by John Quick
Then he felt hands wrapping around his arms, dragging him backward. He looked up and saw both Carrie and Rob, one on either side of him, their eyes locked on the fish thing as they tried to pull him to safety. He pushed out with his feet, and felt his ass leave the ground as they pulled him up.
The thing was more furious than he’d ever seen it now, a strange, liquid warble coming from its mouth so loud that it nearly drowned out every other sound around it. It leaned back and then flung itself forward again, scooting along on its tail as it tried to close the distance between them.
Jake finally made it all the way back to his feet and shoved the other two ahead of him. There was nothing altruistic with the motion in regards to Rob; he just wanted to get him and Carrie into as much relative safety as he possibly could. But the cop was already moving fast himself, and actually led the way back into the house, glancing over his shoulder to gauge the thing’s progress as he went. Rob waited until Jake and Carrie were through as well, then slammed the door closed again.
He was opening his mouth to scream for Stan and Leanne to be ready when the window next to Leanne’s dining table exploded inward, glass flying in every direction as the fish-thing launched its final assault. Jake swallowed hard. This was it; either that thing was going down, or they were. He only hoped their plan was good enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
As soon as the thing burst through the dining room window, Rob started yelling at the top of his lungs, “now, now, now!” Leanne came rushing out of the kitchen where she’d been waiting, bucket in hand, and sloshed its contents across the floor. When the moonshine splashed behind the thing, Stan casually lit the fuse on the jar he was holding and tossed it into the spreading puddle. It ignited with a massive whoosh, shooting blue flames up nearly halfway to the ceiling. The thing seemed startled, but it recovered quickly, turning its huge head slightly to see what was happening, then advanced further into the house.
Rob tried to divide his attention, watching both what the fish-thing was doing and the flames dancing closer and closer to the curtains draping the shattered window frame. They were lace and nearly translucent, and from the looks of them, highly flammable. The question was whether or not the flames from the burning moonshine would be enough to catch them alight, and if enough moisture had blown in with the thing’s assault to make them too damp to burn. He got his answer a minute later, as they began to smolder, then blacken, and then finally catch with another sucking sound. He let out a slight sigh of relief; at least this thing was pretty well trapped. They had their chance, if they could only make good on it.
“Go!” he cried, not sure if Leanne and Carrie would actually do as they’d promised for this next part or not. He felt a little more of his tension ease away as they both made a beeline for the front door. He heard it open and close quickly, and briefly considered checking to make sure they’d actually gone outside, but didn’t want to take his eyes away from the thing menacing them.
It was his first time seeing it, and everyone’s descriptions had been disturbingly accurate. It was definitely a catfish, the dark coloring marking it as a mud cat to be precise. While he’d heard of them standing on their tails like this, he’d never seen it before in person. That it was on a fish the same approximate size as a grown man only made it more unnerving to watch.
After this, provided they survived it, he didn’t think he’d be doing very much fishing. He’d be too afraid something like this would come after him for revenge.
He knew the thing had to have noticed him and Stan, but it never took its wide-set eyes off Jake. Rob had doubted the boy’s claim that it tried to talk to him in Brandon’s voice, but there was a sense of familiarity in the thing’s gaze that could not be denied. He had no idea how such a thing could have happened, not in the real world, but obviously it had. The hatred he could clearly see burning in those eyes could only come from betrayal, a decidedly human emotion.
A crackling, hissing sound off to one side drew his attention, and he looked over to see that Stan had lit one of the sticks of dynamite, and was rearing back to throw it at the thing. Rob felt icy fear shoot up his back. Those were supposed to be last resorts, but obviously Stan wanted to end this quickly. The problem was that if he threw it from where he was currently standing, he was just as likely to catch both Rob and Jake in the blast as well. Rob had been ready to risk his life to stop this thing sight unseen, a feeling that solidified once he laid eyes on it. That did not mean he wanted to die unnecessarily.
“Stan, no!” he screamed, but he was too late. The old man tossed the stick, then turned around and put his hands over his ears.
Incredibly, the thing must have been able to see him. It dropped to the floor immediately, tossing its tail up into the air and swatting the explosive right back at Stan as effectively as a pro tennis player might return a volley. With his back turned and his eyes closed like they were, the old man stood no chance of seeing what was about to happen. Rob wished he could say the same.
Apparently, Stan realized something was amiss. As Rob threw himself over the living room sofa to try and shield himself from some of the blast, he caught a glimpse of the old man looking down to where the dynamite had begun to roll beneath him. He wasn’t able to see anything further, but when it exploded with a concussion that shook the entire house and even shoved the sofa against Rob before pushing both he and Jake across the living room, he certainly could say he’d felt it.
His ears ringing, he stood up as quickly as he could to survey the damage, and felt his mouth drop open slightly at the sight that greeted him. Every remaining window along the back wall had its glass blown out, and a large chunk of the two walls Stan had been crouching against were gone, gaping holes leading into the shattered remains of a bathroom and the debris-strewn deck outside all that indicated they had ever been there to start with. He saw no sign of Stan, but there was a wide, black char mark on the concrete slab that once held hardwood flooring, tinged slightly with a pink that Rob didn’t care to consider the source of.
He looked over toward the front door and saw Jake slumped against it, one hand cupping the back of his head, his eyes squinted closed in pain. His shirt and sweatpants had little burn holes all over them, and Rob could see dark patches forming where blood began to stain them. As he watched, Jake slowly began to pull his legs up, using his free hand to attempt to push himself upright again. If he was moving that much, it was obvious he wasn’t hurt too severely, so he could be safely ignored for now.
Suddenly remembering what had prompted the dynamite in the first place, Rob quickly looked back to where he’d last seen that fish-thing. The floor was empty; a long, wet streak the only thing to indicate something had ever been there in the first place. He scanned the area around it and saw nothing. Was it possible that Stan had been close enough to catch the thing anyway?
No, if that had been the case there would be something left of it to see, even if it was nothing more than a mangled hunk of flesh. He couldn’t assume it was dead yet. The fight wasn’t over.
Something bumped against his foot, causing him to look down and see one of the jars full of moonshine that had previously been sitting on the coffee table now on the floor, rolling around. Miraculously, it hadn’t been broken by either the concussion or falling to the wooden floor. He knelt and grabbed it, using his other hand to dig the lighter out of his pocket so he would have it ready. It occurred to him that with both hands full like this, he wouldn’t be able to draw his pistol, but he told himself that it probably didn’t matter in the long run. He’d seen the effect that gun had on the thing already; the Molotov cocktail he held would be more effective.
He hoped.
His breathing was coming in ragged bursts, a combination of fear, adrenaline, and shock sapping at his strength. He tried to control his breathing—deep breath in, hold it for a five count, then release—and little by little felt himself calming down. Not completely, though. That probably wouldn’t happen for at least another wee
k, if he was guessing right. But enough to be able to think somewhat rationally again.
Rob began to rise, ready to light and toss at a moment’s notice, eyes wide and alert as he searched for some sign of where the thing had gotten to. When his gaze cleared the back of the sofa, he saw that their barricade of fire had been effectively extinguished, most of the flames gone with small patches of it spread across the entire dining room and kitchen area. The curtains were still burning merrily, but even they looked considerably less potent than they had seconds ago.
Had it really only been a matter of seconds since the explosion? Time was getting hard to keep a grip on, another by-product of his shock, certainly.
He put one knee on the sofa, kneeling on it so he could look to see if the thing was lying behind it. Just as his head cleared the back, it leapt at him, mouth snapping closed so close to his face he could feel the wind of its motion, could smell the fetid stench of its breath, or whatever passed for breath from a fish. If he’d leaned over just a little further, he would be dead.
As it stood, he was able to jerk back just in time, flinging himself off the sofa and back to the floor in front of it. The fish-thing wasn’t going to relent; it was using the long barbs on either side of its mouth to try and pull itself over the sofa. Once it managed to get most of its weight over that barrier, it would be coming for him, and he seriously doubted he’d be as lucky the second time around.
He quickly flicked the lighter, held it to the fuse stuck in the jar, and waited. Once the thing’s entire head was over the sofa, he threw it as hard as he could. The jar hit on the ridge between the thing’s eyes, shattering on impact and casting a shower of blue flame across it. Rob couldn’t be sure because of the ringing still in his ears, but he was sure he heard the creature make a noise like a scream. Rob couldn’t help but smile at that.
Then the fish-thing began shaking its head vigorously from side to side, flinging liquid fire in every direction. Rob’s smile faded as he saw the flame still on the thing’s face grow smaller and smaller as a result of the actions, and felt it disappear completely when he saw that while it had obviously done some damage, it was nowhere near enough. Pinkish spots had formed across the thing’s head from the burns, but it wasn’t hurt nearly enough to put it out of commission.
If anything, it had made it even more furious than it had already been.
It gave its head one more shake, extinguishing the last remnants of the flames, then actually roared at Rob. It lurched over the sofa, throwing all of its substantial weight behind the motion, and then threw itself at him, mouth wide. Rob almost had time to count how many wickedly sharp-looking teeth were in that gaping maw, and then his vision was blocked by someone leaping over him and jamming their arm into its mouth.
He looked up and saw Jake, screaming at the top of his lungs, a primal, brutal war cry. The boy’s eyes were narrowed to slits, his face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He hit the thing hard enough to knock it backward, causing it to slip over the back of the sofa once again. Jake planted his feet and pushed again, this time knocking the bulk of the thing’s body over so that only the head remained for Rob to see. Then Jake turned to him, eyes opening a bit more, as if he was actually noticing him lying there on the floor for the first time.
“Run!” he yelled.
Jake started to do exactly as he’d ordered Rob to, then the thing’s mouth slammed shut so hard the boy’s entire body shook from the impact. His scream of rage became one of agony instead, which was enough to shock Rob into action.
He scrambled back to his feet, using the sofa for leverage, and stared into Jake’s pain-stricken face. The boy’s head was thrown back so far the cords in his neck were standing out, and his eyes were fully closed, tears streaming from them.
“What did you do?” Rob yelled into his face.
“Run,” Jake said, his voice barely audible. “Dynamite, lit.”
Suddenly, Rob understood. This crazy fool had lit the last stick of dynamite and put it the one place he could think of to do the most damage: down the fucking thing’s throat. And he’d done it to save the life of the cop who’d done nothing but make his life hell for the last couple of years. Rob refused to allow him to die with that as his last memories of him. He grabbed him around the waist and yanked him backward as hard as he could. At first the boy didn’t come, but then Rob heard a terrible ripping sound and they were suddenly tumbling over the coffee table to sprawl on the floor.
Rob wasted no time, immediately getting to his feet again, grabbing Jake, and running at the bay window that sat along Leanne’s front wall. He turned at the last instant, taking the brunt of the impact when they smashed through it, landing hard enough on his back on the front porch that stars danced in his eyes. An instant later, an explosion shook the house again, blowing more of the window glass out and across the pair, along with huge chunks of something thick and greasy. Some of it slipped into Rob’s open mouth, layering his tongue with a horrible, fishy taste that told him at once what it was.
The thing was dead. They had won.
And as he lay there staring up at the shattered roof of Leanne’s porch, Rob noticed that the rain had finally stopped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jake opened his eyes and smiled at the sight of Carrie sleeping peacefully beside him. His eyes trailed down her slender neck, pausing briefly at the gentle slope of one exposed breast which managed to escape from the blanket she’d covered herself with last night, and down her bare arm to where it disappeared beneath her. He wished that she’d been turned the other direction as she slept, so he could see the little twisted loop of foil she still wore on her left hand. It had taken him a long time to make that thing yesterday, but it had all been worth it the moment she laughed even as tears crept down her cheeks and said that yes, she would marry him. Maybe it would seem too fast to some, but to him—and apparently to her as well—the timing was perfect.
He started to reach over and caress the arm he could see, but found that he couldn’t and remembered, once again, the reason for that. His eyes crept to the mass of bandages that covered the new end of his arm, and he felt a fleeting moment of anguish that he hadn’t escaped all that happened unscathed. It faded quickly, though; all he had to do was look back to Carrie’s sleeping face and remember what she’d told him about it not mattering to her, that he would always be a hero, and that she loved him regardless of his injuries.
Jake sighed and flopped back over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. It had been a huge adjustment to life without his arm, especially the way he could still feel it sometimes, like it was on pins and needles after sleeping with it in the wrong position or something. The doctors all said it would pass with time, and Jake tended to think they were right. When they’d first started decreasing his dosage of pain medication, he was overcome with a feeling like he’d smacked his funny bone a good one, only it didn’t want to go away like the real thing would. It hung on for the better part of a day and a half before dissipating.
Of course, he could always just see that as an advantage: it was hard to hit your funny bone when you didn’t even have an elbow on that side anymore.
He turned his head and found himself staring at his checkbook, lying on the night stand next to the bed. He would need to remember to take it along for his appointment to be fitted for a prosthetic next week. Without insurance, they’d want payment up front, and he’d been assured that they would have no problem with taking a personal check for it.
Which was another strange thing, come to think of it. The day he and Carrie had arrived back at her house after he was released from the hospital, there had been two envelopes in the mailbox, one addressed to Jacob Edwin Foley and the other to Carrie Denise Bryant. Inside, they’d found checks—the memo line on Jake’s read “medical expenses” and the one on Carrie’s had read “home repair and renovation”. There was no return address on the envelopes, and stranger still, no name or address on the checks themselves. Stran
ge as they were, the checks had cleared the bank, though.
And the amounts were insane. They weren’t rich now—not by any stretch of the imagination—but they could afford to take things easy for a while. Jake had enough money to cover his medical bills and get a fairly high-end replacement for his arm with enough left over that he wouldn’t need to worry about finding a job for a couple of months at least. Carrie’s had allowed her to not only repair the floors and wall that were damaged during the flood and the insanity that followed, but to pay off her landlord’s mortgage as well, making the house officially hers. She would need to keep paying the property taxes and house insurance on her own, but that was nothing compared to the other expenses that they’d been worried about.
Carrie insisted it couldn’t be an insurance payout, since she hadn’t even finished filing the claim when the checks showed up. After they’d talked about it, she and Jake decided some things were better left alone, and not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
There was a part of Jake that missed Brandon and the old place they’d shared for the last couple of years, but not all that much. Brandon really had been a shit to him, and the rathole they called a home? It had been swept away in the floods; roughly at the same time he and Carrie were making their mad dash to Leanne’s house in an attempt to escape the thing trying to kill them. His new life was different, but definitely not bad.
In fact, he thought maybe it was the start of the perfect life he’d always dreamed of.
***
The bell over the door jingled, causing Rob to instinctively look over his shoulder to see who had come in. The diner wasn’t technically re-opened yet, and wouldn’t be until next week so long as the renovations kept on schedule, but Leanne still made him breakfast here every morning, claiming that she needed to be here to oversee the work. In reality, Rob thought she just didn’t care for his poor excuse for a stove and wanted something she knew would get the job done right.