by Michael Cole
“I can do it,” Joel said, raising his hand. Sydney looked back at him.
“You can drive a crane?” he asked. Joel nodded. “Damn, Joel. You’re just a jack of all trades.”
“I’m no expert on cranes, though,” Wilkow said. “That fish weighs a couple tons at least. Can those cranes lift that much?”
“And then some,” Joel said.
“Okay. And I think we can get supplies from that mine to make a net strong enough to trap the Carnobass in,” Wilkow said. “But that leaves us with one more issue.” Sydney waited for him to give an answer.
“And that is…?” Wilkow plucked a worm from a tub and tossed it into the pond. After only a few seconds, the squirming pink figure was snatched up by a shape under the water, which quickly swam away with it.
“We’ll need bait,” he said. “We’re gonna need something, or someone, to guide the fish into the trap. Is it safe to assume none of you want to be the worm in this case?” Sydney stared at the pond as he thought.
“You’re right; we will need something to lure this bastard in,” he said. “I DO NOT want any boats out there. The people who’ve managed to outrun this thing were just plain lucky. No boat can go faster than it, it seems.”
“Well, more to the point is that these bass make quick bursts of speed,” Wilkow explained. “It doesn’t actually move continuously for too long. Bass are lazy. They take time to observe something, then if they’re interested, they make a move toward it. Granted, this isn’t any ordinary bass, but it seems the principles of hunting are generally the same. Except it’s much more aggressive. The point is, we need something that’ll attract its attention, but can move out of the way if it makes its run.”
Sydney continued staring into the pond.
He could see the little fish swimming about in the shallow areas. They nipped at petals and bugs that landed on the surface. Finally, a dragonfly buzzed nearby. It circled and chased another, possibly a mating ritual. Unlucky, the dragonfly landed on the water, seemingly standing on the surface. After several seconds, the shape of one of the fish emerged from beneath it. Just as the fish moved in, the dragonfly took off again into the air, narrowly avoiding the jaws of its predator.
“I got it,” Sydney said. He turned to Logan. “Does your department have a chopper unit?”
“We do,” Logan answered.
“Good, I know what we’ll do,” Sydney said. “We’ll have a pilot fly over the water. We’ll dangle some bait down with a cord, and use radar to keep track of the fish’s position if it comes up. The pilot then can lure the fish toward the crane.”
“Once it gets close enough, the crane operator can dip the hook into the water. It’ll be loaded with bait, of course. It’ll attract the Carnobass, and it’ll move in right for the trap. Snag, lift, struggle, dead.”
“Alright, we have a plan,” Sydney said. Mayor Greene stood silent for a moment as he visualized the whole concept. A lure, bobbing in and out of the water, drawing the creature in. It bites on a hook, connected to a line that will hoist it from the water.
“So…we’re literally going fishing for this thing,” he pointed out.
“Damn,” Wilkow said. “Too bad Birchwood isn’t hosting a Rapala Fishing Tournament! Can you imagine the looks on everyone’s faces when we weigh that sucker in?” Sydney looked down and shook his head.
“Well, let’s not waste any more time,” he said. “Let’s go to the Corey Mine and see if we can get ourselves a crane.” Everyone started back to their vehicles. Wilkow loaded his gear into the car and prepared to follow everyone to the site. Meya started climbing into Sydney’s passenger seat.
“Are we sure they’ll even give us one?” she asked. Sydney stepped up into the driver’s seat.
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be very cooperative,” he said.
********
“Absolutely not!” The mine foreman nearly shouted at Sydney. He lifted his arm over his face as a gust of wind kicked up a cloud of loose gravel. Even at the front gate, there was much residue from the digging and blasting that made its way up.
“Look, man, I don’t think you realize how important this is,” Sydney said.
“No, I do!” The foreman shouted. “This equipment is worth more than what all of you combined make in a year.” He pointed his finger at Sydney, and everyone who stood behind him. That included Mayor Greene, his assistants, Dr. Wilkow, Joel, Sheriff Logan, and Meya. Greene stepped up.
“Sir, I can assure you that the equipment won’t be damaged in any way,” he said.
“You can’t assure that,” the foreman said. “You want to use our crane to catch that big ass fish in your lake. How many boats did that thing sink?” Nobody offered an answer.
“The crane won’t be in the water,” Sydney said.
“Yeah, but what if it gets pulled in?” The foreman argued. “No. Just…no! I’m not letting you take any of our equipment. Get your own.”
“That’ll take too long,” Greene said.
“Too bad. That’s your problem,” the foreman said. He turned to begin walking away. Sydney walked a fast pace, stepping in front of him. His determination blocked out the pain in his leg and prevented it from slowing him down. The foreman stopped. His facial muscles tightened with anger, but quickly eased up. He saw the look in Sydney’s eyes, and knew better not to mess with him.
“It’s your problem,” Sydney said. “If that thing kills anyone else, it’ll be on you if you don’t let us use your equipment. And if you don’t, believe me, I will do anything and everything I can to make your life a living hell. Trust me, on any normal day, I have plenty of free time.” The foreman looked back at the mayor, as if to ask, you’re gonna let him do this? Greene shrugged his shoulders at him.
“Hey, you heard him,” Greene said. The foreman took a long, deep breath. He took a quick moment to consider all of the people the creature had reportedly killed.
“You just need the crane? None of my guys have to drive it?”
“Just the crane,” Sydney said.
“Alright. Come with me,” the foreman said. He led the group down a long dirt path, passing trucks and several workers along the way. The walk took over fifteen minutes to get to the first drop-off. A crane rested on the edge of a pit, and its cable lowered down to a crew on the next level down to deliver supplies. The cable was reeling up as they approached it. The foreman lifted his two-way radio to his mouth. “Hey, Harold,” he said. He saw the operator inside look at him through the window.
“Yeah?”
“Back that thing up for me, will ya?” He could see the confused expression from the operator. The back-up alarm echoed, and the crane slowly moved in reverse. Harold stepped out.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re giving this crane to the chief here,” the foreman said. He looked back at the group. “Is this good enough for your liking?”
“I think so,” Sydney said. Joel walked over to the crane and stepped in to inspect the controls. He rose the arm, and slowly moved it from left to right. It was more a refresher for him than anything else. “Looks like he’s got the hang of it,” Sydney said. “You have any lifting hooks?”
“Yeah, we have a bunch of them,” the foreman said. Joel stuck his head out of the crane door.
“Particularly a Founton Eye Hook,” he said. He noticed Sydney looking confused. “The throat gap on many of the other kinds will be too narrow for what we’re trying to do. If we get the Eye Hook, I can sharpen it with a welding torch, and also weld a piece of metal onto it to use as a barb.” The foreman nodded, still slightly reluctant to give up his equipment.
“Yeah, we have one of those,” he said. He started to lift his radio to have someone deliver it up.
“Hey!” Wilkow called out. “Think of it this way. If this stuff gets smashed up, just think of it as a tax write-off.” The foreman stared at him blankly for a moment.
“Who’s the funny guy?” he inquired. Sydney cupped his hand over his face.
>
“Never mind him, he’s just a…nevermind,” he mumbled, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
“Hey Chief,” Wilkow said. “We might want to find any scrap metal while we’re here. For the lure.”
“Right,” Sydney said. He turned to face the foreman once again. “Listen, I hate to ask for more, but like the knucklehead said, do you have any scrap metal you’re willing to get rid of?”
“Gosh, why don’t you ask for one of my kidneys while you’re at it?” the foreman remarked. “Yeah, we have some.” He walked away to speak on the radio. As he did, Sydney and the group stepped together, as if in a football huddle.
“I’ll take a look at the metal,” Wilkow said. “We’ll need a flat piece, as well as a few smaller pieces to attach to it to create as much water displacement as possible. Basically, an oversized spinner.”
“We can do that,” Sydney said.
“Also, we’ll need to visit a meat shop,” Wilkow added. “We’ll need a big, fresh, slab of beef to put on that hook. A yummy last meal for the Carnobass.”
“I’ll put someone on it,” Greene said. “When can we expect to be underway?”
“I want us to have some daylight,” Sydney said. “Can we have everything ready to go by seven?”
“Yes, sir,” Joel said.
“I’ll have my deputies ready,” Sheriff Logan added. “I would like to suggest we set up at Hampton’s Ledge. Good place for the crane, and that’s where we ran into it last night.”
“Alright,” Sydney said. “Everyone know the game plan?” Everyone nodded, ready and even eager to get to work. Sydney clapped his hands together. “Okay then. Let’s go fishing.”
“Oh, yeah! LET’S KICK SOME BASS!” Wilkow shouted, with his fist raised in the air.
CHAPTER
25
Located in the southwest edge of Rodney, a small bar called Ringside was seeing normal business. It was known as a cheap bar, as that was what was mostly served. While high-class whiskey was on the menu, it was hardly ever in stock. The only thing keeping the place afloat was the usual crowd, who saw the bar as a good hangout more than anything else.
It served mainly a redneck crowd, as that was the type to reside there. The usual patrons were mostly hunters, dockworkers, bikers, and some freeloaders who relied on their buddies. Inside were twenty circular tables, eighteen of which were occupied by mainly bearded patrons, and a cheap wooden bar counter. The owner, who was also working as the bartender, wiped down glasses and silverware in a nearby sink. It allowed him to act as if he was busy. In reality, there weren’t many dishes to clean. Most of his customers drank from the bottle.
Dave Culverhouse sat at the bar counter. He rested his elbow on the scratched countertop, while drinking a beer and watching the television. Like everything else in the bar, the T.V. was cheap, an old box television. On screen was a replay of the live news coverage from that morning’s press conference.
He shook his head disapprovingly as Mayor Greene stood at a wood podium during the outside conference. He spoke vaguely of the Sheriff’s Department attempt at catching the creature, and explained that it failed. A large group of people with cameras and microphones stood only about twenty feet from the podium. Microphones extended in Greene’s direction, following a jumble of assorted questions, not just from the reporters, but also the residents of Rodney that gathered behind them.
“Please, please,” Greene spoke inside the monitor. Dave could easily tell he was unequipped for the onslaught of questions and criticism. Greene’s face and shifting body language clearly demonstrated his discomfiture. “One question at a time, please.”
“What about the lake?” one reporter shouted out.
“Until further notice, the lake will remain closed. Anyone caught going into the water will be arrested by police,” Greene answered. The crowd erupted with disorderly dialogue. Cameras flashed, not just toward Greene, but at the angry residents. Greene started visibly sweating.
“We are currently working on getting rid of the creature as quickly and efficiently as possible. As soon as Ridgeway Lake is deemed safe, we will notify everyone.”
“What is the plan?” someone else shouted.
“I’ve lost customers because of this!” Another individual shouted. Greene didn’t answer, and simply started turning away to step from the podium.
“We’ll keep you posted,” he said. The crowd erupted again with chaotic shouting. Deputies approached the people to maintain order, while Greene walked with Sheriff Logan to his truck. As the mayor placed his hand on the door handle, a brown twirling object comes into frame. A timely narration from the news anchor explained that it was a beer bottle. It smashed through the windshield, sending bits of glass and beer everywhere, including Mayor Greene’s shirt. Dave couldn’t help but laugh at Greene’s flabbergasted expression, holding his hands up as suds dripped from his sleeves. The footage then showed Sheriff Logan moving into the crowd with his deputies. The suspect made a brief attempt to flee, but was brought down with a taser, and then put into handcuffs. Logan personally escorted the suspect to one of the patrol cars.
Another individual sat next to Dave. Dave glanced to his right, recognizing his buddy Luke, and slid his beer away so Luke wouldn’t steal it. There had been numerous occasions in which Dave would mysteriously find his beverages drained prematurely. Luke usually wore a guilty grin on his face.
“Was that the guy who had you arrested?” Luke asked and pointed at the T.V. image of Sheriff Logan.
“Yep, that’s the asshole,” Dave answered.
“Has there been any word on what they’re doing?” Luke asked.
“The mayor’s leaving it to the sheriff,” Dave said. “That guy has no idea.”
“Hell no, he doesn’t,” the bartender said from behind the counter. “That guy’s an idiot. Probably can’t even jerk himself off properly.”
“Thanks for that image,” Dave said, wincing.
“I still can’t believe those morons thought you killed those friends of yours,” the bartender said. “Bunch of loonies, if you ask me. Every one of them.”
“No, the chief’s alright,” Dave said. “That sheriff, however…well, you get the idea.”
“Hey, bud,” a voice called from one of the tables. Dave looked back. A patron with a white beard and black biker vest pointed a finger toward him. “Are you the fella that encountered the big fish the other day?”
“That’s me,” Dave said.
“Wait,” somebody from another table said. “You saw it? Did it try to eat you?”
“Emphasis on try,” Dave said. “Instead, I gave it a serving of lead.” Luke burst out in laughter, leaning his head on the countertop. He looked back up at his friend.
“Are you sure it didn’t just take one look at you and lose its appetite?” He laughed at his own joke. The rest of the crowd quickly joined in.
“Oh, ha-ha-ha,” Dave mocked them. He held up both middle fingers, and then reached back for his beer. He took a slug, only to realize it was empty. “What the…Luke, you douche.” Luke turned away, playing innocent. “Son-of-a-bitch. I don’t know who I’d like to kill more; you or the fish.” Luke laughed again, in a high-pitched laugh that made him sound like the Riddler.
“You want to kill that thing?”
“Yeah, it killed Jeremy and DeAnna. Yeah, I want to kill the thing.”
“I don’t know,” someone called out from one of the tables. “I hear it can’t be killed.”
“Yeah,” Luke said. He agreed mainly to get on Dave’s nerves. “You’d be just a can of spam to that thing.” Dave nearly choked on his fresh beer.
“Spam? You’ve reduced me to canned process meat?” The other rednecks started laughing again. “Funny!” He took another drink. “Besides, it’s just an oversized fish.” Chatter started to build up inside the bar, with the patrons debating amongst themselves about the Carnobass.
“I concur!” a voice called out over the others. All eyes turned to the back
corner of the room, where a husky individual sat at a table by himself.
It was Jimmie Stanton’s first time at this bar. Normally, he’d go to higher class bars on the northern part of town. Since the death of his wife, friends and family constantly stopped by to visit. While he appreciated the support, he found himself just wanting to be alone. Sadly, when he’d go to any of his normal hangouts, there’d be at least one person there that knew him, and naturally wanted to cheer him up somehow. Ringside, however, was one they wouldn’t think to look.
Unfortunately, no amount of alcohol would rid his mind of the horrific image of his wife’s ravaged corpse. The appearance of terror and pain embedded on her lifeless face made the haunting memory increasingly worse.
Then there was the fact that his wife was cheating on him. Stanton felt a strange combination of intense anger and guilt. His head felt as if it was in an endless tailspin from the thousand unanswered questions. How long has the affair been going on? How many men had she been seeing? Why did she do it? He wondered his busy schedule was what drove them apart, or if his increasing weight was a factor. That’s where the guilt came in. He started placing the blame on himself, believing if somehow he didn’t drive Amanda away, she wouldn’t have cheated; and therefore wouldn’t have been killed.
Listening to the rednecks talk of killing the bass sparked a unique ambition. Like many others, he had lost faith in the law enforcement officials’ ability to exterminate the creature that undoubtedly killed his wife. He believed that if, somehow, he carried out the deed himself, the retribution would redeem his failures in marriage. Perhaps it would make the guilt disappear, to do one last thing for Amanda. Stanton understood the type of people amongst him in the bar. They were most likely gun owners, and by the looks of them, wouldn’t mind making some serious money. And to kill the beast, he would need assistance.
“It is just a fish,” Stanton said as he stood up from his chair. He casually walked to the center of the bar. His clothes were wrinkled, having been slept in, and his mustache and hair were a mess. Despite this, he had a commanding presence amongst the drinkers. “You’re right about something else; the police don’t know what they’re doing.” He lifted his beer to his lips, swallowed several gulps, and swiftly lowered it down to his waist, spilling some from his mouth in the process. He looked around the room. “Now I don’t know any of you, but if I may—you guys strike me as a bunch of gun-toting fellas. Am I correct?”