Uncle Gary's Campfire Stories: Bayou Zombie Werewolves

by Visada, J. L. M.

  “I don’t think that story is appropriate for tender young ears.” Marvin hissed, and then glared at the teenagers who were all sitting in rapt attention. Deep down he couldn’t blame them. He wanted to hear how it ended himself, but if he let the man continue he’d be out of a job if any of these kids got a little mouthy in front of camp management.

  “But…” Gary looked at Marvin. Marvin gave his absolute best poker face, and he even tried to look ready to get up and walk out. Gary shrugged and relented, “Yeah, you’re probably right. That story is really for when ya’ll get older, but I got another story.” The teenagers looked let down by the man buckling under the way he had. Gary wasn’t particularly happy either, but he smiled a brittle smile and said, “I can’t tell you the first story. He’s right. It’s highly inappropriate, but long story short…I got my money’s worth.”

  “Mayonnaise!” John laughed, and then snorted like a happy little piglet. The kids all began laughing as if he’d just told them the punch line to a very dirty joke. In his own way maybe he had.

  “Boy! I said behave. Even if you are thirty-six, you’re not too old for me to take a switch to that ass.” Gary’s voice was stern but still caring.

  “Yes Daddy.” John said quietly. He began playing with his hands, and popping his knuckles nervously. It was clear he really was sorry. Now whether he actually understood what he was supposed to be sorry about was debatable.

  “Good boy…well I suppose I do have one campfire story that I can tell ya’ll. I mean if you really want to hear it?” With no objections Gary began, “Well my story begins way back in nineteen-sixty-three. John F. Kennedy was president. You know people love the man now, but back then there were plenty of people that disliked him. Personally, I gotta respect any man that gets to use Marilyn Monroe for a booty call.”

  “BOOTY!” John laughed. “You said booty.”

  “Yes boy I said booty. Now settle down, or you’ll pee yourself again.”

  John gave a toothy grin, “Too late…”

  “Really?” Gary eyed his son.

  His son nodded unapologetically, “Little tinkle. Two drops.” As soon as he said it several of the teenagers scooted away. They didn’t want to say anything, but they were obviously grossed out by the man’s accident. The girls even turned a little green.

  “Well next time ask to go to the restroom. We’re guests, and guests don’t piss themselves in front of others.” Gary spoke gently to his son in an effort to make sure the man understood what was being said to him.

  “Okay Daddy!” John responded. He was completely ignorant of the fact of his faux pas.

  Gary smiled, and then turned his attention back to the rest of the campers, “Like I said…John F. Kennedy was in office, but there were a lot of angry people out there that wanted to change that.” Gary adjusted himself to get more comfortable, “So that’s where this story begins.”

  Chapter Two

  ***FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22nd, 1963 – BIG BAYOU IN LIVINGSTON PARISH, LOUISIANA***

  The building hadn’t changed much from the picture taken five years ago. The paint was peeling; the windows were empty holes that made the building look like a half rotted jack-o-lantern. The front door was broken and barely hanging on one rusty hinge in the picture. Now that same door was moldy and on the ground. There wasn’t even a hint of paint anywhere, and it looked like rats or something had added a few extra holes in the decaying walls. None of it mattered. The building was just a façade anyway. As long as the walls were sturdy enough to hold the roof up, nobody would bother to make any repairs. Besides, the worse it looked the more it discouraged people from snooping around. Not that people were a big concern anyway. After all, this was just supposed to look like an abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere. It was on a deserted road that didn’t show on any map. It had no signs directing anyone to anything. There were no markings at all that would encourage someone to turn onto it. No people lived on it…officially, and ultimately the road dead ended deep in the swamp. For all intents and purposes, he was standing somewhere that didn’t exist. Of course it was pretty standard fare for a top secret research and development programs like this at the time. There were over a half dozen of them across the country.

  Even with all the effort to keep this place hidden, sometimes there were incidents. Sometimes a sightseer would turn down the road out of curiosity, run out of gas, and then go exploring the base for gas or maybe a phone. Maybe a couple of teenagers needed a place to park so that they could fulfill urges they didn’t completely understand, or at least he hadn’t understood them when he was their age. Kids seemed to be a lot sharper about that kind of stuff nowadays, and it made him uncomfortable. Of course maybe it was just nostalgia, and he was remembering things through rose colored glasses. Occasionally a vagrant would wander in looking for shelter, or maybe they’d even try to find something to steal like the copper from the walls. The program always needed test subjects. Of course that did mean there was a slightly higher than average percentage of missing persons. Thankfully, most of the vagrants were never reported or it might have raised eyebrows.

  The gaunt man walked carefully to the first gas nozzle. Turning it on and off twice signaled to the scientists below that he had arrived, and after a few seconds he received a response. The attached garage opened up. It was hot, and the insects were devouring him one greedy bite at a time. The man wiped the sweat from his bald head, and then moved in. Inside the garage there was a wall plug at the back of the room. It looked loose. He reached down, and spun it clockwise one time and then counterclockwise twice. There was a distinct click, and a large rectangular area of the floor descended a few inches, and then slid out of the way to expose a platform. Carefully stepping down on the platform triggered a sensor, and the man sank into the dark black void.

  It was a long descent, but most secret compounds were like that. For some reason that nobody had ever explained to him, they all seemed to share that long platform ride into darkness. Maybe it was it was some architects idea to set the mood. Perhaps he set at his desk when he was drawing this and he thought to himself that the long ride down into the bowels of earth would really drive home the point that this was a secret base. Maybe the architect was inspired by old sci-fi movies and just put it in because the thought made him giggle. Perhaps it’s even possible that there is a perfectly practical reason for being so deeply underground. It might be that they wanted to make sure whatever it was could be contained. Maybe they wanted to make sure they could seal it up if need be and never worry about anyone finding it ever again. The man mulled these and a few dozen other possibilities as he made his way down. None of them really held any particular appeal to him, but he liked to mull it all over nonetheless. Eventually it came to a stop. Only after the platform locked in place did the lights come on. They were bright, far too bright. It was just one of the many security measures the research facility had in place. The experience of complete and utter darkness being replaced with blinding light left him disoriented, and a little nervous.

  “The password please Mr. Bertrand.” A cold emotionless voice came from what seemed like everywhere at once. A half second later he heard the distinct click of a hammer being pulled back on a gun.

  “Bahia De Cochinos, and you can call me Clay.” Clay Bertrand responded. Everything so far had gone exactly as expected, but even still his mouth was dry, and he could feel his heart beating in his chest just a little too fast for his own comfort. When the lights finally dimmed Clay grinned with relief. His vision slowly returned and he was feeling much less disoriented. Clay watched as the man he had been speaking with tucked a small revolver back into his lab coat.

  “Hello…Clay.” The man seemed disgusted by simple pleasantries. “Welcome to our humble abode. You may call me Doctor Aribert Heim.” Then the doctor grimaced, “or you may call me Aribert as you Americans seem so eager to be on a first name basis with everyone.”

  “It’s a new age Doc.” Clay walked up, gave the man a
hearty handshake, and a firm pat on the shoulder.

  Both actions were not appreciated, and the doctor actually seemed sickened by the contact. “Yes, that is what my associates down here keep trying to convince me. Yet my work has stayed essentially the same.” He turned and walked back into the compound. It was clear from his demeanor that he considered his point made.

  They moved into the underground complex. Several other doctors and scientists stood calmly waiting to greet their new guest. Five men and one pretty young female doctor where introduced. Clay shook hands as he was introduced to them all. There was Doctor Hans Von Reubens, an expert in the study of human anatomy. He was a large man, but not quite fat. He had pale blue eyes that seemed unnaturally dark in their sunken hallows in his skull. Clay chalked it up to exhaustion. Long hours, constant deadlines, and the general detachment from the rest of the world often led to workers going two or three days a pop without sleep. Even as tired as he looked, he seemed constantly in need of movement. He just never seemed to stop…even if it was only reduced to a rhythmic toe tap. He wasn’t a handsome man by any imagination. His displeasing features were only made worse by a chemical burn that covered the left side of his fact, leaving deep scars. Even now he looked to be in pain if the slight muscular twitching around the injury was any indication.

  Beside him was Aaron Stokely, a theoretical physicist. The man had an infectious smile, but strangely the smile never reached his eyes. They were eyes that didn’t focus on anyone in particular, and when you did actually catch his gaze, they seemed cold and emotionless…like doll eyes. Perhaps that was one of the reasons the police still searched for him as a suspect in his wife’s murder. His version of events was that it was a happy marriage, and the only problems were his wife’s occasional bouts with melancholy. Despite all his efforts to improve her moods, occasionally she would sink into a deep depression, and that this finally led to her hanging herself after having written a lengthy suicide note. In fact they did look like a picturesque couple. With his dark eyes, well-coiffed black hair, and heavy mustache he seemed a picture of virility. Next to him in every newspaper photo was his wife with her tender eyes, long black hair that reached almost to the back of her knees, and modest bosom. They complimented one another quite well. The official version is that she died due to strangulation, and that while she was found hanging in the family home by a noose, the bruising around her throat looked to be from hands. In fact it seemed she was hung after death. Even the suicide note was suspect as it didn’t match her handwriting at all. Add that to the statements of friends and family about Mr. Stokely’s violent temper. It wasn’t hard to see why they’d view him as a suspect.

  To his right was Doctor Frederick Woodhollow, an Englishman. He was a gifted chemist, among other talents. Unfortunately his fame did not come from any chemical discovery, and instead came from the scandals involving his interest in young boys. There was nothing particularly exceptional in appearance about this man. The man had dull brown eyes, and a mop of obviously self-cut hair that hadn’t seen a real barber since he disappeared from public scrutiny twelve years ago. It made him look a little dimwitted, but otherwise he was of average height, average build, and in a word…average. Those features are most likely why it was so long before anyone began to seriously consider him as the man responsible for all the children disappearing. Occasionally he’d look back down the hallway as if trying to cue everyone to move on, but introductions had to be made.

  Then there was Doctor Shawn McMichaels. He was old…much older than the other doctors there. He was easily pushing seventy, but from all accounts he was still an artist with scalpel. No one questioned his skill, but his ethics were something else entirely. He had been caught red handed performing one of several illegal and unnecessary surgeries in Chicago. Whether the patient had even given consent was up for debate. Still, the medical examiner couldn’t help but marvel at the skill with which the Doctor had made every cut. It was rumored the man had even worked for Al Capone in his younger years removing bullets from some of Capone’s men, and when the situation called for it…using his gifts with a scalpel to persuade men to share their innermost secrets.

  Next to him was Gunther Aardwolf, a very talented Austrian scientist. His blonde hair and blue eyes seemed almost painted on due to their brightness. They were a sharp contrast to his pale skin. He looked sickly, but he was a hard worker whose work was unquestionably impeccable, even if his addictions were notorious. The man self-medicated on opium and heroin as needed, and he always needed. Plus he took every opportunity to familiarize himself with painkillers, amphetamines, or whatever crossed his path. The panels reviewing his work often discussed his eventual overdose less in terms of if, and more in terms of a very certain when.

  Finally, there was the newest addition. Samantha Collins, one of the finest young scientific minds in the world. They had attempted to recruit her a few years prior, but she was a happy idealistic woman fresh out of college with a future as bright as her platinum blonde hair that she kept dyed despite the frustrated comments her mother had made about her looking like one of those “easy” girls. Several of her papers were published, and quickly forgotten about, or ignored entirely. She quickly realized that her best solution was to have a male colleague attached to her projects. The scientific community was less dismissive of her ideas then. It worked wonderfully until her colleague took all the credit himself, and no one has seen him since. While Samantha was cleared of all wrongdoing…suspicions plagued her. It wasn’t long before she was unemployable. Even then she had been reluctant to join, but after a year of practically starving in the streets…she finally signed on. With introductions having been made, they all moved deeper into the complex. The doctors excused themselves to go back to their work, and Aribert started to give Mr. Bertrand the tour.

  “How long are you here for?” Aribert asked trying to conceal his irritation at having another interloper checking into his work.

  “Two days. I have to be back in Washington after that.”

  “Really? I have to admit that I’m surprised. I expected you to stay longer.”

  Clay laughed, “Yeah, normally this would be a bit longer of a visit, but I was down here putting the final touches on another assignment. I just got asked to swing by and check out a few things before heading back. This isn’t normally my area of expertise.”

  “Really? I wasn’t aware of another complex like this one around here? Has your Uncle Sam been keeping secrets from me?”

  Clay laughed again, “Secrets, Buddy…you got no idea.” Aribert eyed the man suspiciously. “Relax Doc; you’re the only complex around these parts. I just needed to be down here to check with certain interested parties that believe people should keep their promises.”

  “Should I be concerned?” Aribert asked with mild disinterest.

  “Not unless you voted democrat.”

  “I am not a citizen. I am not allowed to vote.”

  Clay looked at him and grinned, “It’s a joke. Seriously, you Germans just got no sense of humor at all.”

  Aribert rolled his blue gray eyes. “Yes, I believe we surrendered that in the last war as part of the Potsdam Agreement.”

  “Haha, and here I was saying you didn’t have a sense of humor.”

  The doctor exhaled in irritation, but continued leading Clay deeper into the complex. Everything was maintained with extreme care. There wasn’t even a hint of dust. In a word the whole place was…sterile. Aribert plodded on without another word. His footsteps echoing in the long hallway, and the faint buzz of the lights were the only sound. His general body language made it clear that the interloper’s presence was only barely tolerated.

  Clay was used to people that were difficult to work with. You can’t destabilize a few governments without occasionally running into some less than helpful coworkers. Besides, in two days I’ll be gone so what does it matter anyway. He kept those thoughts to himself. Still, Aribert gave him the creeps. He’d been briefed on all the doctors
and scientists residing here. He could handle murderers and perverts…dealing with murderers and perverts was part and parcel for his job. It’s strange how they seem to congregate for some reason. It never surprised him to find out that the man being paid to shoot a foreign dignitary, strangle a governor’s mistress, or blow up a whistleblower’s car might also find that same act sexually gratifying. It rarely surprised him that if he dug just a little bit into their past he could often find a trail perversions. Many of his best men had a long list of abusing women and or children. They were degenerates, but he could accept that as long as they made themselves useful. Even monsters can be a service to their country.

  Aribert was a different kind of monster altogether as far as Clay was concerned. The man was still wanted for his crimes against humanity. The report said he’d experimented on subjects by injecting various substances into their hearts. The newspapers had a field day with the documentation of his work. They called him Dr. Death. They portrayed him as some crazy but inept murderer, killing his test subjects without cause. The facts were far more disturbing. Aribert wasn’t just killing them for the sake of watching them die. He was studying death itself. The doctor was actually attempting to learn death’s secrets in the hope of making soldiers harder to kill. When Clay’s superiors had Aribert interviewed he told them that he was on the cusp of making soldiers that could survive almost any wound. Instead of being taken to a courtroom, Aribert was spirited away secretly to America to help create a new era of soldiers, and biological weapons.