The smaller corpses were the first to rise. They came in pairs mostly, thirty-five in total all bearing on their bodies some mutilated design like a brand. Gashes, bites, bludgeoned skin and torn muscle. It would have made the fisherman cry had he seen them. But he did not, for the bodies were off in the distance away from the fisherman who kept to his reel and whose tired face clocked the time spent with the extra rings underneath his eye lids. He had been at it since five in the morning and had experienced the wasting away of hours in the cool mist of the lake.
News reports of days in terror had worn him the past month and he figured this would be the day to relax, on the lake face. Kidnap, murder would not bite into his joy he thought. This simple lake and its placid waters would not change, he thought.
Until he got his first bite.
The fisherman put his legs against the boat and brought up his heavy reel that whined as it went further out. His tongue smacked against the top of his mouth and he could not hold his hat from falling atop the water and float like a brown lilly pad set off. His muscles were strained and he wished he was younger. Scarred forearms were made worse as his hands hit the edge of the boat, his palms were getting burned from the steel line cutting into him. It was a thrill though and he knew because of how wildly his white hairs stuck out through wet skin. He fought against the bubbling water, he fought against the rope and with one final yelp he fought against his strained heart. He collapsed on his back, something went flying above him and landed into the boat.
It was a shirt.
Striped, a polo perhaps. Torn to ribbons. His eyes opened and he could feel another two cracks form beneath his eyes. His rod rolled away. The embarrassment and anger was too much for his face it seemed with how strongly his hands clasped at his cheeks and forehead. He was yelling into his skin and bit. The fisherman raised his red face to the cool air and saw the foreign object floating in front of him. It was off in the distance, a bump in his vision that interrupted the blinding morning crimson. He rubbed his eyes as the morning haze often made him see confusing things. When he opened, he saw more bumps and specks and black foreign objects further back. His heart was beginning to beat wildly and it did feel like he was young again. The fisherman looked down the side of his boat and saw
What a terrible time to be angry, as the bodies had finally begun to float towards him. The fisherman raised his red face to the cool air and saw the foreign objects. They were off in the distance, a bump in his vision that interrupted the blinding morning crimson. He rubbed his eyes as the morning haze often made him see confusing things. When he opened, he saw more bumps and specks and black foreign objects further back. His heart felt young and his breathing was loud. The fisherman looked down the side of his boat and saw spurts. A collection that grew like cancer and swallowed the hull. Festering, septic almost, it looked like something rotten clung at his boat and beneath the darkness of the waters. Was he in a cauldron spun to the wooden spoon of a witch or an alchemist? No, it was the vomit of the earth and sea.
He stuck his hand in and saw the pinkish red on his palm whose sticky viscosity disgusted him. He drew back and fumbled in his seat and wondered if the noise and explosion of the water would kill him somehow so he just sat, palms extended, looking for balance with his heavy belly that shook with the boat.
"God damnit." He shouted, a geyser came up, water sprayed like a pillar of white had been erected and shattered instantly into small wet daggers that jetted out.
The swells stopped. He stood up. His body felt limp. The bodies had finally begun to come up again from their sad graves in gentle rhythm. One, two, three, four, up and away towards the rising sun.