Carrion (The Bren Watts Diaries #1)

Chapter 79

The river's current propelled me forward. Cold as ice, the water entered my lungs, clutching me into rigidity, my body sinking deeper, never touching the bottom. I clamored upward, holding my breath as long as I could until I felt the air passing through my outstretched fingers. I broke through the surface and took a big gasp of air. A powerful wave pushed me down again, and I tumbled around twice before I heaved for air.

I looked up and saw that my pursuers stood at the edge of the waterfall; one man had his rifle aimed at me.

He pulled the trigger.

Bullet wheezed past an inch from my right ear. I ducked into the water, riding the current, and held my breath for half a minute before I went back up to the surface. I got further and further from the waterfall and the plunge pool. I couldn't hear what they were saying, their forms getting smaller and smaller, but based on their body language, they were fucking pissed. A woman had a radio over her ears, possibly calling for backup.

The man who screamed about his dog shouted after me, but the waterfall's noise drowned out his cries, though the way he curled his fist and made obscene gestures were obvious enough that he wanted to kill me. I had no choice about his dog. It was trying to fucking kill me!

I turned around, facing the distant, round buildings peeking from the top of the canopy, my refuge against these psychos. I was already too far away for my pursuers for them to get an excellent shot at me. I thought of swimming to the edge, but I was in a shallow gorge made of rocky steep cliffs and slippery moss on each side. There's no way out. I had no choice but to ride the current, hoping I wouldn't run into any protruding rocks, but the current slowed once I got further downriver.

From my left, I saw a flat riverbank, so I swam in that direction. A barrier net surrounded the area filled with swim platforms, multi-colored beach balls, and floats. I clambered up the net, which stuck out of the water's surface by a meter high, an easy climb. I swam underneath a footbridge connecting this riverbank to the other side.

My foot touched the silted bottom, tiptoeing at first until I felt the mud gripping my ankles, so I forced one foot forward than the other, exerting more of my dwindling strength. My knees weakened once I reached dry ground, collapsing on the hot sand onto my back, panting for air. I closed my eyes and let my body relaxed, enjoying how amazing it was to be out of the freezing water.

I lay down on the sand for two minutes, catching my breath. I opened one eye, looked around until I caught sight of the ledge I leaped off from, now a mere thin line in the horizon; my pursuers had vanished. I breathed out a sigh of relief.

To my right, I saw a colorful blue and orange banner plastered by a lifeguard tower that said:

EBBING FALLS RESORT
Upstate New York's Greatest Secret To Die For!

"Well, you're not wrong." I got up and walked over to the banner. They plastered a taped sign over the resort's waterfall-canyon logo:

CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. NO TRESPASSING!
All Staff Wear Masks! Safety First!

"Eh. Tough luck. I'm here now."

Beyond the riverbank were a dozen small, cabin-sized bungalows made of wood and straws, all the doors numbered, large enough to house a family in, and strategically surrounded by the woods to maintain the resort's campground aesthetics. There was also a bar area surrounded by round plastic tables and chairs, and a more massive structure with the bathroom signs propped over the awning, and right next to it was the maintenance shed. However, the bungalows' windows had been broken, some doors were busted inward, the bar had no booze, the chairs and tables in disarray, signs that the whole place was looted a long time ago.