Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

In the forest, above the flood line, he found the backpack that held Dove’s camera. Good as gold. With her pictures, and his first-person account (sold to the highest bidder, film rights separate), Vincent Farrengalli was going to be puffing nothing but twenty-dollar Cubans for the rest of his days. Along with the occasional Grade-A Thai stick, that was.

The grab loop of the half-inflated raft had snagged on a willow sapling, and the raft bounced like a rubber ball banded to a wooden paddle. He waded into the water, wary of being exposed to the vampires- but, hell, they don’t come out in the sunshine, do they? — and brought the boat back to the shore. Travis Lane and ProVentures could be proud of the Muskrat, and he’d be sure to strike up an endorsement deal with them, assuming the offer was solid.

He sat, unscrewed the outer valve, and wrapped his lips around the stem.

Breathe in through nose, then out through mouth.

In, out.

Eyes on the prize.

He had the raft nearly to an air pressure he thought was good enough to get him to the lake when he heard them. At first, he thought they were vampires, and he lost a good dozen huffs worth of oxygen. They splashed in the shallow water, walking slowly, Bowie bare-chested, his shirt worn by the girl. It reached the tops of her thighs. Farrengalli figured, if she sat behind him, he’d get a pretty good view as they worked their way downstream.

“Hey, folks,” he said. “Some night, huh?”

Hell, he might even let her share the media coverage. Bowie would probably go back to Oregon or Saskatchawan or wherever the fuck they said he hid out. No threat there. No fight for the spotlight. So he might as well be part of the team for now.

Besides, if some vampires did come along, it probably wouldn’t be that hard to shove the suckers overboard.

The human suckers, that was.

He smiled.

It was only fucking natural.