Severed

by Corey Brown

  Cody’s car is partially blocking the police cruiser, something that does not go unnoticed by the policeman. The trooper stops, squints at Cody, barely hesitates before dropping the napkin. Then he rests a hand on the butt of his gun.

  Slowly, very slowly, Cody removes his badge and holds it up between two fingers. He’s pretty sure the trooper cannot read it from this distance, but Cody hopes the guy will recognize the shield for what it is. Cody wishes the rental had power windows that way he could drop the passenger’s side and say something without making any sudden moves. Next time, Cody thinks, I’ll spend the money for an upgrade.

  The trooper, a young guy, trim, good-looking, seems to relax. He gives Cody a slight nod, the all clear sign.

  “Hey there,” Cody says, rounding the front of his Ford Focus, still holding the badge out in front. “I’m Cody Briggs, NOPD.”

  The trooper looks closely at the shield, Cody can tell he’s memorizing the badge number. This guy is good, Cody thinks. Not a newbie. At the same time, Cody is reading the trooper’s nameplate: D. Goldrick.

  Trooper Goldrick straightens. “What can I do for you, detective?” His accent isn’t deep south, not Louisiana, more like Virginia or the Carolinas.

  Cody pockets the badge, looks around, giving the trooper a half smile. “This is embarrassing,” he says. “Jesus, I’ve been a cop for twenty years and today I lose a tail like I just left the academy.”

  “It happens. How can I help?” The trooper’s response is all business. Cody is surprised not to hear disdain or derision in his voice.

  “There was a green Crown Vic,” Cody points to the empty parking space. “Right here, next to yours. Did you happen to notice when the vehicle left or the person driving it?”

  The trooper studies Cody, waits several beats before answering.

  “You’re on official business? This isn’t exactly Bourbon Street. Although, I have no idea if you’re from District Eight.”

  Now its Cody’s turn to wait before answering. “I’m impressed,” he says. “No, not Eight. I work District One. Did you do time in New Orleans?”

  The trooper shakes his head. “Not me, but I have a cousin down there, she rolls around District Three.”

  “Yeah? What’s her name?”

  “You won’t know her,” Trooper Goldrick says. “She drove a desk until four months ago. So how about it, this official?”

  “Sort of,” Cody shakes his head. “No, not really. Look, I’m on administrative leave because some guy took a shot at me with a twelve gauge. Today, I’m on my way to Opelousas to meet a buddy of mine, and this green Crown Vic blows past me on highway one-ninety. I didn’t get a look at the tags or driver but I’d swear it was the same one that pulled the hit on me.”

  The trooper nods slowly, a light dawning in his eyes as if Cody had sparked something. “I read about that shooting. It was a close call, I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “Thanks. So, the Crown Vic----.”

  “The same one what?” The trooper says, interrupting. “The same driver or same vehicle?”

  This trooper’s bullshit detector is finely tuned, that much is obvious. Something about the cop’s look tells Cody this guy knows a lot about what happened on Saint Charles Street. He knows the perpetrator’s car sustained damage and he knows if this Crown Victoria is the same vehicle, Cody has no doubt.

  “Okay, look,” Cody says. “The little hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, my dead aunt is talking to me from the grave, something. I can’t explain it, but I think the guy in that car is connected to my shooting. I just want to get a look at the tags, see if the vehicle belongs to New Orleans, that’s all.”

  Once again, the trooper waits before speaking. Then, as if coming to some decision, he draws a deep breath, exhales and says, “Not sure if they were ‘Orleans tags but that car belongs to some city. The plates were municipal. And there were two of them, a man and a woman. I didn’t get a good look, but I asked the hostess about them after they left.”

  Cody’s eyes widen in surprise. The corner of Trooper Goldrick’s mouth turns up in a mischievous little smile.

  “Besides the fact that my wife is the hostess in question,” Goldrick says. “I have little hairs on the back of my neck, too.”

  “I see,” Cody says, his own face breaking into a smile. “And?”

  “Apparently they were asking how to find J.P Oil Road.”

  “Any idea why?”

  The trooper shakes his head. “Sorry, can’t help you there. But they left about ten minutes ago, you’ll have to get a move on if you want to catch them.”

  The way to J.P. Oil Road was simple, go back east on 190 a few hundred feet to Florida Street then south on Highway 105, about four miles. The trooper had walked with Cody back to the driver’s side door, held it open as Cody climbed in.

  “Thanks,” Cody had said. “I appreciate the help.”

  Still holding the car door open, Trooper Goldrick had glanced around, adjusted his Stetson and said, “I served in the Gulf War, stationed out of Fort Benning. During clean-up operations there was a situation where I had to choose between bad and….” The trooper paused, swallowed and said, “In this situation I had to choose between bad and less bad.” He looked Cody hard in the eye. “Killing those Skulls, you did the only thing you could. It was the less bad choice.”

  «»

  Now Cody sits drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he looks left, looks right, then left again. He had found J.P Oil Road easily enough, the trooper’s directions had been exactly right. But after turning west on J.P Oil and driving a mere two miles Cody found himself at a fork in the road.

  J.P. veers left and becomes Parish Road 4-20-1, but to the right the signage is a little less clear. The fork to the right could be J.P. Oil or it might be Craft Lake Road. Not that the name of the road mattered. The real problem is that Cody has no idea which way the Crown Vic turned.

  Still drumming the steering wheel, Cody looks around again. Okay, fine. Now what? Back a few hundred yards is some sort of industrial compound, probably part of the Exxon Mobil refinery he had passed heading south out of Krotz Springs. In the crotch of the forked road is some kind of retention pond. All around is thick, swampy forest.

  The road is empty, no green Ford, nothing. He does not think the Crown Vic could have gotten all that far ahead but each leg of the fork is deserted. Cody checks his watch. The meeting is still ninety minutes out and Opelousas is only a half an hour away, making the appointment will not be a problem.

  Cody pushes open the car door and climbs out.

  Standing in the center of the road, Cody looks left and right again. A shimmer of heat rises from the hard packed dirt. The air is perfectly still, thick and hot. A hush blankets the forest and the low hum of Cody’s car seems to underscore the silence. For some reason, the situation reminds Cody of his college graduation day; his buddy, Doug Kramer, standing next to Doug’s new Trans Am at the side of a deserted Illinois country road. Debating the finer points of Cody’s ability to be a policeman. Cody chuckles to himself, he remembers telling Doug he wasn’t smooth enough to be a cop. Then a sad smile forms on Cody’s face. It has been far too long since his last conversation with Doug.

  Cody walks over to an old, faded road sign. It isn’t an official government sign but instead is hand painted. There is an image, the outline of a church and an arrow pointing left, telling the seeker to take the south fork. Below the arrow was the name of the church: The Crossing.

  Where has he heard of that church? Cody wipes the sweat from his forehead. Even in the shade the heat is unbearable, the forest is dripping with humidity. The Crossing, Cody thinks about it, he knows that name from somewhere. Then it comes to him. The data CD Jamie had taken from Nick’s apartment, the church was mentioned in one of Nick’s notes. But Cody cannot remember why or what the connection is. He turns the name over in his mind, trying to recall what Nick had written about the church.

  At first, the sound does
not register. Cody is so intent on working out where The Crossing fits in that the hiss simply blends into the undercurrent of wilderness noises. But the second time the sound cuts through everything, a raspy whisper from the throat of an animal. Not just any animal, a snake.

  Automatically, Cody spins and backs away from the sound, his heart starts to pound. At the edge of the road, only a few feet from where he had been standing lays a huge, black cottonmouth. Coiled up, head reared, exposing two razor-sharp fangs against the bright white flesh of its mouth.

  Cody shudders at the sight, and puts another three or four yards between him and the snake.

  “Oh shit, that was close,” Cody says under his breath.

  The snake stops hissing, and feigns a strike, as if to show it could have bitten Cody had it wanted. Cody does not need a demonstration of how close he had come to a fatal attack. He takes a few more steps backward.

  But then the snake starts toward him. As each coil stretches out, Cody begins to grasp the enormity of the beast. It has to be more than twenty feet long— no, longer, maybe forty feet long and at least twenty-four inches in diameter. It seems to be getting larger as it slithers toward him.

  Cody reaches for his gun but he doesn’t have it. He glances at the rental. After talking to that trucker he had removed his weapon from his hip and tossed it back onto the passenger’s seat. The cottonmouth moves closer.

  Cody starts to jog back to the car but the snake speeds up, closing the gap. Cody breaks into a full run, but the cottonmouth moves even faster and is only a few feet away by the time he reaches the car. He leaps onto the hood of the Ford and slides across, one leg folded under, like he is heading into third base. As his feet hit the dirt on the other side Cody hears a sharp, metallic pop. He spins around to see the snake recoiling, extracting its fangs from the car, two holes neatly pierced in the hood.

  “Jesus, you…you bit my car?” Cody says.

  The cottonmouth hisses again, this time sounding more like a jeer. It seems to be grinning at him, taunting him. Near panic, Cody yanks the passenger door open and grabs his gun.

  Too late, it is on him.

  Cody reels as he takes in what he sees. The snake has crossed the hood but at least half of it is still on the ground, stretched out across the road. The nose of the little rental car sags under the weight of the creature. Its dark, triangular head hovers in the air just a few feet from Cody’s face, weaving slightly from side to side. The snake’s mouth is closed but its forked tongue slips out then back in, tasting the air. Cody can hear it patiently drawing breath.

  Heart pounding and gasping for air, Cody feels a sickening wave of bile rush up from his gut. His gun is in hand but the cottonmouth has cornered him, there is no way to take aim. Light-headed, unsteady, Cody stands motionless, looking sideways at it, hoping for the opportunity to shoot, hoping he won’t throw up or pass out.

  The moment drags out. Cody becomes strangely aware of his wet, sticky tee shirt. Great drops of sweat trail down his face, dripping from his forehead, running into his mouth, into his eyes.

  The snake’s head floats upward, weaving, moving closer. Cody can almost feel the serpent’s presence on his skin. Slowly its mouth opens, the fangs unfolding.

  “It’s your turn,” the snake whispers in a low hiss.

  Cody turns and stares into a lidless, yellow eye. His mind seems to split apart, fragment. How can this thing speak? How can I understand what it is saying? Yet, at the very same moment, the idea feels perfectly rational. Scattered between these thoughts, Cody senses the snake’s own mind. He knows it is about to strike again.

  Knowing what it is thinking both empowers Cody and paralyzes him and for a few microseconds he does nothing. Cody can sense the thing pull back ever so slightly as it prepares to strike. At that moment he drops to the ground.

  Cody does not see it but he hears the sound of the bite, powerful and solid like a boxer hitting a punching bag. From the ground, lying on his back, he looks up and sees the snake pull away, a huge gash in the car seat. He aims his gun and squeezes off two rounds, but the snake is gone, both shots have missed. Then it is looking at him, looking down at him.

  Draped over the top of the car and across the hood, with its tail still stretching out on the dirt road, the cottonmouth stares down at him. Cody feels light-headed from the adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream. What the fuck is happening? Sweat pours from his body, it stings his eyes. He can taste the salty flavor of sweat on his tongue. Cody feels as though he is drowning. He is drowning in his own perspiration.

  Salty or brackish? The thought comes to Cody in an unexpected rush. Does his sweat taste salty or more like dirty saltwater. Or, maybe, like swamp water?

  Something is familiar here. An image crosses his mind like a snapshot. Suddenly he understands the connection: a strange place, the brackish water, terror and gunshots.

  “You did it,” Cody says, staring up at the snake. “You killed Nick.”

  “Your turn.”

  “What did you do, follow him into the swamp? Did you chase him? Why did----” Cody’s words catch in his throat as another image fills his mind; a man trying to escape danger, he is drowning. Just as suddenly, the image vanishes from his thoughts. “Nick was my friend,” Cody says slowly, “Now it’s your turn.”

  The serpent’s eyes widen. It rises up hissing and spitting, its head at a stiff right angle to its body.

  “Your turn,” the snake rasps again, sounding….angry.

  The giant snake tilts its head sideways, arching, then plunges directly at Cody’s face.

  «»

  “What happened here?”

  “Is he…dead?” This voice is different from the first, gentle, softer.

  A woman?

  “I don’t think so. No, look he’s still breathing.”

  Breathing, yes. But it feels like there is a thousand pounds sitting on his chest, he cannot move. And his legs are useless. Next to him is a foul smell, sharp like chemical fumes. But who is here, who is talking?

  Something comes out of his hand.

  “Why did he have a gun?” The woman is speaking.

  “I have no idea.” Now it is the man talking. “But he was shooting at someone, or something. It’s been fired.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Hell if I know. Cody? Cody can you hear me? Jesus, are you all right?”

  Cody tries to move but he cannot. He can hardly even breathe.

  “You know him?” The woman says

  “Yeah, he’s a cop, a detective.”

  “A cop?”

  “Yes. NOPD.” The man says.

  “Is it dead?” Cody says, more of a croak than actual words. His voice sounds coarse. Blinking against the sunlight, Cody forces his eyes to open.

  “Take it easy, man. Everything’s all right.”

  “Where is it?” Cody says. “Is it dead?”

  “Is what dead?”

  “Eric? What are…you doing here?”

  “Me? What are you doing here?” Eric Hansen says. “What the hell happened, Cody?

  Hansen is kneeling, bent over him. Cody’s right hand lays outstretched, palm up and empty. His left arm, his legs, his whole body is held fast, pinned down. His skin feels scratchy, caked with dried sweat. Cody looks at his right hand. Where is his gun? Why can’t he move?

  On the periphery, something draws Cody’s attention. Cody turns his head and a silent scream erupts in his mind. A lifeless, yellow eye stares back at him. The head of the cottonmouth lays next to Cody, its fangs, one of them broken in half, are buried in the dirt, inches from his face. Part of its head is smashed in but not the mouth, and not the one dead eye. Even in death the snake seems to be grinning, wickedly, at him.

  Panic and fear and vomit churn up in his gut, Cody tries to sit up, tries to get away but he cannot move. He turns his head to the right and spits. The snake crisscrosses his body, over his chest and legs, half of it still draped over his car’s windshield and hood.

/>   “Get it off,” Cody says, still sounding hoarse. “Get the fucking thing off me.”

  “What? Get what off you?” Hansen says. “What’s wrong?”

  Cody stares at Hansen then glances around, looks at his car, at the snake. Don’t they see this goddamned thing?

  “Help me up,” Cody says.

  “I don’t know,” Hansen says. “I think we should wait for an ambulance. Your head, you’re bleeding. I think you hit pretty hard, maybe you ought to stay put.

  “Really, I’m okay, just help me up.” Cody offers his right arm but winces at the pain in his shoulder and lowers his hand.

  “You’re in bad shape. Just stay put.”

  “No, I’m fine. My shoulder hurts from yesterday, you know my shooter. Hang on a minute.” Cody works his left arm free, pushing against the cottonmouth with his right hand.

  Hansen stares, giving him a suspicious look as Cody seems to struggle against nothing while he tries to move his left arm. Even with his left side free, Cody still can’t sit up, the snake corpse still lies across his chest and legs. He holds up his left hand and says,

  “Okay, let’s try it again,” Cody says.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, help me up.”

  Hansen tucks Cody’s gun into his waistband and looks at someone else. “What do you think, Tina?”

  The woman steps into view. She is wearing a white cotton blouse, jeans, sunglasses and red lipstick. She bends down and touches the side of his throat. Her fingers are cool, soft.