Beach Reads #2: Feral Creatures

cross my heart

Welcome to Beach Reads for Goth Kids. All summer long, I’m sending out short stories that pack a haunting punch: creatures-of-the-week, summer camp slashers, heatwave madness, and things that go bump in the cul-de-sac. These will be sticky stories with summery themes, best consumed in a beach chair.

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the park, we present Feral Creatures.

Photo by Johnny Briggs on Unsplash

On sticky summer Wednesdays, we walked through the woods, a stolen summer hour when we could be we.

We liked the woods, that patch of our neighborhood park where big trees were allowed to be big, where the dark air was a few degrees cooler, and you could lose sight of the fences and lawns and pretend to be something wild. Where no one would call you mom or honey for an hour and you could look into your best friend’s face and it would look the same as fourth grade.

One hissing hot Wednesday, we woke to the news that a girl was found murdered in the woods. Our woods.

But Wednesday walks were sacred. We couldn’t bear to skip. To run straight into the stiff, exhausting day without the release valve of each other was a wretched fate. We would walk.

The news rippled through the park on humid air. We overheard two joggers speculating as they passed. We noticed the regular crew of nannies gripping their charges’ sweaty hands tighter than before. We shaded our eyes with our fingers, tried to discern any hints of danger, but there were none.

Making our way toward the cool of the woods, we were stopped by a park volunteer in khaki shorts. Sweat trickled down our backs in the sun, beaded on our upper lips. We expected to be turned back.

But instead she pointed at the grass, at a turtle the size of a salad plate, running on bowed legs away from the shade of the woods. Its shell barely domed over the tall blades.

“It’s laying season. That’s a female and she’s looking for a place to lay her eggs.”

We cooed. The little lady turtle, running around in the nuclear sun because instinct told her to reproduce this way. To find some tall grass and bury her eggs and hope for the best. She didn’t know this was a park. She didn’t know that whether her babies lived or died was not up to her, but to a khaki-clad volunteer in a sun hat.

“You might see a lot of them around, being more active than usual. The girls are all over the place today.” She tipped her wide brimmed hat and we headed into the woods.

The shaded air was thick. We ambled, oppressed by the heat and attuned to any leftover evidence of a murder. Of course there was none, as much as we wished to rubberneck. Not a single latex glove. It was still just a path through a wooded section of the neighborhood park, even if somewhere nearby, in an unmarked spot, a girl was found dead.

We were quieter than usual, each of us wondering what the trees look like if you’re dying here. Straining for the sound of a twig snapping under a booted foot, what we heard was our own sneakers scratching the path.

We came to an overlook and paused to look at the pond. Our precious cement depression, watered with runoff from dozens of perfect lawns.

The turtles were everywhere. Lined up on every log, shells overlapping like hot coins. Pointed heads bobbing out of the muck.

I don’t remember what we were talking about when we heard the splash.

We jumped. But it was just a pigeon, bathing in the pond, iridescent gray wings outstretched on the surface.

Only it was not bathing. It was drowning.

The scene registered slowly. The bird flapped and splashed. Someone said, should we help him?

At some signal we didn’t understand, the turtles started dropping off their logs, making no splashes of their own, cutting into the black water like they were designed to do it. Every ripple resolved itself into a tiny turtle head. They swam toward the bird.

Someone said they’re going to help him. Or did we just think it?

Climbing over each other’s backs, expressionless and in no hurry, turtles emerged out of the water and clambered over top of each other, over top of the bird. My vision tunneled, trying to focus, to force together a picture that made sense.

Their hard shiny shells rose onto his back. One after the other they came; the bird wore out, his feathers drooped. Every bit like a zombie horde, the turtles pushed him down.

He flapped his wings, but what can a pigeon do? He didn’t even coo or cluck or screech while the horde dragged him under. I imagine he was kicking his scratchy pink feet below the surface, but the turtles were an endless wave. Thick skin and hard armor and lungs that don’t need air.

We watched with rapt awareness as the bird was pushed down a final time. Queasiness drifted through me like the cool breeze still months away.

We watched until the water was still. Until the turtles drifted apart without making a wave, disappearing into the dark.

And then we kept watching because we didn’t know what to say. The ice in our cold brews melted, plastic cups dripping, coffee turned tepid.

The tall trees behind us leaned in close, green blackness sucking at our air. Their thick trunks permitted to stand in a bargain we thought we had made. No danger here. Promise.