Billy: A Tale Of Unrelenting Terror (19 page)

N
icholas ran as fast as he could manage through the dense vegetation. When the water got deep, he swam. He knew that he was surrounded by vicious and unseen predators that haunted the swamp in the night, but instinct kept him moving forward. Nick was no longer scared of the alligators and snakes all around him. He was running away from something much worse.

He’d been traveling for only a short time when he heard the gunshots erupt from behind him. Nick climbed up on a small outcropping of land in order to catch his breath, and listened. Loud, staccato bursts from his Glock rang out in the night, followed by another round of four or five shots. Minutes later, he heard one more shot before the eerie silence returned. Nick waited to hear the dreadful roar of the victorious beast, but no further sound was heard. He sighed with relief when the croaking of frogs and chirping of crickets returned.

Nicholas thought about heading back toward Lost Bayou Plantation, but he remembered the words that Cap’n Guidry had spoken. That thing was smart. Nick thought that it could be a trap. The beast could be keeping quiet in order to lure him out of hiding only to devour him when he returned. It didn’t matter, thought Nick. He had promised Guidry that he was going to get out of there and not look back, no matter what. That’s just what he intended to do.

Nick was forced to slow down as he tried to navigate his way through the swamp at night. After an hour or so, he climbed into a big oak tree to wait for daylight to return. He listened intently to the sounds of the insects and creatures around him, but heard none that alerted him to the return of the beast. He knew by now that the other denizens of the hostile environment held their own breaths when the monster was around, so as long as Nick could hear the other animals lurking about, he was reasonably assured that the terrifying creature was not around.

The detective sat alone in the tree and peered into the darkness all around him. The air was thick, and a fine mist floated over the stagnant water, giving off an eerie, green glow in small areas. Nick remembered, when he was a child, his mother used to tell him stories about the luminous patches of fog, that they were really ghostly apparitions from beyond the grave, the forsaken spirits damned to roam the bogs for eternity. He knew that, in reality, it was just methane gas rising from the multitude of rotting vegetation that the swamp produced. After what he’d just experienced, Nick wondered if his dear, departed mother’s explanation was closer to the truth.

A sudden rustle of leaves to his left interrupted Nick’s thoughts. He froze in fear as he realized there was something in the tree with him. Nick held his breath and pulled the shotgun closer to his side. An unexpected sound almost made him slip and fall into the darkness below.

"Whoooo!"

Nick laughed. "A fucking owl," he muttered underneath his breath in relief. The detective was grateful for the company. He figured that as long as the bird of prey was next to him, the beast wasn’t. Of course, the owl could just fly away at the first inkling of danger, thought Nick. But the fact that he remained was a promising sign that Nick was safe, at least for the moment. Nicholas couldn’t see shit in the dark, but the feathered nocturnal predator could see all.

Nick thought about the events that brought him to this desolate place. He thought of how he had abandoned his loving mother to fend for herself all those years ago. He remembered that he had always intended to go back and rescue her once he was successful enough. Life taught him too late that the definition of ‘enough’ was a moving target that most people could never attain. In the end, he made a life for himself over in New Orleans, while his mother waited for a day that never came. Nick felt shame and guilt for what he had done, for what he had failed to do, and there was nothing he could ever do now to redeem himself for his sin. His mother was gone; her son had never returned.

The rational side of Nick told him that it ended up being for the best. The area in which his home had been, in eastern New Orleans, quickly deteriorated not long after he moved there. Violent crime was rampant. Nick worked long hours, and his poor Evangeline would have been all alone in an unfamiliar and hostile environment. It would’ve been a scary place for an old Cajun country girl to spend her last days. In the end, Hurricane Katrina washed it all away while Nick was out of town. Evangeline Vizier would have met the same fate that the St. Pierres had met. No, she had been better off without him – a sentiment that did little to comfort Nick’s tortured soul.

He thought about Marie Leblanc, about how he’d left without a word when the only girl he’d ever loved ran off with the ignorant and cruel Ronald Savoy. Nick always told himself that she was probably better off anyway. Ronnie’s family had money. He could give her a life that Nick never could. Those illusions had been shattered upon his return. Marie suffered greatly for her mistake, a mistake that might not have happened if Nick would only have put up more of a fight to keep her all those years ago. In the end, he had just left, abandoning her as he had his mother.

Now, he had returned. Nick had come rolling back into town after all those years; not as a conquering hero, but as a failure who’d been all but run out of town, his town. The detective had run out on the historic and glorious city of New Orleans that had given Nick a sense of purpose, a home, a career. He’d been high and dry in the Rocky Mountains learning the latest techniques to aid him in the successful searches for missing persons. All the good that did him now, with him sitting in a tree, lost in the swamp, and hiding from some kind of unholy creature that was out for blood, his blood, Nick thought.

He knew it was unlikely that he would get out alive. Just as well, he figured. It was what he deserved. Nick had brought those brave men out into the swamp to find a group of lost college kids, and he had gotten everyone killed. There was no sign of the lost search party, and the detective knew now that there never would be. The Swamp Rats had all been murdered, torn limb from limb, by a beast everyone had warned him about. What would await Nick even if he did manage to find his way out of the Atchafalaya Basin alive? There would be only questions he could not answer, accusations he could not refute, and the look of disappointment in the eyes of the only woman he had ever loved.

After what seemed an eternity, dawn finally arrived. A thick fog enveloped the area, but Nick knew that it wouldn’t be long before the intense heat of the southern sun burnt it away. He carefully climbed out of the stately oak tree and relieved himself at its base. He stretched out his aching back and sore limbs, rechecked his meager supplies and Guidry’s shotgun, and then picked a direction in which to proceed. Nick no longer knew with any certainty which way to go. He had no boat and no compass, and even if he had, he had no earthly idea of where he was in the first place. His gut told him that Lost Bayou and The House of Slaughter were behind him, and that made choosing his way easy. He started off in the opposite direction.

Nick struggled to make his way through the rough terrain. Over and over again, he found his path impassable, and he had to find an alternative route in order to go anywhere. He spotted the same locations that he’d previously passed hours before on more than one occasion. As the day wore on and evening approached, Nick harbored no illusions – he was hopelessly lost. Just before sunset, he found a dry patch of dirt and built a small fire, then settled down for the night. He was terrified that the beast would see the flame and descend upon his campsite while he slept, so he tried to keep a sharp eye out for as long as he could. It had been days since he’d slept and, in the end, his fatigue won the battle against his fear, and he drifted off to sleep.

Nick’s eyes sprung open, and he sat up abruptly. His fire was out and the sun was almost directly overhead. He had survived another night. Nick rebuilt the fire and filled his canteen with the brackish water that surrounded him. He filtered it as best he could through the cloth of his filthy shirt, then let it boil awhile over the small flame as he prepared to move on for another day. His stomach cramped with hunger, and he searched all around him for something to fill it. The best he could find was a couple of crawfish, and he scooped them up and heated them for a moment on the fire before devouring them. Nick never remembered anything tasting so good in his entire life, and he unsuccessfully searched the area for more. Once his canteen had cooled enough for him to carry, Nick set out once again in search of civilization.

Another night came, then another. As hard as Nick tried to find food and maintain enough clean drinking water, he knew he couldn’t keep up. He was becoming dehydrated in the hot, humid climate, and the exertion from his forays through the dense overgrowth sapped him of any strength that the small morsels he could find to eat provided him. Mosquitoes, fire ants, and chiggers had torn into his flesh so much that he felt like one giant blister. Only one week had passed since he and the men had set out on their ill-fated quest, and Nick knew he wouldn’t last another week. He was slowly dying. If the beast didn’t kill him, the swamp surely would.

"
Mal pris
, as you used to say, Mama," Nick whispered to himself. "I’m stuck in a bad way."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Way Home

N
icholas lost count of the days as he wandered through the swamp. He felt his body start to go and his mind with it. His skin was covered with scratches and mosquito bites, and his feet burned from some sort of fungus that had taken root in his damp socks and wet boots. His tongue felt like a dry sponge, devoid of moisture, yet it continuously ran across his chapped lips in a vain effort to add comfort to his parched, cracked skin.

He told himself that he no longer cared if he lived or died. He tried to convince himself that if the beast were to suddenly appear before him, he would welcome the release of death, preferring to end it all rather than to go on suffering this way. But, he knew that was a lie every time he pushed past the next obstacle in his way, or clutched the shotgun tightly when he got spooked. Nick wanted to live; let the chips fall where they may.

By the following afternoon, he spotted an old cabin in the distance. He swam across a shallow pond until he found a stretch of soggy mud that led toward the back of the abandoned dwelling. Random debris lie scattered about the area, some of which he realized he could use to aid in his survival.

It was clear that the house itself hadn’t been in use for some time, though it looked vaguely familiar to the detective. He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach, and he froze on the spot. He knew where he was. The words Cap’n Guidry spoke a lifetime ago echoed in his head: "On behalf of Cap’n Guidry and the Swamp Rats, I welcome you to
Bayou Noir
."

He slowly and quietly approached the small cabin from the rear, looking for any sign of movement. There was none. He crept down the wooden pier and around the front, staying as far away from the dilapidated structure as he could. Nick spotted a small pirogue off to the side and carried it to an open area by the dock out front. He paused and surveyed his surroundings. Nothing stirred. Nick glanced back toward the house and the cryptic message painted in red near the front doorway. 4 DB, WA indeed, thought Nick.

Off to the side, the detective spotted a small trolling motor and a can of gasoline. He ran past the house and retrieved the much needed items, then secured the motor to the aft of the small boat. He searched the area again, this time he managed to find an empty plastic container and some random fishing gear that he was sure he could use if he got stuck on his way in.

The birds were singing, the cicadas chirping loudly in the trees, and Nick even heard the occasional fish jumping in the water. A few clouds drifted past the sun overhead, giving him some temporary relief from the intense sunlight that scorched his exposed skin. A cool breeze blew across the quiet water, and it began to drizzle. Nick looked to the heavens and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of being alive.

He took a deep breath and got back to work, securing the last of his meager supplies and preparing to cast off, when he stopped in his tracks. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he turned abruptly, looking over his shoulder at the small cabin at his back. He could see nothing in the darkness of the shack beyond the open space where the front door once stood, but Nick knew there was something there. The birds were no longer singing, the insects were quiet, and not a sound could be heard in that godforsaken place save for the falling rain.

He turned back around and reached over to start the motor. His hand held on to the throttle for a moment, then he removed it. He reached down and snatched Cap’n Guidry’s shotgun, then turned back toward the house and got out of the boat. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. He walked toward the open cabin doorway to meet his fate.

As he neared the small opening, Nick noticed the unmistakable blood trail that led into the house. Guidry got the damn thing after all, thought Nick. Good for him. The detective knew that even if Cap’n had wounded it, he hadn’t killed it. The trail led here, which meant Cap’n Francois Guidry met his maker at the hands of the monster, giving rise to yet another restless spirit to haunt the forgotten graveyard of Lost Bayou Plantation. There was one more soul destined to join them, thought Nick, as he raised the shotgun in his hands and entered the house.

Once inside, he paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness and listened intently to the quiet that surrounded him. Fading in and out, Nick could hear the barely audible sounds of labored breathing. It came from the small space above. The detective’s eyes followed the fresh droplets of blood on the wooden ladder into the dark, square hole that led into the attic. Every fiber in his being told him to turn around and run, to forget the terrible things he had witnessed, and get in the boat and sail away, never to return. He stood at the bottom rung of the ladder and froze, not knowing what to do.