Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

“He’s from North Dakota,” McKay called from the rear. “They just call him the Bama Bomber because it fit the headlines better.”

“Mr. Castle, I need to know if my group will be in any danger,” Bowie said.

“I promise you’ll be the first to know. If and when.”

“I’ll just assume he’s considered armed and dangerous, then.”

“Isn’t everybody these days?” Lane said.

A budding J. Edgar Hoover or an explosive-packing member of the moron militia might be the least of their problems, Bowie thought. Clouds had pushed in and coalesced into a rumpled and smothering blanket. Bowie had studied the weather reports for the two weeks prior to the trip, and a warm front was predicted to push precipitation across the central states and possibly into the Northeast and Canada, completely dodging the South. From Bowie’s previous experience running the gorge, though, he knew weather in the mountains could change dramatically, the escarpment playing with wind patterns and sometimes swinging temperatures thirty degrees within a few hours.

The Unegama River, with stretches ranked between Class III and Class VI when the river was at its safest, could quickly become a torrential storm drain. If the rain was more than just a passing shower, Bowie would have to decide between taking the rafts out and losing precious hours, or even a day, or sticking to schedule and ramping up the risk factor. With one raft already overloaded, he might have to ditch a couple of crew members.

Farrengalli, maybe. The thought brought a smile to his lips. But Dove might volunteer to keep him company, reasoning that she had more hiking experience than the others. The smile tightened. He knew well what happened when Dove kept a man company in the woods.

“How far do you expect to ride?” Bowie asked Castle.

“As far as it takes.”

Bowie glanced upriver, saw Dove working the paddle, and admired her strong but slender arms. He should have put her in the raft with him, but he had been determined to interact with her as little as possible. This morning had been a mistake, though the memory of it caused a warm and pleasant swelling in the crotch of his SealSkinz.

“Your clothes are wet,” Lane said to the agent. “You’re in danger of exposure.”

“I’ve been exposed before,” he said.

Every time Bowie glanced at Castle, the man’s eyes were scanning the sky as if expecting a strafing run from a formation of jet fighters. Though the eyes never stayed fixed on anything for more than three seconds (nothing like Serpico when played by Pacino, who could beat a mirror in a staring contest), Bowie had seen enough to wonder if the man might just possibly be some kind of nut job himself. What if Castle was the suspect and had somehow obtained a federal badge, possibly from one of his victims?

Bowie guided the lead raft to the right, into the shallow shoals, so the other raft could catch up. He was about to ram his paddle into the sandy bottom when the piercing shriek erupted from above and fell like a meteor.

Castle recognized the shriek instantly.

It was the same sound that had accompanied the swooping attack on The Rook. One of them, the flying things, monsters that had once lived under his bed but now inhabited the granite cliffs above the Unegama. The high-pitched noise was the combination of a bat’s squeak, a dying woman’s wail, and the death gargle of a hanging victim.

The sound swelled and then the raft rocked. Lane, the man behind him, slammed into his back, causing him to topple like a fleshy domino, and likewise he bumped into Bowie. The sudden impact was accompanied by a wet spray as the raft was pushed into the water by the force of the blow.

At the rear of the raft, the blond man screamed.

“What the fuck?” Farrengalli shouted from the other raft.

“Bowie!” the lone woman in the group shouted.

Castle turned to see the creature latched onto the blond man’s back, bony fingers grappling against the man’s dry suit. Unlike the one that had carried off The Rook, this one had a gray, leathery hide and thin arms that bore the suggestion of loose skin. The face was humanoid, but the bald, blunt dome of skull descended to a sharp, bony chin. The eyes were large and milky, with no pupils, as if the creature had no use for vision. All those features made only fleeting impressions on Castle, because his attention was drawn to the two glistening incisors that dug into the blond’s neck above the collar of his life jacket.

Castle struggled for his Glock, trying to push Lane out of the way. Lane crawled onto the inflated bulge of the bow, arms flailing, moaning as if he were the one being attacked. “Oh, Jesus, dear sweet oh-my-Christ Jesus, dear goddamned Jesus,” he muttered in a loose and profane litany.

Bowie jumped out of the raft and let it glide past him; then he raised his paddle and swung the end against the creature. The flat end of the paddle thwacked against the creature’s hunched back, but it didn’t pause in its assault. It lifted its head, and twin drops of blood dangled at the end of the incisors. The lips were parted in a frenzied sneer. Castle raised the Glock, but with the rocking of the boat and the blond’s jerking attempts to throw the thing off his back, he couldn’t get a clear shot.

“Get it off me,” McKay shouted, reaching behind to grab at the oblate, wizened head. No doubt he hadn’t seen his attacker, or he would have been even more frantic to escape.

Lane was now sprawled fully across the bow, his legs in the air, and Castle tipped him face-first into the river to get him out of the line of fire. Bowie chopped again with the paddle, and the vinyl blade broke against the creature’s neck. It turned its head in Bowie’s direction and sniffed the air with cavernous nostrils.

It can’t see. Castle tried once more to draw a bead on the creature, figuring the kill shot would have to go to the skull, because its limbs were entwined around the blond’s body as if they were fiercely fornicating lovers.

The raft spun slowly, leaving a drenched Lane splashing upstream. Bowie waded after the raft, jabbing the broken end of his paddle at the creature, penetrating a few inches through the wrinkled flesh. The creature’s mouth opened, but no sound issued forth, only the strained rasp of its flapping tongue. Its head swiveled wildly, as if not understanding the source of its pain- if it even felt pain, Castle thought-but then its lips settled once more onto the wound in the man’s neck. Blood spotted the front of the blond’s life jacket.

Castle decided the safest shot would be from a stationary position. “Grab the line,” he shouted at Bowie before rolling over the bow into the river.

He kept the Glock above water. The river was colder than he’d realized, the chill shocking him and causing his breath to hesitate in his lungs. The water was knee-deep in the shoals, which allowed him to quickly regain his balance. Bowie gripped the thin nylon rope that girdled the raft’s bow, holding it in place, though it still bobbed up and down with the current.

“Shoot the fucker,” Farrengalli yelled as the second raft hurried toward the carnage.

Bowie lifted his paddle handle like a Zulu warrior chucking a spear. The jagged tip was covered with a viscous substance the color of used motor oil, the same liquid that oozed from the gash in the creature’s back.

Give ‘em hell, cowboy. Castle wasn’t sure whether the man in the raft had yelled the words or whether The Rook was still indulging in his Brokeback Mountain fantasies from beyond the grave.

“Hold still,” Castle shouted, his words meant for the blond. However, Bowie also froze, the line clenched in his right fist, his back arched as he fought to hold the raft in place.