Rawpocalypse

17 - False Witness

Sewage engineer Blake Sullivan stood beneath massive flood lights, shaking his head in dismay as a dump truck pulled away from the work site, loaded with another six-foot length of twenty-four-inch diameter cast iron waste pipe, plugged solid with the carcass of an unknown animal.

His eyes drifted slowly to the split-level ranch at the far end of the cul-de-sac. Tyrone Stanley's words still echoed in his memory. It beats being clogged by a dead animal.

Blake wasn't known to throw around suspicions lightly, but in twenty years of service he'd never experienced anything quite so peculiar.

"Jeb," he yelled over his shoulder. "I'll be right back."

Without waiting for acknowledgement, he stomped to his pickup and climbed inside, tossing his sweaty hard hat onto the seat next a plastic bag containing a fist-sized ball of meat that had rolled loose during the excavation. He had a hunch Coach Stanley might have something to say about its origins.

He dropped his truck into gear and spun a few tire tracks in a homeowner's lawn as he raced away.

Before he'd gone far, a black cargo van nearly ran him off the road, barreling through the narrow street with headlights off. He laid into the horn, barking out his window. "Turn your damned lights on. You're gonna kill someone."

Seconds later, backup lights came on ahead inside Tyrone Stanley's driveway. A bulky sedan hurtled from the parking space, throwing sparks as the frame struck the pavement on the uneven surfaces.

Blake turned his truck crossways in the street, blocking the path. By now, he was convinced Tyrone had some serious explaining to do.

The vehicle rushed toward him, blinding him with bright headlights. He threw a stop signal out the window with one hand, and lumbered out of the pickup. The vehicle eased to a stop, but didn't cut its lights.

Blake made his way to the driver's side, shielding his eyes. Moments later, it was clear the burly driver peering back through the open window wasn't Tyone. The balding runt next to him wasn't him either.

"What's the trouble?" croaked the driver.

Blake surveyed the empty back seat. "Nothing. Just slow your ass down, we got workers up ahead."

The man nodded, grouchily. "Yeah. Got it. Now, can you move your truck?"

"When I get to it. What kind of business you got with the coach?"

The man dropped the shifter into gear. "My business, pal."

The scrawny man leaned into closer view. "Nothin'. He ain't home anyhow."

"Is that right?" Blake considered the well-illuminated house. "Lights are on."

"Nobody's home, I tell ya." The driver checked his perimeter, seeming to contemplate a route to skirt the road block.

"Okay. Hold your horses. I'll move my truck."

Taking his time, Blake turned away and moseyed to the cab. He'd barely backed up a foot when the other vehicle leapt forward and jostled around him with two wheels riding up on the curb.

Blake landed on the horn. "Slow down, assholes! You hit one of my workers and you'll be in a world of shit."

Through the rearview, he watched the red taillights zip through the dark community. When they were safely out of his work zone, he knocked the truck into drive and continued onward to Tyrone's driveway.

With his plastic bag and a load of questions, he marched to the front door and rang the bell.

Nobody came to the door.

* * *

Several states north, a crowd of rambunctious boys circled a violently crackling bonfire. The fronts of their uniform shirts were nearing the point of spontaneous combustion. Brock tossed another arm-length log into the flames. Apparently, if the fire wasn't visible from space, he'd somehow failed as a leader.

The adult supervision sat musing with one another in the shadows on folding camp chairs. Occasionally, one of them spat coffee grinds from their teeth, courtesy of their infamous kettle roasted cowboy brew.

Jerod, the reluctant recipient of the nickname Jellyfish, gazed blankly into the dancing flames. When he'd returned to camp soaked head to toe, the adult leaders had been interested in one thing, assigning blame. The troop clammed up, quick to dismiss the entire incident.

Jerod spun from his seat on the rotten log and slumped toward the adults. "Mister Perkins?"

The crotchety old man rocked forward on his chair, bringing silence to his comrades. "N-yeah?"

"You've been coming to camp here for a long time, right?"

Perkins smiled. "Before most of your fathers here were even born."

Brock's dad chimed in. "You were already an old man when I was a wee scout."

The other men chuckled, muttering amongst themselves in mutual agreement.

Jerod waited politely for his chance to speak. "Have you ever seen blue orb creatures floating in the stream?"

Perkins inflated his chest. "I've seen lots of things in these woods. Things that'd raise the hair on the back of your neck." He sighed deeply, changing his tone. "But we ain't supposed to tell those campfire stories no more."

One of the men spoke up. "I always liked to hear about the Wampus Kitty."

"Or Ole Mossy Pete," said another.

Jerod stared irreverently. "That's not what I'm talking about. This is a real thing, a big blue blob about this big." He stretched his hands as wide as they could go, unable to match the monster's true scale.

Perkins eyed the backs of the boys around the fire. "Come to think of it, I may have heard a story about a boy disappearing after seeing one of those."

"Yeah?"

Even in the dim light of the distant fire, the old man's grin was unmistakable.

"Aw," groaned Jerod. "You're just messin' with me." He turned to his buddies and spoke loudly, "Tell them I'm not making it up. We saw blue creatures in the stream. Didn't we?"

The youngest boy raised his hand like a star pupil, nodding vigorously.

Brock whispered something to Weasel, then turned resolutely. "Nah, we didn't see a thing."

Jerod deflated, suddenly unsure of his own eye-witness account. "May I be excused to my tent?"

"It's only ten o'clock," said Perkins. "You've got another hour before lights out."

"I know. I'm tired."

"Go ahead, but no electronics."

As Jerod moped away, Perkins muttered to his peers, just loud enough to be overheard. "I guess that's why they don't want us telling those scary stories."