Atrocitas Aqua Horrors of the Deep (Anthiology)

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serpent god.
The gold doesn't matter now. It seems my greed has brought about my downfall. Things would have
been so much easier if I hadn't double-crossed Paul in the first place and we had simply split the take.
But, thinking about it now, I believe Paul brought me here for a reason. As a devout believer in
voodoo, he wanted to find Damballah for himself-the real Damballah, not the spirit of the beast that
any good bokor can call to possess him.
It seems that now Paul will have eternal life, and I will pay for my mistake for infinity.
Black Ngembe is rising to the surface quickly. Bubbles are floating all around me. The halo of blood
closes in.
Goodbye.
***
Swamper
Walt Hicks
Darius Bonhomme slowly paddled the jon boat along the lazy current of the Loxahatchee River. Dusk
was beginning to settle on the Florida river preserve, but the clamor of roosting birds was
conspicuously absent. Dying shafts of sunlight shimmered through the heavy cypress branches, and the
light breeze sent shadows scurrying along the thickly foliaged riverbank.
Bonhomme had been aboard the flat-bottomed boat for nearly three hours, skimming along the
serpentine north fork of the Loxahatchee. His entire body was tense with effort, sinews knotted in his
powerful arms and legs. His narrowed eyes scanned the riverbanks carefully; his ears strained to hear
the slightest rustle of saw grass. A chill northerly breeze sent icy fingers dancing up his spine, a
premonition of an approaching storm. Bonhomme had seen no wildlife since his journey began, and
even for mid-autumn, he could tell something was not right.
Two days ago, Bonhomme had stood in the lavish office of the Chairman of the Loxahatchee River
District, Bennett Caldwell. Bonhomme had worked for Caldwell in the capacity of nuisance gator
trapper several times before most notably seven years ago when a rogue fifteen-foot bull had
mistaken a young boy for a meal and drug the screaming child from the canoe of his horrified parents.
That had been during the peak of gator mating season, early May, and was considered something of an
isolated incident.
"Darius," Caldwell said amiably, "please sit down."
"Thanks, I ll stand. What d you want of me?"
Caldwell swallowed hard and regarded the stocky, powerful looking man dressed in bush clothing, out
of place standing in the middle of the elegantly appointed office. Caldwell was a little afraid of
Bonhomme, wary of the scarred, rawboned trapper whom he only summoned in dire emergencies.
Like now.
Donning the well-worn smile of the career politician, Caldwell shrugged. "Guess you heard about us
having to close down the river preserve and Jonathan Dickinson State Park?"
"We do get the news out on the Big Lake, Mister Chairman. Some of us even have indoor plumbing."
"I m sure. Darius, I m afraid we got a bad animal loose in the preserve. A big bull gator, I d expect.
We ve got three people dead, two more missing. The remains of the three dead well..." Caldwell
indicated an open folder on his desk. Bonhomme leaned over the mahogany desk, took a quick look at
the spread eight by ten crime scene photos, and grunted.
"We ve quietly closed all access to the park as best we could. The signs say, sensitive environmental
survey in progress -- please keep out, but word gets around. Hopefully, nobody s stupid enough to go
in there."
" Cept for me?" Bonhomme grinned.
"You are a professional..."
". . . don t try this at home," Bonhomme finished.
The first attacks had occurred within the state park, near the fringes of the tidal estuary, where the
Atlantic Ocean stubbornly intrudes into the waterway. The third death, as well as the two
disappearances had taken place farther inland, well within the cypress swamp. Bonhomme glanced at
the pictures again.
"This here is a special case, Caldwell. We re gonna have to have a different arrangement." Normally,
nuisance gator trappers like Bonhomme weren t paid by the state or county they kept the hide and
meat of whatever they trapped as payment.
Caldwell pursed his lips. "I m authorized a five thousand-dollar bounty, Mr. Bonhomme."
"In that case, my price is fifteen thousand."
"Darius..."
"There are other trappers. In the yellow pages, I m thinkin . The one with the picture of the cute lil
raccoons is pretty good, I hear." He turned to leave.
"Okay, okay. Done. We need to reopen, as soon as possible, Darius."
Bonhomme left without looking back.
When he thought about the pictures of the victims, Bonhomme wished he d asked for twenty-five
thousand. When he thought about the pictures, Bonhomme knew he wasn t after a gator. First of all,
gators were usually harmless unless their territory was invaded or their young were threatened. Or, if
stumbled across during mating season, which was April through May. Secondly, alligators, being
cold-blooded reptiles, become mostly dormant in the autumn months. Bonhomme considered that the
beast might ve been a saltwater crocodile, since the attacks began in the briny estuary. However, he
also knew that the American saltwater croc was normally just about as docile as the common gator,
particularly in cooler weather. The victims had been torn to shreds, but there were no clear-cut bite
wounds or claw marks. The bodies had been severely mauled -- ripped limb from limb. Florida
panthers weren t very common in these parts, neither were bears.
Darius Bonhomme had been a trapper in the Florida swamps and waterways for almost all his forty [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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