by Watt Key
I nodded and took a bite of the stew. I was so distracted, I forgot to worry about it. Then all of a sudden I was chewing the meat. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t seem to have any taste.
Stanley grabbed the glass, wheeled his chair around, and started for the kitchen again.
“You don’t want to hear all this,” he said over his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” I said, immediately regretting my words.
He poured the glass full this time and took a big swig from the bottle while he was facing the sink. He coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the bottle back on the counter.
“What can you believe in after you see something like that?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Who can you trust?”
I didn’t answer. He took a swallow from the glass and turned to face me.
“How do you even have religion after that?”
“Maybe I should go home,” I said. “I’m starting to feel bad about my uncle worrying.”
“I’m responsible for you now. You’re staying here until tomorrow. You can head back first thing in the morning.”
“I think I’ll be fine. I walked here in the dark.”
He took another swallow and wheeled toward me.
“You can’t go out there,” he said. “You’re staying here. Come on.”
He wheeled past me to the front door and opened it and rolled onto the porch. It was dark now, and I heard the cheeping of tree frogs and insects.
“Come out here,” he said over his shoulder.
I got up slowly, planning to make a run for it, then something he said distracted me.
“God, I’m lonely,” he said into the darkness.
And in that moment I felt sorry for him, and I thought maybe I could just talk to him and make him feel better. Make both of us feel better.
I came up behind him. “Maybe your wife was just scared of them coming around. Maybe you could go find her.”
“I’m not leaving here. This is my home. She knows that. My grandpa built this place. Cleared that back pasture with a mule.”
“Maybe it’s not worth it,” I said.
Stanley took another swallow of whiskey and lowered the glass. “Look out there,” he said.
I gazed into the darkness. I couldn’t see anything but moths fluttering around the porch light.
“Swamp apes,” he said.
“What?”
“I come out here every night. They’re gonna be back one of these days. And I’m gonna get mine. I’m gonna lay it out right on this lawn. And I’m gonna load that thing up in a FedEx van and ship it to Orlando or wherever the hell she is. They can dump it on her living room floor.”
In that moment I decided that Stanley was crazy. He didn’t care about his family at all. All he cared about, all he lived for, was revenge. Revenge on the creatures. Revenge on anyone who doubted him, starting with his wife. Revenge he’d never get.
“I need you to find me a gun,” he said. “They took my guns. They took everything.”
I thought about the pack, still sitting next to the table. I began to back away from him. Suddenly he spun in the chair and looked at me, and I froze. His eyes were bloodshot and his teeth were clenched.
“Find me a gun,” he said.
13
I felt my pulse pounding in my ears.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll pay you. Go find me a gun.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Does your uncle have one? I’ll buy it from him.”
I shook my head. “He doesn’t have one,” I lied.
He wheeled closer to me and leaned in. “We’ll do this together,” he whispered. “You and me. I know how to find them. We’ll bring one out of there.”
I stepped back. “You already said it was impossible.”
He closed the distance. “I’ve got it figured out,” he continued. “Once we kill it, we cut it into five pieces. The head, two hands, and two feet. We mail them to five different news stations. How’s the government going to get ahead of that?”
“I don’t want to kill one,” I said.
“There’s no other way. You’ve got to have a body.”
“But … you can’t walk,” I said.
“I know I can’t walk!” he suddenly yelled. “I can’t do a thing but sit here and rot while those hellish freaks of nature swing from the trees and laugh at us all!”
I took another step back.
“They’re flesh and blood,” he said.
“I’m really tired,” I said.
“There’s no magic out there. There’s no UFOs. It’s just an abomination!”
I turned slowly and started for the table.
“I want my guns back,” he said.
I got to my pack and picked it up and slung it over my shoulder. I heard the wheels of his chair squeaking as he came up behind me. I spun around, and he wasn’t even six inches from me.
“If I really wanted to kill myself, I would have done it right the first time,” he said.
I sidestepped and bolted for the door. I leapt off the porch, clearing the front steps and stumbling on the lawn. I regained my footing and fled into the night.
* * *
I came to the end of Stanley’s driveway and stopped running and turned to look back at the farmhouse. The door was still wide open, and I saw him sitting in his wheelchair in the middle of the floor, moths flitting around his head, his eyes staring in my direction. I knew he couldn’t see or follow me, but the sight of him was creepy, and I didn’t want to be anywhere near him. I repositioned the pack on my shoulder and started toward the highway. I went about fifty yards before I stepped off onto the roadside and sat down to catch my breath and collect myself.
* * *
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about not just what happened but how it came to happen. Because there are certain events that, had they gone another way, would have led to a completely different outcome. My encounter with Stanley was certainly one of them.
Much of what he’d said I didn’t want to think about. But there was one thing that I couldn’t get out of my head:
What drives you mad isn’t seeing them. It’s not having the answers.
Finding Stanley was supposed to be about getting questions answered to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Nothing more. Now I knew there were no answers. And I’d seen firsthand what happened to people like me that didn’t get them. Maybe I wasn’t crazy yet, but like Stanley, I could see myself eventually losing my mind.
In that moment, sitting on the edge of the roadside, I began to consider going after the creatures myself. I’d already seen one walking this way, and Stanley had pretty much given me directions to where it was going. It seemed that all it was going to take to find them was a boat journey and some camping. Stanley already had a boat at the landing he wasn’t even using. And surely the camping part of it couldn’t be as bad as he’d said. Maybe he’d just been lonely. I was already lonely, and it didn’t seem like I could get any lonelier. Maybe he’d just gone at the wrong time of year when it was too hot, the bugs too bad, and the snakes too active. The weather was cool now, the yellow flies gone, and the snakes sluggish.
I don’t remember it even crossing my mind how foolish all this really was. The fact is, I’d come to a dead end, and there didn’t seem to be another choice. And so I was doing my best to talk myself into it all, ignoring the true dangers I was likely to face. So much of this journey would come to that. Time and time again I found myself facing paths that led only in one direction.
So I convinced myself to go. Which left just one thing: bringing back the evidence.
Despite all the technical problems of shooting a Bigfoot, I didn’t think I could morally bring myself to do it. The things seemed so close to human. Just the thought of killing one felt like murder.
I remembered the camera, took off my pack, and dug inside until I felt it. Thirty-two pictures left. It seemed
so simple. If I could get good enough pictures and email them to everyone I knew, even to people I didn’t know, how could they ever track them all down?
I just have to get good pictures, I thought.
I had to journey into the Refuge, find the creatures, and take good pictures. I was convinced it was the only way to save myself from becoming like Stanley.
Now comes the what happened part of the story. And it’s the part you probably won’t believe.
14
I needed a tent, sleeping bag, more food, and a way to make fire. But there were no stores nearby, and even had there been, I had only twelve dollars. I could certainly get all of these supplies if I went back home, but that brought about a whole new set of complications involving Uncle John.
I walked back to the end of Stanley’s driveway and studied the house. He was gone from the porch, but the front door stayed open and the lights were still on. I didn’t want to get into a conversation about the guns, but I needed to ask him for supplies. I decided to spend the night outside and talk to him in the morning after he’d had time to sleep off the whiskey. I figured he’d understand what I needed to do and give me a tent and blankets and canned food and a box of matches.
I looked over at the old barn. It would certainly be more comfortable to sleep with a roof over my head. I crept through the yard, keeping my eyes on the house. I didn’t want him to know I was there. I imagined him screaming at me from the porch all night, begging for his guns and threatening the swamp apes. When I came to the barn, I pulled on the door and it swung open on rusty hinges that popped and creaked. I looked at the house again. Still no Stanley. I pulled the penlight out of my pocket, clicked it on, and stepped inside.
The air smelled of decayed wood and dirt. I passed the light around the barn and saw a workbench to my right with a scattering of old tools and oil cans and jars of nuts and bolts. In front of me, toward the back, the fallen-in roof lay in a mess of rotten beams and sheet tin with the night sky visible above it. To my left I saw what looked like two stables. Hanging on nails were mildewed leather bridles and miscellaneous horse tack. Draped over a railing was a stack of saddle blankets. Overhead were the remains of the hayloft.
I walked over to the workbench. There was a shelf above it with what looked like a tackle box. I pulled it down, opened it, and picked through a tangle of old corks, fishing lures, hooks, and lead sinkers.
I can use this, I thought.
I closed the tackle box and shined my light under the workbench and down it to my left. I saw what appeared to be a metal shipping container about the size of the chest I took to church camp. I walked to it and opened the lid. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. It was full of what appeared to be dehydrated food rations. I pulled out a bag of dried apples and looked at the label. The expiration date was nearly three years past. I dropped it and grabbed a can of something else. PINTO BEANS, it read. 2 LBS. EXPIRATION DATE 2035. I grabbed three cans of the beans and set them aside. Then I dug again, finding more dried fruit, canned meats and vegetables, and a stack of fifteen military MREs. All of these were expired. But I set aside ten boxes of pasta and powdered cheese. Four cans of dehydrated carrots. These were okay.
I looked over my shoulder at the saddle blankets. Back at the tackle box.
I’ve got everything I need here! I don’t have to wait on Stanley at all! I’ve got food, blankets to stay warm, equipment to catch fish. I can use my poncho for a lean-to instead of a tent … Matches. I need matches.
I began searching the workbench and shelves above it, looking for a box of matches. A moment later I found something even better—a grill lighter. I clicked it and it still worked.
And now I’ve got a way to make fire!
I spread one of the saddle blankets on the dirt floor and began piling my supplies onto it. The tackle box, grill lighter, mac and cheese, pinto beans, carrots, and salt. The food wasn’t going to make an ideal meal, but it was enough to keep me from going hungry. For a brief moment I considered that I had nothing to cook in, then reasoned I could empty one of the cans and use it for a pot.
Fork? Spoon? I can use my pocket knife for a fork. But I need a spoon. And something to pick up the pot with.
I grabbed a pair of pliers off the workbench and tossed them onto the blanket. I searched only a moment more before I found a measuring spoon next to a jar of what looked like gunpowder. It would certainly do to stir and eat with.
I tossed the spoon onto the blanket, gathered the four corners together, and tied them with a short piece of baling wire. Then I found an old broom, broke off the end, and shoved the stick under the wire. I lifted it all and slung it over my shoulder like I’d seen hoboes do in movies.
I was so excited about my finds I forgot about being tired and couldn’t think of any reason not to set out immediately.
I need to go and look for Stanley’s boat and get on the river. I need to travel at night so I’m not stopped by anyone.
I grabbed my backpack and started for the door.
15
At nine o’clock that night, I set out for the river landing, wearing the backpack and toting the bundle of camping supplies over my shoulder. The woods on either side of the road were dark and quiet except for the cheeping of crickets. I soon came to an intersection and turned right. I didn’t walk far before I saw a light glowing through the trees and heard the river, softly licking and slurping through the hammock. Then I began to hear loud smacking noises like someone hitting the water with a board. I couldn’t imagine what it could be making such a sound.
The road ended and I wasn’t prepared for the enormity of what I saw before me, reflecting the faint moonlight like a black mirror, six hundred feet wide, deep and heavy-looking, oozing past like something alive. In every direction the hammock cheeped and pulsed against it, like this river was the mother of all things. Every minute or so another smacking sound echoed across the water like gunshots. Then it occurred to me that I’d heard beavers slap their tails and make a similar noise. And I decided it had to be beavers making such a racket.
To my left was the light I’d seen earlier through the trees, a tall utility pole that hummed and cast a faint yellow glow over a boat dock. To my right was a wooded lot I guessed was Stanley’s. I made my way down the riverbank under the shadows of giant tupelo gum and cypress. I set the bundle of supplies on the ground and searched for the boat with my penlight. I soon found what had to be the old aluminum jon, leaning against a tree, overgrown with vines and briars. There was no motor on it, but I figured I could find a board to use as a paddle. I saw a rusty chain running through the bow eye and ran my hand along it until I felt a padlock. I looked around, scanning the area for the boat anchor, which I found lying on the ground. I picked it up and banged the lock until it opened. Then I pulled the chain off, the clacking sound seeming to echo clear across the river.
I tore the jon away from the overgrowth and rolled it over. Beneath was an aluminum paddle and life jacket. The paddle still seemed to be in good enough shape. The life jacket was ripped and rotten, but the foam core still seemed intact. It would have to do. I hung the life jacket around my neck and put the backpack and paddle in the center of the boat where the seat was. Then I retrieved the supply bundle and stowed it in the rear. Finally I grabbed the handle on the front of the jon and pulled it all to the river’s edge.
I stood back and looked at the powerful water. I tried to think of anything I was forgetting, but really, I knew I was only giving myself a last chance to turn back.
* * *
I pushed off the bank and began paddling toward the middle of the river. I’d been in motorboats a few times. I’d paddled rafts and canoes at church camp. It hadn’t crossed my mind just how different this would be. The jon was clumsy and hard to steer. As the strong current gripped the hull and swept me along, I was alarmed to find I wasn’t in control at all. I looked over my shoulder and saw the utility light at the dock falling farther behind and stopped paddling, paralyzed with t
he fear I’d made a fatal mistake. I wanted to cry out for help, but even my voice seemed frozen. I tried to paddle backward, but my strokes were useless. I looked ahead again, searching the darkness, desperately trying to get some idea of where I was in the river. The water was so black that the shadowy border of trees blended into the edges of it, and it was impossible to discern the riverbank. I felt like I was being swept through a deep black canyon. Suddenly an enormous fish erupted from the water not ten yards from me. I couldn’t see it clearly, but it must have been five feet long and weighed eighty pounds. It sailed several feet into the air and smacked down again, making that same noise I’d been hearing. I knew immediately I’d seen my first sturgeon up close. Too close. I lowered the paddle and felt the boat rocking from the disturbance. I recalled the stories of people being killed by these giants slamming into them, and I was flooded with more fear. Then the boat bumped into something, and I was thrown forward onto the floor. I gripped the paddle and lay there, terrified, feeling the boat swing around a log. With my ear pressed to the thin aluminum, I heard the river licking and tapping against the metal. I pulled the paddle closer and balled up helplessly.
It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes before I heard a scraping sound against the jon and a large cypress bough swept over me. Then the boat swung around and hung there. I lay still for a moment, staring up into the tree. Because the branch came from my left, I reasoned I’d either come up against the other side of the river or an island. But I was relieved to be stopped, even just to know it was possible to reach land again. At the same time I knew if I wanted to get out and quit, I had no idea where I was and if it was possible to walk to civilization from this place.
After a moment my breathing slowed and I grew calmer. I remembered I’d only heard of sturgeon killing people in speeding motorboats. And despite a few obstacles and my fears, I’d safely crossed the river in the jon. Surely I could drift down it. And I could get out at the place Stanley called Fowler’s Bluff if I needed to.
