AFLOAT By Eric Burbridge

Featured Fiction SS 2019

It rained for twenty-four hours before Emory decided to get high. The

cast on his shattered left leg and hip itched like hell. He needed relief and

waved the flame under the spoon. He drew the heroin into the syringe,

pierced his vein and watched the blood mix with the chalky white fluid.

Thunder and lightning exploded outside and in his head. He fell back on the

bed and his arteries were on fire. Oh, no, fentanyl mix, they lied…they

killed him.

          He was cold and wet, darkness his only companion. Focus. He passed

out, but how long was he out, twelve hours, a day? He splashed water on

the bed the place was flooded. He managed to grab the headboard. What do

I do? An eerie silence fell over the place. The rain had stopped, but the

window was open and the stench of sewerage in the water turned his

stomach. A splash in the other room, what was that? Contaminated water

soaked into the cast; the itch returned. His lower half would be infected if it

wasn’t already. Emergency flashing lights danced on the walls.

          People in boats, it had to be!

          He scooted to the opposite side and grabbed the chair before it floated

away. If he could only get on it and scream for help. The lights faded, then

darkness. But what were those glowing spots in the water?

          Spots! Those weren’t spots, but eyes just above the water.

          A gator!

          He snatched his arm from the chair too late. The gator’s teeth sank

into his biceps as it tried to swallow his arm. The pain was unbearable.

          “Help!!”

          Emory jerked back and forth and the reptile’s grip loosened. He’d

almost got his arm out when the gator moved with lightning speed onto the

bed. Emory punched its mouth. “Get back!” It didn’t. Instead its mouth

snapped up his arm again, spun trying to flip him. The more he pulled the

farther his arm went down the gator’s throat. Flashing lights

reappeared and revealed the black bumpy scales of the predator

determined to kill him. The sickening smell coupled with panic made him

puke. The contents of his stomach splashed in the water and face of his

assailant. Emory scooted back on the bed and so did the gator, locked on his

arm, but the tingling stopped.

          “Help…help somebody…please help!!”

          The gator’s eyes popped open. Oh shit.

          “A mandatory evacuation is in effect. Please go to the upper

floors of your residences if possible.” A male voice with a heavy southern

drawl shouted through a loud speaker. Waves of water rushed through the

window as a boat circled the house. He managed to move his arm in the

gullet of the gator and felt boney ridges. He opened his fist; his fingers

would prevent his arm from going any further. The reptile wriggled one last

time.

          “Dead…you’re dead. Help!!” The waves in the water started to rise

and cover his face.

          After all this, now he was going to drown. A boat bumped into the

house? “Anybody in there?” A guy slipped through the window his helmet

light shined in Emory’s face. “Jesus, Willy there’s a big ass gator in here…he

got a guy’s arm in his mouth!!”

          “Help.” Emory tried to scream but only whimpered.

          The rescue worker waded through the putrid water opposite the

gator. “Be still guy…be calm. Your arm stuck?” Emory nodded. “Willy, get

your fire ax, hurry.”

          “OK.” The worked poked the gator with the axe and pushed it further

on the bed. “It’s dead, Willy.” He shouted. “Ok guy, I’m gonna chop its head

off, relax…be still.” Emory nodded and closed his eyes. He still couldn’t feel

his arm. “Be still.” The sound sickened him and blood sprayed in his face.

Chop, chop. He wanted to scream, “Don’t cut off my arm,” but couldn’t and

lost consciousness.

          Emory focused on the beeping sound. He was in a hospital and

thanked God.

          “Mr. Neels, you’re a miracle. That gator almost had your arm for

breakfast, but we saved it.” A female with a soothing voice said. “I’m Dr.

Patel. We changed your cast and with antibiotics, we shortened it by the

way, it should heal the rash. You’re lucky. I’ll let you rest, see you later.”

          “You’re right doc, thanks.” He hoped lucky enough to get into a good

recovery program.

Eric Burbridge has been writing short stories and poetry for decades and has been published in numerous literary magazines. He is now working on a series of novels.