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Stories from the Verse
A Dozen Verses
Chapter 100: Slade 284
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Cooper 105
The next problem for Slade and Shella was food. He had warmed enough that he could probably brave the cold again, and there were fish in the lake--but how could he get them? He had never been much for fishing--like most suburban kids he had owned a rod and reel as a pre-teen, but quickly lost interest in sitting and waiting for something to happen. Lauren would catch fish back in the parakeet world, but she had a hunting arrow to use as a spear. He had never learned how to do it, and he had nothing at all like that arrow.
Wait--he had almost nothing, maybe, but not nothing. He was using this stupid bayoneted rifle for a clumsy walking stick ever since someone had killed him with it, and had frequently considered abandoning and disowning it, but there was something, well, nostalgic about having taken with him the weapon that had killed him. It was worth a try.
He did not bundle up quite so completely this time. He figured that as soon as he speared a fish he would return to the warmth of the shelter, and the less clothing he soaked the better his chances of survival if the shelter failed. The socks seemed to be dry enough, so he wore pants and boots and his heavy cape, and waded back into the stream. He hefted the gun and played with it a bit, trying to determine how to overcome its awkward balance. He wanted to stab with one hand; two hands would actually be harder to control, he expected. He got a solid grip on it, and selected a fish from the few in the water around him, and stabbed.
The aim was accurate, and the tip of the bayonet found its mark, the force sufficient to pierce through the fish. Unfortunately, as he pulled back his catch slipped off the smooth blade and rapidly washed down the stream. Of course--Lauren’s arrows were barbed, bayonets were smooth. He shook his head, repositioned himself, and looked for another fish.
Finding one, he struck, but missed. Fish scattered. Fortunately, in the current there were always more coming, and he soon found another. He stabbed this one, and angled the blade such that it was pointed upstream into the current. Then he swept it upward in an arc over the shore, and held it angled upward as the dying fish flopped a bit before going still. He trudged back onto the shore and into the shelter, smiling at his prize--and then frowning as he realized he did not have any obvious way of cooking it.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
