Ken Douglas - Scorpion

Please, God, please.

He felt sick. They hadn’t put a hand on him and he was a broken man, ready to fall on his knees the minute he met his tormentors, ready to beg for his life. No, that’s not the way it was going to be. If he was going to die, he’d go like a man, head up, proud. He was Big Earl Lawson, sheriff, marine, hunter.

No more praying, he told himself, grabbing his fear with a mental fist and squeezing it away. He bit into his tongue and curled his fingers into tight fists. The fear gone now, all he had left was anger, all he had to do was endure. Sooner or later the car would stop and sooner or later he’d get his chance. Nobody fucked with Earl Lawson. He felt an erection building. It happened every time he sighted in on an animal, every time he pulled the trigger, every time he dealt death. It was getting hard. It was starting to throb. He was going to get even. Oh yeah, somebody was going to die.

The car came to a skidding stop, throwing him against the dead man. The scraping sound of the screeching tires echoed through the trunk sending icicles shivering up his spine, but he met the cold terror with hot fury, clenching his teeth and firming his resolve. The car banked quickly right and his head smacked into the hard metal of the jack. He blacked out again.

When he came to he was bent over a round bar or tube, like a dead outlaw slung over a horse. Hands hanging down one side, feet over the other. He heard the rushing of the river and he knew where he was even before he opened his eyes. His hands were flopping below his head, swaying in the brisk breeze. His feet were on the other side of the fence, the safe side. His legs were bound together at the ankles, the ropes were tight, cutting off the flow of blood to his feet. Eyes wide, looking down, he saw the Guadeloupe River. He was just above the rapids.

The afternoon sun was blazing overhead, his view was excellent. He grabbed a breath through his mouth, the tape was gone. He felt the blood rushing to his head. He tried to move his hands. They were heavy, he flexed his fingers, felt the pain. The back of his head was throbbing, his erection was gone. The fence rail was digging into his stomach.

He reached behind himself, stretched out his right arm and wrapped his fingers around the lower rail. He was about to pull himself up when he felt a hand on his leg. Someone was untying the ropes. He felt the fumbling fingers between his legs. He wanted to shout, to tell the man to pull him up first, worry about the ropes after he was on the bridge.

Relief flooded through his legs the instant the ropes came off. “Thank you,” he called out as he pulled himself up toward the rail.

“ Sorry, Earl,” Jackson said. Earl felt his friend’s strong hands grab him by the ankles and lift his legs into the air and over the rail. He held on to the lower rail as his legs came arcing over, bound for the river below. He screamed against the jerking pain that shot through his right arm, but he managed to hold on with that lone hand, dangling above the river, face even with the concrete bridge and his deputy’s feet.

“ Jackson!” Earl cried out, grabbing onto the rail with his other hand.

“ I am mighty sorry about this, Earl. I truly am, but sometimes things just get out of control.”

“ I thought you were dead,” Earl said, looking up and into Jackson’s eyes.

“ The river is going to kill you,” Jackson said. He leaned over the rail and smiled down at Earl. “Sorry, buddy.”

“ Jackson, we’re friends,” Earl shouted up to be heard above the river.

“ Yeah, Earl, we were, but the cash sort of got in the way.”

“ There’s plenty for us both. There always has been.”

Jackson ignored him and leaned lower over the rail. For a second Earl thought he was going to pull him up, but instead he grabbed onto his right hand and tried to pry it loose. That was a mistake. He should have stepped on the fingers, like they do in the movies, but he didn’t and that gave Earl his chance. Rattlesnake quick he whipped his left arm over and grabbed Jackson around the wrist. The weight of his body pulled Jackson into the fence, slamming his stomach against the bar as he flayed out with his free hand and grabbed onto it for support.

“ Pull me up,” Earl said.

“ No!” Jackson clenched his abdominals against the rail to support himself.

“ Come on, Jackson,” Earl said. His erection was returning.

“ You’re going,” Jackson said, and now that he had his balance he was able to let go with his free hand and he grabbed downward, reaching for Earl’s hand. He was ten years younger than Earl and had the rippling muscles of an athlete, but Earl was scared strong. The more Jackson tried to free Earl’s fingers from his wrist the tighter Earl squeezed.

“ I can’t hold on much longer. Pull me up or we both go.” He was hard now, throbbing and ready.

“ No,” Jackson said.

“ Fuck you!” Earl yelled, letting loose his anger. He let go of the hand that was holding on to the rail and grabbed onto Jackson’s dangling arm and now all of his weight was pulling Jackson downward. It was too much, and in the instant it took Jackson to figure out what had happened it was too late. He slid off the rail, tumbling after Earl, and together they fell toward the river below.

“ Son of a bitch!” Earl yelled as they fell. He felt Jackson’s body jerk, and he let go of his arm just as they hit the water, grabbing a great breath as he slid into it feet first. The cold wet chilled him, body and soul, as he sank like a missile to the bottom, feet digging through the moving silt and into the soft mud. The adrenaline sparking and slicing through his body killed the river cold as he pushed and swam toward the surface. But the rushing river had a mind of his own, dragging him away from the spot where he’d plunged into the water and toward the rapids.

The more he struggled toward the surface the more the river struggled to keep him below, pulling him along, like a leaf on the breeze. His heart was thumping, his lungs were aching. There was a jackhammer pounding in his chest, demanding oxygen. The dark wet of the river engulfed him.

The river hit a bend and something struck him as he made the turn. He couldn’t hold out much longer. The thing hit him again. A log, his mind screamed. A floating log. A log floating on the surface. He was close, so close. He couldn’t quit now. He wouldn’t quit now.

He surfaced, grabbed a quick breath and went under again. If only he could grab onto the log. He could maybe ride it through the rapids. Maybe. He bumped it again and threw an arm around it. It sank some as he pulled on it, but it allowed him to get his head out of the water again, and he grabbed another breath.

Not far now, rapids and rocks.

He knew his chances weren’t good. He’d seen what the rapids could do to a man, been present at more then one autopsy. The river broke your bones, lacerated your skin, filled your lungs, then it beat you raw and spit out a thing in the calm below that didn’t look human.

And people came from miles around to ride the rapids. They called it a challenge, a thrill. They called it fun. And Earl was one of them. He loved riding the river. Knew its every twist and turn. He’d done it dozens of times. But always in a raft, and never solo.

The first dangerous turn was coming up. There was a large group of rocks to the right, on the outside of the turn, and a smaller cluster in the center of the river. You could either take the turn on the left, close to the bank or take the more dangerous route, between the rocks. He’d done it both ways and preferred to go between the two groups of rocks, because it left you in a better position for the next group. But he was without a raft and there was nobody on the river except him and the log, so he wrapped his arm around it and frantically kicked to the left.