[Shelby Alexander 04.0] Serenity Submerged

by Craig A. Hart

  “Oh, there’s always something.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Normally, I would. But this time, I can’t.”

  Carly affected a mild pout. “Keeping secrets now, are we?”

  “Yes. But it’s not my secret. If it were, you know I’d tell you.”

  “Now I’m even more curious.”

  “Well, you’ll have to stay that way. It’s safer for everyone, both you and the person in question, if this secret remains kept.”

  “Oh my god, you’re killing me!” Carly wriggled from under his arm. Her tone was less playful now and tinged with genuine annoyance.

  Shelby looked at her, not bothering to mask the irritation on his face. Carly had never pushed him to reveal information he preferred to keep a secret. It was one of the things he loved about her.

  “Are you seriously giving me shit about this?” He knew his tone was sharp, but something inside kept him from caring. “I can’t tell you, I won’t tell you, so let’s just forget it!”

  Carly stood up, grabbed the remote, and flipped off the television. “You know, I’m pretty tired, and it sounds like you’ve had a long day too. Let’s call it a night, okay?”

  “Carly—”

  Her phone dinged and her attention immediately left him. She grabbed the device and poked at the screen. Shelby watched as her face went from ecstatic to concerned to crestfallen to impassive.

  “What’s up?”

  Carly gave her head a small shake. “It’s nothing.”

  “For nothing, it sure ran the gamut of emotions.”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  Shelby nodded.

  “It’s an email from the internship director.”

  “The one in New York.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  “Now I’m the one dying from curiosity.”

  “I got it.”

  Shelby reached out to give her a congratulatory hug, then retreated when she didn’t move to reciprocate.

  “I thought you’d be happy about this.”

  “It’s an honor. But it looks like it’s going to be more expensive than I thought. It’s an unpaid position and New York is a bit more expensive than Serenity.”

  “Just a tad, yes.”

  Carly put her phone in her pocket and displayed a smile that fooled no one. “I’m sorry, Shelby. I didn’t mean to snap earlier. I’m wound pretty tight right now and have a lot on my mind. Let’s call it a night, okay?”

  Shelby sat for a moment, his mind a whirl. Slowly, he pushed up from the couch. He stood, feeling a little sick to his stomach. He nodded.

  “Okay. To tell you the truth, I’m not feeling so great anyway.”

  “Thanks for dinner.”

  “Sure.”

  He leaned over and gave her a peck on the forehead. “I’ll see you.”

  “Be careful, Shel.”

  “Always am.”

  11

  The truck’s headlights swept across the line of trees as the vehicle turned into the drive leading to the Pine Lake Campground.

  “Cut the lights,” Simon said. He held an automatic pistol in one hand and stared out at the darkness for any sign of movement.

  The headlights blinked out and Frank slowed the truck. A slow-moving mist had begun edging among the trees, adding drama to a night already marked by tightly wound nerves.

  “See anything?” Frank asked.

  “Nothing. I’m sure he’ll hear us coming, though. When he steps out, we nab the bastard.” Simon rolled his window down and leaned out. “Slow down. I want to get as close as we can before the bastard knows we’re coming.”

  As Simon spoke the words, the front left tire of the truck dropped into a hole in the gravel lot, causing him to lurch sideways. Frank’s foot jammed the gas, producing a roar from the truck’s engine.

  “Shit!” Frank jerked his foot off the accelerator and the truck came to a shuddering halt.

  “So much for keeping the truck moving straight. Damn, Frank, are you trying to mess this up?”

  “Sorry. Maybe he didn’t hear that.”

  “And maybe your mother wasn’t a whore.”

  “Not nice, Simon.”

  “Just get the truck moving. Who knows, maybe he’s sleeping. I hear these old guys turn in early.”

  As the truck eased forward again, the front door of the office flew open and a man appeared, silhouetted by the yellow glow of the outside office lights.

  “Stop the truck!” Simon leaned against the door, aimed, and fired.

  “You missed!”

  “I’m trying to scare the sucker.”

  Simon’s words were cut off by the roar of a shotgun. The truck’s sideview mirror shattered and Simon ducked inside the cab to avoid flying glass.

  “Okay, so it didn’t work. And he’s armed. Move the truck!”

  “To where?”

  “Somewhere the hell out of this open parking lot. Get us around the side of the office. We’re sitting ducks out here and him with that shotgun.”

  Frank pressed the accelerator and the truck rumbled forward. The shotgun bellowed again, this time punching into the grill. Simon sent a few shots toward their target, who dropped to his knee and took careful aim at the truck’s cab.

  “Hit it, Frank!”

  Frank hit it, pushing the pedal all the way. The truck surged forward as the shotgun spoke, the blast puncturing the passenger side door with a multitude of metallic pops.

  “A split-second earlier and that would have been my head,” Simon shouted. “Go, man!”

  The truck bucked over the gravel lot and plunged around the office, skidding on the grass. It teetered for a moment, as if it might tip over, but settled with a clunk and came to a grinding halt.

  Both men piled out of the cab, Simon pausing only to reload.

  “We’ll split and come up from different sides. Whoever sees him first, take him out with a wounding shot. Just be careful not to plug the other of us in a crossfire. Now move!”

  The trees lining each side of the road were dark curtains as Shelby drove home. Normally, he kept a sharp eye for the glowing eyes of deer waiting to bolt across the road, but his mind felt foggy as it tried to process his heated conversation with Carly. He had rolled the window down, hoping the rush of cool night air would help the fog in his mind. It wasn’t as if he and Carly had never had an argument, but this disagreement felt sharp and somehow cold even in the heat of the moment. It had rocked his confidence and made him feel completely vulnerable. The vulnerability may have had something to do with his reaction, he thought. He’d never dealt well with the feeling. A psychiatrist might make a connection between that and his decision to pursue an early career as a professional boxer. He could hear the soothing voice of a therapist in his head: “You chose a career that would protect you from vulnerability and allow you to prove dominance over and over.”

  “That doesn’t help me now, doc,” Shelby muttered to the imaginary therapist. “All I really want to know is what the hell happened at Carly’s.”

  “I think you know the answer,” the therapist replied.

  Shelby was about to make some snarky remark about not paying to answer his own questions when a light flickered in the trees, triggering an instinctual tap of the brakes. He looked again, and saw it wasn’t the greenish-gold of an animal’s eyes, but the yellow glow of an electric light. It flickered through breaks in the trees as he drove and Shelby realized he was passing the Pine Lake Campground. The light was probably coming from the office. The surrounding foliage wasn’t at its peak. In a month, the light wouldn’t be visible from the road at all.

  Spurred by a desire to check on his friend and inspired by a sudden thirst for some of Fritz’s horrible domestic beer, Shelby slowed down for the turn into the campground. He slowed down further, leaning forward and squinting, searching for the campground sign. It always came up faster than he anticipated and he was determined not to miss it tonight.

  In
the twin beacons cast by the Jeep’s headlights, Shelby noticed a few tendrils of mist drifting from the trees, no doubt the outer edges of a denser bank over the lake. The eddies of mist gave him an uneasy feeling as he watched them swirl over the pavement, turn back on themselves, and disappear into thin air.

  The campground sign appeared ahead, as abruptly as always, and Shelby eased the Jeep into a turn. Through the open window, he heard the crunch of the tires on gravel and this brought other night sounds to his attention. An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness, the lonely sound backed up by a chorus of insects and frogs. The difference between a summer and winter night was like night and day. Nights in winter were as still as a crypt, while summer nights fairly vibrated with activity, particularly near a significant water source.

  Shelby drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The cool air, sounds of nocturnal fauna, and anticipation of alcohol and good company were already working their magic on his tight muscles. He grinned. Fritz was sure to have advice to give. It would be terrible advice and Shelby would likely ignore all of it, but it would be good for laughs and letting off a little steam.

  He was in the middle of crafting his opening one-liner when his thoughts were interrupted by the throaty roar of a shotgun.

  12

  Shelby gripped the steering wheel and stomped the accelerator. The engine roared. The tires dug into the gravel, spun, and then bit into the dirt beneath. The Jeep surged, pressing Shelby back into his seat. Another shotgun blast ripped the night and then the sharper pop-pop-pop of a handgun. Shelby ducked, unsure where the shots were coming from or what might be the intended target. Fritz owned a shotgun and if he was using it, that must mean he was under attack of some kind. Perhaps a hoodlum trying to rob the place. Or perhaps not.

  The Jeep tore into the gravel parking lot. Shelby jammed on the brakes and skidded sideways before rocking to a halt. He leaned over and popped open the glove compartment, grabbing his pistol before sliding out of the Jeep and crouching behind the left front tire. He hazarded a peek over the hood and then dove for safety as a bullet burned past his right cheek and left a shallow furrow along the top of the hood. Shelby patted the vehicle.

  “That was a close call for both of us, old friend.”

  He dropped to his belly and peered around the tire, searching for any movement from the shooter.

  Nothing.

  The mist was thicker here, and swirled in the Jeep’s headlights. The scenario was so surreal Shelby half expected a director to yell, “Cut!” at any moment and demand more emotion.

  “Fritz! You in there?”

  No answer.

  Shelby pushed to a squatting position and scurried to the rear of the Jeep. Two more shots rang out, one thudding into the side of the vehicle and the other whining off the gravel. Shelby wondered what had become of the shotgun.

  Shelby heard a loud whistle from the darkness. An engine roared to life. It sounded large, probably a truck.

  Shelby made his move. Bending almost double, he left the relative safety of the Jeep and made for the office. A muzzle flashed in the darkness; more lead creased the night. Shelby opened up with his own pistol, firing in the direction of the flashes, although he knew if the shooter was worth anything, he’d already moved. On the other hand, whoever he was dealing with hadn’t known he was armed. He might get lucky and score one of the bastards.

  More shots, this time a different weapon—more than one shooter. Something seared across Shelby’s back like a lash from a bullwhip and another bullet spat gravel on his feet as he ran. The office was only a few more yards. He charged forward, hitting the office door with his shoulder and sprawling inside like a ragdoll tossed from a speeding freight train. He came up quickly on one knee, his pistol at the ready. He spun around, covering the room—he was alone.

  Shelby heard a single, indecipherable shout, followed by a low rumble and the clank of metal on metal. Shelby had heard the sound before. It was the sound of an overhead door being rolled down and latched.

  The truck engine roared as the driver gave it gas. Light flooded the office as the headlights flicked on. Shelby dove to one side as a hail of bullets smashed through a window and perforated the far wall.

  Someone yelled from outside, “Leave him! Get in the truck!”

  “I think I got him!”

  “Get in the damn truck!”

  “Hold on, man—”

  “We gotta go!”

  The truck’s engine roared again. Shelby ran for the office door and piled out as a box truck tore around the side of the building and made for the campground exit. The passenger’s door hung open, and through the thickening mist, Shelby saw a man struggling to climb into the cab. The man clung to the outside grab handle, his feet scrambling for purchase on the side step. Shelby halted, steadied his aim, and fired. The man yelped and lost his grip on the handle. He teetered, his arms flailing for balance, but the truck’s forward motion was too much and he toppled backward, hitting the ground with an audible thud. Shelby emptied his weapon at the truck’s tires. He thought he heard the tell-tale whop-whop-whop of a blowout, but the truck kept moving and within seconds had disappeared onto the main road.

  Shelby crouched, keeping his eyes on the spot where the man had fallen. The deepening mist crawled along the ground like a morass of nebulous worms, twisting and writhing into itself, yet somehow moving forward, as if desperate for territorial conquests. Shelby gripped his pistol, knowing it was empty, yet comforted by the hard metal in his hand. He didn’t think he’d killed the man, which meant he was still dangerous. If the man was still armed, that made the odds lopsided indeed. Perhaps he had lost his weapon in the fall or left it in the truck—

  The crack and flash of a pistol put an end to that little fantasy.

  Shelby dropped flat on his stomach. Gravel dug into his palms as he braced himself, ready to lunge to his feet and attack at any moment.

  Gravel crunched somewhere in the darkness. Shelby’s eyes probed the swirling darkness. A movement, quick and furtive, caught his eye. A figure rose from the mist, hunched over, and began moving toward the treeline along the lot. His adversary wasn’t keen to go on the offensive—good to know. Unfortunately, it was too dark to see if the man was favoring a wound. That would even the odds further. Shelby cursed himself for not bringing extra ammo. Never again.

  Shelby tossed his useless weapon into the Jeep, then pushed to a crouch and moved in concert with the retreating figure. He kept as low as he could and timed his steps to match those of his quarry, who had picked up the pace and was now almost running for the trees. Having no desire to be caught in the open and at the mercy of a concealed gunman, Shelby abandoned stealth. There was no possibility of catching the man before he reached cover, so instead, Shelby ran for cover himself. He cut at a right angle toward a row of cabins, diving behind the first as the pistol barked again and a bullet whapped into the wooden siding. From there, it was only a few yards to the treeline and Shelby headed straight for it. Another shot, the whine of a bullet, and then he was in. Branches slapped at his face and underbrush tore at his legs. Then he stopped and took refuge behind a tree, listening to his adversary crashing through the woods. He followed the man’s progress, trying to determine his precise location. That could be tricky at night. Sound often carried farther at night and the woods could in turn distort, making it difficult to pin down prey.

  All at once, the sounds stopped and the night fell silent. Even the wildlife seemed to sense danger and kept quiet. Shelby stood behind the tree in the eerie silence, watching the mist eddy around his feet. The lake couldn’t be far. The mist was even thicker here than on the parking lot. He closed his eyes and concentrated, listening for any sound foreign to the forest. He held his breath and tried to ignore the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Had that been the snap of a twig? The rustle of leaves?

  Shelby knew this was a situation in which stealth was paramount. His preferred method of action was to charge in and knock heads together unt
il the other side quit. Obviously, that wouldn’t work here; he’d have to rely on a different skill.

  Memories of childhood came back, the times he’d spent in the company of Old Tom, a Native American rumored to be over a hundred years old. The old man had spent his life in the woods of the upper Great Lakes region and knew everything there was to know about northern woods and water. After a season of pestering by a young and eager Shelby, Old Tom had begun teaching him the way of the wilderness. One of those things, the one coming back to Shelby now, was how to achieve stealth in the northern deciduous forest, arguably one of the most difficult places to move in silence. Dry branches and leaves, underbrush, and warning cries from forest animals were constant threats. One wrong move could ruin a hunt or, worse yet, alert an enemy.

  Shelby bent and untied his boots. It would be painful walking in socks, but all the technique in the world couldn’t completely overcome the clumsiness of his footwear. He pulled off the boots and set them aside, then gathered his pant legs around the ankles and tucked the pants into his socks, creating a slimmer profile less likely to snag.

  Then he began moving. Putting one foot forward, he came down on the outside ball of his foot, feeling the ground for hazards. Feeling nothing but earth, he rolled his foot to the inside ball, brought down his heel and, finally, allowed his weight to rest. Shelby smiled. It was as he remembered it. He could almost sense Old Tom beside him and hear him grunting reluctant approval.

  Step after step, Shelby moved forward. It was slow going—he was out of practice—but gradually, he began closing in on where he thought the gunman was hiding.

  A sudden rustle. Shelby stopped, his foot poised for another step. More rustling. Then a movement ahead. A man appeared from behind a tree, moving slowly, half bent over, a pistol held out in front with both hands. Shelby pivoted left and began a flanking maneuver. If he could come from behind, he might be able to disarm the gunman without injury.

  The two men moved in concert, a deadly, slow-motion dance as Shelby tried to position himself for an attack and the gunman searched in vain for his quarry’s hiding place. The ritual continued until Shelby stood only six feet away from his man. Just a couple more steps and he’d be on him. He moved his right foot forward and searched the ground with the ball of his foot. He felt something there, a stick or a vine.