From Murky Depths

by Brett Williams

  FROM MURKY DEPTHS

  by

  Brett Williams

  All rights reserved: From Murky Depths

  This edition copyright 2015 by Brett Williams

  BrettWilliamsFiction.com

  info@brettwilliamsfiction.com

  Published by Zoe Books

  This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  To Parts Unknown

  The scene, one of absolute destruction by mother nature, reached out in all directions as far as the eye could see. Water everywhere. All along the Mississippi flood gates had been battened down. But here in the floodplain, the aftermath reminded me of a biblical plague. Where farms had once stood great lakes had sprung up. In the distance trees refusing to be drown stood defiantly. Even this far, miles from town, debris bobbed along the surface of the water. Dried wood, cornstalks, a plastic bottle, a child's rubber ball. All manner of stuff.

  At least the rain had stopped. Only to be replaced by humidity and mosquitoes.

  I swatted one away with a handkerchief before wiping sweat from my brow. Thankfully the manual labor had come to an end, for the time being.

  I sat there in my jon boat wondering what Missy and the kids were doing in St. Louis. No doubt being spoiled rotten by their grandparents. Most likely taking a trip to some kid-themed eating establishment you had to go to the city to enjoy. But I knew, without a doubt, that Missy would be talking shit about me to her mother. It went with the territory.

  Not wanting to think about our problems I instead reflected on all I had accomplished over the last forty-eight hours: I convinced Missy to go without me to her parents; I uselessly sandbagged around our house to keep the floodwater out; somehow I manhandled all but the bulkiest furniture we owned up to the second level of our house, which, luckily, still stood, albeit with a flooded basement and a foot of standing water on the main level.

  Like a fool (according to Missy), I shut off all the utilities for safety and slept in the house, instead of going to St. Louis. Why? Because I'm a good ol' boy, and good ol' boys stick around to help out, to take care of business. Of course, I put off leaving a little too long and now escaping in my pickup – even with its 33” tires – wouldn't be safe. Not with water damn-near reaching to the doors. Hell, I'd give it a shot, though, probably in a day or two, but for now I needed a little more time to myself. Just as Melissa needed a break from me.

  So there I was, looking out at the vast flooded landscape, thinking the life I'd built over the last dozen years was on the brink of being washed away. Maybe the house could be salvaged, maybe not. Maybe Missy would decide to start over again in St. Louis. What did Southeast Missouri really have to offer her anymore, anyway? At the least I saw her staying with her parents until the house became liveable again. Whatever happened, it would be awhile.

  Right now I needed a little peace and quiet, a little peace of mind. You'd think that with all the chaos in my life I'd be stressed, and I suppose I was to a point. However, I'd also become numb. With calm water all around me, the steady glide of my jon boat beneath me, and the steady hum of the trolling motor behind me, not to mention aching muscles, I found myself relaxed for the first time in months.

  The town would expect someone like me to help, if possible. Most of the town would have undoubtedly evacuated, but others, as hardheaded as myself, would have stayed, or came back to check on things. Board windows, get belongings, etc. However, I had headed the opposite direction of town, cruising out across an expanse of water that only a few days ago had been a soybean field. I figured I'd troll over to Clayton, see if anyone there could use any help.

  Nobody in Clayton knew me, so nobody would ask about Melissa and the kids. In fact, as close as I was to Clayton in relation to the town I called home, I had never been there before. I only knew it existed because I'd lived here all my life. Around these parts people tend to gravitate to the next largest town; nobody cares about a town as small as Clayton except, of course, folks from Clayton. Besides, living in a small town most people knew our business. People I preferred not to see right now. As for Clayton, I only knew it from the sign pointing down the gravel road leading to it. What might be a dozen miles by winding country roads from my house, couldn't be more than a few as the crow flies. Or as the boat trolls. Call me curious; that's where I headed.

  It didn't take long for me to troll out across what used to be the little acreage behind our home. Raising the propeller out of the water and using oars I had navigated the cluster of trees marking the boundary between my land and the soybean field. Crossing the field allowed time for my mind to wander. Squinting my eyes against the reflection of the sun on the water I almost didn't see the man wading toward the next stand of trees in the distance. The long-legged man cut through the water easily, his legs thin as toothpicks attached to a thick middle. Obviously barrel-chested. I couldn't tell how tall he was, since I didn't know the water's depth. However, from a distance he almost looked like a midget on stilts. He appeared to be wearing some camouflage gear, maybe a jacket – his clothing had an olive drab tint to it with splotches of browns, greens, and a little black here and there. He appeared to be wearing a hood, the fabric stretching from his shoulders to the top of his squat head.

  What could he be doing out here wading across the field? Was he someone from the National Guard or Army Reserves? If so, why was he alone? Maybe I was totally wrong and he was a farmer or a hunter. Either way, he had to be suffering from the heat. I know I was in jeans, hip waders, t-shirt, and ball cap.

  Steering toward him, I hollered, “Hey buddy! Hold up, I'll give you a lift!”

  He stopped, turned, and in the glare of the reflecting light, I couldn't make out much. The image didn't make sense. My mind continued its interpretation as military man with a green grease-painted face. But the distance denied me truthful details.

  Before I could call out again, he hunkered down into the water, and then sprang up clear of the water to dive back down again. With a splash the man disappeared beneath the surface.

  The sight shocked me. I honestly didn't know what to think. Maybe I'd spooked him. But what kind of soldier would be spooked by some country boy a boat? Perhaps an lily-livered AWOL soldier, that's who. Still, it didn't make much sense. It made even less sense when he failed to surface again.

  After a couple minutes I assumed he had swam to the treeline before surfacing again. Perhaps even rising up behind the cover of a glaring sun. Try as I might I didn't see any sign of him, just a water snake skimming by.

  I decided, fuck him. I'd troll around the trees instead of trying to cut through them. In fact, that had been my plan all along. When I rounded them to the opposite side I saw no sign of the man. Odd, yes, but I didn't pay it much mind. There are all kinds of weird folks in the world.

  The next field took about as long to cross. Oddly, no vegetation broke the water’s surface. Of course I didn't know what had been planted there, or how deep the water was, but the flooding couldn't be more than a couple feet deep out here, I figured. It couldn't be too deep for a man to wade across. But I supposed it had to be deep enough for a man to swim in. Also odd, I expected to traverse a million floating cornstalks, something. But nothing except occasional debris. I didn't think about it any longer than it took to reach the next stand of trees. I navigated around them too, half hoping to see the road breaking the surface, but it didn't. I only knew it was there due to the sign in the far distance, the one I passed almost daily pointing to Clayton, and the narrow corridor of trees skirting it. That corridor would lead me to Clayton.

  I kept right, knowing the water would be deeper along the side of the road due to drainage ditches. Better safe that sorry. I didn't relish da
maging or losing the propeller on the trolling motor. I'm a fairly cautious man; I plan for contingencies. I'd brought my tackle box along, not because I planned to fish but because it carried some basic first aid supplies, as well as an extra prop. I'd also brought my 9mm pistol. Not that I expected to need it, but because I never needed it. Like any good ol' boy worth his salt, I had a few firearms. I'd seen people looting during natural disasters on TV before, so I brought the pistol. It wasn't like I was roaming around with an AK or shotgun with extra rounds. Just the loaded pistol. I didn't really expect looting. Not around here, and certainly not in Clayton. Leave those problems to the big cities. The only other supplies I'd brought were three large bottles of water. One for me and a couple for anyone I might stumble across who might need a drink. I opened mine and took a swallow.

  The road curved right. The corridor grew narrow, blocking out all but a dappling of sunlight. Although the heat persisted, the shade felt good. The same can't be said about the humidity. I blotted my face dry with my handkerchief.

  As I snaked through the water in my boat my mind returned to the man I'd seen. Perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me. The further I got from home, the stranger the man seemed. Army Reserves and National Guard had been dispatched to some smaller towns near Cape Girardeau and down past Malden, down around Kennett. But none around here. Not yet, anyway. None that had been mentioned on the radio. I'd listened for a solid hour the night before on a battery-operated unit I used when we went camping or when I worked on my truck. Nothing. That guy hadn't been military. At least not active duty.

  Thinking about him truly boggled my mind. How he had leaped, dived...

  Stranger yet, a sinking feeling swept over me when the road widened.

  I had finally reached Clayton.

  The deluge-created stream widened still, bending right, to what only could have been the Main Street of Clayton. I could tell by looking at the buildings. They didn't look right, not at all. I'd seen the destruction, as it started farther north, on television news. Houses collapsed, buildings swept away, water up to the eaves. I'd seen my own home filled with a foot of water on the main level, basement flooded. Here before me, in downtown Nowhere, Missouri, an entire block of small shops, built, no, designed for flooding. They looked like buildings I'd seen on the Florida coast, raised on stilts. Even now with a couple feet of water covering the town, the buildings here were ready for several more feet of rainfall.

  The buildings, however, did appear old, as I'd expect from a piss-ant town such as Clayton. Nearly all wooden structures: a hardware store, a five and dime, a mercantile, grocer. Oddly, they were lined up in a single row along the right. Along the left, the water grew swift. I caught the tail of a large fish splash before disappearing. A boardwalk connected all the buildings. A bank, the only structure not constructed of wood, stood at the end of the short run. It consisted of stone. It stood tall, proud, ominous. In fact, the entire place didn't look quite right. Of course the fact that a few people were out and about on Sunday afternoon disturbed me further. No small towns around these parts would be caught open on the Sabbath, blue laws and all.

  Despite the fact these people didn't appear the least bit concerned about getting in a boat and floating into town on a Sunday to pick up supplies, me doing the same surely caught their attention. Everyone on the boardwalk stopped to turn and gape at me. A couple came out of shops to glare. But the most off-putting aspect of it all had to be the strangeness of the people. Now I've taken my fair share of trips to other States in the Union. People from the South look distinctly different from people up North. West coast folk have tans and nice physiques. We from the Midwest are a little beefier in general. But these folks, practically neighbors to me, looked different.

  The men were all bald, their skin grayish, heads round, mouths wide. I don't care much for talking bad about folks, but these folks were downright ugly. Dare I say, not right.

  Here I had come offering help, yet they couldn't have been more prepared unless they'd had a flood wall surrounding the entire city.

  As much as I'd have rather turned boat and left, I raised a hand in greeting and called out over the sound of my small engine, “Hello there.”

  No reply sounded. Nor did I notice any lips move. Not to be detoured, I navigated my boat to a ramp leading up out of the water to the boardwalk. There I shut off the engine and docked. I lashing my boat good and tight. Stepping out onto the ramp I called out again. “Boy, we could sure use a little rain, don'tcha think?” I chuckled, stepping onto the boardwalk.

  “A few more inches would be fine,” a surly man replied. I couldn't tell if he had a deadpan sense of humor, but somehow he seemed much too serious.

  “I live just over yonder.” I pointed in the direction of my land. “Thought I'd see if anyone around here could use some help. You know, be neighborly an' all.”

  “We're just fine, thank you.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Is there anything we can help you with – ?”

  “David. David Miller.” I extended a hand. He glared at me.

  “Mister Miller, isn't there someone else you could help? We look out for our own around here.”

  “Well, I don't plan to help anyone who don't need, or want, my help. However, seeing as I'm here, and you folks are just fine, not to mention still in business, I might as well see what ya got. If you've got an ice-cold Coke, well, God bless Clayton.”

  “We don't need your blessing, but if you make it quick, there's a Coke machine in the hardware store.”

  “Much obliged,” I said. I'd seen the type before, someone just as soon start shit as say howdy. But I hadn't seen that type since out-of-town football games in high school. He must have mellowed some since graduation. After all, he gave me some useful information. I strode past him for the machine. A bell rang when I pushed through the front door.

  Inside, the place was wall-to-wall nuts and bolts and lumber and tools. Everything I'd expect from a hardware store, plus the obvious disregard for established fire codes. Where supplies wouldn't fit on shelves, they filled the floor. Aisles were way too narrow. Et cetera. I'd seen it all before in rinky-dink mom and pop shops, but this place took it to the next level. Not that it mattered; I simply found it interesting.

  The Coke machine, a chest cooler like I hadn't seen since I was a kid, stood just inside the door, near the only register. The machine didn't accept money, so I took out a bottle and brought it to the register, got in line behind a young woman lugging several two-by-fours under her arm. “I need three sheets of tin and a tarp, too,” she said. She looked homely and muscular for a woman. She reminded me of some of the militant lesbians I'd seen on TV.

  An older man rang up her purchases. His skin carried a grayish pallor like his friends out front. Although not bald, his wispy white hair would never be noticed from a distance it was so thin. Looking around waiting for their transaction to complete I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A child of maybe seven or eight years wearing swim trunks. He looked malnourished with his thin legs, thinner fingers, bloated belly, yellowed skin, and – oh God – big black bulging eyes.

  He darted out of sight.

  “...if my boat doesn't sink,” the woman was saying, “I'd like to take it all in one trip. I'll need someone to help me load it, first.”

  “Of course, Maggie,” the clerk said. “We'll have someone take it out for you right away.”

  “Sorry,” I spoke up. “If you need help hauling some supplies somewhere, I'm your man. Call me Dave.” I extended a hand.

  She kindly shook it. “Dave, I'm Maggie. Thanks for the offer. It will probably all fit in my boat. I'll just have to be careful on the way home.”

  “Hey, I came all this way looking to be useful, see if I could be of assistance. I might as well do something before heading home, myself. Heck, I half expected Clayton to be wiped off the map. Not that it's on any map that I'm aware of.”

  We both laughed at the joke. The clerk wasn't amus
ed. Instead of laughing he said, “That Coke'll be a dollar.”

  I tossed a buck on the counter.

  “Well, I suppose a little help couldn't hurt,” Maggie conceded.

  “All right then.”

  “Let's go.”

  It took about fifteen minutes for someone to load our boats. While they worked I chatted with Maggie. She told me their roof had collapsed and they needed to reinforce it. She lived there with her boyfriend. He had sent her for the tin roofing while he ripped out a section that had collapsed. They lived west of town. Not far, she assured me, but by boat it would take about half an hour.

  We headed out, boats riding low laden with supplies. Her boat, also a flat-bottom craft, was larger, so she carried the tin sheets while I carried the lumber and tarp. I followed, trolling along behind her, drinking Coke, our two engines too noisy for conversation. So, I took in the town.

  Beyond the businesses, as well as a block behind them, houses stood on stilts. Toothpick shanties really. Most featured a small porch at the front, usually with a couple of chairs and perhaps a table. A few had people sitting out enjoying the heat, having a smoke. These people possessed the same physical traits as the ones I'd seen on the boardwalk. I wondered if the folks around here were inbred, although they didn't really have the stereotypical inbred, backwoods appearance, whatever that might be. They simply looked similar and not at all like the people I knew. In fact, I couldn't recall ever meeting anyone who'd claimed Clayton as their home before. When I worked at the shoe factory many years ago I'd known nearly everyone in the plant. But nobody from Clayton. Maybe, I thought, the people here are simply a close-knit community of farmers. Perhaps a little too closely knit. The bug-eyed boy from the hardware store flashed through my mind. A shiver crawled up spine.

  Outside of town, Maggie turned south, cutting across what appeared to be another field turned lake. Its surface barely rippled. A breeze would be nice, I thought. Everything remained so calm, so still, so muggy. I wondered if it had been this way thousands of years ago before God granted it life. It seemed very plausible.