Fred || Indian Creek

Indian Creek was loud tonight. Not flood loud, not yet. Just swollen enough from the last two days of rain that the water pushed hard around the rocks, carrying branches and leaves through the dark with a constant low rush. Fred had lived beside it long enough to know the difference.

He sat beneath the sagging edge of his canvas awning with one boot planted near the fire, a mason jar balanced against his stomach, and Microwave asleep underneath his chair. At least, Fred assumed the dog was asleep. Something underneath the chair made a noise like a cat being stepped on.

Fred lowered the jar. “Microwave.” Silence.

Fred stared down between his knees. A small, scraggly gray-brown face stared back. “Don't start.” Microwave blinked one cloudy eye. Fred grunted and took another drink.

The still had been running clean for the better part of an hour. Good batch, too. Better than the shit he'd brought Simo last time, though Fred maintained there hadn't been a damn thing wrong with that batch either. Simo was just particular.

Fire cracked beneath the boiler. The lantern hanging from a branch swayed gently. Somewhere farther into the woods, something screamed.

Fred scratched his beard. Microwave lifted his head. “No.” The dog's head lowered again. “Good boy.”

Peace returned to Indian Creek for approximately forty-three seconds and then came the tires. Fred heard them before he saw anything—rubber whining somewhere beyond the trees, too fast for that stretch of road and getting faster instead of slower. His eyes shifted toward the sound.

The tires squealed. Metal struck something hard. A horn blared. Then—

CRASH.

Branches snapped.

Fred was already standing when headlights tore through the trees. They vanished below the creek bank.

SPLASH.

Water erupted high enough to catch the moonlight.

Fred closed his eyes. “Goddammit.”

From underneath the chair: “Mrow.”

Fred looked down. “You ain't helpin’.”

He grabbed the heavy flashlight hanging from the tent pole and headed toward the creek. By the time Fred reached the wreck, water was already climbing the vehicle's doors.

Getting somebody out of a sinking vehicle was considerably harder than people made it look.

Fred discovered this while waist-deep in Indian Creek, swearing through his beard and fighting a door that had apparently decided it belonged to the creek now. “Come the fuck on.” Metal groaned.

Fred planted one boot against the vehicle and hauled, the door finally gave, after that came the stranger and then came the bank. Then came the realization that hauling an unconscious adult uphill through mud at fifty-four years old was precisely the sort of bullshit Fred had spent the last decade arranging his life to avoid.

By the time he reached camp, his flannel was soaked, his boots were full of creek water, and Microwave was standing beside the fire watching him.

Fred stopped. Microwave stared. Fred stared back. The dog had five legs. “Put that away.” Microwave's tail wagged. “Now.” One of the legs slowly drew upward beneath his ratty red sweater. Fred continued toward the tent.

The stranger got Fred's cot. That was generosity enough.

Wet things got hung beside the stove. Three mismatched blankets went over the cot. Fred left water on the folding table, along with a jar of shine, because between the creek, the wreck, and whatever headache would inevitably follow, one of the two would probably be wanted. Then Fred went back outside.

He checked the still, checked the fire, checked the woods. The woods checked back. Fred narrowed his eyes. “Mm.” Something had followed them.

That happened sometimes. There were rules for Indian Creek. Fred didn't know who'd made them. Didn't much care. You didn't whistle after midnight. You didn't answer anything calling from across the water. You didn't follow lights that weren't yours. And you pissed around your camp. Simple.

Fred had been doing it for years, hadn't been eaten yet. Proof enough.

So when movement finally came from inside the tent some time later, Fred was twenty feet away with one hand against an oak and the other wrapped around his dick, occupied with refreshing the western perimeter. His gaze shifted toward the canvas. “Awake, then.” The stream continued hitting the roots. “Vehicle's fucked.” A pause. “Creek got most of it.”

Something moved behind the trees. Fred's eyes slid toward it.

Tall. Wrong. Watching.

FWOOM.

Orange fire swallowed the shape, not the trees around it, not the leaves beneath it. Just the thing. For two seconds, an upright silhouette burned between the trunks. Then it collapsed into a shower of sparks and darkness swallowed the space again.

Fred watched it for another moment. “Mm.” He finished pissing. “Shine's on the table. Water too. Don't mix 'em up.”

A growl came from behind him. Low and wet. Fred's shoulders dropped. “Microwave.” The growl deepened.

Fred zipped his jeans and turned. Microwave stood in the opening of the tent. The tiny dog had gone rigid, cloudy eyes fixed somewhere beyond Fred's shoulder. His ratty sweater bunched strangely around his neck. Something underneath it moved. Pushed, bulged.

“Microwave.” Fur separated. A second head slowly unfolded beside the first. It looked almost identical. The muzzle was too long, the eyes weren't cloudy, and when both mouths pulled back, the new one had considerably more teeth than Fred remembered.

Fred planted his hands on his hips. “Microwave.” Both heads growled toward the woods. “Don't make me tell you again.” The second head jerked, then its neck folded inward with a quick succession of wet little crk-crk-crk sounds until it disappeared beneath fur and sweater alike.

There stood Microwave again. One head, four legs, mostly dog. His remaining face turned toward Fred. “Rrrrrrr.”

Fred pointed at him. “Don't you fuckin' sass me. Company's awake.” Microwave sneezed.

Fred lowered his hand. “That's better.”

Another faint crack sounded somewhere across Indian Creek. Fred didn't bother looking this time, he walked back toward the tent, picked up his mason jar on the way, and settled heavily into the battered chair beside the fire.

“Name's Fred.” He took a sip, his brown eyes drifted toward the tent. “That's Microwave.” Another growl came from the little dog. Fred frowned. “Behave.” The woods behind him went very, very quiet.

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