Dead Bait

by Romana Baotic (ed. )

  “We have to get out of here!” Cutler cried out, beside himself with fear.

  More fish now.

  The water began to roil. The piranha were swarming like locusts, pouring themselves at the boat in a steady stream of teeth. They chewed from below, from the sides, so many pressing in that hundreds were pushed flopping up out of the water and hundreds more were pulverized by the greedy appetites of the expanding shoal. And they were not just centered around the boat, it seemed, but the entire channel as if there was not a school of hundreds, but perhaps a school of thousands or hundreds of thousands. The frothing of the water made the boat roll in the water like it was caught in a good swell.

  The carrion fish were whipped into a wild eating frenzy, driven mad by the taste of blood dripping into the water. Sawdust was floating to the surface as they chewed at the skiff. The flat hull Rico and the others sat on was greasy with water and blood. They gripped each other so they’d didn’t slide off.

  All except Basille.

  His unconscious form was sliding nearer and nearer the edge.

  Nobody made to grab him for there just wasn’t time. The boat was rocking under the onslaught of the fish, the water a churning maelstrom of snapping jaws and bones, piranhas and parts of them. And maybe the motion of the boat would have carried them to the treeline, but something happened first: the fish started leaping on board. Driven by a relentless hunger, they leaped out of the water and started landing among the survivors, grotesquely bloated and decayed, some little better than living skeletons held together by leathery sinew and ligament.

  But dead or undead, they were united in a single purpose.

  Rico shouted as he ducked away from two or three that sailed at him, swatted two more out of the air, and was hit by three more that fastened their sawtoothed teeth right into his flesh. He yanked them free, tearing out flaps of skin as he did so.

  They landed on the hull, flopping and chomping their jaws.

  Cutler kicked them back in, slapped at them, smashed a dozen to a foul putrid paste with his fists. But for every one he destroyed, there were ten more vaulting at him. They bit into his arms, his shoulders, his hands, dozens affixed to his boots, their teeth sunk into the leather. One caught him by the chin, biting deep.

  The air was filled with fish, a steaming brew of blood and corpse gas.

  They hit Elise, too. They fastened on her legs, her arms, one sank its triangular teeth right into her breast. She pulled them off, screaming, hitting and crushing them under her fists. She was completely out of her mind, ripping them free, kicking and slapping. She smashed them in her hands into a black gushing slime of drainage and tiny bones. She tore one off her left arm and the whole body came away in a pulping flap, but the small chambered skull remained, those serrated jaws holding tight, teeth punctured deep. She beat at it until it shattered to fragments.

  And when one clamped its interlocking jaws on the knuckle of her pinkie, she attacked it without thinking: clamping its foul, festering body in her own jaws and biting down until it exploded in a gushing spray of putrescence in her mouth. More hit her, but she craned her head and vomited putrid flesh, scales, and tiny bones along with a few squirming, severed worms.

  More and more were coming out of the water and there was simply no defense.

  Cutler fought through the rain of fish, shouting, “It’s him they want…don’t you see?” He ripped piranhas free, tearing one from the end of his nose and leaving several teeth sunk into the cartilage. “THEY WANT HIM! THEY WANT BASILLE! NOT US! THEY DON’T WANT US—”

  And with a sideward kick, he knocked Basille’s body into the foaming water.

  It was the sort of deranged diversion only a psychotic mind could come up with, but there is no sanity in survival. The water instantly went red in a swirling eruption. It frothed and boiled like a cauldron. Basille’s body was covered in a living, biting tarp of the monsters…and somewhere during the process, he came awake, thrashing and screaming, gulping in water, his own blood, and piranhas. His body rolled over and over in the churning wake, voracious jaws shredding him as the others watched. He was like a shank of bloody meat tossed into a shark tank.

  But it worked.

  The diversion worked.

  The school enveloped him and no more fish dove at the skiff. In fact, the very act of the piranhas abandoning the boat left the water roiling and this pushed it out of harm’s way, precious feet from the devouring shoal.

  Out there, you could not even see Basille any longer. He was buried in thousands of fish, their teeth in constant industrious motion in that simmering sea of blood. And when they finally fell away, glutted, there was nothing but a freshly-picked skeleton that bobbed to the surface for a moment or two, then sank from view.

  *

  Maybe Cutler expected some gratitude for what he had done. Maybe in his crowded, twisted little mind what he had done to Basille was seen as an act of selfless heroism. But once the remainders of the biting fish were disposed of, gratitude is not what he got from Rico and Elise.

  Bitten, ravaged, bleeding, they came at him with hooked fingers and eyes glazed with madness. To them, sacrificing one of their own to those hideous little monsters had never been an option. So they came at him with murder in their eyes.

  “Wait a minute!” he told them. “I saved us! Not just myself, but all of us!”

  Elise just glared at him. “You sick bastard! It was murder! Murder! You fucking murdered that poor man!”

  Cutler’s face was bitten, scratched, stained with blood. But now all the color ran from it because he knew, he knew, that they were no longer in their right minds. They were going to throw him overboard.

  “Don’t even try it,” he warned them.

  “Killer!” Rico said, “Dirty stinking killer!”

  Cutler was right on one thing: they weren’t in their right minds. Had they been, they would never have considered throwing him to the fish. But they had been through too much, suffered through imaginable horrors, been strained to the limit, and now they were thinking survival and nothing more.

  Cutler edged as far as he could away from them on the flat hull, sliding his ass through the blood and water. “I swear to God! You try it! Either of you try it and I’ll flip us all in! I goddamn well fucking mean it!”

  But they didn’t seem to believe it. They kept inching forward. In their minds, they already had Cutler pegged for the selfish, narcissistic piece of shit he was. He wouldn’t sacrifice what he loved best even to thwart his enemies. They knew it. And, sadly, he knew it.

  Elise honestly didn’t want to hurt him. Maybe Rico did, but she was really just taking out her frustrations by putting a scare into him. And maybe that might have worked…had the situation not been so damned desperate. When she got within a foot of him, Cutler looked out at the slopping brown water, the dry islands rising up in the channel—maybe wondering if he could reach them in time—then turned back quick. And before Elise could react or even think of it, he hit her in the face with everything he had. Her head snapped back and she would have went right into the drink had Rico not grabbed her.

  That was it for Rico.

  He was Yagua Indian and where he came from, you did not hit women. But the men who struck them? Oh yes, you beat them silly. He came right at Cutler and Cutler through a few sloppy jabs at him that seemed to bounce right off that old, seamed brown face.

  And then Rico had him.

  He bounced Cutler’s head off the hull two or three times, then hit him barefisted again and again. Cutler’s face was a mess now but still he fought. He shook and raged, trying to hit the old man, trying to deflect those huge callused hands. They grappled. The boat rocked uneasily. Grinning with pure wicked delight, Rico hit him again.

  But he didn’t see Cutler fish the lockblade knife from his pocket, snap it open.

  Elise did. She shouted: “Rico! Look out! He’s got a—”

  Too late, Cutler brought the blade up and sank an easy three inches of it right into the s
ide of Rico’s neck, severing the carotid artery. Rico, looking stunned and shocked, fell away grasping a hand to the wound. The artery was laid wide open, blood squirting between his fingers. He fell onto the hull face-first making a moaning, gurgling sound in his throat. His blood was everywhere, pools and rivers of it flooding their banks, vivid red and shining.

  Elise launched herself at Cutler and he slashed her across the arm. “Next time it’s your throat,” he promised her.

  Rico tried to pull himself to his knees and slid on the greasy spill of his own blood. He tried again and Cutler lashed out with his foot, caught the old man in the ass and propelled him forward.

  Blood bubbling from his wound, Rico tried to stop himself and was only partially successful. His hands found purchase so he didn’t go all the way in, but his head and upper shoulders went under and the rest of him followed right to the waist. The piranha hit him like bullets. Their teeth punched right into him as he tried to pull himself up. But his blood in the water drove them to new heights of mania. His head was still underwater in the churning mass of feeding piranha, hands hooked into claws, splashing and flaying madly. Each time an arm came out of the thrashing water, there were more decaying piranhas on it. And each time there was less flesh.

  Screaming, Elise took hold of one of his ankles, trying to pull him back on board. But he was a big man, under attack, and fighting with everything he had. Cutler would not help. He stayed as far away as he could. The more Elise pulled, the more Rico seemed to slide deeper into the seething pool of teeth. Blood and water splashed against her as the jaws of the living dead fish cut into him like buzzsaws, pulverizing his flesh, puncturing him.

  And it was bad for her…but those scarce seconds underwater were an absolute horror for Rico.

  From the moment his face and upper body submerged, they were at him. Their slimy, putrefying bodies, teeth slicing into him like knives. They hit his face, his arms, his shoulders, but especially his throat. Dozens of them fighting their way in, chewing and sucking at the hot flow of blood, drilling into him, gnawing through muscle and tissue. But what was worse, was that as he fought, his mouth open screaming and gargling in the water, they swam right in. Right into his mouth, chewing his tongue away and biting their way into his throat, deeper, deeper, filling him, making him gag—

  Rico came out of the water with a fierce backward lunge, knocking Elise aside. He came out fountaining water and blood. From the waist on up, he was bitten, mangled, simply laid raw. There were dozens and dozens of piranha in every state of decomposition hanging off him, jaws shearing, tails flapping. His face looked like the surface of the moon, cratered down to shining white bone from hundreds of bites. His eyes were gone, his nose chewed down to a hollow, his lips gnawed down to the bleeding gums.

  He thrashed about like some obscene zombie, spraying blood and drainage and fish in every direction, a horrible gagging sound coming from his pitted throat. And then his abdomen, so bitten and torn, seemed to dissolve before Elise’s eyes. It exploded outward as the fish that tunneled down his throat ate their way back out, macerating organ and muscle and membrane, scissoring jaws rupturing through like drill bits. A slopping, slimy tide of blood and carrion fish and half-eaten tissue came flooding out and he flipped back into the water where the real devouring began.

  Elise reached out, managed to grab a hand as he was caught in the surging maelstrom. He nearly dragged her in, but she pulled back with everything she had left and, to her surprise—and horror—he came up. Or his hand did. It was clutched in her own, the wrist gnawed to a bloody stump.

  She screamed and threw it, hysterical and shaking.

  The rest of Rico sank away in the foaming scarlet water.

  *

  On her hands and knees on the blood-covered hull, Elise called out his name again and again and again.

  But he was gone.

  She was alone with Cutler and even being eaten by the living dead fish seemed preferable to that. When she turned back, Cutler had the knife in his hand and he was making his way toward her. “Now it’s your turn,” he said. His face was an absolute atrocity: a gouged and chewed waxen mask, streaked red and lit by two blazing hungry eyes and a grinning mouth of pink-stained teeth.

  Elise could see it in on him.

  There was no mistaking it.

  He had been watching her ever since they got on the boat like a child molester watches a schoolyard. He knew what he wanted and even the misery they’d all been through had not vanquished the flame of lust burning in him, it had not dulled the perverse edge to his soul. He had a knife. They were alone. There were no witnesses. She had a choice: she could either give him what he wanted or he’d take it.

  But he’d have it. There was no doubt of that.

  She sneered at him. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! YOU FUCKING SLIMY DISGUSTING PIECE OF SHIT!”

  The words meant nothing to him.

  As he came forward, the knife edge catching the sun, his eyes were wild, filled with a shocking animal delight.

  “You can either enjoy it, Elise, or I can make it worse than anything you can imagine,” he told her.

  “Get away from me!”

  He laughed. “You know better.”

  He reached out to touch her and she slapped his hand away. He sliced at her with the knife, again and again, pushing her closer to the edge and the waiting jaws. She had no choice now. There was nothing left but to allow it…as vile and repellent as that would be.

  She shoved him away.

  “ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT!” she said, tearing her blouse open, exposing the cones of her breasts. “IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT? IS THIS WHAT YOU FUCKING WANT?”

  It was. It was obvious that he had been thinking of nothing else. With Jack alive or Rico he would never have dared to do what he was now going to do. But now all bets were off. He was practically drooling. He unzipped his pants and he was already hard. Not letting go of the knife, he squirmed his way out of them until they were down past his knees.

  And Elise, her belly flooded with a warm rush of nausea, stripped the rest of the way and stood up so he could get a good look at her. Although bitten and bloodied, it was easy to see that the only place she wasn’t tanned was where her bikini had been.

  “Get over here,” Cutler said.

  She went back down on her knees, knowing that what she must now do was the only way. She sucked down everything inside herself, forgot about such trifling things as self-respect, dignity, and honor. She replaced it all with something that was dark and grim. Maybe Cutler saw it in her eyes for just a second, for he cringed.

  “Now,” he said.

  “On your back,” she told him. “You want this, we do it my way.”

  He was so excited he didn’t question it. Not for a moment. Elise went right over to him and felt his grubby, scaly hands roughly fondle everything she had. Then with a crooked, salacious grin she took him by the shoulders and forced him down on the hull. She squatted over him, gripping his hard little penis and then forcing herself down upon it. She gasped. He trembled. He had forgotten his knife now. Forgotten everything but what he was getting which was all he’d ever dreamed about. Elise rode him until he came, making a good show of it, the whole time thrusting down hard on him and sliding his body across the greasy hull ever closer to the water.

  “Oh God,” he said. “Oh God that was good…”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Elise said and then sprang on him, shoving him with her weight and every ounce of muscle she had. Her strength was irresistible and especially to a man who was as spent as Cutler.

  She forced him over the edge of the hull and he immediately started shouting, swinging, trying to throw her off. But she pinned him down with her legs and, grasping his throat, forced his head into the water…then beneath it.

  The piranhas struck right away in wave after wave of shearing jaws.

  Cutler thrashed, gyrated, but Elise clung to him, straddling him and locking him into place. She barely felt his fists as they bounced
off her head or his nails that laid her face open.

  She was only aware of the churning water and the swarming fish, how Cutler jerked with each attack.

  Even submerged she could hear them feeding: the tearing of flesh and soft tissues, the chomping of muscle and connective tissue, the dull crunching of bone that sounded oddly like someone chewing on ice cubes. They bit at her fingers, too, which were just under the surface, but their main interest was the head.

  Cutler died horribly.

  It did not even occur to him that the cunning bitch had led him into a carefully baited trap until she shoved his head underwater, into that murky brown water, and the searing, unbelievable agony began. He could not see them, just a darkening mass of seething bodies that covered his face and head as the water boiled red. Their jaws snapped, tore, cut, ripped, and ultimately rendered him to bone. But he fought, oh how he fought, striking at the evil bitch and tearing at the biting fish that went to corpse jelly under his fingers. But it was futile, of course. A school of living piranha can deliver 1200 bites in less than a minute and who could say about these monsters? Their jaws punctured his face, sawed and bit and stabbed. His eyes went fast as did his tongue and lips. His nose and ears took a little longer. All in all, his head was devoured to a ball of fleshy mucilage in thirty seconds.

  After maybe fifteen seconds, Elise fell away, gasping, sobbing, studying the ruin of her once long attractive fingers. Just bloody stumps now, worried right to the bone.

  Cutler’s head finally came up out of the water and it was really little more than an eyeless, earless, scalpless skull covered in pink, rutted, well-gnawed tissue. He rose for a second, his head bobbing like some gruesome Halloween prop and then he fell backwards and splashed into the drink. The school finished the job they had started.