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
Nicholas 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.
He thought about the speech he’d given to Dennis LeFleur in order to persuade him to carry on with the search. He thought of the two monsters that existed within every man, the two that would be scratching at the door of a man’s soul forever, struggling to manipulate his actions for their own sadistic pleasure. The two monsters ruled the St. Pierre household, forcing them to create a beast that sealed their own fates and unleashing an unrelenting terror into the world. In his mind, he spoke the names of the two monsters, while aloud, he spoke the only two words his mouth could form.
"Fuck it."
Nick held the shotgun tightly in his right hand and climbed up the ladder.
Chapter Thirty
Monster
When he got to the top of the ladder, Nick paused for a moment to steady himself; then he poked his head through the small opening. A hole torn into the rusted, tin roof allowed enough sunlight to come in for the detective to see into the hot, confined space. The area behind him was empty save for a few pieces of old furniture covered with cobwebs. At the other end, just past Poppie St. Pierre’s rotting corpse, a fresh trail of blood led to some kind of animal hidden in the shadows. Whatever it was, it was injured. Nick remembered Cap’n Guidry’s warning about the dangers of cornering a wounded animal, but he’d come too far to turn back now. He climbed up into the attic.
Once Nick got his footing, he carefully stepped around the foul carcass at his feet and leveled the shotgun. The creature was lying in a pool of blood, intermittently breathing hard and fast at times, and almost not breathing at other times. Nick knew that this was a sign that it was close to death. Close or not, he thought, I’m going to send it the rest of the way.
The thing ignored his presence, seemingly unaware that the armed man was standing before him, pointing a shotgun in his direction. As Nick’s eyes acclimated to the light, he scanned the area around the beast in morbid curiosity.
Fastened to a wooden post, lay a pile of rusty chains that had once kept the monster at bay, and Nick could make out markings scratched into the rotting cypress floor, apparently made by the beast during his torturous captivity. He turned his gaze back to the dying animal and saw that it held something in its hands.
The beast’s left hand was hidden from sight, but, in his right hand, Nick clearly recognized the unwelcome item. The detective felt a cold wave of fear sweep over his body; the beast was holding his Glock.
Guidry’s shotgun had not left Nick’s grasp for days, and he finally put it to use. He felt his hands tighten around the firearm, and he pulled the trigger. A small, feeble click echoed off the walls of the small chamber. The detective felt a wave of panic and pulled back again �
� nothing.
He looked over at his intended target; his panic reached an overwhelming level when he saw the beast’s beady, red eyes staring back into his own. Nick looked down at his own gun cradled in the monster’s claw, and his heart dropped when the thing followed his gaze. He couldn’t be sure, but he almost detected a small laugh come from the beast at the irony of it all. It didn’t really matter now, Nick thought, he was toast.
The creature pointed the Glock at Nick and watched the detective’s reaction. Nicholas Vizier never felt so helpless in his life. After everything, it had come down to this. His arms fell to his sides, and he let Guidry’s useless shotgun fall to the floor. Then he met the monster’s gaze.
"Go on," said Nick. "Do it."
The beast cocked his head to the side and looked at him in silence.
"What are you waiting for?" Nick asked. "Go ahead and kill me. I deserve it."
The creature was unmoved. It stared back at him, seemingly waiting for the detective to continue his pleas.
"You might as well," Nick continued. "There’s no one going to miss me; no one waiting for my return. I’m sure you’d know all about that, whatever you are."
The creature aimed the gun at Nick’s chest; Nick shut his eyes and held his breath in anticipation. Nothing happened. He looked again at the beast, only to see the creature put the gun on the dusty floor in front of him. The thing gazed up at Nick, then kicked the handgun across the floorboards to come to rest at the detective’s feet. He quickly reached down and picked up his lost firearm, then promptly inspected the gun this time to see if it was loaded. To his surprise, it was. He exhaled with elation at his sudden good fortune and aimed the gun at the beast.
The thing was no longer looking at him. It was breathing hard again, seemingly preoccupied with the hidden object in its other claw. Terrified that the thing would produce yet another weapon, Nick pointed his gun toward the beast and took a couple of steps forward.
The thing ignored the detective completely. The strange behavior and reaction, or non-reaction, that the creature displayed caused Nick to hesitate. He had witnessed with his own eyes the ferociousness of the beast. He had looked on helplessly as it tore his friends’ bodies apart, limb from limb. Something here didn’t quite fit.
Nick peered into the shadows and struggled to see what the creature was doing. His eyes suddenly saw several markings scratched into the wooden floorboards around the creature, and he was shocked as one set of symbols came into focus. As he deciphered the crudely written word at the monster’s feet, Nick’s mouth opened, and he unconsciously spoke the word aloud.
"Billy?"
The creature’s labored panting briefly stopped, and it turned and looked at the detective.
Nick looked back into the beast’s eyes and repeated the name he had just spoken. "Billy."
To his horror, the beast smiled at him.
The gun in his hand suddenly exploded, interrupting the eerie silence of the small attic. Nick’s ears rang from the loud and unexpected noise, and the muscles of his arm ached from the abrupt kickback. The unmistakable smell of gunpowder filled the confined space, and he felt a wave of nausea rise from his belly. He looked over at the creature and saw that it was no longer breathing. Nicholas Vizier had killed the beast.
The detective walked closer to the unmoving creature at his feet and saw the object that it had held in its deformed hand. It was a faded picture of a pretty, young Cajun girl with an engaging, crooked smile and a sad, faraway look in her big, round eyes. Lillian St. Pierre, thought Nick, Billy’s mother. The detective fell to his knees and began to weep.
He thought about all of the things that had led him to this event, all of the people he had lost along the way. He thought about his imminent return, of finally becoming the conquering hero he had always wanted to be. Nicholas Vizier, the man that overcame the fear of certain death and killed the terrifying monster that haunted the Atchafalaya Swamp.
He imagined the fanfare upon his return. The proud look in Marie’s loving eyes as the legend of the brave detective spread throughout the region, maybe even the country. Images swam in his head of countless interviews and rounds of applause that would meet him as he toured the world, regaling his adoring audiences with his great adventures. His smiling picture on the cover of prominent magazines, some even with him posing next to the terrifying monster that he had slain.
He felt disgusted; he felt dirty. He may have overcome his fear when he climbed up into that attic, but the other monster rejoiced with victory. No matter what anyone could ever claim, he knew he was no slayer of demons. No, it was more like he murdered a helpless and dying animal. He knew even this wasn’t the truth. He knew it was no animal that lay murdered at his feet, it was a boy. Nick had murdered a defenseless child.
And what of that child, thought Nick. Born out of sin, abused out of shame, and tortured out of fear, the sad, deformed child only became what others had forced him to become. Scorn and ridicule had been the only things that his fellow human beings had ever shared with him. He wasn’t a monster, nor a beast; not a creature, nor a demon; and he never had been. His name was Billy, and he had been a person. If Nick were to return the conquering hero, there was only one role Billy had left to play – the sad role he had been tortured with his entire life. Nick knew what he had to do.
Chapter Thirty-One
Hero
Nick sailed away that afternoon from Bayou Noir, only turning around once to glance passed his shoulder and get one last look at the last resting place of the St. Pierre family. By now, the tall column of black smoke reached the puffy, white clouds that stood dominion over the Atchafalaya Basin, the intense flames at its base at last eradicating the last vestiges of its loathsome contents from the Earth. Soon, he thought, the smoldering remains would tumble into the dark waters at its base, descending forever into the vile swamp from which it had arisen.
Nicholas inspected the few items he’d taken along with him in the small boat, hoping that they’d be enough to keep him alive until he made it back to civilization and his uncertain future. Sweat poured off his body, and he knew he reeked of smoke, filth, and the unmistakable stench of death. The detective hoped that the weather in San Diego would be more pleasant.
Twilight descended on the bayou, and he found an open area to anchor down and rest for the night. The swamp was alive with the sounds of the thousands of creatures that called it home, a symphony of endless beauty to his tired ears. The detective huddled up as comfortably as he could manage and looked up into the stars overhead. He was thirsty, he was hungry, he was tired and alone, but he was alive. Nick never remembered feeling so good.
Before he drifted off to sleep, he thought again about the tragic events that he had witnessed. He mourned the deaths of the Swamp Rats and of Cap’n Guidry, a man he had barely known, but one he would consider one the closest friends he’d ever had. He thought that in many ways, Guidry had become like a father to him, a father that he had never known, but searched for his entire life.
The thought brought back the image of the sad, deformed creature in the attic, holding the picture of Lillian St. Pierre, of another lost child that had searched in vain for the love of its parent. Nick buried the unpleasant recollection at once. He didn’t want to see those images in his mind ever again. Fatigue won its battle against Nick’s restlessness and painful memories, and he drifted off to sleep.
Even in slumber, he found he could not escape the horrors of the Atchafalaya. Long after his escape from the desolate wilderness, he was haunted by the things he had encountered. The feelings of dread invaded his dreams, the suppressed memories of sharp claws and jagged teeth filled his nights. In his nightmares, he smelled the sickening odor of death and heard the cries of dying men and the terrifying, victorious roar of the beast.
Over time, most of these images faded, though never truly disappeared. Unfortun-ately for the traumatized detective, other more disturbing images refused to go away. He often woke up in the middle o
f the night, covered in sweat and breathing hard, and wondered if his night terrors ever disturbed Marie. At those times, he would stare at the ceiling in the dark, trying to calm down and slow his beating heart, hoping to drift off to a slumber devoid of the demons of the past.
Frequently, in those silent moments, he would think about his visit to St. Elizabeth’s to see Margaret Evans. He knew at those moments, wherever she was, that frightened little girl saw the same image in her head that haunted Nick. She had realized the true horror of the monster in the swamp, but was unable to come to terms with it and retreated to a prison in her mind.
Nick refused to let it overtake him, refused to give in. Instead, he lumbered on and tried to forget the unforgettable, a task he was unable to fully accomplish. Nicholas Vizier was never able to forget the horror of the smiling boy in the attic, or of the monsters that killed him.
THE END
GLOSSARY
BAYOU a slow moving river
BAYOU NOIR black slow moving river
BEBETTE a little monster
“BECK MOI TCHEW!” “Bite my ass!”
BIOQUE moron
BON RIEN a good for nothing or lazy man
BONNE A RIENNE a good for nothing or promiscuous woman
BOO a term of endearment, such as sweetie, or darling
BOSCOYO cypress knee
BOUG boy
BRACQUE crazy
“CA VIENS?” “How’s it coming?”
CAIMON alligator
CAPON coward
CHER a term of endearment
“CHO! CO!” “Wow!”
Billy: A Tale Of Unrelenting Terror Page 15
