Scorpion by Ken Douglas Page B

let go with his free hand and he grabbed downward, reaching for Earl’s hand. He was ten years younger than Earl and had the rippling muscles of an athlete, but Earl was scared strong. The more Jackson tried to free Earl’s fingers from his wrist the tighter Earl squeezed.
    “ I can’t hold on much longer. Pull me up or we both go.” He was hard now, throbbing and ready.
    “ No,” Jackson said.
    “ Fuck you!” Earl yelled, letting loose his anger. He let go of the hand that was holding on to the rail and grabbed onto Jackson’s dangling arm and now all of his weight was pulling Jackson downward. It was too much, and in the instant it took Jackson to figure out what had happened it was too late. He slid off the rail, tumbling after Earl, and together they fell toward the river below.
    “ Son of a bitch!” Earl yelled as they fell. He felt Jackson’s body jerk, and he let go of his arm just as they hit the water, grabbing a great breath as he slid into it feet first. The cold wet chilled him, body and soul, as he sank like a missile to the bottom, feet digging through the moving silt and into the soft mud. The adrenaline sparking and slicing through his body killed the river cold as he pushed and swam toward the surface. But the rushing river had a mind of his own, dragging him away from the spot where he’d plunged into the water and toward the rapids.
    The more he struggled toward the surface the more the river struggled to keep him below, pulling him along, like a leaf on the breeze. His heart was thumping, his lungs were aching. There was a jackhammer pounding in his chest, demanding oxygen. The dark wet of the river engulfed him.
    The river hit a bend and something struck him as he made the turn. He couldn’t hold out much longer. The thing hit him again. A log, his mind screamed. A floating log. A log floating on the surface. He was close, so close. He couldn’t quit now. He wouldn’t quit now.
    He surfaced, grabbed a quick breath and went under again. If only he could grab onto the log. He could maybe ride it through the rapids. Maybe. He bumped it again and threw an arm around it. It sank some as he pulled on it, but it allowed him to get his head out of the water again, and he grabbed another breath.
    Not far now, rapids and rocks.
    He knew his chances weren’t good. He’d seen what the rapids could do to a man, been present at more then one autopsy. The river broke your bones, lacerated your skin, filled your lungs, then it beat you raw and spit out a thing in the calm below that didn’t look human.
    And people came from miles around to ride the rapids. They called it a challenge, a thrill. They called it fun. And Earl was one of them. He loved riding the river. Knew its every twist and turn. He’d done it dozens of times. But always in a raft, and never solo.
    The first dangerous turn was coming up. There was a large group of rocks to the right, on the outside of the turn, and a smaller cluster in the center of the river. You could either take the turn on the left, close to the bank or take the more dangerous route, between the rocks. He’d done it both ways and preferred to go between the two groups of rocks, because it left you in a better position for the next group. But he was without a raft and there was nobody on the river except him and the log, so he wrapped his arm around it and frantically kicked to the left.
    It was a cloudless sky and the sunlight reflecting off the rushing water made the rocks ahead hard to see, but he sensed he was heading right for them. He kicked himself around the log and positioned it between himself and the hazard ahead. The log hit the rocks first, cushioning the collision, and that surprised him, but he held onto it until they were through the narrow gap.
    Then for a few seconds it would be smooth, then came the worst or the most challenging part, depending on your point of view. He tried to pull himself up on the log, but it wasn’t buoyant enough, and it