by Terri Reid
Another hour passed and Little Bill told his momma he was thirsty. She gave him a cool drink and felt his forehead. The next hour he was sitting up in bed, waving at the folks outside his window. News spread and the crowd gathered again, and all witnessed the miracle of Little Bill’s apparent recovery. Then the gathering moved to the mysterious kettle in the town square.
Not a soul in the town of Yellville could bear the thought of another funeral. Almost everyone knew someone who had a fever and feared it would continue to spread. Many folk were on their deathbeds when the word of a cure got out, and the whole town took part in ladling out cups of the liquid and giving it to the afflicted, then drinking it themselves for good measure. Virgil ran home to fetch a cup, filled it, then ran the cup back to his mother. She had heard the news as well and she helped Vernon take his dose. She sent Virgil back for a precautionary dose for himself. By sunset, every person in Yellville had partaken, but for two: Evelyn James and Pastor Turner.
*
The next morning, the sun was shining in Yellville. It was the first time since the storm that the skies were blue and bright. The folks of Yellville stood talking to neighbors, inquiring about loved ones whose fevers had broken and were just about feeling right again. The waters had begun to recede, reduced to a few deep puddles in the lowest spots. It seemed hope had returned to Yellville.
Pastor Turner fell sick the night before. His wife poured the cure-brew into his mouth when he seemed too near death to struggle against her. He awoke that morning claiming an angel had come to him in the night and cured him with a single touch. Nobody ever told him the truth.
Evelyn James never took the fever, but the sights and sounds of the dark shape in the town square fueled her nightmares for many months.
While sadness permeated the town, the remaining people reveled in the sunshine and went out about the work that needed to be done to bring Yellville back to order. The same group of men who talked about finding old Hattie and hanging her just the night before, were now talking about what a wonderful thing old Hattie had done by bringing a cure to the stricken town.
“You know, a bunch more would have died had old Hattie not left that cure.”
All agreed that it seemed Hattie had saved the community from becoming a ghost town.
“Kinda makes one wonder what other things old Hattie can do,” said another of the men.
“With Doc Jackson dead and buried, we need someone who knows how to heal folks,” said someone else. “It ain’t gonna be easy to find another doctor willing to come to Yellville.”
“Old Hattie might not be so scary after all,” someone offered. “Maybe we can go and fetch her, and bring her back to town.”
“Yeah,” one man agreed. “That swamp witch magic might do some good around here.”
The men stroked their beards, twisted their mustaches, and wrung their hands while they thought about this new idea.
“We could offer her a house here in town where life will be much easier than livin’ out in the Black Bayou.”
“The old DuChamp place is empty,” one fellow stated. “We could fix it up a bit, and let her stay there.”
Another moment of silence ensued as they worked out plans in their heads and dreamed about what old Hattie might do for the folk in Yellville.
“I wonder if she can make crops grow bigger?”
“Or make some kind of spell so we can catch more fish.”
“If she can turn a man into a snake, she can prob’ly do most anything.”
“If nothin’ else, we need to at least thank old Hattie for savin’ the town.”
With their minds made up, ten men gathered themselves up and headed out to the back of the Black Bayou. They followed the paths through brambles and mud, waded through the hydrilla and muck following the path the twins had described a few days earlier. They found the big Cypress tree, and upon close inspection, saw where Vernon had carved his initials in the bark. They nodded to one another and looked beyond for a path to old Hattie’s shack.
“The water’s still a little high,” one of them explained. “The path might still be underwater.”
“Or the floodwater done washed the path away,” another suggested.
“It’s gotta be back this way,” one man said as he led them on.
So nine men followed one who didn’t know where he was going, but knew where he hadn’t yet been. They marched deeper into the swamp where the trees and vines grew bigger, and the light faded to gray. The muck was thicker and tried to suck the boots off the men’s feet as they struggled to make progress. The man who was in the lead tried to pick a path that offered the least resistance, which resulted in the group wading aimlessly in the Black Bayou.
There was no sign of Hattie’s shack when darkness fell on the group.
“Where the hell you goin’, Tom?” one man asked with disgust. “We passed by this spot more than an hour ago.”
Others sympathized, realizing they had been going in circles.
“Can’t see a damn thing out here,” one shouted. “We need to get out of this swamp!”
“Then you lead the way,” a humiliated Tom offered.
Then true darkness fell upon the swamp. They had never intended to be in the bayou this long, but they were tired and lost.
They all calmed down enough to know that they needed light to see by, so two men climbed trees to gather some dry Spanish moss which hung in clumps. Others fished in pockets for wax envelopes of dry matches. In a short time they had managed to make a few torches.
After lighting the first one, they realized how many glowing eyes were watching them. In every direction they saw pairs of eyes reflecting the glow of the flame. Some were green, some were yellow and others were red. Most were small, but some were large enough to garner concern from the men.
“I ain’t gonna sleep in this swamp tonight,” one of the men stated.
“I heard that,” another chimed in.
“Then somebody better figure out the way back,” someone else demanded.
The men made a pretty good racket as they slopped through the muck and shallow water. Many of them swore and wondered whose idea this was anyway. Then someone spoke up with some urgency.
“Hush!” a man shouted. Everyone stood in place, quiet as they could be. The only noise was drips of water falling from their clothes into the swamp.
Off to one side came a splashing sound. Something big was churning up the bayou. It sounded as if something was running through shallow water, each footfall making a splash.
Then came the most god-awful swamp cackle any of the men had ever witnessed—and it was close. Another man lit a torch.
More splashing followed a hideous howling sound.
It was closer.
The men all took off in the opposite direction, almost climbing over one another to take the lead. They tripped over roots and cypress knees, got tangled in the thick vegetation, but kept moving away from the God-awful howls.
Another swamp cackle from their left caused them to turn to their right and continue their flight as best they could. The torches were extinguished one by one as men fell into the water or lost their grip in the panic. The men caused so much commotion that roosting birds flew into the darkness and smaller swamp critters scurried away from the chaos.
Now the crazy cackling sound came from their right, and the men instinctively turned left to put distance between themselves and the unseen monster that seemed to be stalking them.
The men continued to flee from the horrific sounds with their hearts thumping like pistons. They were all exhausted. But fear is a mighty motivator, and they kept moving despite being spent. Some ended up urging others along, either dragging them by their arms or pushing them from behind.
The man in the lead took another step but realized that the step was much easier than the previous one. He stomped his foot and to his amazement, discovered he was standing on dry ground. The others soon caught up and were thankful to be out of the clinging mud
of the Black Bayou.
The men stood on the land and pulled in deep breaths. A couple fell to the ground, bone-weary and wet. The others listened, only hearing the peepers and bullfrogs and crickets. One made another torch and set it ablaze. They all felt more secure in the presence of light.
The man holding the torch looked around. “Hey, I know this place,” he said. “I bring the kids fishing down here. The road is over yonder,” he pointed into the darkness.
“Thank God Almighty!” one man shouted.
Everyone gave thanks to Their Maker as they took inventory of themselves. They all had mud slung across their faces, their clothes were soaked, and one man found he was missing one of his boots. They all looked at each other and laughed as if they had not been afraid at all while lost in the swamp.
Another torch was lit while the men picked leaches off their arms and pulled hydrilla from their pockets. One of the men spotted something at the edge of the light. He tapped the man holding a torch and pointed.
The two of them called the others. They all gathered around, looking at a stump with a parchment note held to it with a rusty nail. There was a message scrawled in the same crude writing as the note on the kettle found in the town square. This one read:
DON’T COME LOOKIN’ AGAIN
The men all looked at each other in amazement. How had she known they would end up here?
While they looked at the note and scratched their heads and wiped their brows, the most dreadful, ghastly swamp cackle yet let loose from the darkness beyond the torch’s reach. A mournful howl, followed by a screeching wail filled the men’s ears, striking panic once again into their minds.
They all scrambled up a muddy levee, pulling and pushing each other to be the first one to the relative safety of the road back to town.
*
Virgil sat with his recovering twin on the front porch of his house when the men walked past mumbling about the swamp witch. He had not told Vernon about finding Hattie’s shack, but no secrets could be kept from one another. But now was not the time to tell of that adventure into the swamp. Virgil just scooted over and wrapped an arm around his brother and best friend, glad to know that he was going to be okay. He looked out toward the swamp.
An old woman watched from the darkness as the men dragged themselves into town. Now that she was sure they made it, she turned back to the depths of the Black Bayou, the place she called home.
A short but loud cackle rose from the darkness and the men hurried for their homes.
Rococo
by
Connor Millard
“It has been almost one year exactly since Rachel was assimilated into the main group, but it is only during the last few days that she has seemed close to settling on a keyword,” Bob said, his computer quietly recording every word. He looked away from his scope to make a few minor marks in his notebook. “This is, of course, unusual. With most subjects—”
“Null-Seven,” Phil said.
Bob stopped the recording. “What?”
“Subject null-seven.” Phil turned in his chair to face him. “You called her Rachel again. She’s not Rachel anymore.”
Bob moved his head back from the scope but did not look away. He stared out at the decaying cityscape, all filthy concrete and window frames full of glittering glass teeth. He could see the tiny, blurry shapes of the kids in distance, milling about the ruined intersection that served as their camp.
“Bob, you assured us that you were okay. That you could be objective. That’s the only reason you were allowed to stay on the project. Having an observer with a personal connection to one of the subjects is about as non-kosher as it gets already. If you—”
“I’m fine,” Bob said, looking at Phil. “Just a slip of the tongue. I’m fine. I can still do this work. Really, I’m fine, Phil.”
Phil looked him in the eyes for a few long moments. His face softened. “Okay,” he said. “Just…keep a better eye on what you’re saying, alright?” Satisfied, he returned to his own work.
But it wasn’t just his mouth. It was his heart threatening to fall from his chest into his stomach whenever he saw her through the scope, laughing or acting like a normal seventeen-year-old. It was his eyes burning and threatening to tear up when he heard her voice over the field microphones, speaking gibberish, but her voice nonetheless. It was his whole body, multiple times during any given day observing the kids, telling him to run out to their crude encampment and hold Rachel again, as tight as he had ever held her, and hope that somehow he could just squeeze it out of her, every strange word or phrase, everything that wasn’t her, and that she would be his daughter again.
It took a lot to not let any of it show, and it was a blessing that he made as few slip ups as he did. Whether Phil didn’t see any of these things or pretended not to wasn’t of much consequence to Bob. All that really mattered to Bob was that he hadn’t said anything to anyone else, allowing him to spend time as close to her as he could, now.
*
He felt a tug on his shirt.
“Daddy?” Rachel said, looking up at him. He pulled her up onto his lap.
“Yes, bun?”
“Who are The Kids?”
Bob took a moment before answering. “What do you mean?”
“You and Momma were talkin’ about them yesterday. And the day before that. And before that. And Saturday, and the day before that….”
“Well….” He took another moment to think. “You know what I do for my job, right?”
“Scientist!” She smiled her goofy, incomplete, toddler’s smile.
“Right. And you remember what that means?”
She scrunched up her face. “You…figure stuff out. And tell people.”
“Yes. So, the kids.” He took a breath and let it out in a half-sigh. “The kids are sick, in a way that we haven’t seen before. I’m trying to figure it out, so we can help them.”
“Are they, uh…can they make other people sick?”
“Contagious? No. Not that we can see, at least. We don’t know how they get sick. Why?”
“I don’t wanna get sick.”
Bob put his arm around her. “You don’t have to worry about that, honey. Ever. I promise.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Okay?”
“Okay.” She hopped off his lap. When she was gone he looked back to his computer screen, but didn’t start typing. Eventually his gaze drifted off to nowhere in particular as he sat there, thinking. Trying to decide if he had made a promise or a lie.
*
“I think she might be close to a keyword.”
Bob put down his forkful of potato. “Really?”
“Yeah, listen to this.” Phil set an audio player on the table and pushed play. There were a few voices. Rachel’s, of course, and Bob recognized a few of the other kids. Balter, Excavate, Rake, and either Yin or Yang, he couldn’t quite tell. He felt a twinge of guilt, as he usually did, that he never knew, and still did not know, their real names.
“Sun-green balter trees shine preamble baltering butter sun-wise to waiting,” Balter said.
“Steel excavated streams and pork barrel anomalous oxygen for excavation, sans dread,” said Excavate.
“Balter balter of prudence off to nigh.”
There were a handful of ‘hm’s and ‘mm’s.
“Raking predetermined manse onto rake bellowed tarps it guarded,” said Rake.
“Of groaning rococo made quell by once quelled breaking above the broken abstract rococo rococo,” said Rachel.
Yin or Yang said something after that, but Bob wasn’t really listening at that point. “So rococo is the front-runner then?”
Phil nodded. “Break and quell are up there, too. It’ll probably be a few days before she settles on something, but I just wanted to let you know. I…thought you might want to try and pick up some extra rotations for the next few days. To…y’know. See it as it’s happening.” He gave Bob an intent look.
Bob weakly smi
led. “Thanks,” he said. “I would like to be there for it. I’ll see if Crane and Hill are willing to swap.”
Phil nodded awkwardly and started off towards the lunch counter.
“Phil?”
He turned back.
“I—thanks. Really. Thank you.”
Phil smiled with one corner of his mouth and made a vague gesture. Something halfway between ‘it was nothing’ and ‘you give me too much credit’.
Bob watched him walking away for a moment, then went back to his lunch. He smiled in earnest.
*
“Dad?”
“Yeah, Rach?” he said though a mouthful of breakfast.
“What was it like? Before, I mean. When…how do you always put it? ‘When things made sense’?”
He took a long drink from his glass of water, considering, and swallowed. “Well,” he said. “The city was whole, for one. And peaceful. Relatively, anyway. Now that it’s a ruined husk I realize how much I took things like it for granted, but—”
“That doesn’t really help. I barely know the city now, remember? Not everyone gets to see it so often.”
“Right right. Sorry.” He smiled. “Taking things for granted again. Hmm.” He trailed off and didn’t speak for a while. He put the tip of his thumb under his chin, absentmindedly, the way he always did when he was thinking.
“Dad?”
“What? Oh, sorry. Yeah. Before. Before. Well, for one thing, there were so many more people. Especially in the big cities. You could walk for hours and hours and never see the same person twice. And in five minutes you could find out what was happening two towns over, or half the world away. It was brighter, too. The days were longer, most of the time anyway, and there wasn’t so much fog.
“The biggest thing, though. I’m sure you’ve heard stories that float in from other places. When we get a strong signal on the radio, or someone wanders in from miles away. Stories of strange things. Of dangerous things. Spectacular things, too, but mostly dangerous things. Mist that swallows up whole towns and leaves nothing behind but forest. People that can say what’s going to happen tomorrow, or the day after, or even further, and be mostly right. Wolves taller than men. Men that talk to wolves.
