by Michael Cole
“What the hell is that?” he questioned, a hint of frustration edging his voice. Luke stared confused for a moment, and held his gun at mid-level, pointed down.
“It’s my new gun,” he said. “I just bought it.” Dave smacked his palm into his own forehead.
“That’s a .22!” he said. Luke looked at his rifle, seemingly surprised at the revelation.
“Oh…”
“Oh?” Dave said. “What did you do? Just pick out the first gun you saw?” Luke made a nervous grin. Dave smacked his palm into his own face a second time. “Oh my God, you did.” He lowered his hand and started laughing. “What do you plan on shooting with a .22? Bluegills? Squirrels?”
Before Luke could answer, another truck started coming down the pathway. Dave could see the face of the driver, and quickly recognized him as one of the rednecks from the bar. The truck towed a twelve-foot johnboat and pulled alongside Luke’s truck. With a cigarette dangling from his mouth, the grey-bearded man stepped out of his truck to load his gear into his boat. He stopped a moment when his eyes caught sight of Luke’s rifle. He instantly started cackling when he recognized its capacity.
“Now, that’s fucking hilarious!” he said with a snort. He looked at Dave. “What about you, son? Is that what you’re going out with?”
“He’s not with me!” Dave said.
“Hey, man!” Luke said. “I don’t have a boat! Let me come out and we’ll split the reward. Fifty-fifty!” Dave glared at him.
“You realize I’m packing the real guns, and the boat?” he said. Luke bit his lip at the realization. Dave exhaled sharply. “Fine! You can steer the boat. And the split is eighty-twenty!”
“I can live with that,” Luke said.
“Good,” Dave said. “Now let’s hurry up. Park your truck behind those trees back there. There’s a narrow pathway you can squeeze your truck through. The cops won’t think to check it. But we gotta move. There were a couple that were here a bit ago, and they might just come back.”
“Oh, we got that covered,” the older redneck said.
“Beg your pardon?” Dave said.
“I’ve got some buddies that are gonna stage a little melee brawl downtown,” he said. He coughed and pulled his cigarette from his mouth.
Damn, if the fish doesn’t kill him, those things apparently will, Dave thought. The grey-bearded man spit and regained his composure.
“What was I saying…uh…oh yeah, my buddies will be staging a big-scale brawl downtown. That’ll attract the attention of the cops, so I don’t have to worry about them as I kill the fish.”
“Ha!” Dave laughed, raising his Mossberg above his head. “You can try.” Luke joined in by raising his rifle proudly in a similar manner. Dave looked back at him. “You just ruined the moment by raising that pop-can shooter.”
“I agree with Ginger here,” the old man said. Dave gave him a coarse stare, contemplating responding with a derogatory remark about age. He held back, instead going with a question.
“When’s that brawl gonna start?”
“Just before dark,” the old man said. “Be prepared for some stiff competition. All those guys from the bar are getting out on the lake, all over the place. Most of them are waiting for cover of darkness.” Dave looked at his watch. It was late in the evening, with limited sunshine remaining.
“As long as they don’t shoot each other over it,” he said. He placed his weapons into the boat, except for the revolver, which was strapped to his hip.
“You never know,” the old man said as he started preparing his own boat.
CHAPTER
28
Sydney and the others all ducked slightly from the downward gust of wind that came down upon them as the chopper passed overhead. Meya clutched the controls and guided the white helicopter over the lake. Hovering roughly seventy-feet over the water, the large white aircraft looked like a massive dragonfly in search of a place to land. Installed underneath the helicopter was a radar detector, designed for short-range sea-surface detection. Linked to a screen in the cockpit, Meya could look for any blips on the screen, which would indicate a large approaching object. The wind gusts from the helicopter’s massive rotating blades turned the formerly smooth water surface into a rippling frenzy. Dangling from the open left door was the metal lure. Smothered in Wilkow’s chum-like mixture, it hung from a cable that clipped to the front of the lure.
Meya adjusted her headset after slowing the chopper’s advance. Sydney had connected her radio frequency to that of the law enforcement officers’. She manipulated the controls, slowly spinning the chopper around until its nose pointed toward the drop-off.
“Alright, Morgan; where should I start?” she asked.
Sydney stood at the edge of the drop-off, accompanied by Logan and Wilkow, who had changed his shirt. Standing off to the side were a few deputies and RPD officers, standing ready with high-powered rifles. Joel sat in the platform of the crane, poised and ready to operate the controls. Sydney lifted his radio up to his lips.
“Back it out to about a hundred meters, lower the lure, and work your way back,” he said. “With any luck, the bass will be close by.”
“Roger that,” Meya said. Sydney watched as the nose dipped slightly and the chopper moved back. With no additional pilot on board to go back and operate the lever, Meya had to use the control pad to lower the cable. She pressed her thumb to a button to extend the hoist arm. Once the arm extended completely, she pressed another button to lower the cable. She watched down through the mirror as the lure reached further down into the lake, until it finally broke the surface.
“I’ll have it to a ten-foot depth,” Meya said into the radio. She locked the cable in place, and gently pushed the joystick forward. “I’m moving it in now.”
The chopper steadily moved toward shore, dragging the lure down behind it. The large oval-shaped metal sheet flipped and turned in the water. Tiny bits of the meaty covering broke away, creating a trail toward shore. Meya kept the chopper’s advance slow, and checked the radar screen for any surface detection. Nothing. Once the chopper drew near shore, she turned it around.
“Go for another try,” Sydney said.
“Same spot?” Meya asked.
“Try about three-hundred yards south, and a bit further out,” Sydney said. “It’ll probably take several tries before our fish detects it.”
“Roger that,” Meya said. The chopper kicked up wind as it glided further down the lake. Sydney watched it turn, and dip the lure into the water once again. Once it was submerged, she dragged it once more toward the ledge. As before, the lure twisted and turned, swirling the water in its path. It took a little over a minute before Meya closed the distance. Once she was close to the ledge, she turned around to move out.
“You’ll just gonna have to keep repeating,” Sydney said into the radio. He looked over at Wilkow. “You don’t think this guy lost his appetite, do you?”
“Have some patience, Chief,” Wilkow said. “You said so yourself; it’s a big lake. It’s going to take several tries before we figure out where he is.” Sydney looked at his watch. It was after 8:00, an hour later than he wanted to get started. He looked at Logan.
“Do your deputies have spotlights?” Sydney asked him.
“We do,” Logan answered.
“Good, because we’ll need them. The sun will be going down soon.” Sydney saw a forlorn expression crunch Logan’s face.
“Is it even a good idea to continue this so late?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Wilkow said. “Like a lot of fish, this is the prime time for feeding. Lower temperatures; less sunlight. Don’t worry, he’ll eventually show.” Wilkow then casually walked away from the officers and looked at the large hook dangling just over the water, nearly a hundred-fifty-feet from the ledge. Impaled onto it was the large slab of beet, coated with Wilkow’s mixture for extra scent. He looked up and saw Joel sitting in the platform. Wilkow knew he was still irritated at him for using his brush.
&nbs
p; “Hey Joel,” Wilkow called up. Joel glanced down for barely a moment, noticing it was Wilkow calling his name. He looked back to the water, pretending he didn’t hear him. Wilkow saw through the act and started climbing up the ladder.
“Oh, jeez,” Joel said under his breath. Wilkow quickly reached the top and slid the door open.
“Hey…whoa!” he shrieked as he nearly lost his footing. He leaned forward, grabbing one of the levers by accident. Alarmed, Joel grabbed Wilkow’s wrist to keep him from accidentally pressing the lever.
“You trying to get us killed?” he griped. Wilkow fixed his footing and straightened himself out.
“Oops,” he said. Joel wasn’t sure whether the ‘oops’ was sarcastic or genuine. “What’d I almost do?”
“That lever swings the crane,” Joel said. “With your luck, you would have swung it toward the officers over there.”
“I see,” Wilkow said. “Technically, we wouldn’t be the ones killed, since we’re up in here…” he stopped, seeing Joel’s irritation in his stare, “but I see your point. Uh…what does this one do?” He pointed to another lever. Rather than answer, Joel felt the urge to tell him off. However, he decided to be polite. Plus, he realized it would be helpful for someone else to have a bit of knowledge of the crane in case he needed help.
“That one lifts the main hoist,” he said. “You lock it in place with the foot brake down here.” He bumped the foot brake with his boot.
“Good tip,” Wilkow said. “You’ll definitely want to lock it in place when the Carnobass bites on that hook. Let himself wear himself out before bringing him up.”
You think I don’t already know that? Joel leaned in his seat, counting down the moments until Wilkow would go away. He hadn’t smoked in years, but he suddenly found himself dying for a cigarette.
“Why do you call it a Carnobass?” he asked, immediately feeling foolish for carrying on the conversation.
“I went through several names while writing my thesis for possible lifeforms living in these underground lakes that exist,” Wilkow said. “I wanted to go with something like Cretaceous Bass, but I figured that sounded stupid.”
“Ah,” Joel said. “’Cause Carnobass sounds so intellectual.” He watched a grin form on Wilkow’s face and felt a sporty tap on the shoulder.
“I thought so too!” he said, and started climbing back down. Joel blew a sigh of relief.
Hopeless, he thought.
Meya steered the chopper further out for another attempt. As before, there was no sign of the fish. She repeated the action, taking the chopper out to the center of the lake and working the lure back toward the ledge. Each time proved futile.
********
Over the next hour, she continuously repeated the cycle with no avail. Daylight gradually faded away into night. Spotlights from the crane and patrol vehicles illuminated Hampton’s Ledge. Sydney and Logan both grew increasingly anxious and tired all at once. Mayor Greene sat inside Joel’s jeep, sipping on coffee and waiting for word of the bass. Wilkow leaned back against a patrol car. They watched the helicopter bring the lure toward the ledge, stop, and turn back to repeat. With the lack of sunlight, they mostly relied on the chopper’s green blinking operational navigation lights. At least the moon was full, which assisted a bit with visibility.
Sydney lifted his radio once again.
“Let’s try something different,” he said. “Don’t keep working it back toward us. Move continuously southward down the lake, and work your way back slowly. Keep about five hundred feet from shore. Think of it as trolling.”
“Roger that,” he heard Meya respond. She manipulated the joystick to angle the chopper south. From shore, Sydney watched its green lights gradually become seemingly smaller as they moved away.
The crackling of his radio caught his attention. The voice of the evening dispatcher called through the frequency.
“Dispatch to Chief.”
“Go ahead,” he responded.
“We’re getting several calls regarding an incident taking place downtown. Park Avenue and Market. Reports indicate a massive brawl involving multiple persons. One caller reported someone wielding a knife at the scene.” Sydney could hear the phone going off in the background.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. He clicked the transmitter. “Shore patrol units, I need you all to respond to Park Avenue.”
“Already on it, Chief,” Officer Larabee responded.
“As dispatch said, there’s a reported weapon on scene. Maintain awareness, and keep me informed.”
“Ten-four.” For the next minute, the radio blared as officers called in their unit numbers in response to the call. Sheriff Logan clutched the mic on his collar.
“I’ll need a few units to head that way as well,” he said. He let go and looked at Sydney. “Figures; this would happen tonight.”
“Tell me about it,” Sydney said. “I can’t help but find it a little odd.”
Meya put on some classic rock on her iPhone to help drown out the drone of the chopper blades. She had slowly pushed south for several minutes. However, her radar screen showed nothing but a blank blue grid. She could sense herself growing impatient. Her joints were starting to ache from the seated position. Her hips felt like they needed to pop, and her fingers were sore from holding the joystick. Of course, her legs were asleep, and she could use a massage in her neck. Meya suddenly felt grateful she did not choose a career as a chopper pilot.
“Any luck, Dr. Nasr?” Sydney’s voice came through the radio. She keyed her transmitter.
“You’re calling me, doctor, now?” she said.
“Sorry, just trying to keep a bit of formality,” he said. “Anything?”
“Nothing so far,” she said. “After I complete this pass, I’ll work my way north up the other side of the lake.”
“Worth a try,” Sydney said. Meya stared ahead while she kept moving. It wasn’t easy to move the chopper so gradually. Too much of a push on the controls would have it shooting forward. In addition, that was her natural instinct to apply more pressure. Looking straight ahead, she could see the dock lights outlining the south edge of the lake, less than a half mile down. She considered patrolling all the way down, but impatience got the better of her. Her gut instinct didn’t believe the fish was down toward that end of the lake.
Screw it. With a twist of the controls, she turned the chopper left to cut across the lake. This area was about three-fourths of a mile across. Reaching the other side would only take a minute if she increased her speed.
In the corner of her eye, she noticed something on the radar screen. A blinking red dot on the edge of the grid. Interesting, it was to the south. Her mind went on alert. She quickly stopped the helicopter and looked back at the screen. The blip had disappeared. Either she had moved just out of range, or the source had moved away. Meya gently directed the helicopter back in a slow gradual motion, keeping the lure in ten feet of water. She watched the screen intently. Nothing appeared so far.
Meya felt her exhilaration start to slip away. She started questioning herself; did I actually see a blip? Or is my mind playing tricks on me? She suspected it was the latter.
Then it appeared again, blinking on the right of the screen. Meya’s heart raced from a combination of excitement and tension. She took a deep breath, and continued to move the chopper toward the blip. She watched it on the screen as it slowly neared her position.
Then, all of a sudden, that blip swiftly moved to the center of the screen. Meya’s excitement disappeared, leaving only tension. She gritted her teeth and pulled up. The helicopter quickly climbed, yanking the lure from the water just as the blip reached the center.
The water erupted below. The enormous mouth of the fish breached the water, reaching for the lure that dangled just a few feet above it. It fell back down into the water, disappearing behind another huge splash. Meya clicked the transmitter.
“Morgan! It’s here!”
Sydney was in the middle of fi
lling his coffee cup when the call came through. With adrenaline coursing through him, he dropped the cup and thermos and rushed to the ledge.
“Where? How far out?”
“Roughly a click south of you,” Meya said. “Found him smack dab in the middle of the lake.” Logan, Wilkow, and Greene quickly huddled around Sydney to overhear.
“Do you think you can get him to follow you back here?” Sydney asked.
Meya guided the chopper several meters up the lake. The Carnobass slowly trailed behind, studying the strange object hovering above the water. Meya stopped the chopper and turned so she could see the fish from her window. She could see its spines flaring over the surface, attached to its enormous bulk. The chopper gradually descended, dipping the lure into the water.
As soon as the lure touched down, Meya yanked hard on the stick to climb again. The bass had wasted no time. It immediately shot forward, barely missing the lure. Meya steadied the chopper.
“I’d definitely say so!” she said.
“Alright, game time everyone!” Sydney said. Sheriff Logan and Wilkow snatched up binoculars and stood at the ledge. Greene stepped out of the van and eagerly joined them at the ledge. In the platform, Joel put his hands on the crane levers, ready to drop the hook. He glanced down at Sydney, who was looking back to make sure he was prepared.
“Just tell me when,” Joel said.
“Sure thing,” Sydney said.
Meya steered the chopper north, switching glances between the windshield and the radar screen. The Carnobass followed in pursuit, feeling the water displacement caused by the continuous downward gusts of wind caused by the rotating blades.
Meya looked down out her window for any visual on the bass. Continuing to move the helicopter forward, she started to lower the lure. Before the lure even touched down, the water underneath exploded upward. The bass went airborne, ascending several meters upward. Meya shrieked and steered the aircraft to the right. The chopper tilted viciously and shifted. The lure bounced off the side of the creature’s mouth. The Carnobass crashed back down into the lake’s foaming surface.