Swamp Monster Massacre

by Hunter Shea

  Dedication

  This one’s for Norm Hendricks. Dig it.

  Part One

  Flight

  Chapter One

  Rooster Murphy pried his knuckle out of Cheech’s shattered eye socket with a grunt of frustration. Goddamn guy’s skull must have been made of honeycombs to break apart like that. Cheech’s right eye, in all its smooshed, gelatinous glory, quivered on the knuckle of his middle finger. He flicked his wrist in disgust and watched the eye splatter against the floor, leaving a slick streak.

  “I told you to cut it out, didn’t I?” he screamed at the Cuban man’s cooling corpse. “Did you think I was fucking playing with you? Huh? Jesus, Cheech! You know, you really put me in a tight spot. You really did. You fucked me good, man. You fucked me good.”

  He hocked a wad of phlegm on Cheech’s chest for good measure.

  Now what?

  All Cheech had to do was hand over the guns, and all he had to do was give that entitled Cuban the money. Simple. A friggin’ retard could have handled that.

  But Cheech, man, he always had to ride him. Always had something to say. Always quick with a joke at his expense. He was Luis Cortez’s son after all, so he thought that gave him a free ride to say and do anything he felt like.

  And Rooster, he’d really been trying to hold it together. Five court-ordered stints at anger management, meds that made his head fuzzy and his dick soft, meditation CDs made by California fruits, and all that other shit out the window in under a minute.

  So now he had the guns and the money and Cheech’s stiff with the surprisingly fragile skull. It was only a couple of punches. Must have been all that blow Cheech did, eating away at his stupid face.

  Fuck it. Either way, he was a dead man. Rough Cheech up a little, you could expect Papa Luis to come down on you so hard you own mother would feel the loss in her old, empty womb.

  Rooster took a moment to think about his options. The guy’s apartment was straight out of that Cribs show, full of all kinds of marble and hi-tech electronic shit. The air conditioning was on full blast and, as he discovered walking into the kitchen, there was plenty of Presidente beer in the fridge. He usually preferred the cheap stuff like Busch or Schaefer, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  He twisted off the non-twist-off cap of a Presidente and sat back on the big leather couch. Rooster shoved Cheech’s legs away with the heel of his sneaker. The cold beer felt like heaven as it sluiced down his chest and into his gut.

  This was bad. He’d been down shit creek more than his share of times, but this one took the cake, ate it, crapped it out, clogged the toilet and spilled out onto the floor. Cortez had guys all over Naples. Hell, his arm stretched down to Miami and up north to Jacksonville. Getting out of Florida was going to be like that Clint Eastwood flick, The Gauntlet. That was pretty badass when Clint fortified a bus to take on an assault from more guns than the French had surrender parties.

  For the first time since entering Cheech’s apartment, Rooster smiled. He remembered seeing that movie with his dad at the old Big Star Drive-In. He must have been ten at the time. His dad would park a couple of ratty old lawn chairs in front of their Chevelle and they’d eat popcorn one of his succession of ‘aunts’ had made at home. And on special nights, like the night they saw The Gauntlet, his dad would share a few sips of his suds with him.

  It wasn’t until Rooster had finished the beer that he remembered he wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol with his meds. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to drive, operate heavy machinery, walk, talk or screw when under the influence of alcohol, because no matter what you are in the middle of doing, you are about to take a world-class face-plant.

  “Crap.”

  The room spun and he thought he saw Cheech move. The bottle slipped from his hand and his mind slipped from this world.

  Frantic pounding at the door woke him up with a start. Half of the beer had spilled onto his crotch, and the amped-up A/C had practically frozen his nuts.

  “Yo, Cheech, what you doing in there, man? Quit jerking off and let us in!”

  Shit!

  Still woozy, Rooster stood and had to wait a moment to steady himself. He looked down, relieved to see Cheech was still dead. Harsh shafts of sunlight stabbed through the horizontal blinds.

  “I must have been out for hours,” he mumbled.

  The fists continued to beat on the door. The tone of the guys outside had turned from playful harassment to growing concern.

  “Hey, you okay? We know you’re home,” a guy with a heavy Spanish accent said.

  Rooster carefully crept toward the door. He heard another guy say, “I’m calling his ass.”

  Cheech’s cell phone blasted a Black Eyed Peas tune on the coffee table.

  “I told you he’s in there. Can’t you hear his phone?”

  Things were about to get ugly faster than an eagle fucking in midair. As quietly as he could, Rooster ran back to the living room, grabbed the bag of guns, slung it over his shoulder, slipped the smaller duffel bag of money around his wrist and headed for the bedroom.

  The door exploded inward with a loud crack! Shards of wood peppered the room.

  Rooster turned to see three Cuban dudes, each dressed in cream-colored linen pants, tight T-shirts and sandals, come barreling into the apartment.

  Was Cortez instituting a dress code?

  They spotted Cheech’s bloodied body immediately. Rooster didn’t stick around to watch them draw their guns.

  No sense being subtle now. He slammed the bedroom door shut and clicked the lock. It wouldn’t hold them back, but it would buy him time. He went to open the window, but the weight of the gun bag caused his shoulder to drop and his grip on the latch to slip.

  Gunshots roared and bullets ate through the door.

  Come on, Rooster, man up!

  He tried again, this time unlocking the latch and sliding the window open. He punched out the screen and leaped onto the windowsill. It was only a ten-foot drop. No sweat.

  The door collapsed under the weight of the three Cubans and they fell, one on top of the other.

  Fucking amateurs.

  The one on top of the dog pile looked him in the eye as he struggled to get up and swore. “You’re a dead man!”

  You may be right, Rooster thought, but not yet.

  He jumped.

  Chapter Two

  Mick Chella winced as he eyed the sun sitting like a fat, inert Buddha low in the sky. He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket to wipe the sweat from his face, and removed his tattered Red Sox cap to squeegee his balding head.

  It wasn’t even noon and it felt like the earth was going to catch fire, except the humidity in all its wet, cloying grossness would put it out just as quickly as it started. All the more reason to finish gassing up the airboat and get the show on the road.

  “Hey, Chief, how long does the tour last?” asked a juiced-up guido with hair so slicked back from gel that it could withstand a tornado.

  “My name’s not Chief,” Mick said as he screwed on the gas cap. The guido turned to his pal, another muscle-bound, spray-tanned tomato can, as if to say, Can you believe the stones on this guy? What a douche.

  “I gotta know so I can make sure this piece of tail I got lined up for later knows when to meet me, you know?” the guido said, flexing his pecs under his tight muscle T. His buddy gave him a high five and checked his hair in the glare of his cell phone. Their hair was so stiff, he could have used them for shish-kebab skewers.

  It took everything Mick had not to pick up an oar and smash the two of them over the head. Dealing with pricks was part of any job where you worked with the public. Normally, he was fine with it. But on hot-ass days like today, his patience ran thinner than a g-st
ring.

  “Two hours,” he grunted, walking past them to do a headcount.

  Not counting the guidos, there were five others on the morning tour. Seven heads at twenty-five bucks apiece wasn’t so bad. The old airboat could seat fifteen, but business in the thick of summer was what it was. Exploring the Everglades in July was not everyone’s idea of a good time.

  The two blonde girls, identical twins who looked like they were fresh out of college, would give him enough material to jerk himself off to sleep later tonight. In a word, they were stunning. They had all his favorite qualities in a woman: long hair, nice tits (C-cups were perfect: not too big, not too small), long legs, tan skin and crystalline green eyes you could kill a man over. He gave them a wink, but they quickly avoided his gaze, pretending to look at the brochure.

  An older couple sat in the two front seats. They were probably the same age as him, around fifty or so, but a better quality of living made them look ten years younger. The guy had the beginnings of a beer gut, but he had all his hair and a well-manicured mustache that must have been dyed to hide the gray. His wife was pretty in a housewife way, with short, brunette hair and a tiny scar just under her left eye. She rested her head on his shoulder and they held each other’s hands. Mick had them pegged for empty-nesters looking to rekindle the magic that kids had a habit of stomping into the dirt.

  And then there was creepy-loner-guy dressed in a polo shirt and cargo shorts, who spoke to no one and looked mighty fidgety. Probably hasn’t been laid in a decade, Mick laughed to himself. His sandy hair was parted down the middle with military precision and he had small, furtive eyes. The guy held on to the straps of the messenger bag that was draped over his chest like it contained the cure for cancer. He was strange and nerdy, but at least he was quiet.

  The guidos were still on the dock, texting. Mick looped the stern line free and tossed the rope into the airboat.

  “You guys want to get on?” he said to them.

  “Yeah, yeah,” they said in unison, never taking their eyes off their phones. Not surprisingly, they took the two seats next to the blonde twins. The girls gave them a quick look, and Mick was happy to see the lip-curl on one of their faces. Well, well, well, fine as wine and with good taste, too. Maybe he’d ask them if they wanted to see more of Naples after the tour. You never knew. Could be they had a thing for older, rugged guys.

  He’d bent down to undo the bow line when he heard two loud pops.

  The tourists on the airboat let out a collective gasp. Mick looked up just in time to see a man as large as a mobile brick shithouse running down the rickety dock, headed their way. A big duffel bag flopped against his back and another, smaller one dangled from his right hand.

  Mick’s time in the service had taught him well what gunfire sounded like. The running man rumbled closer like the dark, outer edge of a killer storm.

  There was another pop and one of the windows on the Glade Tours office blew into tiny bits.

  “Everybody get down!” he yelled, throwing the line and himself onto the boat. If he was lucky, he could get them the hell out of there before those bullets headed their way. It would be close, but it was all he had.

  The blonde twins screamed and even the guidos looked like they had crapped their pants.

  Mick staggered to the back of the boat and keyed the ignition. The motor roared to life and the blades of the fan began their steady whirl. The boat may have been ratty and made from spare parts, but she still had some fire in her ass. He was about to take his seat when he felt the boat rock to the left.

  He turned to see what had caused the boat to dip and barely had time to register the running man’s frantic face before a fist that was the size of a Thanksgiving turkey and solid as an anchor smashed into his throat.

  Rooster couldn’t believe it. A getaway boat, already primed and ready to fly! He felt bad about throat-punching the pilot, but he didn’t have time to argue his case with the man.

  The guy slumped to the floor of the airboat, and Rooster jumped into the elevated seat and started to pull away. The couple at the front were on their feet and about to make a break for it when he shouted above the din of the fan, “Get back in the boat or you’re gonna get killed! Now!”

  They looked back at him with pure terror in their eyes. Their attention was then drawn to the Cubans tearing down the dock with guns blazing. He saw bits of the dock explode as bullets buried themselves in an ever closer path of destruction. The couple dropped as low as they could on the boat, and Rooster turned the rudder left and away from the dock and Cheech’s minions.

  Damn, this boat is big and old. Half of it looked homemade. This was not going to be easy.

  Everyone on the boat slid to their right, then backward as Rooster hit it as hard as he could to put some distance between himself and those damn guns. He instinctively ducked when a bullet pinged off the top part of the fan cage.

  For just a moment, he considered dipping into the big duffel, grabbing a pistol and turning back so he could give them a taste of their own medicine. But when he bent down to loop his finger through the straps, he lost control of the airboat.

  Chapter Three

  Rooster cried out, “Godammit!”

  The duffel rolled out of his grasp as the airboat went into a sideways skid, kicking up a sharp spray of water that doused everyone on board. He’d accidentally lost control of the rudder, and now they were facing the Cubans on the end of the dock.

  He could see their peroxide smiles as they raised their guns and took aim.

  This was just the kind of shit they talked about in those anger management classes! He’d let his temper and need to exact payback get the best of him again, and this time he’d delivered his head on a silver platter.

  Their guns roared to life, and Rooster felt the air around him ripple with screaming slugs. Because of the noise of the fan, he could feel rather than hear them plug different parts of the boat. The woman in front jumped up from her prone position like a rabbit caught in a snare. Her husband pulled her back down and closer to him.

  Shit! Rooster fought for control of the rudder stick, angling the airboat back out to the waterway and his escape. He stepped on the accelerator, and the fan kicked into high gear.

  Come on, come on, come on! Rooster willed the damn boat to move faster. Growing up in southern Florida, he’d had plenty of experience operating airboats, but never one this size. It was moving at a turtle’s pace, and the rudder stick was fighting him hard.

  Using both hands to get the rudder under control and locking his knee so the accelerator was pinned to the floor, Rooster finally got the airboat to straighten and haul ass. It planed over the water and smoothed out nice and proper.

  An old-timer in a canoe paddled like a demon to get out of his way, but not fast enough. The airboat clipped the stern with a sharp thud and the canoe spun in a tight half circle, then flipped on its side, pitching the old man, probably out for a day of fishing, into the water. Rooster turned around just in time to see the edge of the canoe clobber the back of the man’s neck.

  For the second time, Rooster shouted, “Godammit!”

  As much as he wanted to turn the airboat around and see if the guy was all right, the thought of giving up even one inch of space between him and the Cubans overrode any sympathy he had. No sense getting everyone killed just to see if some old guy had more fishing days ahead of him. It seemed like a good and proper justification.

  The wind felt like a gift from God against his damp clothes. He guided the airboat past other, smaller boats, creating a wake that was sure to capsize a fair share. No longer a floating target, he took a good, long breath, his first since coming to on Cheech’s couch.

  Safety was false and fleeting. He may have avoided Cheech’s gun-toting goons, but when word got back to Cortez, he was a dead man. They had gotten a good look at his mug, and there weren’t many folks who matched his description. Cortez would know it was him that killed his good-for-nothing son.

  He ne
eded time to think, and someplace where he could do it without ending up with a Colombian necktie. He liked his tongue in his mouth, not dangling out of his severed throat.

  Pushing the airboat as fast as it would go, he passed the marker for the Big Cypress State Preserve. The waterways would get tricky from here on in. It would be narrow riding past tiny islands of gumbo-limbo trees and sweet bay. If he didn’t slow down, he’d for sure lose the control he’d fought so hard to gain.

  Pulling his head out of his own troubled thoughts, he became aware that he still had a bunch of people in his getaway boat. Sensing that the initial danger was over, they had crawled up from the floor and retaken their seats, and now all eyes were on him.

  He knew that look. They were waiting for him to make his move, take them out because they could identify him.

  Good. That was just the kind of fear he needed. Holding steady on the rudder stick, he successfully yanked the gun duffel onto his lap and dragged the zipper partway open. He casually took one of the guns out, an antique, western draw pistol, and placed it on his lap for all of them to see. It had a mahogany handle and gold engraving along its silver frame and barrel. The damn thing was sweet as hell, and just as deadly. That should keep them in line for a spell.

  Chapter Four

  The airboat sailed along the water in bumps and rolls. Over the past two hours, everything had been a complete blur as they headed deeper into the Everglades. A couple of times, Jack Campos thought for sure they were going to tip over as the maniac who had commandeered their tour skated through the narrow waterways. Jack even had to grab hold of one of the young Italian guys, lest he catapult over the side. The kid shot him an angry look, but it was nothing compared to the mug on the angry goliath in the pilot’s chair.

  All Jack had wanted to do was slip out of the market research conference for a couple of hours and see the Everglades, maybe spot an alligator or two, and be back in time for the lunch break in the hotel’s large banquet room. Conferences may be dull, but they weren’t deadly.