Mudcat

by John Quick

  The thing jerked, its eyes focusing on her. Its mouth began to work as though it was speaking, but whatever sound it made was lost to the pounding rain. It began to flop about wildly, mud flying in every direction as its tail thrashed, then it shuddered and she could faintly hear what sounded like gasps for air coming from its direction.

  It thrashed again, twisting its body, and for one horrible moment she was positive it was about to charge her, to do to her what it had done to her dog. She started backing away, readying herself to run, but instead of coming after her, it turned itself around and began scuttling away toward the lake.

  She didn’t bother waiting to see what it was going to do next; she turned around and ran back to the house as fast as her legs could carry her. She slipped twice in the muddy swamp her back yard had become, and did fall once, sprawling on the ground, feeling the mud squelch its way down the front of the rain jacket, but she quickly scrambled back to her feet, ignoring everything except her fear and the imperative to get the hell away from that thing as fast as she could.

  When her feet collided with the wooden steps leading up onto her deck she nearly fell again, but somehow managed to right herself and mount the steps before she could. She snatched her phone from the table and darted into the house, slamming the doors hard enough to rattle the glass in its frame. She dropped the flashlight to the floor, beyond caring whether or not it broke, and rapidly scrolled through her contacts until she found the number for the police station. She tapped the icon to make the call, held the phone to her ear, and stared out the windows, hoping against hope that that thing hadn’t followed her up here.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” she muttered as she listened to the phone ring once, twice, a third time.

  Finally, the call was picked up on the fifth ring. “Ashford Fork Police Department, Charlene speaking, how can I help you tonight?”

  “Get Rob,” Leanne said, not taking her eyes off the windows. “Tell him to get his ass over here right fucking now!”

  “Leanne, is that you?” Charlene asked, obviously taken aback. “He’s in his office on the other line, but I gave him your message and he said….”

  “I’m not trying to get him to come over here and fuck me!” she screamed, cutting the woman off. “Tell him to get over here because I just watched a fucking mutant catfish kill my fucking dog!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The sound of the rain hammering down on the corrugated tin sheets that served as a roof over Stan’s little endeavor was nearly deafening, but he didn’t mind. After heading over to Vietnam and spending all that time firing M114 howitzers, then coming back and spending the next twenty years working in a factory, he was already three-quarters deaf anyway. To him, the constant roar was almost soothing rather than irritating. Besides, he’d grown used to spending most of his time alone out here, so it wasn’t like he had to worry about hearing what anybody else was trying to say to him, anyway.

  What he did find troublesome was the way the water level had been continually rising all day, finally slipping over the bank and starting to make its way up the rise where he’d decided to set up shop ten or fifteen years back. He’d worked hard to get everything running just the way he wanted it, and for the first time he had to face the very real threat that nature was about to take away what the cops had so far failed to.

  He stood up straighter, feeling the ache in his back, and cast a critical eye over the trench he’d just finished digging to try and help redirect the water if it rose high enough to threaten his livelihood. It had taken him the better part of the afternoon and evening to dig the damned thing—doubly hard since the only shovel he had to work with was the collapsible spade he’d had since his stint in the Army—but at least it was finally done, and it looked like it might do the trick. The rain had already started filling it, and he could see the water trickling off along the sides before heading back down the hill and running off into the woods again. Unless the lake itself rose higher than it ever had in his memory, he should be safe enough.

  Stan made his way back to the still, grateful to be out of that driving rain, and checked to make sure the fire was still burning beneath the big mixing drum. So far he’d had to relight the damn thing six times, but at least now it felt like the wind wasn’t blowing quite as hard, so hopefully it would at least keep going until this current batch was finished. Once he made sure the fire was blazing merrily along, he checked the copper condenser coils, and then made sure the receiving drum was still connected and receiving the steam run-off from the boiling corn mash. Seeing that everything else was in order, he made sure the little spigot was opened to release the first distillate that came through so he didn’t end up poisoning himself or anyone else, then sat back in the old wooden chair he’d scavenged to wait for the first of it to come through. Once that filtered off, he’d close the spigot and let the drum fill, then let it finish cooling so he could bottle it.

  Of course, if this rain didn’t let up soon, he wouldn’t be going anywhere to make his deliveries as normal, so there was no real rush. Still, you did things how they were supposed to be done, and no other way. His customers knew he made a batch a week, and he’d be damned if he was going to let a little rain get in the way of that. If the stuff had to sit a couple extra days, it wouldn’t hurt it none.

  He reached down beside him and picked up the quart Mason jar he’d been sipping on most of the day. He spun the top off with a practiced twist of his wrist, sipped down a good swallow, and then replaced the cap. The moonshine burned its way down his throat, just as potent now as when he’d taken his first drink of the day, then settled in his stomach and spread warmth through his entire body. His buzz, which had been starting to fade, returned to its full force almost immediately. He smiled, content that he’d made one of the most potent batches he’d ever done. He’d do the checks tomorrow, once he could see a little better, but he was betting this one was closer to ninety-six or ninety-seven percent alcohol, rather than the ninety to ninety-five he normally ran.

  He wouldn’t have thought that an additional two days fermenting would have made that much difference, but obviously it had. Sometimes accidents were happy ones, he supposed. If he hadn’t ended up with that case of gout so bad he could barely walk, he might never have discovered it. Now that he had, all he had to do was test the theory with the batch boiling away and if he was right, raise his prices and reap the rewards. Maybe he could even fancy it up some, sell his normal corn, apple, and cinnamon varieties, then add the extra potent stuff into the mix. If there was one thing his customers appeared to appreciate, it was variety.

  Of course, if he did that, he’d need to fix that other busted still, and probably get a third going to handle the flavored stuff. But that cost money, and while he enjoyed having it come in, he absolutely hated watching it go out. Beyond that, the more stills he tried to keep running up here, the better the chances of old Bruce Williams finally throwing his ass in the clink. The chief had told him more than once that he could only look the other way so much before he’d have to do his job. Still, no risk, no reward. It started him down this path in the first place, and he was sure it would sustain him through till the day he finally dropped dead.

  He looked over and saw a dusky liquid starting to drip from the spigot on his receiving tank. He allowed himself one more snootful of the ‘shine next to him, then pushed himself out of the chair and stumbled the couple of steps over to the still, snickering a little as his latest drink sent his buzz into overdrive. He watched patiently as the drip turned into a trickle, and then to a stream, waiting for the moment it finally ran clear. When it did, he turned the spigot to the closed position and stretched again. The poison should be gone, so now all he had to do was wait for the water to all boil off, then he could put the fire out and let the whole works cool down before starting the maintenance required to get ready for next week’s batch.

  His bladder constricted painfully, causing him to wince. He had a feeling his prostate was starting
to swell up, and just kept putting off getting the blamed thing checked. He’d had it done once or twice before, and he didn’t relish the thought of Doc Crandall shoving a finger in his ass to check. The old bastard was still practicing despite being a good ten years older than Stan was himself, and had started to get a bit palsied in the last few years. Just the thought of that finger that looked thin enough but felt thick as a dick shaking all over the place before finding its way into his poop chute was enough to make him shudder in anticipatory discomfort.

  Stan wandered over to the edge of the tin lean-to that protected his still from the elements, and decided that the wind was still blowing a little too hard to try pissing this close to his goods. The last thing he needed was to contaminate the batch on accident just so he could have some relief from what he’d already sampled. He let out a weary sigh and stepped out into the rain again, wandering off a little ways toward the lake’s new waterline, then unzipped the fly of his old workpants, fished himself out of them, and waited for the fireworks to begin.

  After what felt like forever, he finally started to urinate, a couple of brief squirts at first, and then a thin trickle that did precious little to relieve the pressure in his gut. Eventually, as it always did lately, the trickle finally increased to a proper stream, and Stan nearly moaned from the pleasure of it.

  As he was just finishing up, a shadow passed by further down in the water, there one second and gone the next. Stan blinked and squinted, trying to figure out what it could’ve been. It was bigger than any critter that he knew of that lived in or around the lake. He doubted it was some animal swimming by; it hadn’t looked like it was on the surface of the water, but beneath it.

  Curious now, and with nothing better to do, Stan tucked himself away, zipped his fly, and then headed back up to his still. He opened the trunk on the other side of his chair, and pulled out his flashlight. After a brief consideration, he pulled out his trusty thirty-ought-six as well, and made sure he had a round in the chamber. Mostly he used it for critters too big to effectively get rid of with his pistol, or to scare off nosy folk who happened to wander up on him and didn’t have sense enough to move on when he told them to, but whatever was down there had looked damn near man-sized, so he felt it prudent to play it safe.

  He clicked on the light and held it in his left hand, the rifle’s barrel balanced over that arm with his wrist turned so he could shine the light on his target and shoot at the same time if the need arose. He headed back down to the water and played the light out across its surface, searching for whatever it was he’d seen to reappear. Finally, he saw it, heading back in his direction. The light didn’t penetrate far enough for him to be able to see more than a shadow coming his way, but he was able to see enough that he would almost swear the thing was undulating its body the way a fish did when it was swimming around. That was impossible, though; there were no fish that damned big anywhere around here.

  Maybe he should have skipped that last shot.

  He’d just about convinced himself it was the ‘shine talking, and was thinking of how he could work hallucinogenic properties into his sales pitch, when the thing suddenly shot to the surface, breaking free of the water and then slamming back into it with a mighty splash. Impossible or not, he’d seen those long barbs that looked like whiskers before, and knew that somehow there was a gigantic damned catfish acting like it wanted to attack him.

  As if to confirm his suspicions, the thing leapt from the water again, this time landing on the shore and starting to wriggle its way toward him.

  “What in the sweet hell?” Stan muttered as he watched that beast trying to work its way through the mud after him. Its mouth opened and closed, and for one crazy moment he thought it was trying to breathe, talk to him, or snap his blamed toes off.

  He backed up a couple of steps, keeping the light, the rifle, and his eyes trained on the creature making its way toward him. When it started rocking itself back and forth, tail slapping runners of mud in either direction behind it, he took a couple more quick steps away. Finally it seemed to gather the momentum it was hoping for as it thrust itself up off the ground, actually leaping at him.

  His three stints in Vietnam had done very little for him, but it had made his reflexes lightning fast. That he’d kept them all these years was one of the things Stan was the most proud of, and his instincts demanded he use them now. Just as the thing left the ground, he socketed the rifle into the well-worn hollow of his shoulder, drew a bead on it, and pulled the trigger.

  He saw the flesh dimple near the thing’s pale belly, the force of the bullet spinning it slightly to one side and knocking it off target. The fish hit the ground hard, throwing more mud up around itself, and let out a noise that even managed to break through Stan’s degraded hearing. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood up at that sound, which to him sounded like a human’s scream of pain and rage.

  Stan scrambled back further, putting some more distance between himself and this thing that had come out of the lake after him. He tucked the rifle into his side and worked the bolt as quick as he could, ejecting the spent shell and loading a fresh one in the chamber. He started to raise the rifle again, but stopped when he saw the thing was now wriggling sideways, turning itself back around so it was facing toward the lake. It started working its way back down the hill, moving much faster on the retreat than it had on the attack, before slipping into the water again and disappearing.

  All he could do was shake his head in bewilderment as he stepped back beneath the shelter of his scavenged tin roof. He turned off the flashlight and set it down on top of the trunk, then used one hand to turn his chair so he could sit facing in the direction the thing had come from. Once he had it positioned, he sat down and balanced the rifle on his knees before pulling both the flashlight and his Coleman lantern over to where they would be in easy reach. He let out a long, low breath, and then grabbed his jar of ‘shine and spun the cap off again one-handed. Instead of a sip, he took a healthy swallow this time, finally noticing the slight tremble in his hands and arms. He needed to cut the edge off so they wouldn’t shake. If he’d just made the thing mad, he was going to have to be ready for a revenge attack.

  He tucked the jar between his legs for easy access, wiped his mouth with one hand, and settled in for what he was sure would be a very long night ahead.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Just getting down the road to Leanne’s house had been an adventure all its own. The worsening flood conditions were disheartening enough when Rob heard about them secondhand. When the report had come over his radio about the bridges on either side of town collapsing, his stress levels had gone through the roof. His pulse was pounding in his temples, and a part of him wished he’d just hurry up and stroke out so he wouldn’t have to deal with this any longer.

  Realistically, the bridges were the biggest concern, but since he would already be in Leanne’s driveway before he had the opportunity to turn around, he figured he might as well go ahead and deal with her problem before tackling the larger one. He sent Andy out to meet up with Boyd, so they could start getting the roads closed down, and had Charlene making the calls to the state DOT to get barricades erected on the other side. They had to start figuring out how to get them repaired as quickly as possible so Ashford Fork didn’t remain cut off from the rest of the world for very long.

  He hadn’t heard back from anyone yet, and he could feel the dread rising as he waited for news. There was almost no chance that any of it would be good. Why would it be? Everything else that could go wrong was doing so rapidly, so why should this be any different?

  Leanne was waiting at the door when he got out of his truck and jogged the short distance from her driveway to the porch. She was wearing what looked like a rain suit that was streaked with mud from the neck all the way down the legs. Heavy rubber boots of a similar color to the rest of her outfit adorned her feet. The look on her face combined with her attire made her look like a fisherman who’d come in after a
long stretch at sea and didn’t have shit to show for it.

  If her expression hadn’t been such a dire mix of fury and concern, Rob thought she would have actually looked pretty cute. Of course, under the circumstances, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to tell her that.

  “It’s down in the back yard, near the lake,” she said without preamble.

  For the first time, Rob noticed the way her jaw kept twitching, a motion he finally realized was her attempt to keep her teeth from chattering. It wasn’t that cold out, so he figured it had to be shock and fear causing it. That meant this wasn’t just some hallucination, or if it was, it was one of the most potent he’d ever seen. Combined with what he’d already had to deal with today, he was more inclined to believe she’d seen something out there killing her dog, even if the concept of a huge catfish was a little much to believe.

  “I’ll go check it out, then I’ll have some questions for you, if it’s okay.”

  She shook her head. “I’m coming with you.”

  He started to tell her there was no need for that, but the determination in her eyes stopped him. He simply nodded and waited for her to lead the way. As she made her way down the steps past him, he noticed the revolver clutched in one hand. She was holding it so tightly that her knuckles had turned white, making him thankful that she was the one in front so the odds of her accidentally shooting him were considerably lower.

  “You really think you need that?” he asked, falling into step behind her. “I am armed, you know.”