. Mike Wilkow! Today, we’re going to take a peek into the deep dark crack of Ridgeway Lake. What we’ll see, well…we’re just gonna have to…ehh fuck it.” He dropped the drone over the side and snatched up the control device as he sat back down. Hunched over, he looked like a young video game player, staring intently at the feed on his computer screen while operating the controller. The image on the screen displayed a pleasant clear blue milieu, with streaks of golden sunlight reaching downward. As the drone dove deeper, those golden streaks turned brownish and eventually disappeared into a murky green locale. The tether unreeled with a whirring noise, and Wilkow used the amount of cable left to help determine his depth.
Finally, he got a visual of the lakebed. Seaweed gently waved in the water like leaves on a tree from a light breeze. The plant life wasn’t well grown due to the lack of exposure to sunlight. Other than that, there wasn’t any life at this depth, except for the odd catfish here and there. Wilkow looked at the sonar images to see how far off he was from the rift. He steered the drone northeast, watching the video feed carefully. He began to notice a disparity in the lake floor. It suddenly became more rocky, very uneven. The drone came upon an upward hill. Wilkow steered the drone up above the peak, and cracked a wide smile as he dipped the camera downward.
It was like a miniature Grand Canyon underwater. There, two-hundred and ninety feet down was an opening like that of the mouth of a cave. Wilkow backed the drone up to get a better view, and switched on the lights. The drone’s headlight cast a white illumination on the dark chasm. He snapped several still pictures, which instantly saved onto the computer’s hard drive. Wilkow studied the gap, estimating it to be roughly thirty to forty feet wide, and perhaps fifty feet long. He noticed signs of instability around it as well, such as cracks in the surrounding earth. This area seemed to be made of a rocky structure, which was weakened by the constant exposure to water. Wilkow hypothesized that this area had weakened, and that the trem
ors from the blasting in the Corey Mine caused it to give way.
Wilkow moved the drone closer. He checked the tether, and determined he had roughly forty feet before maxing out. Wilkow put the drone directly over the opening and pointed it straight down. Its light traveled deep into the dark, profound tunnel. Gently moving his thumb on the control pad, he moved the drone inward. The drone descended slowly, snapping photos every couple feet. New details came to view on the monitor. Wilkow could identify layers of sediments and areas of compaction. Looking down into the distance, Wilkow thought he could see something attached to the “wall” of the cave. As he moved the drone closer, the tether tightened. It had maxed out.
“Crap!” He angled the drone as best he could to cast the best light on the object. He nearly put his eye right against the monitor screen to see as best he could. “I’ll be damned.” The object resembled a form of plant species. It was charcoal in color, shaped like a bulb with three large arrow-shaped leaves extending out. How can that be growing underground, with no exposure to sunlight? Assuming it was a plant, of course. If it was, it would require photons from light to survive. Unless it wasn’t getting them from the sun, but from something else. He thought of the possibilities. Likely, there were species of fish using lights to lure prey or attract mates, just as fish do in the deep Mariana Trench. There were likely species of fungus that gave off light. Even rocks or other minerals could do so as well. Wilkow grew excited as he thought of all the possibilities for discovery. He snapped a few photos of the plant and slowly backed the drone out of the cave.
“Okay, Dr. Nevers,” he said, “I think I have my explanation.”
Only about ten yards to Wilkow’s starboard side were two twelve-foot boats, steadily trawling with fishing lines trailing. Jeff and Richie were on the front boat, each with a beer in hand while cracking jokes to the other duo, Diesel and Brook, who were roughly twenty feet behind them. They had hardly any luck catching any fish, and their excessive intake of alcohol was certainly to blame.
“I should’ve kept that turtle!” Diesel called out. “I’ve never tried the soup!”
“You wouldn’t be impressed,” Brook said. On the other boat, Richie stood up. He tilted his head back and downed the remainder of his beer. He swallowed, waited for his stomach to stop gurgling, then let out a loud burp which sounded like a frog croak. “You expect congratulations from us?” Brook said. Richie mimicked a stage bow. Jeff belched out a booming laugh. His friends weren’t sure whether he was laughing at the joke, or the burp, or nothing at all. In fact, Jeff himself didn’t even know. At this point, he was a walking beer keg.
“No more for him,” Diesel said. “He can’t hold it like I can!”
“Well, no shit, Diesel,” Brook said. “You’ve got three times as much room to store it.” He pointed to his friend’s protruding gut.
“Go f…” his curse word came out as a heavy belch, “yourself!” The four vacationing slobs erupted in laughter. Richie doubled over as he cackled. While bent down, he found himself looking directly at his fishing pole. The line was tight, and the pole itself was starting to bend.
“Oh shit!” he yelled. He fell to his knees and grabbed the handle. “I got a bite!” He yanked back on the pole and started reeling in. Immediately, he felt something heavy on the other end, although it didn’t seem to be fighting back. “What the hell?”
Wilkow stared confused at the tether as he reeled it in. It stretched a bit outward, as if something was trying to pull it away from the boat. The winch continued reeling it in. After several seconds, Wilkow noticed a red lure coming up with the tether, along with several feet of fishing line. He looked at the man on the boat struggling with his pole, and quickly realized that he had snagged his tether line.
“Whoa! Hold up there, bud,” he called out. “You’re hooked to my line here.”
Richie didn’t listen and continued yanking back on his pole, seemingly unaware as to why it couldn’t reel in any further. Wilkow stopped the winch from bringing it in any further. He reached for the fishing line to untangle it. He felt the line to find the tangle, just as Richie pulled back again. The hooks swiftly jolted to the side, nearly piercing his hand. Wilkow reared backward, falling back into his seat.
“Holy…” He looked over at Richie and stood back up. He cupped his hands around his mouth, although they weren’t too far away. “Hey!” Richie looked toward him.
“Little busy!” he called back. “I’ve hooked the big one, and boy, he’s not giving me a break! I think I’m about to break some sort of record!” He returned his attention to the water and tugged with his pole. Wilkow gave him a blank stare, losing his faith in humanity as Richie continued his attempt to reel in his boat.
“Hey, genius!” He pulled up on Richie’s line and held it up as best he could. Richie finally looked toward him again and saw the line in his hand. “Unless the record is how much booze you can have in an hour, I think the only thing you’re gonna break is your lure.” Richie wasn’t amused. He yanked back on the pole even harder, as if in a blind rage.
“You douche! Give me back my line!” He spoke as if Wilkow deliberately snagged it. Wilkow dropped the line before it could cut into his skin. He quickly realized he was dealing with an intoxicated lunatic who quickly resorted to anger.
“If you just hang on, I can undo this,” he called out. Richie didn’t listen and continued to tug mindlessly. To make matters worse, his drunken friends started shouting obscenities at Wilkow. He determined the quickest way to get out of this situation was to untangle the snag, particularly without breaking the line. If that happened, the drunkards would certainly blame it on him and take offense, which would worsen the situation for him. He manually unwound the tether a bit, but couldn’t get his hands on the fishing line as it repeatedly jolted outward with each tug.
The Carnobass felt an internal pain throbbing within itself due to a lack of sufficient nutrition. Its attempts to hunt at the bottom of the lake proved yet again to be fruitless. As it patrolled the dark depths of the lake, its eyes caught sight of something in the distance.
The drone hovered several feet over the lakebed, its light still shining. It swayed back and forth, and tilted to and fro like a wounded animal struggling to swim. Curious, the Carnobass moved in closer to inspect. The drone changed direction with each sway, and every few seconds, it would bounce upward. Instinct drove the fish into action. It lunged forward and engulfed the drone in its jaws, then quickly turned to run with its prey.
Wilkow fell backward as the tether yanked downward, dragging the boat downward. The portside tilted upward, and water started seeping over the submerging edge of the starboard side. With a metallic popping sound, the winch popped off. The boat fell back into place and leveled out as the tether and winch disappeared from view. Richie watched his pole bend at a near ninety-degree angle, before his line snapped.
“What the…?” he yelled. He looked at his broken fishing line and threw his pole down in a drunken rage. “You fuck! Look what you did?”
Wilkow’s mind didn’t register Richie’s rant. He was still trying to grasp what just happened. He revisited what he witnessed in his mind, thinking strongly about how the tether seemed to pull straight down. For him, there was only one logical answer: the fish was beneath them. He quickly stood up and started pulling up on his anchor.
“Guys! Hurry and get out of here!” he called out to the fishermen. Unfortunately, their intoxicated brains misunderstood his meaning, and instead took it as Wilkow simply ordering them what to do.
“What’s that, you say?” Jeff shouted.
“You think you own this lake, you little punk?” Diesel called from his boat. He started to stand up to present a threatening presence, only to drunkenly stumble. His hefty figure and bodyweight caused his boat to rock strongly back and forth, nearly dipping Brook over the side.
“Jesus, dude!” Brook said. “I swear, you’re getting a Stairmaster when we get back!”
The inorganic mater
ial of the drone did not sit well inside the fish’s gullet. It arched its body from side to side, opening and closing its mouth rapidly. With a massive flare of its gills, it regurgitated the drone, which sank to the bottom. The fish swam upward as it pumped water through its gills to recover from the effort. Its energy quickly returned, and immediately its senses picked up on intense vibrations from up above. It angled itself upward to see the boats floating on the surface. The sunlight still pained its eyes, but to a lesser extent as they had begun to adapt.
The natural need to feed intensified, and the beast didn’t waste time to examine the prey. It flapped its tail hard and shot upward like a cruise missile, aiming directly at the quivering boat.
“Shut up, Brook,” Diesel said. He continued to rock the boat while trying to stand upright. “You can kiss my chubby white ass.” He then pointed to Wilkow. “And you, you’re up for an ass kick—”
The lake beneath the boat exploded upward, sending it twirling upward. Directly underneath it was the fish. Every muscle in Wilkow’s body tensed as he witnessed the twenty-five-foot bass breach the water. Its scales, like green armor plating, reflected the glow of the sun. Diesel and Brook were both flung from the boat. The bass hit the water, followed immediately by the boat and its former inhabitants.
Diesel sank several feet beneath the surface, completely disoriented. Unable to determine which direction was up, he flung his arms out wildly and kicked his legs. His eyes were clamped shut for several seconds, unconditioned to being underwater. He finally opened them, just in time to see the enormous shape speeding toward him, jaws extended. A burst of air bubbles vacated his lungs as he let out a stifled underwater scream. The Carnobass flared its gills and sucked him in, then clamped its jaws down over him. As a last-ditch attempt for escape, Diesel threw his arms out. The jaws shut over one of them, snapping the bone and tearing some of the muscle tissue. Held together mostly by the skin, the arm dangled outside of the Carnobass’s mouth. It sped along the surface as it turned to locate its next victim.