north

Pookie had his limit.
Oysters, nice deep fat ones. spilled out over the edge of his wire basket. An obliquely hanging sun splashed light over the outer islands. Beyond, little silver fires danced on the the open water. Pookie looked east while he walked over the flats, canted over to the starboard to balance the weight of the oysters. Suddenly he sunk like a stone, his arms flailing out, letting go of his oysters. Then everything was still. All around him, up to his armpits, the ooze shimmered. It was as thick as mayonnaise, as black as a street.
"Fuckin' sinkhole," Pookie said
The tide was coming fast and Pookie was lodged good, sunk like a fence post in wet cay. He often came to Perkin's Bay, as much for its isolation as for its shellfish. Pookie was definitely alone now.
He opened the cellphone he kept in his top pocket. No bars.
The water spilled into Perkin's Bay, pushed by an easterly wind. The sun slid down behind the island. When the cold tide line finally hit Pookie in his chest he sucked in a quick startled breath. Then saw headlights carving through the dusk on the dunes above him.
Pookie waved the illuminated cellphone over his head. He could feel the water on his back now. The headlights kept sweeping past. Pookie swung both hands over his head and screamed. Then he saw the taillights, red and falling away into the growing darkness.
Then they glowed brighter.