by David Wood
The faint sound of cries from the foredeck drifted back to his place at the helm. “See what that’s about.”
Dominic nodded but before he could take a step, a small voice cried out in the darkness.
“Captain, we see land ahead!” A short, slender young man of a dozen years melted out of the darkness. Eugenio was Morales’ page and his nephew. The young man had no business being out on the deck in this storm, but the boy was determined to become an apprentice sailor as soon as he was old enough, and insisted on acting as if he were already a full member of the crew. He turned and pointed forward. “There, off the port bow.”
Morales strained to see what his nephew had spotted. The San Amaro rose on a swell, and in the next flash of lightning he saw the low-slung silhouette of a cayo, one of the small islands formed atop a coral reef that lined the south and west coasts of La Florida.
“We are closer to shore than I thought,” Dominic said.
Morales didn’t answer. He’d performed quick mental calculations and realized they were headed directly toward the southern tip of the cayo. What was more, even if he managed to steer San Amaro around the cayo, another of the low-lying islands lay just to the south. They had only a small gap through which to safely pass. Of course, he didn’t know what lay beyond, but that was a problem for later.
“Tell everyone to get down below!” he called to Eugenio. “There is nothing more they can do here.” While the possibility of being run aground on the cayo was very real, at least in that situation the crew would stand a chance of surviving such a fate. Should a man be swept overboard, death was a virtual certainty. Even those who were capable swimmers could not remain afloat in this churning, black maelstrom.
Eugenio turned and ran for the bow. He’d barely made it ten paces when the wave struck. A massive wall of water like the hand of Satan reaching up from the depths of Hell reared up on the port side. It swept across the deck, scooped the young man up, and carried him over the starboard rail and into the sea.
“Eugenio!” Morales cried. Brief, irrational flickers of thought flashed through his mind like fireflies. Turn the boat around. Toss the boy a rope. Go in after him. They were all absurd, of course. The ship was virtually beyond his control and Eugenio would be dead in a matter of seconds, a minute at most.
Perhaps he should shed a tear for his sister’s oldest child, but present circumstances were too dire for such sentiments. He would do his best to keep his crew alive, and if he succeeded, mourn Eugenio at his leisure.
“Get below!” he shouted to Dominic.
“No, Captain. I’ll be here to take the wheel if something should happen to you.”
Morales gave a single nod. The man spoke sense and there was no time for arguing.
The lightning flashed again, silhouetting the dark fingers of the twin cayos that seemed to reach out to grab San Amaro. Morales leaned on the wheel, trying to gain even a small measure of control against the force of the storm. He gritted his teeth and strained with every muscle, every last drop of energy. His body, soaked with rain, sweat, and sea water, trembled with the effort. He tasted salt in his mouth, felt the shiver of the cold wind, and wondered if these were the last sensations he would ever experience on this earth.
The shadowy form of the cayo loomed directly ahead, seemingly coming closer with each flash of lightning. Dominic hit the deck as they surged forward, carried on the crest of a wave.
Down they came, crashing into the angry sea.
And then they were past the island and its sharp coral reef. Dominic clambered to his feet and let out a whoop of delight. But it wasn’t over.
The force of the storm, powerful beyond belief, continued to drive them forward as if by a supernatural force. The ship swept through the small bay and directly toward land.
“This cannot be happening,” Morales whispered.
“This storm is the devil’s work!” Dominic shouted.
Morales couldn’t disagree. Helpless, he watched the shore approach, the thick tree line standing dark and sinister in the stormy night. What would happen when they ran aground?
And then he saw it.
“A river!” A dark channel wound back into the mainland and disappeared from sight. Could they make it?
The surge carried San Amaro past the shoreline and up the narrow river that fed into the bay. Morales could not help but marvel at the force required to sweep their galleon upstream against the current. But his wonder did not last. They came to a bend in the river and San Amaro, despite his best efforts, did not make the turn.
Morales cried out in rage and dove to the deck as their ship smashed into the forest. The masts snapped with ear-splitting cracks. The sound of splitting wood rang in his ears as the heavy galleon ripped limbs from trees and boards split from the force of repeated collisions as they plunged deeper into the forest.
Morales dared to look up, wondering how far they could possibly go before they broke apart or came to a halt. He raised his head just in time to see a section of mast sweeping toward him. He ducked too late. Pain like hot fire erupted in his skull.
And then all was black.
“I told you this was the work of the devil.” Dominic scowled out the window at the dense foliage of the swamp into which San Amaro had come to rest. “This place is nothing but a haven for foul creatures, both great and small. Biting, stinging, and worse.”
“We lived through that storm. That is the work of God.” Three days later Morales still felt the effects of the blow to the head he had suffered. He’d spent little time outside of his cabin, just enough to remind the crew that he was still alive and in command. Too much exertion made him feel faint, and it would not do to show weakness in front of a crew that stood on the verge of desperation.
He’d managed to keep the men busy with hunting, gathering, and scouting. They couldn’t range far. The storm had turned this swamp into one giant pool of quicksand. Already San Amaro was sinking into the soft earth. He prayed the ship would hold together, as she provided their sole protection from the elements.
“What are we going to do, Captain?” Dominic’s dull voice struck a note of fatalism. “We’re trapped in this quagmire.”
“The weather is hale. Eventually, the swamp will become passable and we will make our way to shore. From there we will find our way to an outpost. La Florida is filled with game and fruit. We should have no trouble keeping ourselves fed during the journey.”
“That is not what I meant.” Dominic turned to face him, his face wan. “There is something out there, many somethings if our scouts are correct. The men have never seen the like before.”
“Superstitious nonsense.” Morales waved his first mate’s comment away. “The men had a great fright, and they are temporarily trapped in a forbidding environment. It is only natural that their minds begin to deceive them.”
Dominic hesitated. “Manuel is hardly a superstitious man. He is the oldest and most experience of them all and he says he has seen demons in the swamp.”
“All sailors are superstitious, and the fact that he claims to have seen demons proves it. Besides, I seem to recall Manuel insisting he once made love to a mermaid.” He would have said more, but shouts from the direction of the crew deck drew his attention. “What is going on out there?”
“I’ll see.” Dominic hurried out of the cabin and returned ten minutes later with a grave look on his face. “You must come and see this.”
“What is it?” The look on his mate’s face gave Morales an uneasy feeling.
“You have to see it for yourself.”
Morales eased himself up off the bed and paused to let the wave of dizziness pass. Slowly, taking great care to stand up straight, he made his way to the crew deck.
The men were huddled around a sand fire pit they’d made in the center of the deck. The scents of acrid smoke, roasting meat, and coppery blood greeted Morales as he approached the excited men. He lacked the strength to force his way through the crowd, so he merely stood there,
leaning against the wall in what he hoped was a casual manner, until the men became aware of his presence. Silence rippled through the group as, one by one, the men spotted the captain. Not one man met his gaze.
“We didn’t do it, Captain,” one of the younger men, Alonso, muttered. “We came back from patrol and found…that.” He pointed at the fire pit.
Summoning all his reserves of energy, Morales made his slow way forward. The sailors parted like the Red Sea to Moses as the captain approached the fire pit, until only one man stood in his path.
“We needed meat,” Manuel, the veteran sailor said.
“And what sort of meat have you brought us?” Morales stepped around Manuel and froze. Even stripped of skin, he could recognize human arms and legs roasting in the fire. “Cannibalism!” He drew his sword in a flash and pressed the tip to Manuel’s throat. “I’ll flay you alive for this. Whose body is this? Who have you killed?”
“You misunderstand,” Manuel gasped, his eyes locked on the gleaming blade of Morales’ sword. “It’s one of the creatures we’ve been seeing. I thought they were demons, but they’re actually some sort of ape. One of them attacked me with a stone club and I ran it through.”
“An ape? In La Florida?”
“Someone show him.” Manuel said.
One of the crewmen picked something up off the deck and held it up for the captain to see. Morales’ jaw and sword arm dropped in unison as his eyes fell on the horrific sight.
“What in God’s name is it?” That thing, whatever it was, was no ape.
No one had time to answer, because angry howls coming from outside the ship split the air, echoing down into the crew deck. Something heavy thudded against the ship and Morales flinched. What was happening?
“Manuel. Get up on the main deck and see what’s happening.”
The sailors exchanged dark looks but no one aside from Manuel made a move. They all waited in tense silence until the sailor returned.
“I can’t see anything through the trees, but the sounds are coming from all around.” He swallowed hard. “I think it’s the…apes… or whatever they are. They have us surrounded.”
“How many do you think there are?”
“I can’t say for certain. Ten? Twenty?” Manuel began to tremble. “I didn’t mean to anger them. I was only defending myself.”
“If the situation was reversed, and it was one of our own killed by these…apes, would that matter to you?”
Manuel hung his head.
“It doesn’t matter,” Morales said. “You had no choice. You couldn’t let yourself be killed. We need you.” He looked around at his men, all wide-eyed and various shades of pale. “We must be prepared to defend ourselves, should it prove necessary. Dominic, set a guard.” The mate nodded.
Morales turned his eyes to the fire pit and the disturbingly human-looking meat that cooked there. “You might as well eat. We’re going to need our strength.”
He headed for his cabin, unable to watch the men devour their unsavory meal.
“Madre de Dios,” he whispered. “The monsters are real.”
Chapter 1
Miami, Florida
It was a bar like any other. Loud music and even louder conversation competed to drown out the baseball game showing on the televisions hanging from the walls. Bones selected a table in the corner, ordered up hot wings and a bottle of Dos Equis, and sat back to watch the door. This was his kind of place. The only thing missing, he thought, was the stale smell of cigarette smoke, but that had been absent since banning smoking in public places had become a thing. Bones didn’t care for cigarettes, but there was something about the musty aroma that made the atmosphere in this sort of place just right.
He didn’t have to wait long. He was just digging into his chicken wings when a slender, dark-haired woman came in through the door. She spotted him immediately, smiled, and made her way across the room. As she passed, several sets of eyes followed her progress. Bones couldn’t blame them. The woman moved with confidence and grace. Of course, most of the men were probably admiring the way she filled out her form–fitting clothing. She had just the right amount of curves to balance out her athletic build and she tossed her long, brown hair in just the right way. She was a looker, no doubt.
“Mister Bonebrake, she said, reaching out to shake his hand. “I’m Joanna Slater. You can call me Jo or Slater, whichever you prefer.”
“You can call me Bones. I don’t answer to anything else unless I’m at a family reunion.”
“Fair enough.” Slater slid gracefully into her seat and signaled for the waiter, who was already on his way over.
“I would’ve ordered you a round, but I don’t know what you like to drink.”
“I’ll drink just about anything if someone else is buying.” She turned to the waiter. “I’ll take one of what he’s having, and go ahead and bring us another round.”
“You’re off to a good start,” Bones said, nodding in approval. “So, tell me what I can do for you. I assume it has something to do with your television show.” Bones knew that Slater hosted Expedition Adventure, a cable television show that focused on ancient mysteries and cryptids—mysterious creatures whose existence had not yet been documented by science. “You’re in Florida, so what are we talking here? The Fountain of Youth?”
Slater smiled. “So you’re already familiar with my show? I’m flattered.”
“I never miss an episode. I’m interested in the subject matter, and you’re not nearly as full of crap as some of the other hosts of programs like you’re. The guy with the wild hair? Total nutbag.” Bones said.
Slater laughed. “Let’s not name any names, but I know exactly what you mean.” Just then, the waiter arrived with their drinks. “Good service here.”
“I thing beautiful women get good service here. He wasn’t nearly that fast when I did the ordering.”
Slater arched an eyebrow. “Do you really think I’m beautiful or are you just hitting on me?”
“A little bit of both, but business before pleasure.” He took a long drink, enjoying the rich flavor and the tangy zing of lime.
Slater took a drink, set her bottle down, and then leveled her gaze at Bones. “I’m investigating the skunk ape.”
Bones closed his eyes and shook his head. “Seriously? Dude, I can point you to half a dozen legends that are more worthy of investigation than that thing.”
Also known as the swamp ape, Florida Bigfoot, and swampsquatch, among other names, the skunk ape was a primate cryptid reputed to reside in the southeastern United States. Though sightings ranged throughout the South, from North Carolina all the way to Arkansas, the creature was most commonly identified with southern Florida, where nearly all the alleged sightings had occurred.
“You don’t think there’s at least a story worth investigating? You weren’t always such a skeptic.” Slater opened a portfolio, drew out a sheet of paper, and slid it across the table. She had printed out a screen capture from an Internet forum. Bones recognized it immediately.
“Look at the date on that post. I made it years ago. I didn’t know crap back then.”
Slater was undeterred. “You believed it at the time. What changed?”
“I did a little investigating. There’s no solid evidence, just some crappy video of drunk college kids in monkey suits and a few misidentifications of black bears.”
“There’s a lot more than that,” Slater said. “I’ve investigated my share of cryptid reports and some of these witnesses seem reliable to me. They describe the way it looked, sounded, even the way it smelled.”
“And if any of them had spent much time in the woods they’d have recognized that smell for what it probably was — a bobcat.” He held up a hand, forestalling her next argument. “I’ve also seen the plaster casts of supposed skunk ape tracks. They’re all fake. You’ve done Bigfoot investigations so you know the telltale signs.”
Slater sighed. “I can see you’re going to be a hard sell. You are correct. I do
know the telltale signs of falsified primate tracks, which is why I believe these are genuine.” She took out a stack of glossy, 8 x 10 photographs and handed them to Bones. “I haven’t had the chance to examine them up close yet, but from what I can tell, they look like the real thing.”
Bones could see what she meant. Most of the castings that were made of primate footprints, at least of the cryptozoological kind, were too regular, too even. These were different. They were deeper in some places, reflecting the way a primate’s weight distribution shifted as it walked and the way it bore more weight on the big toe than on the others. He couldn’t deny he was impressed. What’s more, he had, in his time, personally confirmed the existence of a few so-called cryptids, though he kept that information to himself.
“Not bad,” he admitted, handing the photographs back to Slater. “Where did you get these?”
“From an investigator who lives south of Sarasota. You know, the area where the Myakka photographs were taken?” Slater smiled, her brown eyes twinkling. She seemed to think she had Bones hooked.
“You mean the anonymous photographs of an orangutan? Even if they’re legit, all it proves is someone’s pet got loose.”
“And if that’s what the investigation turns up, that’s fine by me. The Everglades is home to plenty of non-native species: exotic birds, escaped pet snakes that grow to giant size, and more. I think our viewers would be fascinated by the idea of an orangutan, or even a troop of them, surviving and maybe even thriving in the Florida swamps.”
Bones nodded. He couldn’t deny the woman was persuasive but he still wasn’t completely buying it. “Why did you reach out to me?” he asked, changing the subject.
“We found you through that message board post. My staff tracked you down and vetted you. There’s surprisingly little information about you out there.”
“No comment.” Bones took a long drink and let Slater continue.
“Anyway, we learned enough about you to determine that you have interest in, and knowledge of, cryptids. Also, nothing we found raised any red flags, meaning you’re not a total whack job.” She hesitated, blushed, and took a drink. “Also, you would look… impressive on camera.”
