Ken Douglas - Scorpion

It was a cloudless sky and the sunlight reflecting off the rushing water made the rocks ahead hard to see, but he sensed he was heading right for them. He kicked himself around the log and positioned it between himself and the hazard ahead. The log hit the rocks first, cushioning the collision, and that surprised him, but he held onto it until they were through the narrow gap.

Then for a few seconds it would be smooth, then came the worst or the most challenging part, depending on your point of view. He tried to pull himself up on the log, but it wasn’t buoyant enough, and it had more give than a log should have. He turned away from the rocks and rapids up ahead and stole a quick look at it.

And screamed.

The log had a face.

It was Loomis, eyes stone wide in death. He let go of the body, flaying the water and fighting for air. Then something smacked into him. He grabbed onto it, and screamed again. This log had a face, too. But the need for survival overcame his terror and he grabbed onto Jackson’s limp body and sucked in a huge lungful of air.

Then he was in it. The river churning and boiling all around him. He fought for air, fought to stay afloat and fought through the gaps, using Jackson’s body as a cushion against the rocks. He did it without thinking, his will to survive stronger than the revulsion of hanging on to the dead man.

And even with the body he was still taking a beating. He had to get out of the river. Several homes lined the riverbank at various places, but yelling for help was out of the question. He was in the river canyon twenty feet below. No one would hear.

He tried to form a mental picture of what lay ahead. Not the rapids and the rocks, he knew those, but the places on the side that he might be able to get to, places out of the river rush. There was one, not far ahead, sort of a side pool, blocked by a huge rock that rose from the river. He’d actually seen fishermen in it as he’d rushed by with Jackson in the past.

If he missed the pool there was a section of the river after the next group of rocks that had several overhanging branches on both sides of the river. He remembered having to duck to keep his head as he and Jackson had rafted under them.

He started to make his way to the right as the river rounded another bend. If he could stay far enough to the right, but not so far that he smashed into the giant rock. If he could summon enough strength for a few good kicks, and if his timing was spot on, he might be able to swim into the pool.

It was coming up faster then he anticipated and he was too far to the right. He was going to crash into the giant rock. Frantically he pushed Jackson in front of him, using the body as a shield, as the raging river threw them toward the rock. The dead body careened into the it and he smashed into the dead body. He heard bones crunching and cracking as he lost hold of Jackson. The river picked him up and flung him sideways. He hit the rock back first and slid along it, clawing and scratching for a hold. Then he was past the rock and he kicked and swam for the hole into the pool, but the river was too fast and he didn’t have the strength.

He sucked in a lungful of air as the river drew him under. Now he was going down the river without any protection and he was only halfway through this group of rapids. If he made it through them, he would have nothing but rushing river for a few hundred yards. He’d be able to grab onto the overhanging branches by the riverbank. Then he was in it again, swimming and dodging, holding his breath, lungs bursting, adrenaline flowing. His body took over, it was all reflex now. His experience and memory of the river, its twists, turns, rocks and hazards, all buried in the subconscious that took over. Sheriff Earl Lawson was only along for the ride, the animal within was running the show.

He was an eel, sliding through a narrow passage, then he was a great fish, powerfully swimming toward the next opening in the rocks where he became an eel again. A few times his animal judgment was off and he’d scrape along a rock as he struggled through a slim opening, and once he smashed into a smooth shaped boulder his animal self didn’t remember. But he managed to keep his breath, despite the crash, and then he was through it, floating down the rushing river, headed for the next group of rapids.

He fought the pulling river as he pulled in air and he swam toward the side. The next group of rapids would be the last. If he didn’t make it this time he was history. He knew it and the animal within knew it. Just as he thought it was all over he saw an overhanging branch within his reach. He gave it his last and his best effort as he thrust his arms out of the water and grabbed onto it.

He didn’t know how long he’d been hanging onto the branch, a few seconds or a few minutes, but he had to do something. His arms were straining, he was still in the water from the waist down, and the river was sapping what little strength he had left. He tried to pull himself up and he managed to almost chin himself, holding his eyes level with the branch, knees in the river, stomach muscles screaming as he struggled to get out of the water, but he couldn’t do it and he sagged back down. He didn’t have the energy or the strength left to pull himself up onto the branch.

The water was rushing around him, dragging him, tugging on him, calling him. He was holding on, breathing like a machine, in and out, taking in vital oxygen for one last try, and then it dawned on him that he’d never be able to pull himself up on that branch, but it wasn’t the only way out, there was another way, a simpler way. All he had to do was inch his hands along the branch toward the riverbank.

The wet cold cut through to the bone, the driving river was pulling at his heavy legs, his arms were screaming, his hands aching and his fingers were numb. He was about used up. He was fighting just to hold on. He was afraid if he let a hand go he’d fall back in the river, but he knew that if he didn’t move quickly he’d fall back in anyway, and the river would finish him, so he slid first one hand, then the next toward the riverbank.

It was slow going, but he was making progress. He was getting out of the river. Then he couldn’t move anymore, something was holding him back. He started to panic, but fought it away. Then he realized what it was. His feet had hit bottom. He was safe. He’d made it. Soloed halfway through the rapids, with a dead body for a raft.

He stumbled out of the water, grabbing onto the tree’s root system for support. He was out of the water. Now he only had a twenty foot embankment to claw his way up. He thought about Maria. He thought about the money. And he thought about climbing that cliff. Not so high. Not so hard.

He wormed his way around the tree and started to climb, digging his damaged hands into the soft earth, pulling on small branches, clutching onto small stones, grabbing any and every purchase he could. He moved slowly and deliberately. He didn’t want to fall back into the river.

“ You want to hang around or do you want to get out of here?” Broxton asked, coming up behind Maria. His voice cracked with the words. He sounded like a little boy fighting tears, and her heart went out to him.

“ The quicker I’m gone, the better, but I’m the senior flight attendant. I should stay till they release us.” She regretted the words as soon as they’d left her lips, but she really couldn’t leave. Her life had been split between Earl and the airline and the airline had been the better half. Still Broxton was a man in pain and after their experience on the plane she felt a certain kinship with him. She wished there was something she could do.

“ I understand,” Broxton said, with sagging shoulders.