Slither - Edward Lee [90]
"Fuck yeah!"
There wasn't much to salvage. Slydes grabbed the flashlight, a knife, and some tools. "We'll hide out at the head shack till dark, then find us a boat. Let's go."
Ruth, still dressed in nothing but the long pink T-shirt, stood hesitantly on the side ladder, peering down. "Slydes? There might be more worms in the water."
Slydes took a handful of her hair and-
Splash!
-heaved her over the side, then stepped down after her.
The tide was up now, the water up to their chins. When they struggled ashore, Slydes looked back at his former pride and joy.
The boat sank before his eyes.
(II)
"Annabelle!"
Loren was winding himself by the constant calling out. He'd searched the entire north point of the islandAnnabelle hadn't been found at the campsite, shower, or head shack area, and there was no sign of her on the beach. Her camera and snorkeling gear were stowed in her tent.
Where the hell is she! he thought in an uncharacteristic flare of anger. We might have a serious parasitic threat going on here, and she's out lollygagging. He stomped through more brush, whacking branches out of the way. Every so often he'd see an ovum or two on the trail, which he gladly stepped on. They popped like bubble wrap.
The farther trails were so unpronounced they barely existed. Pretty clear no one's walked here in years. There was no reason to, even when the missile site was up and running.
A cigarette butt on the ground looked relatively new. None of us smoke, he reminded himself. The knowledge gave him a creepy feeling in his gut. Then he noticed something shiny. A quarter? he guessed.
Loren picked it up.
It was a cap from a beer bottle.
This wasn't terribly surprising: Trent said that college kids sneak on the island sometimes. But like the cigarette butt, the cap looked brand-new.
Just as he thought the trail would diminish to nonexistence, it fanned outward. Loren followed it another hundred yards and-
How do you like that?
-found himself standing at the edge of a wellenclosed lagoon. Anchored right off the rocky shore was a long-and very new-looking-boat. A Boston Whaler, he knew at once. .A nice, pricey little pleasure boat.
So we're not alone here after all.
Loren didn't hesitate climbing aboard. The boat was obviously unoccupied. Storage bins lining the deck were filled with life jackets, towels, and assorted boating gear.
Damn...
No radio. But the boat hadn't been here long. At least we can get off the island now, he realized. All we have to do first is find the owner of this thing.
But then another thought drummed in his head.
That is, if the owner's still alive.
For all Loren knew, the owner of this Boston Whaler and the rot-riddled corpse he'd found in the trench were one in the same.
He needed to think. He sat down on a rolled-up tarp in the aft area, but-
What the SHIT!
The tarp thrashed when he sat down on it.
"Get away, get away, get away!" a muffled voice was suddenly shrieking.
Loren stumbled back at the shock.
There's someone under the tarp!
When the tarp came unraveled, a dark-haired young woman emerged, just as terrified as Loren. She wore bikini bottoms, a sweat-drenched T-shirt, and sneakers. And the nearly insane look in her eyes didn't set Loren at ease when he noticed what was in her shaking hand:
A big revolver.
"Don't shoot," Loren's voice cracked.
"Who are you?" she wailed.
Loren hoped he hadn't had an accident in his trunks. "Loren Fredrick," he answered in a voice as shaky as this woman's gun hand. "I'm an associate professor at the University of Southern Florida. I'm here as part of an escort group for a nature photographer-it's all spon sored by the college." Sweat was dripping into his eyes. "Now, could you please put the gun down? I'm not going to hurt you-I'm just looking for a way off the island."
The pistol jiggled as she stared back at him, weighing his words. Finally, her gun hand lowered.
Thank you Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! "Now that you know who I am, who are you? And whose boat is this?"
She sat at the aft rail,