by Dennis Fueyo
Most residents of the river’s rat-infested driftwood towns kept to themselves collecting, sifting and tugging at anything useful. The river’s edge rested against their windpipes like a machete. A sizeable storm would create floods that dragged many dwellers out into the ocean, drowning them to feed the growing Atlantic. Survivors had prime taking of leftovers; prized miscellaneous items dragged down from large cities infesting the mountains.
The Savannah River, or the Dead River if traveled by an Atlantian, wound its way to the heart of Hiawassee, the informal capital of Georgia. Built-up over the years, after America had begun seriously considering to turn away aid from the coasts, Florida and Georgia's evacuees took residence in the piecemeal framework seeking a splinter of hope. Most came with sizable bank accounts; welcomed fodder for scrupulous contractors bilking the government at fantastical rates. To the refugees, Hiawassee reminded them of what home once was.
The Appalachians held a different take on the human exodus, its own furry residents of the woods joined by a surge of strange-looking oddities migrating from the coast. Bears coated in a toxic bacterial slime or sporting two elongated fangs protruding from the upper mandible. Saber-toothed coyotes followed a strange, green-coated deer that had acquired a taste for human flesh. Muckbears, tusked bears, fangers, and the deerdead. People of Hiawassee did not talk about random disappearances along the outskirts of town. They knew the mountains claimed the missing.
On this warm night, Juan steered the old recreational cruiser in silence. The cockpit had hardly aged, maintained by Enlil for moving exploring parties up rivers having ample space for its draft. It was a parting gift to remind them of their friendship.
Tom wrapped himself in a tarp behind the cockpit, worn so thin it had the softness of a comforter. Emelia and Sam rested in the boat’s cabin listening to the rain. It had picked up, and distant flashes of light crawled under the clouds. No storms would ravage the boat tonight. Lightning bolts reaching down to distant, undulating mountain silhouettes with crooked, plasma fingers carried no bark with their bite.
An orange glow brightened in the clouds. Juan sharpened his gaze but could not yet see the source, though he knew what candles lit the sky. He swept the deck verifying his rifle and pack were nearby, then prodded Tom. “Dr. Mason…patrón, time to rise.” Hearing whispers from the cabin, he directed his voice to them: “On deck, people. Augusta’s coming up soon.”
Emelia emerged in stomper garb, weapon in hand, and positioned herself on the starboard railing. “The first overpass will be I28, if it still stands. Just past, we need to look for a butcher shop on the eastern bank.”
“Got a hankering for some meat, Melrose?” asked Juan.
“A contact. One of the Stone family spies.”
“What’s up here for him to spy on?”
“She relays information to my father on military activities in the town center.”
Tom stood up and grabbed railing space next to her. Leaning in, he asked in a weak voice, “What, your father does not trust Admiral Melbourne?”
“Hilarious, Tom. The day will come when Papa trusts someone, but that may not be until he’s catheterized on a steady morphine drip.” Pointing a finger to an old, crumbling storefront near the water’s edge, she said, “There, Juan, she’s there. We need to go ashore, bring us in.”
“Sammy!” Juan hollered, “Master hunter! Need you on the deck, homey.”
Sam stepped out of the cabin wearing his master hunter leather jacket while adjusting a black neoprene undershirt and slipped on elbow pads and gloves. He then drew his rifle from a heavy plastic bag and started an equipment check. “Sit-rep please, my friend.”
Juan explained the situation, bringing the boat to an exploratory amble over the current while Tom chose a portside seat and began prepping his own gear. Sam replaced the spot next to Emelia and squinted into the dark as if sight could peel night’s skin and reveal their destination.
The rain stopped, freeing airspace for clouds of pollen to release from resident weeds and for scores of fireflies to hover out from wild rhododendrons and float up the forest canopy. Their luminescent glow reflected on a dozen eyes weaving and bobbing about the shoreline, fixed on the boat.
“See that, Emelia?” asked Sam. She nodded. He paced the deck speaking over his shoulder, “Juan? You seeing this?”
“I am, and not liking it, Sammy. Melrose, are you sure you need to speak with her?”
“Remember what happened when I connected with one of my father’s contacts in Charleston?”
Sam popped a few joints in his knuckles and rubbed a stiff shoulder. So many unknowns, it was dangerous—reckless—to go ashore. “Remember the Drunks?”
“Sam, I need to do this. Anchor here if you prefer.”
“No, we can get a little closer.”
Taking aim, Sam dipped and swayed his rifle with the boat’s list and chose five shots intended to scare, not kill. The fangers scattered and repositioned, nestling along the shop’s walls under a milkweed cover. They crouched down low in wet loam snickering at his naivety and snorting air dense with pollen.
On the last shot, Sam heard a hiss come from a nearby crape myrtle. Large as a tree, its ancient knotted trunks arched downward forming the shape of an umbrella around its crown. Rustling in the leafy cusps of its thick branches was a small cat. It hissed at the fangers as they positioned between rotted wood and milkweed.
Sam waved and said, “Ok Juan, take us in shallow.”
Juan carefully guided the wheel while Emelia and Sam moved to moor the old vacationer’s cruiser. Line in one hand, rifle in the other, Sam steadied waiting for the boat to reach the four-foot mark. On Juan’s command, he tossed the line onshore and swung one leg over the deck railing.
A violent shockwave launched him into the drink before lifting the other limb over. Emelia tumbled down into the shallow water next to him. Orienting himself, he slapped the surface seeking clothing, gripped tight on a camouflaged stomper jacket, and dragged her ashore.
Sam imagined Emelia had blurted out, “What in God’s name was that,” but could never verify she said it. A mental fog had consumed him upon seeing the cause of the ruckus. Clumsily, he scooted up the sand with Emelia in tow and tried to speak, forming sentences as if in the middle of a dream. Inaudible words whined from his lips, followed by a tugging sensation.
Emelia struggled to try and stand him upright. “Sam!” She cried, smacking his cheeks, “Sam, focus! We’re under attack!”
Chapter 28
The Sundancer splintered aft, lost power, and erupted in a fray of shredded fiberglass.
Tom, thrown over the port railing, had already dragged himself out the river upstream. He and Emelia could see the creature responsible for the violent attack in a pixelated gloom of red and purple but Sam could only hear it announce itself in the thick nighttime air.
A grotesque sound began as a bear’s roar and drifted into a pulsing, low-decibel call sounding similar to a salt-water crocodile. The reverberating bass in the creature’s announcement was powerful enough to constrict Sam’s chest.
Juan screamed as it ripped away the engine and bored into the cabin seeking a soft, chewy center. One final flurry of rage and the boat’s frame was gone. The flotsam drifted in the river’s current circling the large beast while it assessed its surroundings.
Sam recognized the deep drawls of sniffing and faint whimpers of disappointment. He knew them all too well; Juan had escaped being a meal. The aroma of bacterial growth and sulfur stung his nose. He sensed the beast’s height to be twelve feet—eight from flaring nostrils to fleshy breakwater, and another four to the riverbed.
Eyes adjusting to the orange light reflecting off a cloudy sky, Sam’s head cleared and back stiffened. “I don’t need green pill-induced powers to know what you are.”
The muckbear turned and faced him, eyes stabbing into Sam’s, glimpsing a meal.
Unphased and composed, Sam commanded, “You need to leave, now.”
The bear bellowed a shockwave of sonic energy.
Sam lifted his arms, fanned out his stance, and roared as deep as human lungs were able.
A standoff ensued, two predators vying for space and resources, and a challenge to the bear’s sovereignty issued by Sam.
The muckbear waded forward, snuffed, and swaggered out of the water.
Sam repeated his threat and closed distance on the muckbear. “Leave, Haws, or I swear to Nature on God’s green Earth, I will kick your slimy, brown ass!”
Emelia rested a weak hand on his shoulder and spoke with a jittery jaw: “Sam! Please, what are you doing?”
“Emelia, take care of the fangers.”
She blinked, turned, and stood before eight red-coated coyotes with elongated canines and glowing pupils. Her particular skill, controlling humans intent on harming others. Animals sought a more fundamental requirement: food.
“Lou is gone. I can’t do this.”
“You must, or we die.”
“What do I do?”
Sam replied, eyes not leaving the muck bear, “Kill them.” He then bowed, lowering his hands into the silt.
The muckbear understood this; its challenger was preparing to attack. But the attacker was small and mealy. It sniffed and snorted seeking more information. The challenge made no sense. Did the attacker want the boat’s chewy center? Was he claiming the small, mealy female? The bear shook its head in confusion.
Sam read it was confused and delivered a mock charge rote a dozen times in passive observation. Running several steps forward, he rose his hands high in the air and shaped them like twisted paws, hollering from the depths of his lungs.
Disoriented, the muck bear leaned back and scratched the slime encrusted fur on its nose.
Suddenly, overcome with elation at his success, Sam gained courage. The bear was avoiding direct contact with his eyes. His demonstrated dominance registered. Giving one more roar from his diaphragm, Sam clenched victory over their stand-off, causing the confused muckbear to backpedal into the river.
It ducked its broad, flat head left and right contemplating circumnavigation of the mealy winner to scoop up some delicious fangers. Sam read the bear’s intention to flee, but could not turn to help Emelia. He had to see the standoff through and ensure the bear’s full retreat.
Something was wrong. Sounds of the other anticipated standoff were absent.
“Emelia, how you doing with those fangers?” asked Sam. “They haven’t attacked yet?”
“Sam, something is happening.”
“Describe it to me, I have to focus on Haws.”
Emelia responded, unnerved, “The fireflies are acting strange.”
“Like how?” Curiosity winning to practicality, Sam twisted to catch a glimpse. “No…it can’t be…”
Sam waved to Tom struggling to maintain consciousness on the river’s edge. “Dad! Dad, wake up, we got trouble!”
Emelia cried out, “Rickettserax found us!”
Fangers again dispersed, yelping as they ran in terror from the putrid, evil sentinel.
The muckbear’s shoulders slumped and it slipped out several whimpers.
Swarms of fireflies congregated into a packed network of bioluminescence. At the peak, two small circles formed, followed by a snout-like dipteran extension. A brilliant red glow burned out the circles, then that familiar, screeching cry rang out. A shrill, piercing yell like a siren slowly torn apart, emitted from the snout.
“Emelia, what happened to your semiauto?”
“Sam, what should I do? It’s here for us, what do I do? Where’s the muckbear?”
“Retreating…”
The bear waded back from the river and glanced at Sam’s face.
“Get ready to run. We need to head towards Dad.”
“We’ll never make it!”
“We have to try!”
A slippery, whining voice called out from the yellow glowing shape with stabbing red eyes. It cut through the humid air into Sam’s heart: “You will not escape, Sam Mason. Time for me to collect my reward. Time to die.”
Sam wrapped his arm around Emelia and directed her into a sprint, and felt a familiar shape in her pant pocket. “Needle!” The knife that protected him during countless dives, given to his dad and passed on to Emelia. He slipped his fingers between the fabric of her pocket and drew his favorite dive knife. Unlocking the sheath, he shoved her behind him and balanced himself facing the swarm. “You will collect nothing, Rickettserax. Evil bitch, whoring yourself to a psychopath.”
The mass of swirling fireflies floated closer. “My tasty little morsel, I am hungry.” The shrieking voice pronounced, “Only a sentinel can kill a sentinel. You should have become an Atlantian when you had the chance.”
The swarm charged into Sam. He closed his mouth and covered his nose, swinging his knife. A thousand tiny insects thumped into his head, arms, and chest, weakening his vigor and shoving him into a spin. The tornado of yellow light congregated around and consumed the muckbear.
“Oh no,” Sam stammered and pulled Emelia backward, “no, oh no.” He knew what the wicked sentinel plotted. He saw it before, underwater—the poor biggen.
The muckbear cried out and collapsed under the weight of a dense fog of fireflies seeking to enter every orifice. They crawled into its mouth, wormed through its ears, and opened sores under its encrusted, bacteria-matted fur. The poor beast vomited out a green slime and leaked green goo from its tear ducts. Its stomach tore open under the weight of its swelling intestines, exploding outward into the river. No blood washed forth from the gaping wound. Streams of bright green and yellow fluids flowed out its arteries and formed rivulets of slime down its legs.
Transformation completed—just as Rickettserax had overtaken the biggen near Emerald Isle, it took the poor muckbear. Deformed into a zombified monstrosity.
Shots rang out in Sam’s ears as Emelia fired her semiautomatic weapon. The bullets were useless, stabbing into thick skin and damaging muscle tissue only to be mended with dissolved protein from fireflies.
A long fragment of boat wreckage pierced into the monster’s back thrust forward by Tom Mason.
“Dad!” Sam leaped at the horrific creature driving his knife into its neck.
They fought together. Mason, father and son, and granddaughter of Arnold Stone stood before the harvester of souls side by side.
Sam calculated no brilliant strategy. He improvised, chaotically digging his knife based on knowledge of the muck bear’s physiology finding tendons and ligaments.
Tom did not prepare equipment for mounting a defense. There were no quality checks or calibrations. In a blind emotional fury, he found the sharpest, sturdiest object on the ground and began wildly and randomly thrusting it into the monster.
Emelia did not view the abomination as an advancement of nature. She rejected its presence, purpose, and meaning. Thrown into the world as an experiment, it was a small piece of the Stone tiled ideological cathedral that ultimately tipped the balance of nature into chaos. She methodically calculated her targets, aimed and squeezed her finger rendering the clip empty. Systematically, she yanked out a fresh clip, reloaded, and emptied it.
But it was too late.
A human could not kill a sentinel. Nobel efforts washed into a gutter of vanity. A paw slammed deep into Tom’s midsection, injecting a lethal dose of lipopolysaccharide poison. The zombie muckbear swung a claw raking across Sam’s chest, leaving a wake of blood, pus, and disease. It snapped forward its jaws seeking a vice grip on Emelia’s head as she dragged Sam back.
Collapsing in front of the ramshackle butcher shop with Sam in her arms, she pulled him in tight and began pounding on the old oak door. “Let us in! Someone help!”
No lights turned on. The butcher hid in the cellar, hands over her ears.
No animals would join in the fray. The fangers had long departed.
However, a cat landed down between her and the approaching monster. The little black cat, earlier stranded i
n the peaks of an old crape myrtle crown, swaggered in front of Rickettserax.
Sam struggled to open his eyes and asked, “Do I see this right, Emelia?”
Tremors of anger rattled through her arms as she screamed at the little cat, “You’re late. Look at my Sam! If not now, demon, when will you do what you promised!”
The little cat cocked its head and studied her as if reading a dense book.
She repeated, “Cuddles, you promised!”
The cat’s eyes flashed, and small mouth spoke in an abnormally deep, visceral voice that could unbalance the most fearless warrior, “That I did, Emelia Stone. Nature looks on the mend, I think that. No more Stone strain sprays, Atlantians now informed and Uruk parted this world.”
Rickettserax paused at the tiny creature, then bellowed, “Why are you here, outsider?”
“Outsider?” The little black cat chortled and said, “I’m here because I’m hungry. Mmmm, and don’t you look delicious, Rickettserax! Like a huge, caramel-coated chocolate muffin with green frosting. I believe cats eat flies in this world, am I correct? And don’t you look like the tastiest fly.”
The cat wound its back, dug in its paws, and leaped at Rickettserax. As it traveled through the air, it changed. Cuddles grew and stretched in form. What struck the raging, mutated muckbear was a lioness, fur ink-black, and paws larger than the bear’s head. The force of Cuddles’ impact ripped the bear’s left torso extremities off into the river. A swipe of the lioness’s claw removed another, leaving the bear’s head and chest cavity with a leg wheeling in the mud. Rickettserax pushed out a final scream as Cuddles’ jaws sunk long, unbreakable teeth into its throat. With a twist of a feline-shaped head, the muckbear’s neck severed and dropped to the ground.