Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

I’m not dead anymore. I’m UNdead. Castle was disturbed by the distant, alien tone. The Rook should know this wasn’t a time for joking around.

“The vampires got him,” Castle said. “He’s one of them now.”

“Vampires? The fuck you talking about? This ain’t no comic book.”

“The creatures,” Bowie said. “We think they’re vampires.”

Ace laughed so hard, he leaned over with his fists on his knees. “Holy Christ, Clara. Did you hear that? These dickheads must think we’re some kind of gravy-sopping, redneck morons.”

“I heard,” Clara said. “Let’s get out of here, Ace.”

“You, too? I told you ya got to have faith. Have those angels harmed a hair on our heads? Nary a one. And has the Lord provided, every time we needed a lift or a hideout or a bite to eat? Damn right He has.”

Clara didn’t look convinced. With her saturated, stringy hair trailing across her shoulders, she was as miserable as a drowned rat.

“What about you?” Goodall said to Dove. “You and Tonto must be the brains of the bunch, since you ain’t talked much. You think they’re vampires?”

“I think they’re a missing link,” she said. “An undiscovered species. When the world finds out, it’ll make Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster look like something out of the Goosebumps books.”

“Big words,” Goodall said to Clara. “She must have gone to college, too.”

“Angels don’t rip open the necks of humans and drink their blood,” Raintree said.

“What do you think it is, Tonto? Some kind of Evil Spirit?”

“Whatever they are, they’re dangerous, and they could attack any second,” Bowie said.

“Take off your life jacket,” Goodall ordered. Bowie frowned and undid the plastic snaps that held the nylon restraints in place. Goodall shook the pistol at Dove and Raintree. “You, too. Throw them on the ground.”

Clara retrieved them, giving one to Goodall, who slid one arm in, switched the pistol to his left hand, and shrugged into the other armhole. Clara put on the other one, and Ace tossed the other two into the river, where they squirted away. “All right,” he said to Bowie. “Let’s get this love boat heading downstream.”

Castle wondered if Bowie would warn them the water was too treacherous. More likely, he was in a hurry to send them on their way. With nightfall coming on, Goodall and the girl would be lucky to make it a half mile before the raft was swamped or they got pitched out by the rocking rapids.

“What about food?” Clara said.

“Load up all the backpacks, Tonto. We’ll need all of it sooner or later.” Goodall opened one, rummaged, and brought out a magnesium flashlight. He gave it to Dove. “Rig this to your helmet.”

He put another of the Maglites in his pocket.

“You’re going to leave us here, unarmed and without supplies, to face the vampires?” Bowie said. “ Angels, I mean?”

“Not all of you,” Goodall said to him. “You’re coming with us.”

Dove stepped forward. “You’ll need another experienced paddler to make it through the water. It’s risen at least a foot.”

“Sorry, good-looking,” Goodall said. “Might get a little too crowded, and it’s hard to class=Section2› keep a watch on two people.”

“I’m a better paddler than Bowie.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. But I got my hands full with Clara here. Be hard for me to keep two women satisfied.”

“Asshole.”

Goodall swung the gun from Castle to Dove. Raintree stepped in front of Dove.

Hmm, Castle thought. He’s sweet on her. Or maybe he has some kind of stupid code of honor. A code of honor like I used have, back when I gave a damn.

Because Castle realized now was the best opportunity to charge Goodall, knock the gun from his hand, throw a right punch into his crooked sneer. But like the quick-draw fantasy, this was the empty, scripted imagery from an action movie. His feet were as heavy as boulders, the rain in his eyes as warm as tears.

So much for the courageous F-uh-bee-eye Man, taunted The Rook. You’re still four years old, pissing in bed because you’re too scared to put your feet on the floor and walk to the bathroom. Scared of what’s under there, down in the dark.

“Nice move, Tonto,” Goodall said. “Now, load those backpacks in the raft and drag it over to the river.”

Raintree didn’t move.

“Get going or I’ll blow a hole right through you and into your squaw.”

“You’d better listen to him,” Castle heard himself saying. “He’s got a half-dozen notches in his gun, and a couple more won’t matter. He’ll face a death sentence anyway.”

“Wrong, G-man,” Goodall said. “I don’t face death. I face eternal life in the bosom of the Lord.”

Raintree gave Dove a look, then collected the four backpacks and dropped them in the swollen raft, along with three of the doubled-headed paddles. Dove helped him pull the raft to the water’s edge.

Castle watched Goodall’s eyes. The bomber was distracted, watching the churning river as if expecting it to calm down, or maybe for the waters to part. The Rook had made a big deal about Goodall’s religious mania, a textbook case of schizophrenia. Except Goodall had shown a rational cunning in planning his bomb attacks and eluding pursuit. This wasn’t the work of a guy who had scrambled eggs in place of brains.

So maybe God is on his side, The Rook chimed in. And the angels really are angels.

“And they carried you off to heaven?” Castle said aloud.

Goodall brought the pistol to bear on Castle. “What did you say, Haircut?”

Castle folded his arms. Maybe he was the textbook case. Voices in his head, the childhood memories of claws tracking the bed frame, an inability to act despite the best law enforcement training on the planet. He was little more than a bag of blood, waiting to be tapped by Ace’s angels. “Nothing.”

“A lot of words to say nothing,” Goodall said. “Come on, babe, it’s bon voyage time. You-what’s your name? Bowie? — get it in the water and hold in place till we’re in. You up front. I’ll be riding shotgun in the back.”

“Have either of you ever done any white-water rafting?” Bowie asked them.

“No, but we took a canoe ride,” Goodall said. “I’d guess the canoe is two miles downstream by now.”

“I need a second paddler, then.”

“No can do, Chief.”

“I need a PFD.”

“A life jacket? No, I don’t want you to get any ideas about jumping ship.”

“It’s suicide to set out on this water. I know this gorge. Lots of tributaries and gullies. A flash food could come tearing down on us like a tidal wave.”

“It won’t be suicide,” Goodall said. “‘Mercy killing’ is more like it. You ought to have a little faith.”

“Faith was great for Noah and his family,” Castle said. “But it sucked for the rest of the world.”

Goodall ignored him. “Get on, big man,” he said to Bowie.

Bowie scooted the raft in the water, holding it by the grab loop. It caught the current immediately and bounced against the rocks along the shore. Bowie, knee-deep in the water, strained against the obvious force of the fast-moving Unegama. The girl, Clara, rolled up her pants legs, though they were already soaked, before she waded to the raft and boarded, nearly tipping it over.

Goodall took a last look around, as if counting again. “Shit fire,” he said. “I lost count of you folks, but I know you had two rafts at the top of the falls. Where’s the other one?”

Raintree, shielding Dove again, said, “We busted it.”

“Thing looks pretty sturdy to me.”

“You want to know the truth?” Castle said. “I shot two holes in it. I didn’t want these people slowing me down.”