The sun set over the ocean. The churning and crashing of the waves drowned out all other sounds except for the forlorn cry of a gull.
He scanned the shore. Scattered towels and umbrellas littered the beach. Most of the sunbathers had already departed, leaving behind a litany of coolers, swim trunks, suntan lotion bottles, and melted toes. Beyond the breakers, men and women paddled their long boards in search of the perfect ride. Dolphins, the most intelligent of sea creatures besides the mermaids, skimmed along the surface, waiting for the inevitable wipeout and their chance to protect the wet suited land lubbers.
From his lookout post, he saw her. The perfect girl. Skin – milky white from suckling at the teat of the almond tree – had turned the red of an embarrassed Scotsman. She waved goodbye to a group of friends and headed down the shoreline towards a rocky outcropping that separated the beach from the horrors beyond. A translucent sun dress fluttered in the slightest of breezes which played a game of Whispers with the golden strings that covered her head. She stopped and looked away from the setting sun as if she was listening or longing for something and continued along the wave battered beach.
Once more she stopped. Her hand reached into a pocket to retrieve an organic granola bar made from kelp, brown sugar, rolled oats, sea tortoise hair, the tears from a struggling Hollywood actress, and Red #8, all recognized California carcinogens. A moment later, there was a whirlwind of flailing arms and sea gull feathers as a mighty battle ensued.
Ten shots rang out. Ten sea birds collapsed to the earth. The older birds, wizened to California’s high-capacity magazine ban, waited for the reload and commenced their barrage, carefully pilfering both the pistol and the spare magazine in the chaos before flying towards the south where a herd of particularly hard-shelled crabs awaited. The rest of the bird cloud dissipated, and she reemerged, granolaless, with poofs of blonde hair sticking everywhere, a missing tooth, and a noticeable limp. This only seemed to arouse him more.
He gingerly stepped off the concrete and tested the molten sand. He had already lost one toe that day and was forced to use a pickled gherkin as a prosthesis. With only two left in the jar, he would need to be careful. The sand was cool to the touch, relatively speaking, just the perfect temperature to immediately form blisters and protect the rest of the foot, but he would have to hurry if he wanted to catch her. She was already clambering over the sea rocks that marked the entrance to Hazard Cove. A few minutes and she would be gone for good, his opportunity missed. His only hope was that the hazards on Hazard Cove would slow her down enough so he could make his approach.
The conversation starter he had practiced all day bubbled out of his slender throat. “Hi. I’m … I mean my name is ….” Even with her so far away, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. It was always the same when he wanted to speak with a woman. Fear, nerves, insecurity, whatever it was, tied his tongue into a knot. The words, which came out so easily in the mirror, became, in the reality of the moment, a tossed salad of despair complete with a thick, filmy layer of the dressing of self-doubt, the cauliflower of disgust, and croutons of angst.
He pulled the hood over his face. He feared this would make him more conspicuous, but the chill in the air lent his disguise some credibility. Besides, the few remaining beachgoers had greater concerns with which to occupy themselves than a skinny, sun-bleached stack of bones in a dark gray hoodie stumbling through the sand.
Skinny. The word formed on the virtual tongue in his brain as if it were mental brussels sprouts, mushy and bitter. He would give anything to no longer be skinny, but try as he might, he couldn’t put on weight. It’s not like he didn’t have an appetite. In fact, it was insatiable. Six meals a day minimum. Steak, fries, pork bellies, and cake. The four main food groups of the wannabe full-figured. He devoured them like a Republican Senator devours his billionaire sponsor’s money before running away from a fight that might benefit his constituents. Despite consuming all that and more, he was as thin as the whistle of a train. He consoled himself with the fact that, at least, he wasn’t hairy.
Like all Californians, whether native born or imported from normal states, he once dreamed of becoming an actor. His dream was temporarily shattered when the casting agent, a Miss Cumphee Cauch, rejected him at first glance.
“Too skinny,” she said. “Next,” she shouted out without regard for his feelings or considering the number of times he had watched and re-watched Road House, capturing every nuance in preparation for his audition. The words would have stung, the reproach would have crushed the soul of a lesser creature, but he took it as constructive criticism. Five years later, including a three-month interlude Sweatin’ to the Oldies before realizing it was a weight loss video, he gave up the dream and followed fate down a dark alley.
He gazed ahead at the final obstacle. Remnants of a former natural jetty, the rocks that hid Hazard Cove were too high and too rough to climb over. The constant pounding of the waves had partially eroded the part of the jetty that stuck into the water so that it was possible to circumvent the barrier if a person was willing to take a quick dip in the ocean.
Hiking up his clamdiggers, he strode into the Pacific. The icy water quickly rose up his pants, taking away his breath and freezing his bajeebers. He staggered a few steps as the cold seeped into his bones. All rational thought fled his mind, chased away by the surprisingly glacial waters of the Pacific. He no longer cared about the objective, his only thought to get out of the icy, bejeeber-freezing aquatic death trap and make it back to shore.
The tide had something else in mind for him. A rogue wave pushed him towards the rocks, followed almost immediately by the giant suck of the ocean in reverse. The outflow tripped him up and he fell over. Great streams of water, like translucent tentacles, grabbed at his arms and legs and hauled him towards Davy Jones’ locker.
In his terror, he screamed, the high-pitched wail of the damned that can be heard on most Madonna recordings, and floundered, the only stroke he remembered from swim class. But no one answered his call. His feeble pleading reached the ears of only a colony of observant, but not too interested, mini squid. From the shore, he appeared simply to be a cluster of blanched sticks bobbing in the waves. No one was coming to help. They wouldn’t reach him in time even if they had seen him begin the death sink. His new dream, like his old dream, would be crushed under the weight of a thousand tons of saltwater, literally this time.
He was only dimly aware now of what was happening. Consciousness faded away. Memories washed over him in a mad rush. Playing fetch with his best dog, Fiddler. That time he lied about being sick so he could stay home from work and binge watch the Golden Girls. Regret at the two and half months he spent as a Hare Krishna before realizing there wouldn’t be any bunnies. It was all there. Fear, pain, hopelessness, resignation.
And now he let it go. All the pain, the worries, the momentary happiness that he wouldn’t have to suffer through another season with the Dodgers. The understanding that his life had been a total waste.
A final, troubling, thought entered his mind. “I guess I’m about to find out if Darwin was right.”
“Relax. Quit fighting.”
The voice came out of nowhere, swirling with the rolling waves. He didn’t realize he had been fighting. The animal part of his brain must have taken over, struggling, straining even after consciousness ceased. Unknowingly, he obeyed the voice. His body went limp.
He had no idea how long he had been out. By the time he woke up, the sun was gone, and Jupiter soared high overhead. His eyes slowly came into focus and he stared upwards. A strange face peered back at him, the head tilting from one side to the other, a look of concern furling his brows.
“I didn’t think you were going to make it.” The voice was gravelly.
“Where am I? Who … who are you?”
“You took a nasty spill. Banged your head on one of those big rocks.”
He reached up and touched a spot on his forehead. A few specks of dried blood crackled off in his fingertips. “What happened? How did I get out?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to come around. I wanted to make sure you were OK.” The stranger with the gravelly voice moved a few steps away. “I made a fire to keep you warm. There’s some food roasting on it if you’re hungry.”
The smell of burning wood mixed with the brine of the ocean mist. His mouth began to water. “Sure. I’m famished. It feels like I haven’t eaten in days.”
The stranger handed him a few slivers of lightly charred meat. The light from the full moon reflected off his eyes. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian. I seem to run into a lot of them these days. Strange things, those vegetarians. They don’t know what they’re missing, now do they?”
He didn’t answer as he was too busy chewing. The meat was different than anything he had ever tried before. Flaky, gamey but not in a bad way, white with dark flecks. He detected a pinch of sea salt, maybe a kelp garnish. Absolutely delicious. He’d have to remember to ask for the recipe. All the while, the stranger watched, tilting his head and pondering as if he was trying to decipher a code.
When he finished eating, he wiped his lips with a sea-moistened sleeve. “That was fantastic. What are you, a famous beach chef?” He meant it to be winsome. It came out patronizing.
“Would you like some more?” the stranger asked.
“No, thanks. I would like to get going, though.” He looked around to get his bearings. “Where am I? This doesn’t look like Piney Beach. Am I on Hazard Cove?”
“She really shouldn’t have done it, you know.” The stranger kept his eyes on him the whole time.
“Shouldn’t have done what? Who?”
“That was the biggest mistake she could have made.”
“What are you talking about? Who is she?”
“She jumped in to pull you out and look what it got her.”
A sick feeling flooded his stomach. “Who is she? Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“The girl,” the stranger said. “The girl you were following. What were you intending to do?”
“Nothing. I was just following to ask her name.”
“Ask her name. That’s what your plan was? I see. And after that, what were you going to do?” The stranger’s voice took on another, more eerie quality.
He reached inside the pocket of his hoodie and felt around.
“What were you going to do after that?” the stranger asked again.
His heart started to beat harder. The stranger’s gaze seemed to pierce his soul. Streams of sweat began to pour down the side of his face and onto his bony legs.
“Ahh,” the stranger said. “I see you’re beginning to understand your predicament.”
“Wha … what do you want?”
“I want you to tell me what you were going to do with that girl when you caught up to her. Tell me how you were going to take the knife you keep in your pocket and shove it into her. How you were going to let the blood run out while you watched, while your heart beat with joy.”
His hands started to shake, and the words froze in the back of his throat.
“Yep, that was her biggest mistake,” the stranger repeated. “She jumped in and pulled you out. Can you believe that?”
His eyes bulged as he stared at the stranger.
“She jumped in and pulled you out. After I pushed you in.” The stranger nodded to himself. “Yep. That was her biggest mistake.”
He tried to get up and run but his legs wouldn’t answer the call.
“You’re not going anywhere, my friend. Not after the meal I prepared for you.”
His eyes began to blur, and his head felt woozy. “What have you done?” The words came out slurred.
“She shouldn’t have done that. No. She should have just let you drown. She probably would have if she had known who you were.” The stranger paused for a moment. “You know what your biggest mistake was?”
He slowly shook his head, maybe to answer no or possibly just to clear the ever-increasing cobwebs.
“You tried to kill her. But that, my friend, was my job. It wouldn’t have been tonight, though. I would have given her a little more time. The problem was she saw my face. I didn’t have a choice.”
He looked past the stranger. At the edge of the glow where the last light from the fire carved into the pitch black of the night, there was the outline of a body. In the dimness, he could just make out strands of blonde hair that lay matted against a cold face. Lifeless eyes stared upward. Her mouth was wide open as if she was still trying to scream away the pain.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
The stranger tilted his head again. There was no emotion on his face as he slowly blinked and took a few steps towards the man.
“What do you want from me?” he repeated, shouting as if into the void. “Who are you?”
A gleam of light reflected off a silvery blade raised high into the night by a thin but powerful arm. “You can call me death,” the stranger said as he let the blade fall.