Swamp Tour for Two

This week’s post is a short story that I wrote after moving to the New Orleans area. Enjoy.

August 15th, 2005 – Two weeks before Hurricane Katrina

Chris Faulkner had checked out of his hotel at eleven that morning and walked directly to the first bar he could find. He was a young guy in his twenties, and he was certain his body could handle whatever liquid punishment was on tap.

“You okay, son?” a raspy voice asked hours later.

Chris stared at the atrophied and liver-spotted skeleton of a man seated on the barstool beside him.

“You here because of a woman or ‘cause of money?” the old man asked, undeterred by Chris’ dumbfounded expression.

“I’m here because I don’t want to talk about what happened.”

How did he even get in here without me noticing? Chris thought. Like some sort of geriatric ninja.

“We were supposed to go on a swamp tour today,” Chris said after another beer and a half. “It was my idea…”

“Pull yourself together now,” the man replied sternly. “You’re acting like she’s dead.”

“It’s nothing like that. A piece of trash D.J. from the club was making moves on my woman all last night. I make one stinkin’ comment, and she’s all justified in running off ‘cause I’m too controlling.”

Chris drained the rest of his glass. “This city sucks.”

“Heh, heh.” The old man’s chuckle sounded like the wheezing of a balloon with a pinhole. “You still going on your swamp tour?”

“Nah. Think I’ll drink ‘til I throw up.”

“You shouldn’t miss the swamp’s beauty just ‘cause some Jezebel run out on you. Hell, I could take you on a tour for a quarter of what those other companies would charge.”

Chris regarded the frail little man with all of the inebriated skepticism he could muster. “You?” he finally asked.

“Son, I’ll take you to parts of the bayou they don’t even know about. Show you the treasures of this land.”

Chris looked at his half-empty glass. He could probably go on the tour and still be back in time to drink himself stupid. After all, the swamp tour had been his idea.

>>>>

The hour in the boat had helped Chris to regain some clarity, but the stifling humidity made his stomach churn like the boat motor’s wake.

“Hang in there now. We’re almost there,” the old man said over his shoulder. He stood at the wheel of the ship, like some sort of real life version of Steamboat Willie from Disney’s old black and white cartoon.

“This cove here is my favorite,” the old man said, continuing his duties as tour guide. “There’s an abandoned house back here that belonged to one of the most powerful men in all Louisiana. He had a beautiful plantation and enough slaves to churn out twice the harvest as any other farmer throughout the lower parishes.”

“Well, stories say this entrepreneur wasn’t interested in getting married; he wanted to choose his successor rather than be stuck with whatever fate may give him by way of offspring. So he stayed away from the white women, but he still had manly needs. Instead, he used his slave women.”

The old man interrupted himself with a conspiratorial bit of commentary, “It wasn’t as though he was the only proper gentleman engaging in such behavior.

“Anyway, one day, an old Voodoo witch wandered onto the property mumbling about injustices and other such drivel. She swore the man would be bound to this house through all time and cursed…”

As the man talked, Chris felt his mind become as murky as the brackish waters. Slowly reeling, he took a step backwards, then two, and then felt himself falling.

His senses returned to him in a deluge. The boat motor’s propellers had only narrowly missed his head, and the force of the motor pushed him further underwater.

Chris ascended to the water’s surface just as his lungs felt they would burst. He searched for the boat and saw in the distance what was once a proud estate house now hopelessly worn away, with the second floor nearly collapsed and the porch sagging to the ground.

A deep rumbling growl gave Chris hope. The boat’s engine, he thought, but he caught sight of the boat and realized that the motor was off. The growl came from the thing on the deck. It stared at Chris with dark, glassy alligator eyes before lithely racing to the edge and diving off. When the figure hit the water, it slid in like a needle into cloth. There was barely any splash.

Overwhelming panic swirled up Chris’s spine, and he swam for the closest shoreline. He clutched for the gnarled roots of a tree on the bank when he felt a powerful tug. Living, moving serpentine cords wound themselves around his knees. Chris shrieked as he swatted at them, first with his fist, then with a fallen branch. The cords slid down his leg as Chris desperately clawed himself away.

Chris was quickly on his feet – one shoe missing – and running through the underbrush. Limbs lashed at his face, and moss and vines threatened to entangle him once more. But Chris never slowed.

“NOOOO!” the creature shrieked. “Creature” was the only word Chris could find for it. It still vaguely resembled the old man, but living cords replaced his fingers. The man’s jaw had become distended and jagged, white gleaming teeth filled its hideous mouth. Despite the head start that Chris had allowed himself by accidentally falling off the boat, the creature moved so deftly that it was nearly on top of him.

Chris ran more desperately, threatening to topple over at any moment. Still the creature bellowed, but its cries grew hoarser. “Noooo…” it wheezed.

Looking over his should through the oncoming darkness of night, Chris thought he saw the frail man hobbling once more in place of the monster. Still, Chris did not stop running for hours.