Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant (21 page)

Priscus Attalus and Gaius Maximius Herenus led the procession. Behind them came slaves herding a team of goats that pulled a four-wheeled cart of masterful construction. Carvings and inlays covered its sides, and everyone who had seen it marvelled at the speed and beauty of its craftsmanship. Upon it, in golden mail, lay the body of Alaric, wrapped in Egyptian-made cloths to help preserve the flesh.

Others followed, Alaric’s personal slaves and those who had worked in the construction of the tomb. A wise man strode solemnly, bringing up the rear. He was said to be both a priest of Christ and blessed by the spirits of their ancestors.

Ataulphus and the rest of the Gothic people watched from what normally would have been the banks of the river, were it not held back by the cleverly-designed dams.

At the doorway, Priscus Attalus spoke a few words, both in Latin and in Gothic, as the goat-drawn cart was led in. Then he went to stand by Ataulphus’ side. He would not be joining them in this final honor to Alaric.

The priest, shepherding the slaves forward, passed around jugs of wine. They took them, and drank, and went into the darkness..

Lucius, the scribe, had visited Maximus the night before, offering to help him escape. The only ‘honor’ that Ataulphus meant to bestow, he explained, was that of being sacrificed to the pagan gods. The heavy stone door would be shut upon them, sealing them in the tomb with their lord and master.

But Maximus had calmed him, and told him that he had known what was to come. That death came to all and …

“After a man has come to know greatness and to be truly great, what has he yet to live for? To be forever a slave? A slave to an un-understanding lord? A slave to a greatness that shall never come again? No, my friend. I shall not be brought low by pandering apprentices or disloyal and spoiled children. I have made a great thing, a wonder that will perplex those for generations to come. That it is the tomb of a great and legendary man, only makes it the greater. I shall die great, and live forever.”

Then he went proudly into the tomb,
his
tomb, which
he
had created. He drank deeply of the poisoned wine and laid himself down, content to live forever in the dreams of man but never be found on Earth.

FINDING MISS FOSSIE

Melany Van Every

In the early morning light, the lake is quiet and smooth as glass, reflections of trees along the shoreline darkening the surface.  Fog hugs the shore in spots, hiding the shallows and creating eerie silhouettes.   

Fishermen will line the banks later in the day, while fossil hunters turn over rocks hoping to find more than just the outlines of tiny, ancient shellfish.  As families crowd the sandy beach, arguing over the best spot to spend the day, singles and teens will vie to catch the best rays or the eyes of the opposite sex.

The only sign of life at this hour is a light from Jericho Jake's Bait Shop. Not even the old-timers remember why it’s still called that; nobody named Jake has owned it for at least fifty years. But it’s been around so long, a local fixture, that none of the successors could bear to change it.

The building itself hasn’t changed much either. The sign is neon now instead of painted plywood, and the cooler full of beer and sodas is brand new, but the tanks of minnows and the ancient refrigerator holding worms and leeches is the same. There’s a walk-up window counter for customers who don’t have to come in, and a screen door that bangs in its frame for the ones who do. Inside, a lone ceiling fan lazily circulates the fishy-smelling air.

The current owner, Tom Wilkinson, has run the place these past ten years. It isn’t one of those fancy box stores they keep talking about putting up, but it does the job. Fishermen can buy their bait and basics, such as bobbers, hooks, sinkers, and a small selection of lures. There are boats that can be rented by the hour or the day. Tourists who come in looking for sunscreen, bug spray and souvenirs tend to leave with their noses in the air.

Tom doesn’t mind. He welcomes everyone to his shop, locals and tourists alike. He knows that what really brings people in is the talk. Whether it’s bragging about the one that got away, or the latest crazy theories about Miss Fossie, Tom listens cheerfully. Sometimes he whistles as he fills minnow buckets or gasses up outboard motors. The tunes range from classical to contemporary, depending on his mood.

He’s thirty-five, but years spent outdoors and a habit of smoking like it’s going out of style make him appear older. His hair is dirty-blond and hangs to his collar. His eyes are pale green. He favors polo shirts and jean shorts; both of which tend to be covered in dirt and fish blood by the end of the day, but Tom doesn’t care. He loves his job, the shop, and the lake.

This quiet morning, as he’s out organizing the rack of life vests by the dockside, a commotion of splashing gets his attention. He glances up and down the shore, but the lingering fog obscures any disturbances in the shallows. Some large fish, he supposes, feeding on its smaller cousins or unlucky frogs. Sounded like a whopper, all right.

Then the first truck pulls into the parking lot, and Tom puts it out of his mind.

It’s a slow day.  At mid-morning, thunderstorms roll in, driving all but the hardiest fisherman off the lake. Tom ends up spending most of his time in a wobbly chair, reading a battered paperback by some guy named Brian Keene. He’d found it languishing in the lost and found box under the counter. The story is a bit far fetched, with giant night crawlers and massive flooding, but it's much better than the piece of crap that lunatic from Illinois had shoved into his hands before scuttling out of the shop a few days ago.

His most important work, he’d claimed, then gone on to mutter something about it being the book the whores and gays didn’t want people to read.

Why whores or gays should give a damn about lake-monster sightings, Tom has no idea.

But then, some folks there was no reasoning with. When he wasn’t talking about his books, he was demanding Tom install a computer with free internet service so he could upload his latest batch of photos – blurry pics of logs and kids, mostly. That, or complaining Tom didn’t stock his favorite brand of cheap beer.

Just when he decides he might as well close up shop for the day, the door opens. It admits two dripping-wet deputies with grim looks on their faces. Town folks often jokingly call them the twins, though they aren't related. They just look very much alike, with broad shoulders, brown crew cuts, and the builds of slightly out of shape former football players. 

Danny, on the right, speaks up first. “We hate to disturb you Tom, but there's been an accident on the lake, and –”

His partner Josh interrupts, almost jittering with eagerness. “Right now we're calling it a drowning, but –”

“– in reality it appears he was attacked by an animal,” Danny finishes, shooting Josh a scowl.

Tom raises his eyebrows. “An animal? Probably a momma black bear protecting her cub, then.  It's the right time of year for it.”

There are no customers, but Danny still looks around the empty shop before pulling something out of his pocket. It’s a plastic bag, the zip-kind they use for evidence, and holds what appears to be a four-inch-long tooth.

Tom raises his eyebrows further as he wonders if the deputies decided to liven up their rainy-day boredom with a prank. Fossilized mosasaur teeth are rare, most of the finds around here being from much smaller creatures, but some still turn up every so often. They are, in fact, exactly what fuel the legends of Miss Fossie.

If they expect him to fall for it …

His thoughts get no further as he notices this particular tooth is no fossil. It’s as white and clean as if it had been ripped fresh from the creature’s mouth that very morning.

The deputies are not grinning. Tom realizes that what he mistook for eager jitters on Josh’s part are the after-effects of adrenaline.

“The guy's name was Albert Campbell,” Danny says. “Some kids found his body near the south shore.”

“Mutilated,” Josh adds. “Chunks taken out of him. Bloody goddamn mess.”

Danny nods gravely.

“Campbell?” asks Tom. “Not that unpleasant fellow who’s always in here going on about lake-monsters?”

“Yeah,” Danny says. “From some nowhere town or another in Illinois. We’ll have to ship him back.”

“What’s left of him,” says Josh. “The pieces.”

Danny shoots him another scowl. “Once the coroner’s signed off on cause of death and we’ve closed the case, that is. You seen Campbell around here lately?”

“Not since the other day,” Tom says. “Ran him off for harassing a bunch of underage girls on the beach. This tooth, though … you’re not saying … you can’t be saying …”

“Coroner says it’s possible a propellor did the damage,” Josh says. “Tore him up after he drowned, maybe. We don’t know on that yet. But the same kids that found the body found the tooth near the scene.”

Danny turns the plastic bag over, examining the tooth from all sides. “Probably their idea of a hoax and we’ll find out it’s made of plaster or something. We’re not going to spread this around, and we’re counting on you to keep quiet. We just know you collect odd stories about the lake.”

Josh squints out the shop window at the rain-swept water. Lightning flashes a ways distant, followed moments later by the dull rumble of thunder. “And if it
is
the real thing, you’ll want to be careful out here.”

Danny sighs. They might look as alike as brothers, but it’s clear he’s resisting the urge to give his more superstitious partner an elbow in the ribs. Tom thanks them for stopping by, offers them free sodas for the road and the other usual pleasantries. They exchange goodbyes. Then the deputies leave, and Tom figures his decision to close up for the rest of the day was the right one after all.

He dons a rain poncho before heading outside to check the boat moorings, lock the fuel shed, and bring in the life jackets. The poncho whips around him in the wind. The rain plasters his hair to his head. A blinding flash lights up the world, the thunderclap not following but simultaneous. The lightning strike is so close it throws Tom off his feet. He lands in the wet grass, dazed and deafened, gasping for breath. All he can think is that it was sheer luck he landed on shore instead of plunging into the water.

Tom starts getting up. A large, violent movement thrashes nearby, several yards out into the lake. Another jagged bolt splits the sky. For a stark fraction of a second, it shows him churning waves and a thick, muscular body. He glimpses a long, sinuous tail. A scream bursts from him.

In subsequent lightning flashes, he sees the creature moving across the lake. It lacks the grace of the famous monster of Loch Ness, but it has plenty of speed and power. He watches, mouth hanging open, until it dives and is gone.

*     *     *

Tom rarely talks about what he saw that day.  The few people he does tell laugh, and say it was probably just a trick of the storm, or an after effect of being almost struck by lightning. 

One or two, like Josh, believe his story. But nobody is able to prove it.

If Albert Campbell had survived, he could testify that Tom speaks the truth. His final moments on Earth had been spent in extreme pain and terror, the creature charging at him, knocking him down, and proceeding to eat him alive. It might have eaten the rest of him if the sounds of approaching humans hadn’t driven it from its kill.

Visitors to Fossil Lake today can still hear stories of Miss Fossie. They can marvel at the white tooth among the collection of fossil finds in the new visitor center.  They can even buy books in the gift shop about famous lake monsters … though nothing by the late Albert Campbell, of course.

They just aren't likely to actually spot the beast. 

Perhaps it found a way to the ocean. Perhaps the storm hurt it so severely that it couldn’t survive, and lies buried in the mud at the bottom of the lake. The world may never know.

Since that fateful day, Miss Fossie has never been seen again.