Lineage(108)

Someone was standing in the water just off the shore.

He could see the dark outline of a person against the shimmering calm of the lake’s surface. The moon threw just enough light for Lance to make out a head, shoulders, and arms that dangled in the frigid water.

He stood there, staring at the figure, not wanting to look away in the event it faded from sight. He felt a blade of fear pass through his stomach. Just as he began to move closer to the glass to get a clearer view, an errant ember flared and obscured the view through the window with light. Lance turned, and in two bounds he had grabbed the shotgun from the floor and ripped the door open.

The dew was cold, but Lance barely registered it. As he jogged toward the lapping shore, he fumbled with the flashlight on the end of the gun until a spear of white light abruptly pierced the shadows off to his left. He swung the gun around, his intent not to harm but to reveal what was there. The darkness fled before the beam, which glared off the lake’s face.

Shoulders, so white they looked to be made of marble, and a blond head were just slipping beneath the ripples as his light flooded the area. Lance stopped and held the gun steady, pointed toward the place where the crown of hair had vanished. Nothing moved. There were no swirls or bubbles to indicate something had been there. Nothing.

Without hesitating, he doubled back and dashed up the rise to the glowing gazebo, his breath beginning to burn in his lungs. The interior warmth of the structure felt wonderful on his bare skin, but he didn’t stop to enjoy it. After setting the shotgun down, he spun and began throwing log after log onto the fire. Soon, flames were dancing excitedly around their new dinner, licking the bark and stray fibers from the wood.

He turned and knelt beside the shotgun, the idea in his mind stupid and rash, but nonetheless unavoidable, as if he were tipping down a steep hill, the skis beneath his feet gathering speed until there was no chance of stopping. His fingers fumbled at the fasteners on the light. How had Stub done that? He touched what felt like a flattened wing nut on one side of the light and twisted. That did it. The flashlight unhooked easily from the bottom of the gun and rested in his hand. He gave the fire one last look, and then jogged out of the gazebo, back into the cool darkness.

As he neared the shoreline, already shivering as the air cut around him, he mentally prepared himself for what was to come. He tried to imagine what the water would feel like and how deep he would have to go, but then his feet were wet and all other thought left him.

The water was hundreds of wasp stings on his bare legs. Soon, his thighs were under, and then his waist. With another click of the flashlight, the beam spread out on the freezing water. Lance lowered it below the surface, testing whether its claim of waterproofing held true or not; he didn’t want to be stranded in inky darkness if it failed. He swung the light in an arc around him. The image of hotel pools at midnight came to him, their depths illuminated by their watertight bulbs. Satisfied with the light, Lance stepped farther out, his feet finding a few sharp rocks and the sludgy bottom, which squeezed between his toes.

The water rippled near his chest, and he felt the lake bottom fall away. He’d reached the drop-off. His eyes sought the moon one last time as he breathed deeply in and out, in quick succession. With a lunging motion, he dove forward and kicked his body down.

Even the cold that had enveloped his body—numbed it almost—didn’t prepare him for the sensation of the water closing over his head. The temptation to resurface tugged at him, but he swam down instead, pulling at the water in a breaststroke. The flashlight gave him short, indecipherable glimpses of the world around him. The bottom glided by a few feet beneath his stomach. He kicked several more times, and then pulled the light up in front of him.

Silt, disturbed by his approach, obscured the first few feet around him. The bottom dropped away steadily at a forty-five-degree angle. He judged that the surface now sat at least twenty feet above his head.

Something moved just outside the reach of the light, farther down the slope. Lance kicked ahead and glided over a small rise. On the other side sat a long row of large slimy boulders, their backs hunched toward the surface as if they had burrowed into the soft mud in an attempt to stay warm. Lance swam a few more feet, the air in his lungs turning acidic. He swung the light back and forth at the descending hill, trying to discern if something lay there that he had missed.

A shine caught his eye as he passed the beam back to the left. It came from the first boulder. Perhaps a shimmer of quartz reflecting in the white light. He swam forward and swept the light across the rock’s surface again. The same shine glimmered at him on the rock’s lower edge, almost where its second half disappeared in the spongy bottom. Lance reached out and touched the rock where it shined. His fingers slid on what felt like glass under the layer of sludge that had accumulated there. He brushed more of the mud away and saw that it was not quartz but the metallic flawlessness of chrome that shone in the light. His hand ran farther to the left, and then to the right, uncovering more of the object. His breath felt stale in the pockets of his chest and a haze began to crowd the edges of his vision. His hands worked of their own accord, scraping off years of grime that had settled there. The need to breath now felt undeniable and he decided to surface and dive a second time, but instead saw something that stilled him in the humming silence of the lake.