Deadlight Jack

by Mark Onspaugh

  “They sent him to stay with his father in Atlanta,” Martin said. He turned and looked at Jimmy. “He’s really more of a sperm donor than a father.”

  “Martin…” Richard said, annoyed. Then, to his father and Jimmy, “He’s a good guy. Teaches Shakespeare at UGA.”

  “Go, Dawgs!” Martin said, shaking a fist for emphasis.

  “How’s the painting coming along?” George asked.

  “Good,” Richard said noncommittally.

  “He got written up in Art in America,” Martin said. “That’s a big deal, Daddy.”

  “I’d like to read that,” George said.

  “I’ll send you a copy,” Martin said before Richard could reply.

  “And Martin, your business is going well?” George asks.

  Richard laughed. “Ask him how many shopping malls he owns.”

  Martin gave his brother an annoyed look. “I only own one mall in Tustin, California, and it’s pretty small. The rest of my properties are office buildings and strip malls.”

  “Sounds prosperous,” Jimmy said.

  “Sounds like a headache, which it is,” Martin said. Martin caught a look from his older brother and preempted his comeback. “But I admit, I do love it.”

  Richard nodded as if he had won a small victory.

  George wondered how many years it had been since he saw his boys. Richard had placed him in Golden Summer in the early part of 2004, just before moving to Paris. He had married a lovely Norwegian woman named Vika. Richard had sent him pictures from his wedding and the successive births of their three children.

  And Martin? He had spent two years living with Martin and his first wife Roberta and daughter Christina. That marriage had probably been in trouble before he showed up, but he certainly hadn’t helped matters. He had never met Martin’s new wife Kendra, or their children.

  So it had been about eleven years since he had seen Richard, and four for Martin.

  George’s thoughts came around to an expression he rarely uttered but thought often: Life sure was a shitbox sometimes.

  As they traveled on, George asked the boys about their wives and children, trying to catch up for over a decade in that hour-plus car ride.

  —

  The road was smooth and largely straight, and Jimmy was tempted to fall asleep. But the sun was starting to rise, and he wasn’t sure how much time he’d have to study the landscape without others distracting him.

  George and his boys fell into an easy conversation, and Jimmy pretended to doze to give them their privacy. Now that ruse gave him a chance to observe the land, for they didn’t include him in their news and reminiscences.

  The sun came up, and he saw a vast forest, one of cottonwoods, sycamores, ash, gum, and cypress, and trees he wasn’t able to identify at first glance. Tendrils of fog crept through the trunks of the trees, like phantom snakes, questing, questing.

  They came to a set of parallel bridges, the sign announcing them as the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge, a span that ran over eighteen miles. The emerging sun brought the immense wildlife refuge out of hiding, though remnants of morning fog tried to keep some of her secrets veiled.

  Jimmy had done some reading on the region. He remembered that the basin was fed by the Atchafalaya River, itself fed by the Mississippi and the Red River.

  The car was closed up, and the boys had the a/c on, but Jimmy still caught a faint whiff of rot coming from the swamp. He wasn’t sure if it was a real scent or something more supernatural. Ever since he had come back from the Bridge of Lights, he had had similar sensations.

  His eyes were still sharp, and he was able to pick out gators here and there, cleverly disguised as harmless logs or a mound of earth covered by clover, moss, and algae.

  What was that word for a group of gators? Congregation, that was it. Strange choice.

  Of course, a group of ravens used to be called a conspiracy or an unkindness.

  He had only one Raven to deal with, but the term seemed rather apt.

  that mean alligator doesn’t play fair

  Jimmy sighed. Alligators had been around a long, long time. He guessed Dabo Muu predated humans, and his advanced age gave him some sort of feeling of entitlement where Jimmy was concerned.

  But there was more to it than that. It was foolish to speculate on the whims and motives of creatures so clearly not human, and he suspected some of them deliberately appeared mysterious, even inscrutable. They probably took amusement in that.

  And when someone such as he was caught between the caprices of two gods?

  Jimmy had read plenty of Greek and Roman myths. The human in the middle usually got the short end of the stick. Hell, even Hercules got screwed over.

  And if those gods were from different belief systems?

  Did the gods war, he wondered? They had united against the Faceless One in the beginning, but that was thousands of years ago, with many gods allied against T’Nathluk. Such a war today, he suspected, might well tear the world apart.

  Jimmy chided himself. He was supposed to prepare himself to help George, and he was woolgathering, engaging in idle fantasy that had no bearing on the real problem: A child was missing, and he was George’s grandson.

  Jimmy stared out at the water, the swamp, and tried to get a read on it.

  The water and the swamp, timeless and silent, gave him nothing.

  —

  They pulled into the Comfort Suites parking lot at 7 A.M.

  Martin handed them two key cards, and he and Richard helped George and Jimmy to their room, which Jimmy was grateful wasn’t on an upper floor.

  “Again, the family is meeting in the conference room at eight thirty,” Richard said apologetically.

  “Is there a chance we can see the campsite?” Jimmy asked.

  George turned sharply to Jimmy, and Richard and Martin regarded him with puzzlement.

  “Why would you want to go there?” Richard asked. “The police have the area cordoned off.”

  Jimmy hesitated. He knew George had told none of his family about the supernatural aspect of their encounter last year.

  “He…he gets hunches sometimes,” George said.

  “What, like a psychic?” Martin asked.

  Jimmy was going to answer “not exactly,” but George cut him off with a blunt, “Of course not.”

  Richard shook his head. “The police made it very clear we should stay out of the area, let them do their jobs.”

  “Several of us will go out and help them search,” Martin offered.

  “We’d like to help,” George said, and Jimmy nodded.

  “Absolutely not,” Richard said.

  “And why not,” asked George, bristling. “He is my grandson, after all.”

  Richard gave him a look that said volumes, then said, “You’re too old, Daddy. Both you and Mr. Kalmaku will just hold things up.”

  George’s mouth worked, but he held his tongue. It had been a long flight and he was weary.

  Richard looked at him, clearly surprised his father hadn’t made a sarcastic retort. He hesitated and then gave George an awkward hug, and Martin followed with an embrace that was far more natural.

  They wished Jimmy good night and closed the door on their way out.

  “Father of the year,” George muttered.

  “We’ll figure this out, George,” Jimmy offered.

  “Right now, I just want to sleep,” George said.

  Neither of them thought he would be able to sleep. George was dreading the next phase of the reunion, and Jimmy was wondering just how much help he would be, his legs and arms aching more than ever, his intuition and spirit messages dulled by the relentless heat and humidity.

  Both Jimmy and George fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Jimmy’s last thought was that his mind seemed to be tuned to a channel that got no reception, and it made him uneasy.

  Chapter 13

  ATCHAFALAYA SWAMP, LOUISIANA

  Big Mike popped the top on a cold beer and raised the
can to his friends.

  “Breakfast of champions, bitches.”

  It was an old joke, one they had been using since they had been drinking beer, which was several years prior to them being able to legally.

  Big Mike was a huge man, dressed in overalls and no shirt, his biceps covered with tattoos for the Marines, America, and a girl named Alice-May. His face and bald head were perpetually covered with a dark stubble.

  Jimmy-June was of average weight and height but looked tiny next to Big Mike. His name was short for Jimmy Junior. He shook his head. “You never change, Big Mike. ’Course, we’d be mighty grateful if’n you’d change your drawers once in a while.”

  Ralphie, gawky and squeaky-voiced, honked and brayed like a mule.

  “Fuck you, June Bug,” Big Mike said without rancor.

  “ ’Course,” Jimmy-June continued, “I figured Ralphie was gonna shit his skivvies when that big ol’ rat dropped in the boat.”

  Big Mike laughed. “Ralphie, hon, was you ascared of Deadlight Jack?”

  “Ain’t no such a thing!” Ralphie declared, but it was clear he was frightened.

  “Take it easy now, cousin,” Big Mike soothed. “Ain’t no Deadlight Jack—that’s just a tall tale mommas tell their brats to keep them out’na swamps.”

  “Like the Ghost Gator?” Jimmy-June said.

  “Now that fucker’s real,” Big Mike said. “I can feel it. We’ll catch him…just not today.”

  The sun was up and their night of gator hunting had been one big bust. Oh, they had had a good time—they had been friends since grade school, and they could still tickle each other with an insult or cockeyed observation about politics, women, the swamp, and life in general.

  They had seen plenty of gators, big ones, but they were after a special critter.

  A white alligator—the infamous Ghost Gator of the Atchafalaya.

  Rarest of the rare and reputed to have blue eyes.

  They figured that catching it alive would fetch a small fortune, maybe enough to quit their respective jobs and start up the bar or bait shop they were always talking about.

  “You think someone else got that pale sumbitch?” Ralphie asked.

  “Shit,” Big Mike said, draining his beer. “Ain’t nobody gonna catch that gator ’cept us.”

  “Word,” said Jimmy-June, raising his beer.

  Big Mike tossed his empty in the boat, where it clattered noisily in the still air. He wasn’t gonna pollute the swamp, this was his home, goddammit!

  —

  Professor Foxfire directed Donny through the swamp, nudging him with his walking stick now and again.

  Donny bit his lip, determined not to cry again.

  I’m not a baby! I have to be calm and make my move when he isn’t expecting it.

  Professor Foxfire sang a little tune. The words were strange and the melody hurt Donny’s head. It was all wrong and twisted, not music at all, really.

  “Kyalith d’norseum, t’fla t’fla t’fla! Yanoth q’oryph t’fla t’fla t’fla!”

  But Donny wasn’t listening anymore. He heard men’s voices, close by, and he ran.

  Professor Foxfire laughed.

  —

  “Shall we pack it up, boys?” Big Mike asked. “I think Shirley wants to go home.”

  “Swampin’ Shirley” was the name of Big Mike’s boat. Most people didn’t bother to name a fourteen-foot aluminum fishing boat, but Big Mike had gotten his from his grandpa, and he was very proud of it. Gramps had fought the Nazis, so Big Mike had paid a college kid to give his boat “nose art” like the planes in WWII had. It showed a pretty blonde with long, long legs dipping her toes in the water. Everyone who fished or hunted in the region knew Big Mike’s boat.

  “What the hell,” Jimmy-June said. “I’m so hungry I could eat a two-day-dead possum.”

  “I’d rather have a Denny’s Grand Slam,” said Ralphie, “but I betcha we can get you some roadkill on the way in.”

  They all laughed at that, all three of them tired and a little drunk. Better to beat the heat of the day and try again after sunset.

  Big Mike grabbed the cooler and hoisted it, just as the little boy stepped into the clearing.

  “Please help me, I got kidnapped—he’s…”

  But Big Mike heard someone coming. In one fluid motion he swept Donny behind him and pulled his .45 service revolver out of his belt. The gun had been a gift from his Nazi-killing grandpa.

  Ralphie and Jimmy-June flanked him, Ralphie with a deer rifle and Jimmy-June with a shotgun.

  Professor Foxfire stepped into the clearing. He looked again like a jolly ringmaster with a Cab Calloway face.

  “Good morning, gentlemen! Have you seen my little friend?”

  He started to walk forward and they all leveled their guns at him. Big Mike gestured with his. “You lay down on the ground there, Mister, and put your hands behind you.”

  “You think there’s a reward, Big Mike?” Ralphie asked.

  “I don’t give a good goddamn,” Big Mike said.

  “Tell you what,” Professor Foxfire said, “you give him to me and you can go on your way, unscarred and alive.”

  “Only place this boy is going is back to his mama,” Big Mike said.

  “He said get on the ground!” Jimmy-June added.

  Professor Foxfire collapsed his walking stick to the size of a cigar and stuffed it in his coat. He walked forward, and as he advanced, he began to change. His eyes went completely black and his skin again took on the absence of color and fathomless depths of an abyss. On his cheeks, the orange salamanders blazed. Professor Foxfire’s eyes began to blaze as well, and smoke issued from them, wafting upward into the June morning.

  Jimmy-June fired the shotgun and the blast went high, tearing away half of Professor Foxfire’s face, neck, and a large chunk of his left shoulder. They could see bone, sinew, and muscle, all of which looked normal. But leaking from the skull was something gray and bubbling that steamed as it hit the morning air.

  Ralphie dropped his guard and puked into the weeds, gasping “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” as he did.

  And then Professor Foxfire began to make a weird, hissing sound.

  They realized he was laughing, or trying to laugh without most of the equipment necessary for such an endeavor.

  Big Mike and Jimmy-June kept their guns on him.

  “Let’s go,” Donny pleaded, wishing they were in the boat and pulling into the wharf at the campground.

  “He’s done, son, don’t you worry,” Big Mike said.

  Flies came then, hundreds of them, and black widow and brown recluse spiders. The flies collected on the ruined meat and bone of Professor Foxfire as the spiders clambered up his legs and gathered with the flies.

  Big Mike thought they were going to consume the bastard, and very nearly yelled, “Praise Jesus!”

  But the mass of insects and arachnids heaved and trembled. It coalesced into a single, obsidian mass that repaired the damage to Professor Foxfire.

  The men goggled at this, each one wondering if he was somehow having a most awful and vivid nightmare, and each one suddenly prescient with the knowledge that he would not see home again.

  “Come on!” Donny yelled, pushing the boat into the water and climbing in.

  But the three men were in the thrall of something beyond their experience and understanding. They had made contact with a nightmare made flesh, the Boogeyman and the haint that their mamas and grandmamas had warned them about.

  The salamanders leaped from Professor Foxfire’s face, one heading for Jimmy-June, the other for Ralphie, who was now crying like a child.

  “Deadlight Jack, Mama! Oh Lordy, Mama, please wake me up…”

  The blazing salamanders turned to flame as they climbed the men’s legs, burning through cloth, skin, into bone. The effects of the creatures traveled upward with them, as each man was consumed by arcane fire.

  Big Mike’s screams were drowned by those of his friends. Forgetting the small bo
y behind him, he fired his .45 into Professor Foxfire, the shots ringing out through the swamp like thunderclaps.

  Donny tried to start the boat, but the cord jammed. He thought of trying to swim toward the far shore, but the water seemed full of gators.

  Ralphie and Jimmy-June stopped screaming, and Big Mike saw to his horror they were now cherry-red skeletons. As the salamanders leaped back to their master, the skeletons embraced Big Mike in a caress of hellfire. The sound and smell of the big man’s flesh being consumed was something Donny tried to shut out but could not.

  When the three men were all skeletons glowing like the embers of a campfire, they fell backward into the water. Cool water washed over incandescent bone, and the skeletons disintegrated into tiny bits of bone and boiling marrow. These quickly swirled away into the tributary, to join the many dead of the Atchafalaya and the Mississippi.

  Donny whimpered down on the floor of the boat, which he hoped might drift and take him home, guided by the hand of God or Jesus or whoever might take pity on him.

  The boat was nudged onto land by several gators working as a team. Donny heard and felt them bump the boat along with their snouts, and now he hoped he might die before seeing the hateful face of Professor Foxfire again.

  The top of the Professor’s hat appeared above the gunwale, rising slowly until the happy Cab Calloway face appeared.

  “Peekaboo,” Professor Foxfire said merrily.

  Chapter 14

  PORT ALLEN, LOUISIANA

  Both George and Jimmy were startled awake by the loud notes of a country song on the clock radio.

  “Good Lord,” said George, slamming his hand down on the snooze button. He sat up blearily. He picked up the radio, saying, “I do not need to hear any more of that.” He turned off the alarm and set the clock down.

  Jimmy got up, relieved that his aches had dulled some while napping.

  They washed up, changed clothes, and walked down to the conference room off the lobby.

  The conference table was ringed with empty chairs. Along one side of the room were urns of coffee, hot water for tea, milk, small boxes of cereal, fruit, and chafing dishes of scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes, and grits.

  Jimmy had never known motel food to be anything but merely edible, but the smells of this spread were making him ravenous. He tried to ignore his hunger and looked at the group gathered at the far end of the table, all of them drinking coffee.