Classics Mutilated (17 page)

"Tell me something, kid," he said. "What's with those frogs?"

"You mean their croaking at night?"

"That's exactly what I mean. They kept me up all night."

He said it almost as if it was my fault, and his blue eyes bored into me like I knew something I wasn't telling him. Which I didn't.

"It's the time of year when they do that," I replied with a shrug. "It can be annoying at first, but you get used to it and don't even notice after a while."

"If they make that kind of racket every night, I won't be here long enough to get used to it." McCarthy started to step away, but then he turned back to me. "I'm going to go for a walk. Are there any good trails here, so I don't get lost?"

"Sure. There's one that goes all the way up to the top of that ridge," I said, pointing off to the rising tree line to the east. "There's a nice view at the top, and then the path circles down and around, back here to the lodge."

"Uphill," McCarthy said. "That sounds kind of strenuous."

"There's another trail that goes all the way around the lake," I told him. "It sticks pretty close to the water and it's mostly level ground."

"That sounds better."

I gave him directions to find the path—out behind the house, beyond the generator building, the boat dock, and my grandfather's workshop. McCarthy nodded his head and set off on his hike.

A little less than an hour later, I heard the gunshots.

Joe took note of his surroundings as he walked. It was an odd kind of place, Sommerwynd. The lodge itself was nice enough. The lake was small but picture-perfect, and had no other development on it. According to Billy, some well-connected and well-off people visited Sommerwynd from June through September, valuing it for its remoteness and natural setting. Free use of a canoe or rowboat, fishing, swimming, hiking. There was supposed to be a tennis court, though Joe hadn't seen it yet, and would not be interested anyhow. Still, he wondered how the Wirth family managed it all, with just the four of them there at present. But then he figured that they probably just hired a few temporary workers to help out in the busy months.

He passed the first cinderblock building, which had four large propane tanks attached, and he could hear the generator humming inside, providing the electricity that kept the lodge going. A little farther on, he found the second cinderblock building, also painted white. It had no windows. The kid had referred to it as his grandfather's workshop. In other words, Joe thought, that's where Grandpa goes to get away from his family for a while. Have a drink in peace, flip through the few issues of
Playboy
he had smuggled in, and remember what it was like back when.

He soon found the trail, and before long it swung in with the shoreline of the lake, so that the trees behind him cut off any view of the lodge, and he was alone in the woods. A fly or a bug of some kind buzzed him for a couple of seconds—he swatted at it and kept walking, and it went away. Joe thought, not for the first time in his life, that Nature is overrated.

The path hugged the water for a good stretch, and there were a couple of times when Joe spotted small fish in the shallows. That was nice. Then, maybe a half hour into his hike, he came to a spot where the trail swung to the right, away from the lake and into the woods. He stood on a large flat rock that sat at the edge of the water and he studied the scene for a moment. He figured it out. A stream entered the lake here, but over time enough silt had accumulated to back up some of the flow, which created a small, swampy lagoon. The path went inland to get around this obstacle. 

Joe was about to continue his walk, but then didn't. The lagoon itself was kind of pretty. It was too early for lily pads, but the glassy black water was already laced with duckweed. The rock he was standing on was in the shade, making this a good spot to take a break. He pulled the hip flask out of his back pocket and sat down on the rock, his feet dangling a few inches off the ground. A sip, a cigarette. There was a cool breeze coming off the lake, and he sat facing into it, enjoying the way it felt on his skin, the way it rippled the water. Yeah, Nature was overrated, but it did have its moments.

Part of him wanted to go back to DC and resume the battle. Or restart it, more accurately. But another part of him said that the battle was over, finished, and that he had lost it. Forget it, move on. But move on to what? What was left? For a while, it was as if the whole world watched him and listened to him—how do you get that back? Because now, he was invisible.

An odd sensation crept over him, that he was not alone. He turned around, wondering if someone from the lodge had come with a message, but there was no one on the trail. Then Joe looked at the lagoon—and he saw a pair of eyes in the water. Dozens of pairs of eyes, just breaking the surface, looking at him. It startled him, but he quickly realized that this lagoon was where those noisy frogs lived, and there they were, looking at him. The lagoon was full of them, more than he could count.

Joe stood up, flicked his cigarette into the water, and stepped down off the rock. A few feet away, a frog crawled forward, partly out of the water. It was huge, the size of a watermelon.
Jesus.
Joe looked around, spotted a pebble, picked it up and flung it into the lagoon. It splashed close to one frog, but the creature didn't move. A couple of frogs had emerged from the lagoon and were now crawl-hopping toward him. Joe pulled his right foot back and kicked one of them back into the water. The frog was so heavy that Joe felt the strain in his ankle muscles. The frog flopped backward, just a couple of yards away, righted itself, and began to move forward again. The other frog, now on the ground, jumped and caught Joe's ankle in its mouth. Teeth, the damned thing had teeth! Joe tried to shake it off, but the frog held on. Joe raised his other foot and slammed it as hard as he could down on the frog's head. 

Nothing—that was what he got for wearing sneakers in the woods. And that was when he noticed that the frog had whiskers around its mouth, which shot out like small blades, one of them piercing Joe's calf. What kind of frogs were these, that had teeth and sharp barbels like a catfish? 

Think about that later. The pain began to hit him. Joe reached behind his back, got his .22 out, held it to the side of the frog's head and squeezed the trigger. Blood and flesh flew, and the frog at last dropped off his ankle. But Joe was astonished to see that other frogs were coming forward, at him. Calmly, he aimed the pistol and shot them in the head or face, until the gun was empty. He had a couple of boxes of bullets back at the lodge. He reached down to get the .38 from his good ankle, and proceeded to empty that into another bunch of frogs as they got closer to him. 

Then, he knew it was time to leave. Joe grabbed one of the dead frogs by the leg and hurried away with it, back to the lodge.

Well, we'd seen these frogs, of course, and thought nothing of them. They never bothered us and we never bothered them. My grandfather, Klaus Wirth, claimed to have refined some of their unusual features through cross-breeding. He was a biologist, a great admirer of Luther Burbank. He had returned to Germany in the 1920s to continue his research work. He was not a Nazi, but after Hitler came to power he was not allowed to leave the country, and was pressed into government scientific service. In my family, none of us ever seemed to know quite what that meant. In any event, my grandfather returned to Wisconsin after the war, refused to seek work at any university, and declared himself in retirement. Still, he conducted what he called "research." He and my father converted the old chicken coop into what became my grandfather's workshop. We knew that he had scientific equipment, and animals imported—even that he had obtained frogs from Africa, with teeth. Still, whenever my grandfather hinted at a "breakthrough," my mother and father rolled their eyes.

Now we had Senator Joseph McCarthy sitting on the patio, one bare foot propped up on a chair, my mother carefully wiping his wounds with disinfectant, me and my father standing nearby, not knowing what to say. My grandfather hung back a couple of yards from the rest of us, looking as if he hoped that this would all blow over and he wouldn't have to move to Argentina. 

And on the flagstone, a dead frog. With half of its head blown off. With nasty-looking teeth and whiskers. I'd seen them, but never one close up. It was very big, green and black, and it looked heavy, although I didn't try to lift it. The animal was so slimy and ugly, I wanted nothing to do with it.

My parents were endlessly apologetic, but McCarthy kept going on and on, asking questions they couldn't answer, suggesting that there was some actual plot or plan in place—yes, there, in the middle of nowhere in northern Wisconsin—to somehow create a vicious creature that would eventually wreak havoc on the land.

"This is the goddamn
uber-
frog," McCarthy shouted.

At that point I actually reached down and ran my fingers along the teeth in the open mouth of the dead frog. They were not large, but felt very sharp. I stood up and backed away, wiping my fingers on my pants. My grandfather gave me a little nod of the head and I stepped back to see what he wanted. He whispered in my ear.

"They eat fish and bugs, nothing more, that I know of." Then he added, "They grow too quickly, this new stage."

My mother had McCarthy's leg all cleaned and wrapped by then, and he did seem to be a little more composed. Still, he glanced at my grandfather and said, "I'd like to take a look at that workshop of yours, Pops."

My grandfather suddenly turned icy—something I cannot remember ever seeing until that moment. His eyes narrowed and he spoke quietly through a slight smile.

"I do not believe you have security clearance for that." 

McCarthy did a little double-take at that, but before he could come up with a response, a woman screamed. I knew right away it was Mrs. Gault, since she and her husband were the only two people not on the patio. Sure enough, the Gaults came around one of the hedges screening off the generator building, Mrs. Gault limping, sobbing, and assisted by her husband.

"She's been attacked," he said. "By a frog!"

"They're coming," Mrs. Gault wailed.

"Masses of them," her husband added.

I took off while he was rambling on. I ran down across the lawn, around the line of hemlocks, past the generator building, and then I saw them. They hadn't reached my grandfather's workshop yet, but they were closing in. Hundreds of huge frogs, hopping fitfully through the tall grass—toward the lodge, us. I turned around, ran back to the patio, and told my father what I'd seen. He just kind of went into a distant stare for a few moments.

My mother, who was already wiping and dressing Mrs. Gault's ankle-bite, said, "Perhaps we should all go inside."

"Or just leave," Mr. Gault snarled.

That was when McCarthy raised his hand and wagged his fingers at me. I went over to him. He pulled a key out his pocket and handed it to me.

"In my room, in the large suitcase, there's a couple of boxes of bullets. Go get them for me. Quick!"

Looking back, I was caught up in it. I flew.

The lodgekeeper, Karl Wirth, looked frozen, but Joe knew what had to be done. They could run like rats, or they could stop this in its tracks. It wasn't really a choice.

"Do you have any guns?" Joe asked.

"A rifle, a shotgun," Wirth replied.

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"I thought this was a hunting lodge."

"Fishing, swimming, boating," Wirth said. "A bit of hunting in season, but that's for the guests. They bring their own rifles. I'm not a hunter myself."

"Get them," Joe ordered. "And all the ammo you've got."

Wirth hurried away obediently. Joe told Mrs. Wirth and the Gaults to go inside the lodge. He walked out on the lawn, toward the lake. His leg throbbed, but the pain was not unbearable. He was a little past the generator building when he spotted them, a black and green wave surging forward. Ugly bastards. Oh yes, he'd put a stir in them, no doubt about it. But it was inevitable. These people, the Wirths, were living in a dream—oh, we don't bother them, they don't bother us. Just drifting along, until the time came when it was too late, and the moment became one of
their
choosing, not yours.

The kid was back, with the bullets. "Ever use one of these?" Joe asked, handing Kurt the .22.

"I did target shooting a couple of times."

"Good enough. Load up, and aim for the ones in front. Take your time, they're not exactly fast on the ground."

Joe led the way and when they got to the old man's workshop, they began plunking frogs along the advancing front line. It shook him, how many there were of the beasts. He knew then that they didn't have nearly enough bullets. At some point, they would have no alternative but to run for their cars and flee. But Joe noticed that as he and the kid moved laterally, so did the frogs. Vicious, but very dumb creatures. Where could he lead them?

I admit, I was into it. Maybe because it didn't seem to be that dangerous a threat, really. We always had the option of leaving, and coming back later with some kind of professional or state help to eradicate the frogs—or whatever would be done with them. But I got a kick out of picking them off, one at a time, seeing their fat bodies pop in blood and pus. It was like, suddenly you're in a movie, and you're playing this part, and it's more fun than what you'd normally be doing at that time of day.

Unfortunately, we ran out of bullets fast, and there were
a lot
of frogs still coming. My father arrived then, with his rifle and shotgun and a couple of boxes of cartridges. McCarthy grabbed the rifle and started snapping in shells. He moved us away from the direction of the house, and the frogs followed, coming after us—I thought that was so smart of him, but I didn't know what good it would do. McCarthy directed my father's fire, a shotgun blast here, there, almost as if he were steering the flow of the frogs as they came at us. Whenever one edge of the wave appeared to be moving closer, McCarthy fired a couple of shots himself, picking off frogs that he took to be leaders in the throng.