For our summer flash fiction, I submit this 952 word short story.
In the Sweltering Dark
by Linda Robertson
Abigail roused to the sweltering dark, but she was not in her
bed.
Drowse fled away as realization
struck: she was in a boat. Tear-shaped, it had only room enough for her, and
barely that. As she slid onto a sitting position, she could not straighten her
legs. Her pantsuit was dirty and there was sand and mud under her nails.
What in Hell is going on?
Pushing her gray hair out of her face, she scanned around but recognized
nothing. The night-shrouded shores offered no explanation. Sweat beaded on her
brow, but not purely from the stress of this moment. Despite the lack of sun in
the sky, it had to be a hundred degrees here. A hundred and twenty.
Thinking to splash some water
on her face, she dipped a hand into the fluid but drew back instantly. Even the
river seemed about to boil.
How did I get here?
Thinking back, Abigail had
trouble remembering. She knew her name. She knew she was an Executive Assistant
to the Curator of Greek and Roman Art at the Cleveland Museum of Art – had been
since graduating from Bryant Stratton thirty-two years ago. She had a cottage in
a posh suburb. But she hadn't been home… and she certainly wasn't there now.
Eyes closed and hands covering
her face, she fought to remember.
Travelling.
Snippets of calm, blue ocean
shifted into a churning mass of green and gray. A gentle curve of coastline
being ravaged by the swells of giant, foamy waves. White houses in the rain.
Mykonos. I was in Greece! A
dream assignment and vacation in one.
There had been a storm. The
charter boat bucked and heaved under her. She was told to go below deck; she
hadn't understood the words but the captain pointed.
She hadn't made it.
Reliving it, she felt the wave
grip her, lift her, and pull her from the deck like a monster. Just drops of
water, she'd thought. Just drops...but gathered into millions, surging to the
whim of a tempest's fury, and she was powerless. The Aegean Sea closed over her
head. Gray turned to black.
I'm dead.
Pulling her hands from her
face, she opened her eyes again.
Yet I’m here. But where is here? If I’m
dead…this is…no. No. It cannot be.
The speed of the river increased. Ahead, it split. One side flowed
into a thick mist, the other seemed alight under the mist. Leaning, she steered
the boat toward the light.
Nearing, she found that wasn’t mist on this side, but smoke. And the
light on the water was flames.
Leaning again, twisting the boat beneath her, she willed it to
change its course. But Abigail could not alter the bearing. Her path had been
chosen.
Fear claimed her as she neared the flaming portion of the river. A
more tangible version of death was about to seize her.
Hugging herself to keep as far from the flames as possible, the
smoke enveloped Abigail and she floated among the flames. Every breath of this steamy
air made her lungs feel more scalded.
In seconds, figures appeared to the left and right, near the
shoreline. They were women, some ankle deep in the water, some knee deep. All
moaned or wept.
At the sound of a nearby scream, Abigail turned sharply as another
woman appeared, closer, and waist deep in the river. This one wore a tattered blouse
with scorched cuffs, and her thin hair hung like so many threads. The burnt
cuffs flaked away like ash as she reached out, broken nails scratching at the rail
but finding no purchase. She cackled and cried, though it could have been mad
laughter.
Drifting onward, the figures grew more numerous, many much closer
to the boat. Their piteous cries filled Abigail’s ears and she covered them but
could not block the sound. Her eyes squeezed shut again and seemed to continue
burning from the smoke.
This couldn’t be happening.
She thought of her children and her husband, finally acknowledging
the pain and loss they must be suffering, and her heart grew heavy knowing they
would grieve. In his own way, so would her dog, Dante—
At his name, knowledge connected with thoughts and ideas and bound
tight as she looked around again.
Phlegethon.
“I’ve committed no violent crimes,” she shouted into the smoky
haze and drawing the attention of those trapped in the river. “I am not meant
to be here!”
She felt and heard the scratch of something on the bottom and the
boat lurched to a halt despite the current. Peering over the edge, she saw a wrinkled
face barely above the surface of the lake. White hair fanned around her. “Help
me!” The woman moved slightly to either side as if keeping the ebb of the heated
water from flowing into the corners of her eyes and up her nose. Her arm,
beneath the surface must have grabbed the keel. “Help!”
Being restrained in the river, the flames latched onto the boat.
They licked up the sides, painting her view in orange and red. “Let go!”
From the river came only laughter. Not just the closest one; all the
women began to laugh.
Abigail pulled off her shoe and threw it at the old face.
Fire-water splashed across the woman’s eyes and she screamed. The boat began to
drift again, but too late. The flames had set in and the heat redoubled at Abigail’s
back—
Sitting up in her bed, Abigail gasped. Lightning flickered and
thunder boomed outside her window. Aside from the pouring rain there was no
sound. No light. Not even the clock.
The electric’s out. AC cut off.
And another hot flash crawled over her.
