The waters of Lake Kariba were heavily stained, making subsurface navigation virtually impossible by sight. Trust your internal compass, Sally reminded herself as she entered full-on escape mode. Keep your strokes ultra-focused, she thought while imagining the path that would lead to her desired destination.
It had been eighteen months since her most recent tactical marine training. During that ten-day stint at HQ a new program record for below-surface distance swimming had been established. Sally knew exactly what that number was—five minutes and thirty-eight seconds—she was the fresh title holder.
Zero—six, zero—five, zero—four, zero—three, zero—two, zero—one, she had successfully counted down the internal stopwatch ticking in her mind and then pumped to the surface for oxygen. The first gulp of air was a bittersweet small victory.
Originally, she wanted to stay aboard the Alu-Freedom 23-foot center console and hold her ground. But battling that final fish of the day and then seeing Win Dixie turn away long enough to reach in the overhead electronics box and grab the Glock 19—her military-style training produced two options: Fight or Flight.
Sally had better odds versus Win in hand-to-hand combat. But even Vegas would not cover the spread when her opponent produced a handgun.
It was swimming with the crocs or staring into the barrel of a 9mm, thought Sally as she treaded water and listened to the barely audible hum of the 200hp Yamaha circling in the distance at idle speed. She was super confident there were two and a half football fields of separation between her and Win. Plus, the full cover of darkness was very much working in her favor.
Sally then turned away for a half-second. Long enough to touch the backlight button on her dive watch and set off the illuminated system that offered a compass heading. 328 degrees was her desired direction. This was the number she memorized before going overboard. It was the same number that would take her to a distant island she had marked on the north-northwest horizon of Lake Kariba before the sun had set. An uninhabited island. Or so it appeared.
With the wind at her back, she flexed strained muscles and began a freestyle stroke with a two-one, four-one cadence. This low-profile, two strokes and a breath, followed by four strokes and a breath technique, would push her anxiously forward at a mile and a half per hour.
Overall, nice night for a swim—less the chance of me getting a leg bitten off, Sally thought and then doubled down and quickened her pace. I should be beachcombing on that island just before midnight.
Meanwhile, back at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters—our main man Rusty, who had not been bitten off by any trophy fish during the morning bite—stood toe to toe with Ms. Ellie Waylayer. The temperature in the back of the lodge, near the kitchen, was heated—and the conversation that provoked the said heat was leaving him ticked off.
“Celine, Ellie, is there an emergency?!” Rusty called out as he entered the lodge and made his way toward the two women. “Why’s the plane running?!”
Both gals were standing near the prep-table. His immediate observation told him Celine’s shoulders were drooped and Ellie’s eyes were wide. There was cause for alarm.
“Rustaceous, we’ve got a Code5 banger,” stated Celine.
“No, it’s a Code10, Celine,” Ellie said with purposeful correction.
“Oh, that’s right—Code10, Rustinator,” continued Celine. “Evidentially, Baldy the Eagle blew a cupped wing—not talking about your EX’s cup size—but she does have a clipped talon. Which come to think—how odd—what was she a 32C, 34D—Nev is always talking about how the Lord’s cup runneth over—but now it sounds like Sally’s are exposed.”
After hearing this garble of nonsense, the bristle on the back of Rusty’s neck stood at full attention. This was the first time—in what seemed like a lifetime—that one of Celine’s rants had finally stretched his final nerve and shredded it to pieces.
“Celine! You need to stop talking!” Rusty barked with his chin jutted forward. “Now!”
And thus commenced an unforeseen flowage. A seething rapid river—a waterfall—a tsunami—all formed by Celine’s tears. Ultimately, within seconds, the eternal gates were opened and the entire Mississippi River basin from Grand Rapids, MN down to Venice, LA was flooded. Noah himself, son of Lamech, would have had little time to react. Certainly not enough to build a makeshift raft. Let alone his previously perfected ark.
Then, with a mixture of green and yellow mucus coming from her nostrils, and the fire of the devil himself blazing red tears from her eyes, Celine hit the floor in a state of uncontrolled convulsions. Like a rabid hound, she was frothing at the mouth and Rusty reacted by knocking the prep-table aside and dropping to all fours near her side.
“My God, Rusty!” hollered Ellie, her lethal glare tilting his equilibrium. “Look—what—you’ve—done! I think she’s having a seizure!”
He was now eye to eye with Celine—his hands pressed to her shoulders attempting to keep her from flailing dangerously toward harm’s way. And then time stood still—her body frozen in a glacier—clasped by the hands of death.
“Gotcha, Rusty McGrumblepants!” Celine blurted out—just before she grabbed his cheeks and planted a big old sloppy kiss, which included a lathered tongue lick, on the side of his freaked-out melon. “Now listen to your girlfriend—because your ex-gal-pal Sal is in serious trouble.”
This part was correct. Sally Squatsnfishes was in trouble. A much uncalculated and serious sort of trouble. The kind that begins with a capital T—R—O—U—B—L—E.
The shoreline was laced with jagged rock as Sally approached the island in stealth mode. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness as she remained shoulder deep looking for a path to climb from the water, but her ears were confused.
Pausing in the shallows—she momentarily pulled her hair back, retightened the ponytail, and shook the remaining water from her ears. Next, there was an unidentifiable, deep, guttural grunting. This was followed by a sharp, high-pitched chirping that was uncomfortably close. Whatever it was—IT had scented her and was waiting in the cover of darkness to intercept her arrival on shore.
Animals? Humans? She contemplated the clamor, found bottom with her feet, and pushed off—retreating to deeper water that required treading. Welcome to the wilds of Africa.
Then there were bulldozers knocking trees onto the earth. A constant chirping surrounded thunderous hooves. Nyami Nyami—no such thing?
But before she could answer her own question, a vicious tug on her pant leg pulled her below the surface. It was too late for FLIGHT.
–To Be Continued—
