by John Locke
“We’re trapped!”
They appear from the marsh instantaneously, like a scene from Walking Dead.
Except that these people are very much alive.
A dozen men jump on the car like monkeys in a zoo riot. After posing and flexing their muscles, they take up positions on the hood, roof, and trunk of the car…
…And start dancing.
The others chant: “Soybeans! Yams! Cotton! Crabs!”
“Oh, shit!” Jill says.
“What?”
“It’s the Virgin Boat Festival.”
“You’re making that up.”
“We’re going to be here a while.”
“Where’d they all come from? The road was deserted a minute ago.”
“It’s part of the festival. There are a thousand people between here and the bayou. We hit it at the exact wrong time. This totally sucks.”
“We can’t even open the doors!” Jack says.
“We’ll have to wait till they flame the pirogue.”
“I’m sure that sentence makes perfect sense to the locals.”
“These aren’t locals. They’re Vikings.”
“Vikings?”
“It’s insane. The whole stupid thing’s insane. And we’re stuck in the middle of it.”
“For how long?”
“What time is it now?”
“Twelve-fifteen.”
“It ends at dawn.”
“You’re shitting me.”
The crowd continues to swarm. Dozens of kids tap every part of the car they can reach, while continuing their chant.
“What are they talking about?” Jack says.
Jill shakes her head in disgust. “Crazy, stupid, fucking festival,” she says.
“Explain it to me.”
“What? Why?”
“What else can we do? On the bright side, the Fosters aren’t getting out of the trunk anytime soon. Not with all these guys dancing on it.”
She smiles in spite of her anger. “They’re probably wondering what the hell’s going on.”
“I am, too. So tell me.”
“It’s so stupid!” she says. “You’d literally think less of me if I explain it. You’ll wonder how I know about something so ridiculous.”
“Try me.”
She sighs. “I just want to get out of here. I want to go to Willow Lake, to your lake house. Why the fuck did you turn south, Jack? What made you do that?”
When he fails to answer, she looks at him and says, “I’m sorry. I’m just so…”
“I know.”
“I thought we were actually going to make it, you know?”
“We’ll still get there.”
“How? The whole world’s against us!”
“You’re just saying that because fifty people are licking our windows simultaneously.”
It’s true. Those who aren’t dancing and chanting are tapping and licking.
“This is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen,” she says.
“Explain it to me.”
“It has something to do with Vikings and their swamp relatives. They come from all over the world, show up by the thousands every twelve years.”
“This only happens eight times a century?”
“That’s right. And only in this one place.”
“And we just happened to hit it?”
“Lucky us, right?”
“I want to hear it all, okay?”
“Okay.”
“But I mainly want to know two things. Are we in danger? And where the hell were they hiding?”
“We’re not in any danger. I mean, sure, they seem deranged. But their kids are here, and gumbo’s being cooked.”
“Speaking of the kids…”
“Yeah?”
“I thought Vikings were Scandinavian. You know, blond hair, blue eyes? These kids are like Children of the Corn.”
“Except creepier.”
“I don’t understand why the women and kids are licking our windows. They’re full of dead bugs.”
“Told you they were hungry.”
“When’s dinner?”
“After the chant.”
“How long does the chant last?”
“How the fuck should I know? I can only tell you what makes them stop.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you really give a shit?”
“I do.”
She says, “I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. Okay, so they stop chanting to smoke the Jester. After that, the torch people come to light the way.”
“The way to what?”
“The bayou.”
“What happens there?”
“Food, drink, more singing, dancing, chanting, tapping, and licking. Not the car, but sugarcane.”
“Sugarcane?”
“Then the virgins ride up on horseback, the Ging Master launches the pirogue into the bayou, and every sixth man spits on the foot of the fifth, and hurls his torch at the boat.”
“Then what?”
“You’re letting Ging Master slide?”
Jack shrugs.
Jill says, “Then they watch the pirogue burn in the water, down to the last ember.”
“Then what?”
“Then they lie down and go to sleep.”
“Back up to the part about the virgins.”
She shakes her head. “Typical male response.”
“Well, it’s the name of the festival, after all. The Virgin Boat Festival, right? Isn’t that what you said?”
She sighs. “Okay. Look. I don’t know the whole story, but here’s how it works. The festival starts at sundown, when all these numbskulls gather, and six topless women ride down the trail on horseback.”
“Virgins?”
“They symbolize virgins.”
“Right. Then what happens?”
“They ride down the trail till they find someone holding a chicken, and ask if they can have it for the community gumbo pot. The person answers, ‘You can have what you can catch.’ At that point, a bunch of live chickens are set free in a muddy, slippery, fenced-in area, and the topless women have to run around and catch enough chickens to feed the crowd, but at least six. Which is harder than it sounds. Of course, it’s a crowd-pleaser, as you can imagine. When the chickens are caught, they’re killed, cut up, and tossed into the community gumbo pot. While the maidens chase the chickens, the Pot Tenders chop vegetables and sausages, and get the gumbo started. They simmer it all night.”
“So it’s a big feast.”
“That’s right.”
“And the chanting?”
“They’re giving thanks to the food that sustains the bayou-dwellers.”
“I don’t understand the Viking part.”
“Me either.”
“What about the jester?”
“Some guy shows up dressed like a court jester, and some others build a brush fire and fan the smoke around him. He says the final chant, and lights a torch. Then a thousand people over there—” she points out the passenger window, then says, “Well, you can’t see, but the bayou’s a quarter mile across the marsh, in that general direction. Anyway, the bayou people light their torches and make a lighted path for all these idiots who have surrounded our car.”
“So they just wait around here till a car shows up?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“You seem to know a lot about this festival.”
“I think our car showing up was a coincidence. They probably think we’re part of the program.”
“And you know all this, how?”
“There was something about it on TV, where the festival was being protested by a group of sane people. So anyway, this bunch joins that bunch at the bayou and they eat the gumbo and whatever other shit they’ve cooked all night, and drink sugarcane rum, and wait for the six maidens to lead the Pirogue Procession.”
“So where was everyone hiding before the flares started firing?”
“This bunch
has to lie in the marsh, quietly, in the dark, till the flares are fired. Then they jump up and start this ridiculous dance thing. It’s called The Swarming, I think, and it has something to do with bees.”
“And the licking?”
“I have no idea. And don’t ask me anything else, because I’ve told you all I’m going to say.”
“You’re right,” Jack says.
“About what?”
“It is stupid.”
The chanting stops.
“Finally!” she says.
“What now?” Jack says.
“Showtime.”
The dancers and lickers quietly withdraw and the men form a wide circle around the car. With the women and children sitting on the ground in front of them, the men assume a crouching, wide-legged, fighting stance. Each warrior locks elbows with the man on either side of him.
“Oh, shit!” Jill says.
“Now what?”
“I forgot about the Circle of Hell.”
“The what?”
“No one gets in, no one gets out. Except the Jester and maidens. And we’re stuck in the middle.”
“I thought we’d have a chance to get away when the Jester showed up,” Jack says.
“Really? The way our luck’s been going tonight?”
“Hey, my luck hasn’t been so bad.”
She looks at him incredulously.
He shrugs. “I got laid, didn’t I?”
Jill frowns. “You got beat up by four different people, three of whom are still in the trunk. You killed four hunters who planned to rape you. You blew up my car. A policeman was shot. We’re running for our lives because my husband wants to kill us, but you made a wrong turn that put us in the middle of the most insane festival known to man. We’re trapped here, in the Circle of Hell, and policemen are coming, and—”
“What do you mean, ‘policemen are coming?’”
“They invite county police to the dinner and boat launch part.”
“Why?”
“To prove they’re not actually sacrificing virgins.”
“You’re telling me the police will be here any minute?”
“If they’re not here already.”
It’s hard to see out of the bug-smeared, saliva-soaked windows, but everyone’s attention seems fixed on some torches approaching from the east. In the trunk, the Fosters pick this moment to start kicking and screaming.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Jack says.
He turns the windshield wipers on, presses the button to spray the wiper fluid. It takes a few seconds, but the fluid affords them a small field of vision amid the streaks and smears.
“If only we’d stolen a Dodge,” Jack says.
“Why?”
“So I could say let’s get the Dodge out of hell!”
“Yes, but why would you?”
“Don’t you get it? Instead of saying ‘let’s get the hell out of Dodge?’”
She groans. “I got it the first time.”
Jack says, “I thought you were the one who likes word-play.”
“Jack.”
“What?”
“If you’ve got a plan, execute it now. Because the women and children are coming over to check our trunk.”
“No time to see the topless ladies?”
“They’re only topless for the chicken chase.”
“And that already happened?”
“Hours ago.”
“In that case, brace yourself!”
Jack presses the horn, throws the car in gear, and peels out. The Vikings are wide-eyed, but hold their positions, daring him to run them down. The women and children are less daring.
They scatter.
Jack speeds up.
As the car closes in on the men blocking their way, Jack says, “I’m not going to stop.”
“You can’t just kill them.”
“It’s their job to move.”
The Vikings agree. At the last moment, they jump out of the way, and the Oldsmobile barrels down the highway.
“Oh my God, Jack!” she shouts. “That was amazing!”
“Circle of Hell, my ass!” he says.
“Keep going straight,” Jill says, as they approach the interstate.
He passes the on-ramp, goes under the interstate, and passes four dirt roads before spying a road block in the distance.
“Shit!” Jack says.
“What now?”
He points up ahead.
“You think they’re looking for us?”
“Probably not, but the way our luck’s been running—”
“I agree,” Jill says. “What now?”
“We head back. Take one of the dirt roads we passed.”
“Which one?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. They all lead to boat ramps, eventually.”
“Are you certain?”
“No, but it makes sense. This area is all bayous and fishing camps.”
“Maybe we can find one and hole up.”
“Hole up? What are you, a gangster from the thirties?”
Jack passes the first dirt road.
“What’s wrong with that one?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s more of a contingency plan.”
He passes two more dirt roads, comes to the last one before the interstate, and turns right.
“Slow down,” Jill says.
“Why?”
“You’ll kick up less dust.”
“Good point.”
He gets about a quarter-mile down the road before the Fosters start kicking and screaming again.
Jack says, “Any idea what to do about the Fosters?”
“Nothing comes to mind.”
A mile later the road dead-ends. Jack and Jill roll their windows down and look for signs of life.
“Where’s the boat ramp you were talking about?” Jack says. “I only see two empty fishing shacks.”
“Guess I was wrong about that,” she says.
“There’s bound to be a bayou nearby, though.”
“Of course. And it’ll be filled with snakes, alligators, and spiders. Please tell me your plan doesn’t include stealing a boat.”
“I wouldn’t know where to take it,” Jack says. “I’m a city guy. Rowing through the Louisiana swamps in the wee hours of the morning strikes me as a bad plan. We could get lost pretty quick. I was hoping to find another car to steal. Or someone we could pay to drive us.”
Jack backs up a hundred yards, turns the car around, heads toward the main road.
“What now?” Jill says.
“Plan B.”
He parks the car a quarter-mile from the main road, turns the engine off, removes the key. Then opens the door, gets out.
Jill climbs out the passenger side.
“What are we doing?”
“Is there anything you need to get from the car?”
“All I’ve got’s the filthy clothes I’m wearing.”
“Need to use the bathroom?”
“No.”
“Me either. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I don’t want to say out loud.”
Jack opens the trunk, and the Fosters cower, thinking they’re about to be shot.
“You’re okay,” he says. “Sorry about the dents all over your car. We’re heading out now, but I’ll leave the trunk open. Eventually you’ll be able to work yourselves free. If you keep quiet, I’ll leave your car keys at the end of the dirt road.”
“What if we scream and holler?” the old lady says.
“I’ll keep the keys.”
With that, Jack and Jill start walking toward the main road. When they get out of hearing distance, Jill says, “What’s the plan? Hitchhike?”
“I don’t like our chances of getting picked up this time of night. I think we should go back to the festival and try to blend in. Maybe meet someone there, pay them to give us a ride after the boat-burnin
g.”
“You just want some gumbo.”
“That too. But I think some of the Vikings will go home after the boat-burning. Wouldn’t you?”
“Instead of sleeping on a blanket in the mosquito and snake-infested marsh? I certainly would. Then again, I wouldn’t be out here in the first place.”
Jack says, “We should re-think your Baton Rouge plan.”
“Why?”
“I like the idea of catching a cab to Memphis, then changing cabs. But we’ve already lost a lot of time. If we’re going to pay someone to drive us we should go to Jackson. It’ll save us two hours of driving time.”
When they get to the main road, Jack stops, takes a knee, places the car keys on the ground, and grabs a handful of dirt.
“What’re you doing now?”
“Getting my game face on.”
He rubs some dirt on his face, then hers. Then they begin the two-mile walk they hope will end with a bowl of gumbo and a ride to Jackson, Mississippi.
“Think we’ll get fed?” he says.
“That would make a perfect day for you, wouldn’t it? Four fights, some pussy, and a bowl of gumbo.”
By the time they infiltrate the Viking throng, Jack and Jill are thoroughly exhausted.
It’s been an especially long night for Jill.
She’s been drugged, kidnapped, bound, and stuck in a car for hours. She’s been shot at, made love to, forced to assault a teenager, and two septuagenarians. She’s been threatened by not only a bounty hunter, but also a state trooper, a jilted husband, and a quartet of bisexual redneck deer hunters. She’s not only a witness to a quadruple homicide and cop-shooting, she’s also committed breaking-and-entering, three counts of assault with a deadly weapon, three counts of kidnapping, and a car-jacking. She’s currently on the run with her husband’s employee, and has reason to believe she’s being hunted by the state police and her vengeful husband. She hasn’t slept in twenty hours, hasn’t had anything to eat since breakfast yesterday, and precious little to drink. As they approach the torch-lit tables, she reminds herself the key here is to blend in, get some gumbo, something to drink, and lay low.
There are half as many revelers as she expected. A thousand at most, she guesses, and maybe a half-dozen policemen, who may or may not be on Bobby’s payroll. She’s worried about being recognized. Not by the cops, but…
“Princess!” a lady shouts.
Jill turns her head, tries to move away.
Jack says, “Is she talking to you?”
“Princess! I lay at your feet!” the lady yells.
