No Fishing Past June, Part II

[Continued from No Fishing Past June, Part I. View my Reedsy profile to read it]

"MUST be on the microfiche," the senior librarian says as she reads her monitor screen. The Star Municipal Library is empty save for her and what looks to be Jimmy Justus, the store clerk, wearing earbuds while reading a graphic novel, "Arkham Nights" at a back table.  

“You still have microfiche? Wow.” I smile, “That’s a blast from the past.”

"Sometimes, the old ways are best." She replies and stirs from her seat with a grunt. She shuffles to a stack of boxes before returning with three large Kodak binders. She opens one of the flaps and showcases the microfiche rolls set into their fold. "Four are in each binder, the local paper only goes back to 1925 when the town was incorporated, so these three will do ya."

“Star’s fairly new then?” The idea seems off. “The way the locals talk I’d expected it’d been around for at least a century.”

“I didn’t say people didn’t live here, things just got official in 25’. Especially when they filled the lake.” She pauses and looks around nervously, a slip of the tongue. “Uh, well, anyways there you go. Remember we close at five.”

"The lake's man-made?" I ask, but she's already engrossed in a game of Solitare on her computer. 

“We close at five.” She repeats, ignoring my question.

As I sift through reel after reel of typeset stories and black and white photographs on the machine, I get the same sense of eyes watching, boring in the back of my skull. I turn to find Jimmy Justus reading over my shoulder. 

“Excuse me?” I start, but he holds his finger to his lips.

“Keep it down or Cruella over there will have a shit fit. Trust me I know.”

“You on your lunch break Jimmy?” I offer him a seat next to me. “Or did you quit Reggies?”

“I wish.” Jimmy smiles, “Trust me I’ve been stuck here for five years now, if there was anything else to do in this town I’d do it, but it’s dead as a doornail.” 

"Yeah, I got that feeling," I say as I turn back to the screen and flip a hundred more pages to a nineteen thirty-nine article on cattle stocks and futures.

“So what are you looking for? Some ancient weed-killing recipe?” 

"I wish. Actually, I think what I've got, what the town is infested with, is some mutant variety of flytrap or something."

“Mutants…nice.” Jimmy whistles, “That’d actually be really cool.”

“I’m just looking to see if there was any kind of factory pollutants, or toxic accident, maybe an EPA investigation…something like that.”    

“Nah, man. This dump’s only ever been about cattle. People are nuts for their steaks. There’s a slaughterhouse over in Kuna but that just opened last year. The only freakish thing I’ve heard of is the old Low Well story.”

“Low Well?” The name rings a bell. 

“Yeah, man. Lake Lowell used to be a shanty town called Low Well before they flooded it, a whole little community was wiped out in a night. Supposedly some folks didn’t want to leave so they just got washed up in the wake.”

“Well, that’s morbid,” I say and wonder how Star was able to keep that fact quiet. “You sure about that?”

"Check it out man," Jimmy leans past me and spins the knob, shuttling the newspaper feed back another decade. With the expertise of a gamer, he twists and snaps the knob until the image falls onto a dated photo of a flooded valley with only the top arches of some homes peeking above the water line.

“You’ve researched this before.” I catch his bi-colored gaze, “Shows some initiative.”

"Tell that to my probation officer, " Jimmy nods. "Besides, If you were sixteen and living here, you would too."

“Well that’s uh..” I’m at a loss for words, “Cool Jimmy, but it doesn't help me.”

Jimmy's brown and silver-blue eyes light up, "You want to see something truly weird? Check out at the lake tonight. The cattlemen around here…."

“Gentlemen!” the librarian calls out, “Quiet please!” 

“Just check it out.” Jimmy winks at me and gets up to head for the door. 

Another hour of research on natural disasters or ecological issues in the area is fruitless. I head for home. As I drive down highway ten, I think of Jimmy's words. They don't give me much to go on. Even if people drowned decades ago, their remains would do little but feed the fish. Even their bones would be silt at this point, but it starts my mind wondering. 

The red fluid from the flowers must have some trace of their beginning. As I drive past the Lazy-J Ranch, our closest neighbor, I watch a few sickly cows gobble down the blooms that have crept into their pen.

Their skeletal frames betray the odd rib and joint no healthy bovine should display, and I wonder why old hands in an industry would let them get that way.

* * * *       

“FEED is about the only thing these dumb hicks know to give them, and I don’t even think they’re giving them enough of that,” I tell my colleague, Jason, in L.A. I watch him laugh and shake his head on my computer monitor. “It’s like no one knows how to raise a crop or care for an animal out here.”

“Well look, Scott, I can't speak to the cows, but that weed is something else.” Jason says, “The pistil fluid you sent me is filled to the brim with iron. If I didn’t know any better I’d think it was blood.”

"That many nutrients would kill a root." I shake my head. It doesn't quite add up, "Are you sure?"

“Does a cow fart in the wind? Yes, I’m sure.” Jason continues, “In fact, I’d say the roots act a lot more like arteries than anything else, if your little plants have teeth, you may be dealing with an entirely new species.” 

"Wonderful. So how should I deal with it?" I ask, not wanting to hear the response I know he'll give.

“Gotta report it, man, that’s all you can do. Or burn the little shits out of your yard.”

The solution seems drastic, but I've noticed the vines from the crimson buds have crept further into my property. No amount of pulling or poison seems to keep them at bay. The sun is setting when I end the video call with Jason and head for Star's Chevron for some gas cans and fuel. If I make quick work of them and keep the flames under control, there shouldn't be a problem.

As I pull away from the station, with fuel-laden cans in the trunk, I spot Jimmy stumbling off the side of the road, oversized headphones on his ears, struggling to detangle a circuit cord attached to a long metal shaft and box, what looks to be a home-made metal detector.

“Need a lift?” I offer as I roll down my car window and pull up next to him.

“What?” He pulls off the headphones, “Sorry the signal’s really strong here.”

“A lift?” I look over his handiwork, “Looking for pirate gold?”

“Cute.” Jimmy gives me a bored stare, “I did a little digging too.” He holds a familiar black withered root in his hand. “These things send off signals like you wouldn’t believe.” 

"The iron, right?" I offer, and he nods. "And you're reading it way out here?"

"Mr. Jenkins, I've been picking up readings all over town. But they seem to get stronger towards…."

He pauses as the Ranger's red jeep comes into view. The officer's stone face stares at us through the glass as he drives past. A caravan of three trucks towing cattle trailers follows him. They turn down Lake Lowell Road and disappear into the night.

"They're at it again." Jimmy sighs and looks at me, "You never went, did you?"

“The lake?” I shake my head. “I have enough problems to deal with Jimmy.” 

“Your weeds are extensive and trackable.” Jimmy leans in and lowers his voice, “and it all points to…” he clucks his tongue at a sign that reads:

Lake Lowell - 2 miles. No Swimming After May, No Fishing Past June.

"Hop in," I motion for him to join me, and he quickly opens the back passenger door and tosses his equipment in before running around my car to sit shotgun. "Look, roots don't work that way. I'll take you home."

“No, take me to the lake,’ Jimmy shakes his head, “And I think you’re wrong. I don’t think they’re roots.”

We follow the road for two miles, and Jimmy quickly motions for us to take a dirt path just before the pavement dead-ends at the parking lot, where the cattle trailers are parked. He flicks off my headlights without a word, and I slow my speed as the tires crackle over the dust and pebbles of the path. 

Jimmy points to a wall of wild Holly and Arborvitae, and we park. He motions for me to follow him into the moonlight, and like children spying on siblings, we peek through the brush to see a makeshift barge set afloat by plastic drums in the middle of the lake. Atop it stands two cattlemen, the Ranger, and three sickly cows. With a grunt, they shove the beasts into the water. 

“He with eyes to see may unlock our words with the key,” the Ranger speaks solemnly. As the cattle struggle in the wash, their terrified lows are answered by the men’s chant:

After June, before September 

When the summer solstice sets 

Though we are few, we remember 

The Deep--

Jimmy's foot catches a black root, and he stumbles. "Shit!" He cries, and the chanting stops.

He covers his mouth and points at a dull bovine eye staring at us from the bud of a flower. A beam of light from the barge clicks on and scans over our heads. We duck.

“This town man,” Jimmy whispers, “This freaking town.” 

I stare at the inhuman eye for a moment before it closes again within the bud's leaves."I'm going home, Jimmy," I tell him and nod at the car, "You're coming with me."

As I quietly pull my station wagon away from the foliage, I spy the cattlemen driving their barge to shore with a small outboard motor attached to one side. The struggling cattle are gone, swallowed beneath the calm water line.

I find the paved road that runs beside the beach head, and for a moment, I see something breach the water's surface--

As if it wants to give chase.  

[Finish the story by checking out part III, accessible through my Reedsy profile].