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Realizing he'd been holding his breath, Ryan released it in a sigh. He slowed
his pace.
Then he heard the scream.
Chapter Four
An insistent bladder had prodded Doc awake in the predawn darkness. Stumbling
from his tent, he passed J.B. and Zadfrak sitting around the dying campfire,
drinking cups of coffee sub. J.B. gave him a one-finger salute as he went into
the shadows to urinate.
He was more awake by the time he returned to the fire. Knuckling his eyes, he
asked, "Have you been up all night, John Barrymore?"
"Just since midnight, when I spelled you. Got at least an hour till sunrise.
Why don't you go back to bed?"
Doc stifled a yawn and sat down next to Zadfrak, reaching for the coffeepot.
"I believe I
shall tarry here a moment."
"We're thinking about trying to catch a mess of trout for breakfast," J.B.
said. "Zadfrak says there's some rainbow in the river."
The old man nodded eagerly. Fishing was one of his passions. "Sounds very much
like a plan. I am certain everyone would rather have fresh fish than beef
jerky broth."
"Let's go then," Zadfrak said, getting to his feet. He covered his mouth,
coughed, hawked, then spit into the embers.
Doc fetched a rod and reel and tackle box from the storage compartment of the
wag. The black sky was turning gray, so they were able to negotiate the path
Zadfrak led them down.
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The river's current wasn't particularly fast, and the bank gave way to a
fifty-odd foot curve of mudflats. Doc affixed a lure to his line and carefully
picked his way out across the mud. Neither J.B. nor Zadfrak seemed inclined to
join him.
The earth squished beneath Doc's feet, but he barely sank into it more than
ankle deep.
Reaching its edge, he cast the line as far as he could toward the center of
the rushing water. He had only begun to reel it back in when the line quivered
with a strike. Over his shoulder, he called, "I've made contact, gentlemen!"
Zadfrak stumbled and slogged out across the flats to join him. "Play him some,
old man.
Don't let the bastard run into the deepwater."
Doc didn't reply, though he found a backseat fisherman as irritating as J.B.
probably found a backseat driver. Zadfrak kept up a steady stream of advice,
encouragement and an occasional burst of profanity.
The pole bent at a forty-five-degree curve, the line was taut and Doc strained
against the pull. His shoulder muscles began to ache, but he kept on playing
out slack, reeling it back in and working his way to the left.
Finally, after about six or seven minutes of struggle, Doc landed the trout
with Zadfrak's help. The fish was, as Doc proclaimed it, a genuine whopper.
The rainbow trout was at least three and a half feet long, weighing upwards of
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forty pounds. Doc and J.B. let out whooping laughs, with Zadfrak clapping his
hands in spontaneous applause.
"To hell with breakfast," J.B. called from the bank. "'Take us two full days
to eat that whale!"
Doc shifted his position, finding some solid footing so Zadfrak could remove
the feather-
bedecked hook from the trout's mouth. Suddenly the mud heaved beneath the old
man's feet with a convulsive shudder, and a spray of water and slime flew into
the air.
Stumbling and slipping on the slick surface, Doc lost his balance and fell
with a splat. In the watery sludge in front of him shone two cold,
white-encircled black eyes, each the width and breadth of his outstretched
hands. Less than a foot from his face, a huge rubbery-lipped maw with a
shovel-shaped underjaw opened with a liquidy, slurping gasp.
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Doc knew exactly what he was facing. For half a heartbeat, terror froze him
motionless.
Then he screamed, clawing and kicking himself away from the gaping mouth of
the mucksucker.
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