Dead Bait 2 Page 16

John leaned forward and opened the small cooler, pulling out a chilled bottle of beer. He popped the cap, the freshness escaping with a frosty sigh. Eric could smell it in the clean air; he didn’t care for it. He wished his dad didn’t need to bring alcohol on their trips. Eric shifted in his seat and then relaxed.

  The erratic wailing of a loon crossed the lake, making Eric think of places from a long time ago—things before he was born.

  “Hear that loon?” John asked.

  “I sure do. I hope it comes close to us.”

  “Well, not too close. We don’t want a loon tangled in our lines.”

  Eric watched the bobbers undulating in the darkness, sometimes submerging to the tips, but never going fully under.

  “Watch out for the walleye,” John said. “They will peck away at your leech and get it off the hook without us even knowing it. They are lanky fish with solid white eyes and jagged teeth. If we can catch one, it will make a good supper—better than any smallmouth.”

  “Cool! “ Eric said. “I want a walleye.”

  “You never know. We just might get one.”

  John drank from his beer and burped.

  “You see son, it’s about waiting these fish out. Technically, we are smarter than fish, but we are not in their element. If we were, catching them would be a heck of a lot easier. Up here, above their world we need to play the waiting game. And ain’t it a pretty game with all these stars and trees?”

  There was no need to answer. Only a goof would disagree, even at his age.

  Eric glanced over to his glow-in-the-dark bobber. It was gone. He yanked the rod back with all his might.

  “Set the hook, son! Set the hook!”

  “I got it! I got it, Dad. It’s hooked!”

  The head of the fish jerked up and down, sending violent tremors through Eric’s rod. The rod doubled over as the fish raced towards the boat.

  “Good. Now apply just enough pressure. When you feel the line getting too tight, let out some slack by twisting the reel drag to the left, ok?”

  “Dad… it’s too heavy.”

  The rod bent in half again and line zipped off the reel. The smell of burning plastic rose into the air. Eric’s rod thumped down, slamming into the boat, then straightened, then slammed down again.

  “It’s trying to go under the boat, son. Don’t let it!”

  “I can’t dad! It’s too strong.” Eric grunted, trying to get position on the fish, playing it remarkably well. A sense of pride rose in John as he watched the boy play it out. This is a damn fine fisherman, he thought.

  “Take the rod, Dad, I can’t do it. Please take the rod!”

  John stood behind Eric, reaching over his shoulders, holding the rod above Eric’s hands.

  “Okay, on the count of three, let go. One… two… three!”

  Eric let go of the rod and they made the transition smoothly. John reached down to the reel and set the drag to the left, line still screaming out.

  “Turn on your headlamp, then turn mine on, son.”

  Eric did as told and the night became theirs again, the Petersons out on the big lake.

  John placed his legs apart, knees slightly bent. He held the rod high, not letting the fish get under the boat. This might be a giant northern pike, he thought.

  John and Eric looked into the water, their headlamps shining into it, the slick blackness, the fine particles. The translucent fishing line cut through the water, the particles oozing around it.

  “Get the net, son. The fish is tiring.”

  Eric stumbled to the back of the boat and took the cheap fishing net Dad bought from Jimmy’s Bait n’ More. His dad was poor and he loved him so for trying. Eric lowered the net just above the water, head scanning side to side, looking for signs of the fish. The surface roiled, revealing a bright-sided twenty inch fish.

  “Wait a second—”

  “This fish doesn’t look right, Dad.”

  “Eric… go ahead and net the thing, I’m not sure what the hell it is.”

  Eric dipped the net into the water, the flowing nylon web ghosting around the shimmering fish. He raised the net, feeling the weight of it and laid it flat as possible upon the aluminum hull of the fishing boat. They looked down, hands on hips, mouths hanging open, their headlamps spotlighting the fish.

  “What the hell?” John said.

  “Dad, what’s wrong? Is this bad?”

  “It’s not any fish I’ve ever seen.”

  The creature was long and sleek, with flashes of silver light streaking down its flank like a sign meant to grab attention. The head of the thing seemed to be missing and in its place were two peculiar eyes the size of billiards balls. The eyelids looked like those of an elephant; heavy, wrinkled skin and long, wet lashes. A short, skinny neck made of some unknown sinew connected to the football shaped body, then tapered off to nothing; no fins or tail of any kind.

  “Dad… that light down its body, it’s growing weaker.”

  “I see that. Don’t get too close to this thing, okay, Eric? Actually, don’t even touch it. We are treading unfamiliar ground here.”

  Eric stared at the thing, watching its abnormal eyeballs blink, the wet lashes now drying and sticking up into the air.

  “We should put it back in the water.”

  “No… the professionals at natural resources will want to take a look at this. We might get our names in the paper. Hell, this could be a new species.”

  “Dad, if it is a new kind, we should throw it back and let it live. There might not be many of them.”

  Eric looked down at the odd fish; the flashing brightness on its side faded, then stopped.

  “I think it died.”

  “Yup. Appears so—”

  The creature began to croak loudly, the sound coming from the fat, fleshy sides where the luminosity used to be. It sounded like an amplified frog that had just swallowed sand.

  Craaaaw! Craaaw!

  “Throw it back now, Dad!” Eric cried.

  “No, I told you we’ll let the resource boys handles this. Don’t worry about the noises. They will go away soon enough.”

  Craaaw! Craaaaw!

  The bizarre fish shrieked louder, echoing across the lake, the sandy hoarseness of it.

  “Dad, throw it back now! It’s trying to live!”

  “I’m not throwing it back. We’ve found something here. But I do know how to make it shut up.”

  Craaaaw! Craaaaw!

  John raised his boot above the thing and prepared to step down hard when they both felt a warm rush of air. Eric’s empty soda can blew into the lake, and his dad screamed; a sound he had never heard before.

  Something in the air was trying to take his dad.

  Eric heard flesh ripping. He turned towards his father and saw four horrible, silvery claws dug into each shoulder, pushing out streaks of blood through the blue long sleeve shirt. The headlamp reflected off the hooks which seemed to be curved, rough, clear plastic protecting thick, blue arteries. His father’s eyes widened and his body lurched upward each time the claws dug into his shoulders. Gushes of air beat upon them, coming from wings that Eric could only see when he looked upward with the headlamp. Eric reached out to his father as another sky thing soared towards the boat. Eric ducked, making himself even with the gunwale.

  “Dad!”

  “Son… get to shore now—”

  Before John could say another word, he was picked up from the boat and taken into the air. He screamed again, the sound muted randomly by the enormous wings of the sky things. The creature on the floor of the boat followed with its own scream, but it was different this time—a scream of joy and derision. The sandy croaking stopped.

  “Dad!”

  Once more his father screamed, somewhere in the night sky, not far from the boat. Eric followed the noise with his headlamp, catching a glimpse of fleshy wings pulled tight like a tent with fine, short hairs. Halfway down each wing a discolored, white hook jabbed out. He could hear flapping and gristle tearing.


  “No! Dad, come back!” Eric said, crying.

  The dismal wings flapped again and Eric heard thick, chunky liquid falling into the lake. Eric kneeled in the boat, huddling below the gunwale. With his ear almost to the aluminum hull, he heard what sounded like a heavily filtered concert; a sea of delightful screams. He slowly followed the hull rivets up, then peered over the side. Upon the lake, hundreds of shiny fish swam towards the surface, their lights shimmering with hyper-activity. They appeared to be heading in the direction where Eric heard the liquid fall into the lake. The first ring of loathsome fish splashed and crashed the surface like trout eating corn at a petting zoo pond—the joyous, filtered screaming accompanied by a violent, fleshy smacking noise. A vast numbness overcame Eric and he slunk back below the gunwale, huddling there, arms across his chest. He remained quiet for certain, unspeakable death awaited him if he slipped even once. The splashing soon faded and the night throbbed with the beat of leathery wings. Out behind him, towards the reeds a glow-in-the-dark-bobber rose and fell.

  THE WORST THING EVER

  Anthony Wedd

  So, like, worst thing ever. Another forty plus day, how many was that in a row? Stuck inside in the aircon drinking endless iced coffees and ginger beers. I mean Philip and Marie are awesome, but there's only so much you can talk about without anything to do. At least we still had the cricket to listen to, which is cool for a while, like nostalgic or whatever, but I was leaving Adelaide on Sunday. If we were going to do anything it had better be pretty soon.

  Maybe I seemed grumpy as I pushed my scrambled eggs around, or maybe Philip felt the same way, because he offered to take me out in the boat. Marie was like, “In this heat? You'll die,” but I thought it sounded all right and Philip promised we would drown ourselves in sunscreen and wear like twenty hats. “It’ll be cooler out on the water anyway,” he said. Marie packed us a whole esky full of clinking bottles while Philip went out and got things ready with the boat. I changed into my bathing suit under an old t-shirt, just in case, and fumbled my cricket cap out of my sock drawer.

  Outside it was already about a thousand degrees and I wanted to wilt as Philip led me over to the Land Cruiser and helped me up. The engine woke like a big growling dog, drawing breath at each gear change as we stop-started our way through the suburbs. In Melbourne play had started and we listened to it on the crackly AM radio over the roar of the air conditioner. “Now it's McGrath coming in, he bowls to Tendulkar, angled down the leg side. Tendulkar fends it off his pads and there's no run.” And repeat, again and again, all day. I love that shit though, what can I say, best thing ever. That is summer to me.

  Philip stopped at a servo to get fuel and bait. He left the radio on for me, but play stopped for drinks and the news came on. There were bushfires in the Mt Lofty ranges. They were pretty bad—no one was dead but a bunch of houses were threatened. Some fire guy talked for a while. Petrol hummed and whirred into our tank. We got away just as play started again—Brett Lee was bowling, who everyone reckoned was like the hottest guy ever. I heard the clicking of indicators and we slowed and turned more and more often, approaching the beach.

  Despite the heat, the boat ramp was like a mall, crowded with voices and boat engines. Hot wind gusted about my head as I stepped cautiously off the runner board. Philip paid the launch fee and bought me a Cornetto. I ate it sitting in the shade amongst fishy salt and exhaust fumes while gulls cawed and whistled. A panting dog yipped near me and I offered my fingers, but its owner was all, “Psst! Mindy, no. Come away.”

  “It's OK,” I said, but they’d gone.

  Philip came back and led me over wet, slippery rocks onto the ramp. I totally hate this part. I have to lean on him the whole way like some kind of invalid with every old fisherman in like a five k radius watching. I forced a giggle as he all but lifted me into the boat (so embarrassing), while the stale smelling ocean lapped and sucked below. The motor grumbled loud fumes as we started up and cruised slowly out of the marina. Finally Philip got me to grab the hand rail and we revved up and broke free.

  All the noise of the world disappeared; there was only motion and hissing spray and the gurgling roar of the motor vibrating through my body. The sea was fairly choppy and our speed turned the waves hard. We bounced over them like beach balls, showering cold water, sometimes slamming into one like granite. I wanted to be like this for hours, speeding through the waves with my hair streaming and whipping in the wind. But soon the force of the motor dropped off and we eased into the swells, sloshing rather than fighting, as Philip neared his spot.

  The anchor ground and clanked its way overboard. The world was back and I grudgingly accepted it by holding a rod for Philip while he messed around getting the bait ready. I could smell the wet stagnant flesh of whatever it was. He cut it up and I could hear the knife sawing through soggy tissue before each finishing thop. Like, yuck. Silent jiggling as he baited my hook. Then the rod free in my hands, the hiss of casting, the plop of the sinker.

  I tightened the line and concentrated. Fishing’s best early on, while it’s still novel or something and your hands aren’t all gross. You could feel the sinker dragging along the bottom with each wave, a slow pull then relax. You’d also get nibbles, tiny fish gnawing at the bait without really grabbing it. Philip pulled the canopy over so we were sitting in the shade and turned on the radio. “… final delivery of the over. Warne… pitches it on middle and off and Tendulkar is watchful, waits and lets it go outside off stump.” It couldn’t be long until lunch now.

  Philip got me a ginger beer and we hung out listening and fishing. The canopy cut the sun enough that the heat was sufferable and there was still a bit of a breeze. After a bunch of nibbles I reeled in and felt down the line. Sure enough my bait was all gone. Philip thought it would be cool for me to bait my own hook. He handed me a cockle. Bait is just gross, you know? Like a chunk of limp rubbery slime that always wants to drip off your fingers. You don’t want to grip it too tight or you feel like you’ll pop one of the oozy bits and stink up your fingers even more. It’s like living snot, or someone’s insides. And somehow you have to get a hook through it and it’s tough like gum. Disgusting.

  Anyway I recast and almost straight away got a real bite, breaking through all the wishy-washy stuff with a sudden jagged jerk. Over the crisp clatter of the reel Philip was like, “Got him?” and I nodded. The distant weight of my fish pulled against me, twitching urgently through the line as he struggled. I stood up and reeled. Soon my fish splashed free of the water, line thrumming tiny droplets onto my face and arms as he continued to fight.

  “It’s a whiting. A beauty,” Philip said and the line went slack as he grabbed the fish. He pulled my hand over and let me touch it. I felt the rigid triangular head, gills pulsing, then ran my fingers down the soft, slippery body. The fish wriggled, abruptly sharp with fins and I felt the soft crater of an eye knock against me as I snatched my hand back.

  “Uh oh, bastard’s swallowed the hook.” Philip took the fish away and I heard its body drumming on the bait table in brainless bursts, the same violent fluttering rhythm as its bite. Then I heard the knife again, crunching scales and grinding through cartilage. I thought I heard the fish choking as the knife pressed deeper, or maybe it was gas escaping from some secret chamber or sac moistly popped open. “There we go,” Philip growled. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing and it was a bit gaggish, so I turned the radio up while he finished. The boat rocked gently rather than lurching like it did when we came out. I was over fishing for the time being. So when Philip touched my hand to press God knew what into it for rebaiting, I kept it closed and asked if I could swim instead.

  He’d let me go off the boat before, a couple of times. Plus he must have noticed my bathing suit under my T-shirt and he hadn’t said anything, so it was sort of already OK. There was this lifejacket that I wore, and we always clipped a rope to it so I couldn’t drift away without noticing. So lame, but there was no one out here to see anyway. I stripped off while
he got them for me, but he made me put more sunscreen on my newly exposed bits before I could go in. Whatever. I listened for the score off the radio while I did it—two for ninety-eight. Tendulkar had been dropped on forty-five while we were messing around with the fish. Worst thing ever.

  Philip was like “lunchtime when you get out, OK?” and I was like, “Uhuh.” Then he clipped the rope to me and held my hips as I climbed onto the side of the boat and balanced. This part was always a bit scary, but I didn’t want to hang around up there in case a wave showed up and knocked me over, so as soon as Philip said, “Go for it,” I jumped. I free-fell for a moment, then hit the water, shockingly cold to my warm skin. Submerged, all sounds were lost to churning bubbles, tangy stinging salt water trying to get up my nose. Then I bobbed to the surface, rising and falling. Philip was clapping, which was a bit cringeful; he doesn’t usually treat me like I can’t do anything. But I felt grateful and excited and gave him a breathless smile as I started paddling around. My latest thing was practising backstroke, which I’m pretty good at.

  After that, I floated on my back for a while, arms and legs splayed. My ears went in and out of the water with each wave, exploring both worlds while the sun warmed and prickled my salty face. Philip started calling out to me, real loud. His words were kind of muffled by slopping water and my hair was in my ears too, but he was actually shouting, louder and louder. The rope went taut, like he wanted to reel me in. Something must have happened in the cricket, something pretty amazing. I rolled over and kicked myself upright.

  “Wicket?” I called, wiping my hair out of my face.