Mississippi DEAD (3 page)

Reeling the line back in he could feel it tighten as it pulled against the tip of the pole. And with that, Jack realized that once again he would probably lose the hook. Luckily he had his tackle box onboard and the pack of copper hooks he had bought at the store the day before.

Suddenly the line snapped and Jack was caught in the small stream of water that followed the broken line. Laying the pole across his lap, he grabbed the end of the line and saw that the lead weight was still there coated in a strip of furry moss and black slime. Grabbing the watery green mess, he pulled it away, but a thin strand held onto the weight. Tugging it, the strand snapped off and Jack took a look at what he held. Within the long strip of muck was a long strand of blondish hair.

Tossing the mass back into the water, Jack picked up the amber bottle and drained it. The buzz was good driving off the pain of last night. Needing another, Jack decided to head back to Gilman’s Bait. There he could buy a case and make the needed call to the police. What good it would do. He didn’t know. Who’d believe him? But by now the authorities had to know about the train accident, and the flames from his cabin.

Would he be arrested for the deaths of his family? Jack didn’t know. But the incident had to be reported. Something had happened and by the sounds from the radio last night and the dead man who had been following him all morning. His little strip of the Mississippi was not the only place where something bad had happened.

Grabbing the second pole, Jack reeled it in and saw that his bait was gone. Setting both poles on the deck, he got up and walked to the helm. Turning the key he could feel the rumble of the motor as it started up.

Pressing down on the throttle, Jack could feel the propellers spinning
. As the houseboat moved, Jack rocked forward as the houseboat struck something under the water. Figuring it was probably a branch of a tree settled into the bottom of the river. Jack didn’t look back and see the churning water turn red as the houseboat headed once again back down the river toward Gilman’s Bait.

Pulling up to the dock, Jack cut the motor and grabbed the mooring rope. Stepping off of the side, he tied the rop
e to a tall post and noticed a slick rainbow colored pool of gasoline was floating on the water just around the dock where the pumps were located.

The gas’s blue-green glossy coat stunk as Jack noticed the only other boat here was a small speedboat near the shore. The handle from the gas pump was still in the tank for the
outboard. And by the smell alone, Jack could tell that whoever had started to fill the tank had never finished and the manual release on the handle did not close off once the tank filled to the top. It had continued to flow into the back of the speed boat and out into the waters.

Walking down the dock, Jack grabbed the handle and popped the release lever. He stepped over to the pump, lowered the lever, and slipped the handle back into place on the pump.

Jack had no idea how many gallons of gas were in the boat or had been released into the river, but he hoped that what was on the surface of the water was dispersed enough so he would be safe to leave the boat for a while and go tell Sam what had happened.

Jack thought of yelling, “Hello,” to see if the driver of the speedboat was nearby, but he knew in the movies that always signaled the evil, man or monster, to appear.

Moving toward the store, Jack took the stairs two at a time. The smell of gas was lighter, but it had coated his nose and throat, leaving a heavy smell that deadened everything else. Grabbing the handle, Jack pulled open the door to the bait shop and the bell attached to the top rang loudly signaling his appearance.

Music floated on the air, the same oldies that Sam listened to day in and day out. Stepping into the main aisle, Jack saw Sam sitting on his stool in his usual place by the register. As always a cigarette dangled from his lips. With eyes closed and head tilted downward. Sam looked as if he were asleep. Over the years that Jack had known him, he didn’t know if Sam ever left the store at all. Maybe he had a cot in the backroom.

“Sam,” Jack said. “Some joker over-filled his tank. There’s a real mess out there.”

Sam didn’t move.

“Hey, Sam, wake up. You got a gas spill on the dock.”

Behind Sam’s sleeping form the voice of the radio stations D.J. came on. Providing the weather forecast in an all too sunny voice, saying warm temperatures would be here through the week, and going into Friday night, there was a forty percent chance of rain. Then Credence Clearwater Revival came on, But Jack didn’t hear the words as he realized today was Saturday and the D.J. was a recording from earlier in the week.

“Sam?” Jack repeated as he stepped up the aisle and reached the cash register. There Sam sat. The cigarette in his mouth was nothing, but one long ash as it had burned all the way up to the filter.

“Sam?” Jack said again as he reached across the counter and touched Sam’s plump shoulder.

Lifeless, Sam fell to the right. Sliding off of the stool and smashing his head against the keys of the register. With a ding the cash drawer slid out, propelling Sam down to the floor as a large gash crossed the side of his balding head.

“Holy…” Jack shouted as he jumped back.

It took a moment to regain his composure. And with his heart still pounding in his chest, Jack stepped back to the counter and peered over the edge. There, Sam lay dead.

Stepping around the side of the outside of the counter, Jack reached over, and grabbed the phone sitting next to the register and gas meter. After dialing 911, Jack put the phone to his ear. The line connected after one ring and Jack heard the recorded message of the operator saying that all lines are busy and to please stay on the line for the next available operator.

Jack stood there for a moment, looking out the long window that faced the empty parking lot, but only for a moment as the closeness to Sam’s lifeless body made him think of Kelly and his kids. Not disconnecting the phone, Jack set it on the counter as the recorded voice came back on repeating that all lines were busy.

Moving quickly, Jack headed for the back door. Going through it he realized that he had forgotten the beer that he had come for in the first place. But as the door closed behind him, he knew that there was no way he was going back in there to get some.

As fast as he could, Jack headed for the houseboat. The heavy smell of gasoline was stronger and made his eyes itch. After pulling the rope off of the post, he moved for the helm. Grabbing the key, Jack stopped just before he turned it, realizing that with the amount of gas fumes in the air. A spark from the battery could cause the gas in the water to ignite.

Leaving the key alone, Jack stepped back to the aft deck and grabbed an oar that lay along the hull in case of emergencies.

Taking the oar, he pushed against the dock, forcing the houseboat into the rivers current. As the houseboat slowly moved away, Jack looked back up at the bait shop. In the glare of the sun against the doors glass, he thought that he saw movement inside. Finally free of the gas slick, Jack slipped the oar back into its place and stepped to the cooler. Wanting a beer to take the edge off, he opened the lid and all he saw was water and the bloated bag that had contained the ice.

“Damn,” he shouted as he left the lid open.

Stepping back toward the helm, Jack tried to get the smell of gas out of his nose with a few good snorts, but he was unsuccessful. Reaching the helm, he turned on the motor and turned the wheel. He began to guide the houseboat back home. He didn’t know why, but there was no other place to go.

A flock of sparrows flew in a mass across the river. Other than that, Jack saw no movement. No speedboats or watercraft filled with happy families enjoying the day. No children playing on the beach building sand castles. Most of all he noticed no trains blaring their way down the tracks on their way to the big cities.

The motor on the houseboat seized, coughed, and then died. Still moving forward, Jack turned the key. But the motor wouldn’t keep running. By the sound he could tell that it was not the fuel filter, probably something blocking the propeller, a branch, over growth of long moss, or a fishing line. Not the first time something had tangled in the propeller and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. Walking to the aft, Jack knelt down next to the outboard motor. The water looked murky brown as usual and a stream of bubbles continued to move around the rear of the boat.

Reaching down into the cold water, Jack felt around for the propeller. Grabbing the curving blades he could feel that strands of something around it. Grabbing the fibrous mass he tugged back but nothing moved. Jack slid his hand along the wet mass and hit something cold, slimy and hard.

Grabbing what he thought was a thick strand of moss. Jack gave a sharp jerk backward. Unable to resist, whatever was wrapped around the propeller broke free and he knew that it wasn’t a fishing line. Lifting the stringy mass out of the water, Jack had a handful of moss and what looked like to be long blonde hair.

“Uuugh,” he shouted, flinging it back into the water where it landed with a loud plop.

Reaching back into the water, Jack made sure the blades were clear of debris. Standing, he shook the water off his arm and walked back to the helm. Grabbing the key, he crossed his fingers, and turned it.

The motor came to life. As he pressed up on the throttle, the houseboat began to move forward. The turning blades chugged into something. Catching, breaking free, and then stopping their revolution as they struck more hidden debris. As the motor cut again, Jack swore loudly and hit the steering wheel. Twice he turned the key trying to get the motor to turn over. Letting out an exasperated breath, Jack ran a hand through his hair, wishing that he would have grabbed a case or two of beer on his way out of the bait shop.

Walking around to the back of the boat, Jack knelt next to the motor again, soaking the legs of his jeans. Reaching into the water, he felt around the blades. Nothing was blocking it, so he unsnapped the motors housing. Lifting it, he looked over the motor. Everything seemed okay as he checked the wires to the spark plugs.

Then he smelled it. Not the gasoline from back at the dock, or oil from the motor. But a burnt, wet, sludge-like smell
that hung in the air around the back half of the boat.

Jack looked at the water. No dead fish or animals floated by nor were any trees rotting. Then he saw a black slimy strip hanging off of the edge of the deck near the foot board where the short ladder hung into the water for swimmers access.
From that, Jack saw foot prints leading from the ladder, across the open deck, and into the kitchen area, heading toward the small bedroom. Traces of river bottom, moss and what looked to Jack to be soggy, blackened, strips of flesh.

Standing, Jack followed the prints into the kitchen. He stopped at the entrance and looked at the slightly open door to the bedroom.

“Kelly?” Jack said, knowing that the door had been closed before.

No response came, nor did he expect one. She was dead. Burned to cinders at the cabin. From behind he heard the splash of water and a scrape as one of his fishing poles was picked up. Frozen in place, Jack felt a small cold hand wrap in his. Then the fishing pole with the missing hook was put in the other.

Slowly the door to the bedroom opened and the smell of wet, burnt flesh flowed out, hitting him hard. A smile crossed his face as he realized that he was getting to fish with his family after all.

Author Bio

Discovering books at an early age, Shawn grew to love the written word. Every genre was a new take on life. The realms of fantasy with its strong heroes and magical dragons called to him
, while suspense and horror with its intriguing heroes and villains showed all of twists and turns that life held. Then again, late Saturday nights watching Creature Feature on Channel 18 with his dad, left memories that would help him turn into the writer that he is today.

In 2010, Shawn published his first novel, Sense of Honor, and its sequel, Dragon’s Chest. Turning what was originally to be a
standalone novel into a series, The Tides of War. Also in 2010, Shawn co-authored Ripper’s Row, with Donnie Light.

2011 brought the third installment in The Tides of War series, The Dark Caravan, and the second novel in the Ripper Trilogy, Ripper’s Revenge which he again co-authored with Donnie Light.

In 2012 Shawn stepped alone into the world of horror with Little Valley and Wolves in Springfield.

2013 will see the third installment in the Ripper Trilogy, Ripper’s Wrath,
again co-authored with Donnie Light. As well as all three novels in one complete edition, The Ripper Trilogy. Welcome to Plainfield, a paranormal suspense story based off of evidence recovered by Shawn’s paranormal research team, Ghost Hunt America on an investigation on the murderer - Ed Gein, And the fourth installment in the Tides of War series, Rose Marie.

2014 will see a February release of Chicago Undead
, followed by his first children’s novel, Brooklyn and the Magic Ring. While the fifth novel in the Tides of War series, Honored Son, marks a fall release.

For extended excerpts of all of Shawn’s novels please go to
www.shawnweaverauthor.com