Adam's Thingy

CYOA: "Cold Gray Stones - Part 3"

I’m going to make this an every-other day thing from now on so people have more time to read, and then comment or vote. Voting on this particular one will last until Sunday morning at 11, at which point the voting module just won’t accept your vote (kan still commentz tho lolz).  Expect the next part to post Sunday evening, or early Monday.

Also, this marks the first time since the fourth grade where I’ve illustrated one of my stories.  I’d like to keep doing it, so don’t laugh at my drawing.

(Just surfed in?  Read the last part here, including a link to the beginning.)

****

The rental agent speeds away so fast you have to struggle to keep up.  The last thing you want to do is fall behind and make him have to turn around again.  He’d probably yell at you some more—why did he have to do that?—and you have no idea whether or not any real damage was done to the jet ski and how much it might cost, and are already dreading telling your parents about the bill they might have to pay—but more than that, you absolutely cannot shake the image of what you just saw in the water.

You inhale sharply and steady your eyes until they focus on the rental agent.  Your hands grip the steering handles and you punch the gas to catch up.  You get the peculiar feeling that something is behind you, so before you’re even up to full speed you turn your head around to check.

Nothing is there.  Just the water spraying, the wake the ski is leaving behind you, and the warm constant sun.  You take a moment to sigh—you’ve never had a panic attack before, but maybe that’s what that was.  You’re glad it’s over.  The dead face you saw was probably no more than a dead fish.  You turn back around to face forward.

You flinch, and throw your hands up.

Before you know it, you are under water.  Shit, shit, shit! you think.  Your eyes burn and you feel pressure on your chest as you struggle to get your bearings.  You get your head above water and inhale a few times.  The rental agent must have turned around or slowed down to allow you to catch up, and you weren’t looking and collided with him.  You remember him screaming and putting his hands up in the air in a futile attempt to get you to stop.

As you tread water, you see that your jet ski continued to move after you flew off, and is so far in the distance it looks as small as a safety buoy.

You are mad at him—you were right behind him, he didn’t have to stop!—but more mad at yourself.  All you want to do is break down in frustration, have someone rescue you, and then go lay on the beach.

His jet ski is bobbing in the water in front of you, no more than twenty feet away.  Your arms are already tired from treading water, but you muster the strength to swim over to it.  Just as you reach for it, he leaps from the water on the other side and straddles it, dripping wet and covered in seaweed.

He wipes his face, and looks down at you.  The amount of anger on his face is terrifying, and he looks at you with his teeth clenched together so hard, you can see his jaw muscles bulge from the side of his face.  He seems to actually growl at you: “Get.  On.”

As he fiddles with the controls and starts up the stalled machine, you don’t even think about extending a hand for help.  You grip a handle on the back, and pull yourself up with your own fatigued muscles.  He glances over his shoulder to see if you are holding on.  You have both hands clutching either side of your seat.  Without saying a word, he begins to drive toward your jet ski.

You take a moment to gather yourself.  The warm wind is blowing your hair dry, and you close your eyes.  You are thankful to at least have a way back to the shore, and the agent seems to be unharmed.  All good things.  Soon, this would all be over, and you suddenly feel happy to spend the rest of your vacation at your family’s side.

Before you can get too far into your daydream, the jet ski slows.  You start to worry again… there’s no way he got to your jet ski this fast.  “Kid, you did some major damage.”  Your eyes spring open, and you follow his stare to look at the water to your left.  There is a colorful splotch of oil, and the smell of gasoline.

“You punctured the gas tank.”  He beats the steering column with a fist.  “Unbelievable.  Get off from the other side real quick.  I’m afraid it might ignit—“

It was like something out of a badly written story—no matter what you choose to do, nothing goes right.  You’ve never felt an explosion so close before.  At the movies it all seems very glorious, almost poetic.  But in real life, there are no subwoofers to keep the deep rumbles going long after the initial spark.  In real life, it happens before you even know what happens.  There’s a flash, a deafening pop that renders you momentarily deaf, your skin burns, and then if you’re lucky you open your eyes and wonder what the hell happened.  Afterward, it may still take a moment to realize you’re missing a limb.

Luckily, since the explosion seemed to occur on the left side of the machine, you were somewhat cushioned as you were already leaning in the direction of the other side.  The rental agent did not fare as well.  You see his bloody body bobbing on top of the water, ablaze in the wreckage.  It is limp, and, after a moment, sinks.

Besides the ringing in your ears, it is quiet.

You scream.

It is still quiet.

You scream until it’s not quiet anymore.  Your ears feel as if they’re full of dense, wet cotton.

You frantically scan the horizon for your jet ski, but can’t find it.  The shore is visible, but so far away you are sure you’d die of exhaustion before you were able to swim the length.  You allow your eyes to well up with tears, and a few moments pass.

You hear a splash behind you.  You use your arms to turn around in the water, and six feet in front of you is the dead body you convinced yourself you didn’t see.  It is upright and looking at you, it’s body from the waist up above the water, it’s legs underneath.  It’s arms are at his sides, and his lower half is not moving under the water, as if it’s standing on some kind of solid platform.

It’s non-movement in water this deep is unnatural.  Suddenly, his mouth opens, and he struggles to speak.  He cocks his head and stretches his jaw, and blinks rapidly and hard as if trying to force a sound out.  “I, am…” choke, “sorry for,” choke, “your mate.”  He continues to struggle with his speech, his tongue making clicking noises.  “You are,” choke, “intelligent?”

Your face is numb with disbelief.  Your jaw begins to touch the water as you tire out, and soon you have to work hard at keeping the water out of your mouth.  You tilt your head skyward as your body continues to slowly sink.

The corpse moves closer and you wonder how.  You can’t see it’s legs, but it’s quickness leads you to believe he is being artificially propelled.  “Are you,” choke, “in trouble?”

“Kid?”  Behind you, it’s the voice of the rental agent.  You do a half turn in the water to look at him.  His hair is completely gone, and his face is covered with blood.  “What the hell is that?”  He seems calmer than he should be about a talking corpse, as if he’s given up.  You wonder if you feel the same way.

“You come,” choke, “with me?”  The corpse stammers.  He holds out a leathery gray hand.  “I have no trouble.”

“Kid, let’s get out of here.”  The rental agent starts to swim away in the other direction, toward the far away shore, and looks at you, wondering if you’re going to follow.  Your muscles are tired, but you catch a second wind and feel as if you might survive an attempt at swimming to the shore.