The smaller corpses were the first to rise. They came in pairs mostly, thirty-five in total, all mutilated and wrecked upon. Gashes, bites, bludgeoned skin and torn muscle. It would have made the Fisherman freeze had he seen them. But he did not, the bodies were far off and away from the Fisherman who kept his side to his reel and whose tired face clocked the time spent with the extra black rings underneath his eyelids. Like a tree stump. He had been at Lake New Hope since five in the morning and had experienced the wasting away of hours since five in the morning. Not a single bite.
News reports of days in terror had worn him down the past month and he figured this would be the day to relax, on the lake waters. Maybe he wanted to drown into the tepid waters, to wash away the news headlines from his memory, those of kidnap and of murder. But the more he dozed, the more they came back up. Haunted.
It was ten in the morning. Ten thirty-four to be exact when he got his first bite.
He awoke. The Fisherman put his legs against the timber of the boat and brought up his heavy, whining reel. His tongue smacked against the roof of his mouth and he could not hold his hat from falling atop the water and float like a brown lily pad. His muscles were strained and he wished he was younger. He added more scars to himself from the metal line and from the boat sides he kept crashing upon. It was a thrill though and he knew it was a thrill because of how wildly his white hairs stuck out through wet skin. Goosebumps.
He fought against the bubbling water, he fought against the rope and with one final yelp he fought against his strained heart. He collapsed on his back. Something went flying above him and landed in the boat.
It was a shirt.
Striped, a polo shirt. Torn to ribbons. His eyes opened and he felt stress wounding him again, a headache was forming and underneath his eyelids, two more rings were chiseled in. His rod rolled away. The embarrassment and anger made him lean back and clasp his face. He was yelling into his hands. Yelling until his voice croaked.
He looked up, tired, coming out of a haze. His red face felt the cool sting of air. He narrowed his eyes to where he had lost his line and further beyond saw an object floating. It was off in the distance, a bump in his vision that interrupted the blinding morning crimson. He rubbed his eyes as the mist and dew often guttered his vision. When he opened, he saw more bumps. More specks. More black foreign bodies. His heart began to beat wildly. The Fisherman looked down the side of his boat and saw spurts. A collection that grew like cancer and swallowed the hull. Festering, septic almost, as it rattled his boat. He looked beneath the depths of the dark waters. Was he in a cauldron? Spun in circles from the wooden spoon? No. There was no witch or alchemist. It was something worse, it was the vomit of the earth and of the sea.
Curiosity bit him as much as fear. He stuck his hand in the water. It felt warm, fuzzy. He brought it back inside and saw the pinkish red on his palm. It had a sticky viscosity to it. He stood, walked back and tripped over a cooler. He fumbled back to a seat. The sound was getting more violent, it sounded like an explosion underneath him, he could felt it from his balls to his brains, the trembling roar of the lake. He was going to die. His face lost all color.
“Goddamnit.” He shouted. A geyser came out, a pillar of foaming white. It was erected fifteen, maybe twenty meters high before it shattered into small wet daggers. They struck him. The Fisherman put his hands against the spray and screamed for dear life as his boat rode the high tide down. It jumped, it clapped down and struck water so fast that he could feel the wood break. His boat nearly capsized and he screamed, screamed with every crack and break of the wood. The Fisherman hesitated to stand up but did after a while. He felt bruises and a compression in his head. An eye, swollen. His body, pained all over. He had been thrown like a rag doll in the tempest storm.
His face was shivering. His body was afraid. And the waters returned to calm prosperity, all the noise and all the movement, dead. He stood at last. His body felt limp. He wiped the water from his face and looked out towards the horizon. His heart stopped, his pulse went faint. The color in his cheeks faded and his eyes turned to humble grey. He lay still, staring westward. What did he see?
Corpses. Corpses rising from their watery graves. In gentle rhythm. One, two, three, four, up and away towards the rising sun.