Time’s Up.

Chapter 3

Chapter One

Rasping in the blackness, a match is struck against the box, held between two shaking fingers. A flash of light ignites a small stainless steel gas lamp which is placed on a tiny, metal square table. The warm yellow glow grows brighter as the roughened fingers twist a knurled knob on the side of the old-fashioned lamp.

The light illuminates the faces of two elderly men. It glows brighter still to reveal that they are dressed well in thick blue overcoats, black snow boots and red woolen hats. They sit opposite each other inside a cozy, green, metal and wood shack. The walls are lined with sheets of thick corrugated steel. In the corner sits a small black, pot-bellied stove.

A stainless steel kettle lies cold and dormant on its top. The two men look like gnomes, in their little fantasy home. The shack has a small square window, which reveals snow flakes fluttering down in the night sky, bouncing off the glass like a mass of albino moths, attracted to the light.

On a wall hangs a large mounted fish. It looks like an unusual Eel with tiny black eyes and seven vent holes along its brown and green side. It is as long as the shack and as thick as a man’s thigh.

Together the men fix large double-headed silver hooks onto a sturdy line, attached to two fishing rods. The Eel stares down at their work. One of the men finishes and cuts his line with a bone-handled knife with a black skull on it. He stands, bowing his head to avoid the low ceiling.

Turning around, he opens the door to a metal cupboard on the wall behind him. It is full of ammunition, jars and a large shotgun. Removing a glass bottle of green fluid, he places it on the table next to a black silenced pistol and a large clear jar, full of gray tongues.

“I guess it’s time we hooked up, hey Jim? Before we head out. Forecasting a heavy snow fall tonight.” He opens the jar carefully. The man has an unusual accent, with many layered foreign hints. Jim finishes his hook tying and slices up a tongue, pouring on the fluid.

His face is covered in a close cropped white beard. Protruding from the whiskers are his purple nose and matching purple ears. Jim speaks in the same accent, blowing clouds of steam from his mouth, out across the cold shack.

“Bob my brother. You are correct. Much better to bait up in here, I think we have a good chance of hooking us another King. The tide is in our favor, pushing the lake our way, which is very good for us.”

Bob runs his open palms across his forehead smoothing his white bushy eyebrows back towards his ears. White hairs bristle from his lobes.

Jim smiles and rubs his hands together rapidly, blowing onto them and flexing the fingers, cracking the knuckles loudly.

He pulls a silver stud piercing from a tongue and puts it into a small jar filled with gold and silver studs, pours on the green fluid and weaves the sharp double hook through the fleshy, flapping morsel. Staring into the green bottle, he is briefly captured by its magical promise, then carefully he pours out more onto each prepared tongue. Both men lift and rotate their rods. Their gnarled hands caress the shape. They inspect their bait, admire its color and smell.

“How are things at the factory, Jim? I heard there was a little tension down there while I was away, a possible spy, so to speak.”

Jim smiles, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and replies. “Things are running very smoothly now, my dear brother. We had a few difficult moments, no doubt about it, with an annoying woman cop. Caused us a delay in delivery, but that was soon taken care of.”

Bob raises his eyebrows at Jim and strokes his chin, knowingly. “Did our many bloodhounds take care of her, the cop?”

“Oh yes! A fabulous display. Such a shame you missed it. She has gone for sure, that one will not be coming back. Oh no! And all the bases were covered very well, with the naked fish that got away, so to speak. A slippy little one that was, but not now. The boss was onto that. He was there. He is very happy with the way our plans are taking shape now. As the snow comes in, we’ll get going. It’s our time for sure!”

They pull on thick red mittens, which are tied to their coat sleeves, then hug each other happily and turn around to face the shack’s small, steel-plated door, and the large equipment next to it. Groaning with the collective effort needed to lift it, they pick up the tee-shaped ice hole cutter leaning against the wall.

Each man takes hold of the opposite handle. The shiny metal, wide-bladed drill, faces downwards between them both. The cutting edge is sharp, easily slicing through the wooden floor.

Sideways, the duo shuffles with little steps through the open shack door to the winter night outside. It closes on a heavy spring behind them with a squeal and a loud bang. They set off very slowly, walking in tiny awkward dance-like steps across the snow covered ground, leaving the shack behind them, whistling as they go. The snow falls thick and fast in the deep and expansive surrounding dark, mountainous valley.

Coming to a stop ten paces from the shack, they breathe heavily, tested by the weight of the ice drill. Their white-whiskered faces glisten wet with the melting snow flakes. Steam rises from their hats. The drill is rested down and upright on its blade, upon the iced ground. Bob slowly walks back to the shack and opens the door. Jim attends to the drill’s motor, holding a small torch in his teeth, guiding his mittens.

Light shines outward from the shack. It reveals that they are sitting on the huge ice-covered cove of a vast lake. In one direction is a frosted shoreline, along which trees hang heavy with snow. The white grass beneath them glimmers down the hill, to the cove edge. A beautiful winter wonderland scene. Magical.

Behind the shack, a short distance away, the snow-covered iced edge gives way to the distant, cold black waves of the deep lake. They roll up like thick molasses, swamping the sides of a huge Christmas cake. A long line of different colored shacks dot their way around the cove. The lights shining out around each one shows more figures dressed in thick coats, hats and boots, none of them moving. They are all holding fishing rods, and stand next to small round black holes in the ice. This is ‘Gnome Mans Land.’ A beautiful fantasy garden.

Bob returns holding their two fishing rods and another lit lamp. He sets the lamp down and firmly takes hold of the drill handle. Jim pulls on the starter rope bringing the two-stroke motor to life. He revs the drill, and it loudly spews out a cloud of exhaust, engulfing them both in a lamp-lit yellow fog of acrid fumes. Jim coughs loudly, choking on the thick haze, then shouts out above the high-pitched noisy motor to his brother.

“Ready Bob! Feeling lucky tonight; let’s catch our new King.” The motor changes tone and the blade starts to slowly rotate. The men strain against the twist as ice starts to chip up from the hole that is appearing beneath the flashing blade. The tone changes again, the blade moves faster, vibrating heavily up to their shoulders.

“She’s moving well now, hey Jim?” Bob states proudly. The blade goes beneath the surface, pushing up a mound of perfectly crushed ice around it. The two men laugh and start singing together.

“Oh I do like to be beneath the lakeside. Oh I do like to be beneath the lake. Beneath the lakeside, beneath the lake.” They both continue singing on with enthusiasm. Smoothly the drill runs, dropping deep into the ice. The unknown. A sickening crunch sounds out from the hole. Their singing stops.

Screaming comes from the revving motor. Both men are spun around, their feet slipping awkwardly as the blade bites savagely into the hole. The entire machine sways and wobbles off its course. Bob lets go with a shrill cry as the drill grips again and twists violently, throwing him to his knees. Jim trys to hang on to the machine, but it snatches him around. He remains on his feet, grappling with the erratic rotating handle that jerks and jolts him, spinning him in a circle.

With a loud cracking sound, a log-shaped object is ejected up and out of the hole. It spins around attached by something rope-like, which stretches down into the ice. The log sweeps Jim to his knees. He cries out in alarm and pain, reaching wide with his arms, desperately trying to hold on while avoiding the rotating log.

It spins faster, sending snow up into the air like confetti. Bob awkwardly gets to his feet, and he and Jim try to corral the rotating handle. They skip over the log as it repeatedly comes around at speed, like a child’s game. The drill jolts, the motor screams and billows out smoke.

The log detaches from its tether and slides off at speed, knocking Bob heavily to his knees. He slides to a stop. It travels quickly across the snowy ice towards the next shack, followed by the rope and several white, stick like objects attached.

Revving much louder, the drill drops down into the black hole. Water splashes up and hisses loudly as it hits the red hot motor. Jim furiously bashes at the drill with the torch, the motor splutters to a stop. Steam bubbles rise up from the boiling metal. Both men lean over, breathing heavily, their red mittens resting on their knees for support. Jim laughs out loud, fighting for breath.

Bob straightens with a groan. He laughs, shakes his head in disbelief then walks to where the log came to rest. Two middle-aged people dressed in thick red coats and wearing black snow shoes and blue woolly hats, appear through the snow. The man has his arm tightly wrapped around his female companion.

Holding the log, Bob returns with what looks a broken branch and three stick-like objects hanging at the end of what appears to be a stringy rope. Dirty lake water drips from it, onto the snow. Jim tries to heave up the ice drill on his own. It slides back down, the handles stop it from falling all the way into the hole. He turns to see Bob and the other people approaching through the heavy snow and calls out to them.

“Now that was one hell of a catch, Bob, hey? Hello there fellow fisher folk! Please excuse me; I’m truly exhausted. What say we forget the fishing for a while and grab ourselves a little dram back at the shack to warm us up and calm us down? We were both holding on for dear life there for a moment. Bob, I honestly thought that demon drill was going to pull both our arms clean off our bodies.”

Jim stops talking as Bob holds up a badly mangled human arm. He dangles it in front of Jim’s blank face. A hand is attached to it with red painted nails. At the other end is a long cord of skin with a shoulder loosely attached. Two ribs dangle from it. A n****e and a flat breast is stretched out. All of it is gray. Hairless.

Jim stares at the puzzling mess, his mouth wide open, steam wafting from it. Bob raises his eyebrows, lifts the dismembered arm and asks with a wry smile, “Would you be wanting a hand with that drill now Jim?”

Both men stand staring at the arm in disbelief. They notice the circular wounds on it, with concern, they glare at each other. The man from the next shack holds up his lantern, stares closely at the grizzly catch, and speaks in a trembling, high pitched tone. “I would say that’s a matter for the police, by the looks of it.”

The woman with him pulls off her mittens and takes out a mobile phone and punches in a number. Jim speaks to her.

“No need to be so hasty there, dear lady. It’s probably some old drunk, and well, you know how things are these days. Being a Friday night, I would be betting the police are mighty busy, too. I will give them a call sure enough when we have tidied up a little here, have a calming drink you know, and sort ourselves out a little.”

The woman gives Jim a puzzled look and switches off the phone. An urging voice comes from it. The woman speaks into her phone. Jim gives Bob a concerned glance and taps the pistol in his pocket.