Black Tide by Del Stone Page B

me momentarily, and only after I was able to take several deep breaths did it let up so that I could open my eyes.
    Scotty was hovering over me, his fist poised to strike again. Heather was holding his arm back. I wondered how such a scrawny little fellow could hit so hard, and decided it was not that he was so strong, but that I was so weak. I hadn’t physically fought another person since junior high school, and my pain tolerance seemed to have diminished since. I didn’t think I could take another blow. The realisation settled in with a heaviness that amplified the agony in my gut.
    He roughly shook himself from Heather’s grasp. He was breathing heavily, actually snorting, and his eyes were burning with an adrenalin-stoked fire. He muttered some guttural, incomprehensible epithet, then resumed his path across the island, kicking sand in his wake. This time, Heather didn’t go after him. She remained by my side.
    â€˜I’m so sorry, Fred,’ she sobbed. She had a bandana, one of those cheap paisley print scarves you can buy at any convenience store, and she began wiping the blood from my face. My nose throbbed and I wondered if it might be broken. ‘I’m sorry I asked him to come. I’m sorry for all this,’ and she took in the island with a broad sweep of her arm.
    â€˜I’m sorry for being such an ass,’ I told her. It seemed a noble confession for a middle-aged guy to make after having his ass kicked by a man half his age. ‘When we get back to Gainesville you can switch advisers – if you want.’
    She shook her head, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she turned to watch Scotty tramp into the water, a mass of dead fish swirling behind him. I got to my knees and strained to see into the sun-spackled water. It was just after noon.
    We watched.
    Â 
    Scotty was halfway across. At first he had swum hard, his arms taking in huge bites of the turgid water, his feet kicking a frothy wake the colour of root beer. But after a few minutes he’d tired and was simply propelling himself through the kill, holding his head as high above the water as was possible. I couldn’t imagine how awful the smell must be, or the sensation of the slick, bloated carcasses brushing against his skin. I had to admit to a certain admiration for him. Despite the fact he’d insulted me and defied me and then physically attacked me, he was showing an endearing courage. Maybe stupid. But admirable.
    I was beginning to think he might make it when the unexpected happened. You could tell from his movements that something was wrong. He stopped in the water, his head whipping back and forth, and then he peered down into the water. What he saw there must have frightened him because he began to swim madly for the opposite shore. Around him we could see whorls and disturbances in the calm water.
    Something was after him. We knew what it was.
    Heather screamed, ‘Swim, Scotty! Swim!’ and I don’t think he needed to be told that because he was swimming with the frantic resolution of somebody who had glimpsed death’s stalking shadow. I could tell from the colour of the water he was nearing the shallows on the opposite side. If he could make it there the light might protect him. I wasn’t sure what degree of tolerance the creatures had for sunlight, but if a flashlight beam was enough to set them ablaze surely the noon sun, dimmed though it was by three feet of water, would produce similar results.
    Scotty’s head had disappeared beneath the surface. A roiling tumult bubbled around the spot we had last seen him. I couldn’t see him but my mind’s eye filled in the horrible details of what must be happening – the things lurking in the dark, deep waters had grasped an ankle and were pulling him under to extract whatever it was they needed from his body. His body would pop to the surface and ignite, and then Heather and I would be here, the two of us,