Phishing

No bites yet. Unless you count mosquitos.

Marcus crinkled his nose at the thought. He swatted at another bloodsucker as it pricked his neck. He scratched at the spot and checked his watch.

6 p.m.

Another autumn upstate buzzing with damn mosquitos. First frost couldn't come soon enough.

Marcus shook his head, tugging at the collar of his shirt, which was already causing the fresh bite to itch.

Dusk was creeping in. Unwavering shadows from the surrounding trees quickly replaced the dancing sunlight on the lake's surface. The once warm sand was now chill around his toes, a layer of gray settling over the tan pebbles. He brushed sand from the bottom of his bare feet and began pulling his socks back on.

An entire afternoon and nothing. Only got a few weekends left of this before the ice rolls in. Just not sure if it's worth it anymore.

He pulled on his boots and slowly stood, stretching his back and arms. Mid-30s, but his salt and pepper beard and arthritic stiffness could fool anyone into guessing at least mid-40s. With the gracefulness of an aging sloth, he meandered up the sandy slope of the waterfront to his white pick-up.

On the tailgate sat his usual fishing trip necessities. His grandfather's old tackle box, bursting with spinners and topwater lures his grandfather had collected, or rather hoarded, for decades. A small red cooler packed with the remains of a sandwich and empty cans of Twisted Tea, though Marcus supposed the color was closer to maroon now from dirt build up. And of course, the trusty 3-band radio his cousin Jay and him had found at a flea market a few years back. The frequencies weren't always crisp, but the crackling sound it emitted as it fought to play tunes were relaxing in a way.

Marcus gave the tuning knob an absent-minded turn as he reached the tailgate, the radio answering him with the familiar garbled droning sound he had grown accustomed to hearing on his fishing trips. It was white noise he could listen to while staring out at the water, telepathically nudging largemouth bass and northern pike closer to the hook. The sound was a subtle yet steady reminder he was present. He was outside, in the wilderness, but never too far from humanity.

Today was no different.

He had chosen a new spot, off the beaten path, down a trail just flat and wide enough to allow his truck through. The lake was remote, nicknamed "Pendant Pond," for the thick vegetation and lake weeds that grew at the bottom, trapping mussels and pebbles of naturally-formed quartz in its tangles. Local kids would fish these gnarly tangles out of the water and wear them like necklaces.

Even out here by Pendant Pond, through the thick wall of white pines surrounding the waterfront, he could see brief flashes of headlights speeding down the highway a couple miles back up the trail.

He was alone, but not lost.

Cheers, Marcus thought to himself as he swiped a fourth and final Twisted Tea from the cooler and cracked it open. The daylight was fading, but he figured he had about another half hour or so before dark.

A few more casts, then home.

He plucked one of the colorful crankbaits from his tackle box and with a tired grunt, began shuffling back down the slope. He plopped down in his camp chair and let the ice-cold can slide into the cup holder beside him. Rolling up his sleeves in last-ditch anticipation, he reached for the fishing rod he had left half-buried in the sand in front of his chair.

Come on, baby. Fresh lure, fresh start.

With dexterous hands, Marcus rigged the rod with the new lure. He could hear his grandfather's voice in the back of his mind as he drew his arm back over his head to cast, "Give it the ol' swish and flick, Marco!"

Smiling to himself, Marcus closed his eyes and cast, whipping the rod forward like a cowboy roping a bull.

The familiar whooshing sound of the line reached his ears as it sailed overhead, piercing the water's surface with a satisfying kerplunk.

Never gets old.

Marcus settled in, taking a long swig from his drink as he watched the water, occasionally reeling the line back in to re-adjust its position. For about 15 minutes or so, things were fairly quiet. The radio crackled from its spot on the tailgate, the fishing line ticked as he turned the reel inch by inch and the occasional splash of a bull frog somewhere along the shore made him jump.

But mostly, it was quiet.

"Hello?"

The invasive sound made Marcus get very still. He stopped reeling in the line and glanced around cautiously.

The hell? What was that?

It had barely been audible. The voice was very faint. But he could've sworn he'd heard someone speak. No, he knew he'd heard someone speak.

"H- hello? Is someone there?"

There it was again. Again, very faint, but there was no mistaking the delicate crackling sound that muffled the voice.

The radio.

Marcus turned in his seat to look over at his truck. Perched on the end of the tailgate, the small, second-hand radio stared back at him ominously. The darkness of the evening descending around it made its metallic exterior stick out like a face. The music had stopped playing.

"Can anyone hear me?" The crackling voice pleaded once more. "Please, I need help."

What the hell?

Feeling somewhat uneasy, Marcus stuck the end of the fishing rod back in the sand and stood up. As he made his way back up the slope, troubled words escaped his lips before he could even make sense of them.

"Are you okay?" Marcus asked. "You need help?"

I'm an idiot, he thought. This isn't a two-way radio. Even if it was, there's no push-to-talk button, me and Jay checked when we bought it. There's just the useless tuning knob.

"Yes! Please, help," the voice shouted, louder and clearer this time. "Please!"

Jesus Christ, can they hear me?

Marcus walked up to the tailgate and stared at the radio. He couldn't bring himself to pick it up, or even touch it. But again, words poured out of his lips and into the ether.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a hiker, I'm completely lost," the voice responded. It was a young man's voice, high-pitched and clearly terrified. "My phone died and I don't have a map, I have no idea where I am. It's cold and dark!"

"Okay, okay, calm down," Marcus stuttered, trying to keep his own voice steady as he spoke. "Are you okay, are you injured?"

"I'm cold," the hiker repeated. "My clothes are soaked, I have no way to warm up. I can barely feel my hands."

Soaked clothes? Marcus thought to himself. Today was a little overcast, but there was no rain. The rain was yesterday.

"What happened to you?"

"I- I don't know, I ca- can't remember," the hiker explained through now chattering teeth. "It's s- so c- cold."

"Okay, hold on," Marcus directed, pausing to pull his cell phone out of his back pocket. He checked the signal. No bars. No calling 9-1-1.

Crap. What the hell do I do?

"Okay," Marcus breathed, thinking through his options. "Okay, um... Where are you hiking? Do you know the name of the trail, or maybe the state park?"

"I... I'm not sure. Th- there's a lake here. I d- don't know what's it's c- called."

"A lake, okay," Marcus said, wiping some sweat from his forehead. "Okay, are you near the lake? Maybe there's a campsite, or a lean-to nearby? Any kind of trail sign or marker?"

"L- let me look around," the hiker responded. "It's d- dark, h- hard to see."

Marcus waited, tapping his foot on the ground to expel some of the anxiety welling up in his chest.

Damn it, I don't know where the hell this guy is, how on earth am I supposed to help?

"I s- see a truck," the voice said quietly. "A w- white truck by the l-lake's edge."

What? A white truck like my white truck?

Marcus glanced over his shoulder at the lake behind him, scrutinizing the murky dark of the evening that had settled over its surface. Was the hiker somewhere on the other side maybe? The adrenaline was rushing now, making his ears ring. Without thinking, he raised both arms in the air and started waving.

"Are you hiking at Pendant Pond?" Marcus asked, still waving. "Can you see me waving? I'm at Pendant Pond, I think you can see my truck, can you see me waving?"

There was a long pause this time, maybe 30 seconds or so. Then a response, no louder than a whisper. And no more chattering teeth.

"Are you alone?"

Marcus stopped waving. He lowered his arms to his sides and turned back toward the radio. He thought he had maybe misheard—the voice that had asked that question sounded different than the one before. It didn't sound very frightened anymore either.

"Who is this?" Marcus asked, trying to swallow the lump that now sat in his throat. "Is this the same hiker I was just talking to before?"

No answer for another 30, maybe 45 seconds. Then a voice, deeper. Calm.

"Are you well-fed?"

What is he talking about? Is he messing with me now?

"If this is some sort of prank, screw you," Marcus said, trying to sound as confident and no-nonsense as possible. "I thought you were in trouble, do you need help or not?"

"I need help."

"Okay then, so are you at Pendant Pond? If you tell me where you are, maybe I can find you. We can take my truck and drive to the nearest hospital, whatever you need."

"I need food."

Anger was quickly replacing any concern Marcus had left for the mysterious hiker. What is this guy's deal? It's like I'm talking to a completely different person than before.

"We'll grab food on the way to hospital, okay?" Marcus snapped, throwing his hands in the air. "We'll grab a whole box of Honey Buns on the way there, I don't care. Now where are you?"

Silence. Nothing but the quiet ripple of disturbed lake water down the slope a few feet away. Then a deep, raspy voice dripped through the radio's speaker like sludge through a drain pipe.

"Behind you."