To Jamal, the frigid whiff of river air entering his lungs smelled like dried fish and burning tobacco.
That is not to say that the river smells like dried fish and tobacco smoke. During this season, it smells more like algae and dew.
The smell of dried fish could be attested to the cargo they carried—ten tons of dried fish strips, while the tobacco would be his brother and his friends playing cards and smoking a joint under lantern light on the wooden front deck. The propeller engine pushed the boat forward with the roar of oscillating explosions, but it didn't contribute much to the smell.
He walked towards the lazy bitches, bringing his scraggly, round chin and shaggy black hair into the light. The wooden boards creaked tiredly under his steps. His breath fogged. Trickles of wind that touched his skin under his shawl pricked like needles.
His brother, Nabil, a man resembling him but with a sleeker face and a slyer expression, had a stack of cards to his side. The companions were visibly distressed.
"Winning?" Jamal knew, but still asked as he reached for the Hurricane lantern hanging above the head of the group.
"Hm," Nabil nodded. He cheats. Everyone knows, but still plays with him.
Jamal turned the crank and blazed the hurricane lantern brighter, making a golden halo in the mist that surrounded them. With the state of visibility, they'd be lucky if a Steamer spots them from as little as a hundred feet away.
Jamal could hear the roar of another engine. He squinted towards the horizon, eyes searching and smart. Dark water, unilluminated and cold, gurgled and splattered against the hull of the boat. The river breeze made crescent waves. The boat bobbed as if in a trance. It was March, but winter still hadn't left.
He spotted the light to their left, the faded glow from another hurricane lantern. The other boat, also full of frozen fish, cruised steadily alongside theirs. The muffled sound of their engine was a better announcer of their presence than the light from their lantern. A stranger, hired as Jamal is, who he is to coordinate with till the end of their journey. The fifty or so feet between them were made into miles by the rolling mists that rose from the river. Jamal prayed to Allah that the boat doesn't get stuck in an underwater sandbar. It's hard enough to deal with during the day, if it happens this late at night.... Jamal shivered a little.
He fitted the lamp on it's stand and left the light to make his way to the back of the boat. It was time to pour water into the engine. It was an oxymoron to Jamal. An engine working on water needed someone to pour water into it to cool it down. He went into the shed and fetched himself a bucket. Filling it with water, he made his way to the hind deck.
The smell hit him in the face like a rotten pillow as soon as he stepped behind the shed. It smelled simultaneously like a cow dying from an infected wound and ballpen ink.
Jamal's first thought was if a dolphin got caught by the propeller. But the propeller ran just fine. He reached out and turned on the LED light tied to the shed. Cold white light illuminated the wooden planks.
Nothing dead here.
Did the fishes underneath start decomposing, then?
Yet that was unlikely since it was not a particularly hot day either. And it was a positively chilly night.
He was going to go under deck and check when he notice the water marks.
Now, sailing out in the Jamuna river, even during the months of March, is bound to throw some water onboard. A boat or it's sailor getting wet is no big deal.
However, water simply splashing over the hull had a very specific appearance. A splatter, because that's what it is.
This wasn't a splatter. The water had dripped onto the wood here.
This was someone or something climbing over and into the boat. The waterprints led into the shed.
Jamal stood still for a second. Whatever had come onboard was far too quiet to be a human being. A fishing cat? They're common as crows, and they'd have reason to come onto the board, but the watermark seems too big for that. A leopard, maybe? They're scarce but they're here.
Allah give them strength if it's a leopard.
Jamal thought about making a noise to let his brother know about this intrusion. Then stopped. The only thing more dangerous than a hidden leopard is a leopard that thinks it's trapped.
He slowly put the bucket down, making as little noise as possible and keeping an eye on the dark entrance of the shed. Pulling up a plank from the deck, he pulled out a Tota gun and six rounds. He popped two in.
Then he turned off the engine. This should let others know that something is wrong.
He waited. The gurgling of the water was louder now that the engine was gone. The beats of the other boat started to fade away as Jamal's own boat started to slow down and fall behind. Jamal, to his surprise, found himself feeling rather sleepy, even with one of nature's deadliest killing machines potentially on the boat.
And his buffoon of a brother still didn't respond.
His feet were starting to get wobbly when he heard it. A low hum, singsong like a rhyme, unintelligibly muttered by a rather nasal voice. Not one belonging to anyone on board.
Something no leopard can make.
This was human.
"Who's there?" Jamal yelled.
No reply. The humming only got louder.
"I've got a gun!" He yelled again. Nothing.
He gritted his teeth and forced his leg to step forward. He was tired of this. He was tired of all of this.
He took off the LED light and pointed it into the shed.
And it stood right there, facing away from Jamal. Asphalt skin, bald head, wearing a loincloth and the bodily proportions of a child. The smell of rot and ink invaded Jamal with new vigor.
"Hey!" Jamal yelled again, pointing the gun, "Hey! Who is that?"
It didn't move, the hum only grew louder, now almost a nasal chant.
"Hey!" Jamal took a step towards it, "Turn around! Who are you?"
There was no response. The boat swayed a little.
Jamal had it. He took two more steps and pressed the muzzle of the gun to the back of whoever it was.
"I said turn around, you deaf motherfucker!"
The chanting paused.
Then it turned.
All Jamal remembered from after that was the eyes.
The green glowing reptilian eyes. The chants seem to emanate more from those eyes than any vocal chord.
And they grew louder.
And louder.
And louder.
And louder....
(Tota gun: Illegal double barrel shotgun. The cartridges are a bit bigger.)