Page 2 of Wrath

I sit up more. Yeah, this dude’s definitely sitting on the edge of the bridge. He's got some long legs that are still at first...and then they start to swing a little. Probably just my imagination, but I feel like they're swinging in an agitated kind of way.

You should be nervous,I think at him.

The only person I know who jumped off the trestle bridge isMatt McGuin, when he was drunk on the Fourth of July, the summer after his freshman year of college. I guess the impact got him, and due to all the alcohol, he couldn’t swim up to the surface. Mrs. McGuin didn't even go to the funeral. Wouldn't come out of her house for months.

Something falls down off the tracks. I guess a little dirt or something. I’m frowning up at him when it happens again. This time, something hits me.

This guy's throwing pebbles? What the hell?

I shield my forehead with my hand, and right about the time I'm gonna shout up at him, there’s a creak. He’s standing. I think:good he’s leaving, he’ll be gone before the train comes.

But hejumps.

No, that’s not a jump. The mofodoveoff the bridge. I see the blur of his form—fucking falling—and I note shoes on his feet. Holy shitballs. His massive splash rocks my boat pretty damn hard. I sit there with my heartbeat going haywire for a second, waiting for his head to pop out of the water. When it doesn’t happen, my heart shoots up into my throat.

Put the trolling motor down and get him!

He’ll come up below the boat!

It takes my brain another second to realize I need to dive in.

No shit, Miller.

Hesitation—thinking of those catfish. Then I tug my shirt over my head—why does that matter, dumbass?—and acknowledge that my hesitancy is because I'm hoping that his head'll break the surface any second.

When it doesn't, I do what any Fairplay guy would do. Lifeguard since I was fourteen, swimming in this lake since before I could walk. I step up onto one of my leather swivel seats and dive in after.

Motherfuckit.

There's always that initial shock of cold—even in summer.My head and shoulders break the surface, and my legs are kicking and my arms are treading. Dammit! I don't see him.

I dive under, kicking forward, maybe closer to the spot where he plunged under. Kind of don't remember where—

Oh shit!The fucker KICKED me! In the fucking temple! I surface holding my head, and the sounds of choking fill my ears. I'm wiping my eyes when he grabs onto my arm and pulls hard.

“UUUUUUUUGGHHK!”

“Uuuuuuuugggghhkkk!”

The awful choking sounds he’s making are terrible, and so loud. They would freak me right the fuck out—if I'd never heard another fucker choking.

I ignore that part and also the guy’s big-eyed face and open mouth, and when he won't stop pulling on me, I sorta lightly punch him, make my way around behind him. He’s still grabbing at me, so I slap at him again.

“Get on your back!”

He doesn’t—he’s still flailing—but somehow I get my free arm around his head so that his chin is in the crook of my elbow. There's a second where I guess he realizes I’ve got him. His hands come around my arm, squeezing, and I pant, "Better not do that."

He's still making the awful sound—wet and hoarse from low down in his throat—and I can tell he's kinda bad off because I feel his body shaking.

"Just chill, brother. I gotchu."

His fingers claw my arm. The choking sounds keep coming. I’m almost glad he’s clawing me because at least he hasn’t croaked yet, but his hand is strong. He’s hurting my arm, and it’s keeping me from swimming as hard.

"Stop, dude! Relax and trust me."

I don't know if he does, or if maybe he passes out. His body feels near limp except the shaking and the awful gasping as Iswim with long, hard strokes toward the mound of rock that marks the base of the bridge.

Jesus, it's a long way off.

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