He reached behind himself, stretched out his right arm and wrapped his fingers around the lower rail. He was about to pull himself up when he felt a hand on his leg. Someone was untying the ropes. He felt the fumbling fingers between his legs. He wanted to shout, to tell the man to pull him up first, worry about the ropes after he was on the bridge.
Relief flooded through his legs the instant the ropes came off. “Thank you,” he called out as he pulled himself up toward the rail.
“ Sorry, Earl,” Jackson said. Earl felt his friend’s strong hands grab him by the ankles and lift his legs into the air and over the rail. He held on to the lower rail as his legs came arcing over, bound for the river below. He screamed against the jerking pain that shot through his right arm, but he managed to hold on with that lone hand, dangling above the river, face even with the concrete bridge and his deputy’s feet.
“ Jackson!” Earl cried out, grabbing onto the rail with his other hand.
“ I am mighty sorry about this, Earl. I truly am, but sometimes things just get out of control.”
“ I thought you were dead,” Earl said, looking up and into Jackson’s eyes.
“ The river is going to kill you,” Jackson said. He leaned over the rail and smiled down at Earl. “Sorry, buddy.”
“ Jackson, we’re friends,” Earl shouted up to be heard above the river.
“ Yeah, Earl, we were, but the cash sort of got in the way.”
“ There’s plenty for us both. There always has been.”
Jackson ignored him and leaned lower over the rail. For a second Earl thought he was going to pull him up, but instead he grabbed onto his right hand and tried to pry it loose. That was a mistake. He should have stepped on the fingers, like they do in the movies, but he didn’t and that gave Earl his chance. Rattlesnake quick he whipped his left arm over and grabbed Jackson around the wrist. The weight of his body pulled Jackson into the fence, slamming his stomach against the bar as he flayed out with his free hand and grabbed onto it for support.
“ Pull me up,” Earl said.
“ No!” Jackson clenched his abdominals against the rail to support himself.
“ Come on, Jackson,” Earl said. His erection was returning.
“ You’re going,” Jackson said, and now that he had his balance he was able to let go with his free hand and he grabbed downward, reaching for Earl’s hand. He was ten years younger than Earl and had the rippling muscles of an athlete, but Earl was scared strong. The more Jackson tried to free Earl’s fingers from his wrist the tighter Earl squeezed.
“ I can’t hold on much longer. Pull me up or we both go.” He was hard now, throbbing and ready.
“ No,” Jackson said.
“ Fuck you!” Earl yelled, letting loose his anger. He let go of the hand that was holding on to the rail and grabbed onto Jackson’s dangling arm and now all of his weight was pulling Jackson downward. It was too much, and in the instant it took Jackson to figure out what had happened it was too late. He slid off the rail, tumbling after Earl, and together they fell toward the river below.
“ Son of a bitch!” Earl yelled as they fell. He felt Jackson’s body jerk, and he let go of his arm just as they hit the water, grabbing a great breath as he slid into it feet first. The cold wet chilled him, body and soul, as he sank like a missile to the bottom, feet digging through the moving silt and into the soft mud. The adrenaline sparking and slicing through his body killed the river cold as he pushed and swam toward the surface. But the rushing river had a mind of his own, dragging him away from the spot where he’d plunged into the water and toward the rapids.
The more he struggled toward the surface the more the river struggled to keep him below, pulling him along, like a leaf on the breeze. His heart was thumping, his lungs were aching. There was a jackhammer pounding in his chest, demanding oxygen. The dark wet of the river engulfed him.
The river hit a bend and something struck him as he made the turn. He couldn’t hold out much longer. The thing hit him again. A log, his mind screamed. A floating log. A log floating on the surface. He was close, so close. He couldn’t quit now. He wouldn’t quit now.
He surfaced, grabbed a quick breath and went under again. If only he could grab onto the log. He could maybe ride it through the rapids. Maybe. He bumped it again and threw an arm around it. It sank some as he pulled on it, but it allowed him to get his head out of the water again, and he grabbed another breath.
Not far now, rapids and rocks.
He knew his chances weren’t good. He’d seen what the rapids could do to a man, been present at more then one autopsy. The river broke your bones, lacerated your skin, filled your lungs, then it beat you raw and spit out a thing in the calm below that didn’t look human.
And people came from miles around to ride the rapids. They called it a challenge, a thrill. They called it fun. And Earl was one of them. He loved riding the river. Knew its every twist and turn. He’d done it dozens of times. But always in a raft, and never solo.
The first dangerous turn was coming up. There was a large group of rocks to the right, on the outside of the turn, and a smaller cluster in the center of the river. You could either take the turn on the left, close to the bank or take the more dangerous route, between the rocks. He’d done it both ways and preferred to go between the two groups of rocks, because it left you in a better position for the next group. But he was without a raft and there was nobody on the river except him and the log, so he wrapped his arm around it and frantically kicked to the left.
It was a cloudless sky and the sunlight reflecting off the rushing water made the rocks ahead hard to see, but he sensed he was heading right for them. He kicked himself around the log and positioned it between himself and the hazard ahead. The log hit the rocks first, cushioning the collision, and that surprised him, but he held onto it until they were through the narrow gap.
Then for a few seconds it would be smooth, then came the worst or the most challenging part, depending on your point of view. He tried to pull himself up on the log, but it wasn’t buoyant enough, and it had more give than a log should have. He turned away from the rocks and rapids up ahead and stole a quick look at it.
And screamed.
The log had a face.
It was Loomis, eyes stone wide in death. He let go of the body, flaying the water and fighting for air. Then something smacked into him. He grabbed onto it, and screamed again. This log had a face, too. But the need for survival overcame his terror and he grabbed onto Jackson’s limp body and sucked in a huge lungful of air.
Then he was in it. The river churning and boiling all around him. He fought for air, fought to stay afloat and fought through the gaps, using Jackson’s body as a cushion against the rocks. He did it without thinking, his will to survive stronger than the revulsion of hanging on to the dead man.
And even with the body he was still taking a beating. He had to get out of the river. Several homes lined the riverbank at various places, but yelling for help was out of the question. He was in the river canyon twenty feet below. No one would hear.
He tried to form a mental picture of what lay ahead. Not the rapids and the rocks, he knew those, but the places on the side that he might be able to get to, places out of the river rush. There was one, not far ahead, sort of a side pool, blocked by a huge rock that rose from the river. He’d actually seen fishermen in it as he’d rushed by with Jackson in the past.
If he missed the pool there was a section of the river after the next group of rocks that had several overhanging branches on both sides of the river. He remembered having to duck to keep his head as he and Jackson had rafted under them.
He started to make his way to the right as the river rounded another bend. If he could stay far enough to the right, but not so far that he smashed into the giant rock. If he could summon enough strength for a few good kicks, and if his timing was spot on, he might be able to swim into the pool.