Keep the Ghost

49. Once more into the gulf

I stare down at the pit of jagged metal trash, knowing that if I fall in, I will not be able to swim out. One slip and I'll drown there, pinned between someone's rusting grill pit and an empty metal barrel that once contained industrial waste.

The stagnant green water brims with the same industry that infected Port Lavaca: buckets, hubcaps, rotors and axles. Plastic and metal that don't belong. My body is suspended over it all, supported by my hand wrapped around a thick tree branch.

My free arm is extended, hiking pole in hand, poking through the refuse. I push away a trash can, then try to force what looks like part of a lawn mower aside, but it's stuck in the mud.

The tree branch supporting me creaks; I tighten every muscle, dreading the fall, holding my breath.

It doesn't come. The branch holds. I reach further out, tip of my walking stick catching on the object of my desire. I pull, and it moves a little.

With the hiking pole hooked on the large aluminum shell, I pull us both toward the bank. The wet hull juts up from the swamp like some long-forgotten alien monument. It holds water, and it takes all my strength to tug it a few inches nearer.

My good leg pushes into the soft mud, body strained as the bent little aluminum boat comes ashore. I tip it over and brown water splashes out, black, inch-long fish drained back into the swamp.

The little craft is twisted in its center, bent up around itself. When I turn it upside down, I can clearly see the crease in the metal.

I kneel, put both hands on the bend and push. It bends a bit; I push harder, with all my weight pressed into my two hands. The metal gives slightly, bulging crease evening out. I push again, then again, like I'm giving CPR. The aluminum is slick with muck, but otherwise firm.

Working the cold, wet metal leaves me breathless, but as I collapse down on its frame, I see many of the creases are straightened. I can't spot any leaks.

A sound bites at my ears: the hum of a motor boat, somewhere in the distance. Close enough that I can make out the whine of the engine as it revs. The same boat as before, or a new one?

I take a moment to walk halfway across the peninsula, and see my reptilian neighbors still relax in the last remnants of sun.

When I reach my things, I open the backpack and retrieve a hunting knife I bought at the outdoor supply store. Then I bend to the duffel bag and pull out the pistol Morgan bought me. I tuck this into the waist of my shorts.

I spread my sleeping bag over the ground, setting my flashlight next to it. Then I crawl into the bag, roll from side to side, and climb back out. With one hand holding the backpack open, I pull items from it at random—snacks, the jug of water, and a newspaper I snatched on the way out the store. When I'm finished with the camp, I take a step back and observe. It looks like I've slept here, or intended to.

Now, the hard part.

The hunting knife is in my hand, tip directed at my chest.

I can do this. I am not Sean Reilly—I am that which crawled out of the gulf.

Can't do it; my head starts to spin, so I lower myself to the dirt, legs stretched out ahead. Deep breaths settle my nerves. The blade glints in the light, surface flawless and new, singing the yellow hues of the sunset.

I turn the tip toward my right shoulder, then bring the knife close. I hold my breath, remember why I am here, and slash the metal across my shirt and skin.

My movement is a quick jerk, a slicing motion that splits flesh. Breath exhales in a ragged hiss as the stinging pain slowly registers. Blood emerges, purple on my camo shirt, and begins to run freely from the shallow cut.