Horror From the High Dive, page 3
Well, let me back up half a jiff. What did happen to Barry? The once promising young man who was voted Most Likely To Succeed by our 1995 graduating class. Little did we know back in the mid-90s that Barry was going to mostly succeed in being a meal for a sea monster.
As I heard it, Barry sat out on his dock after dark that night, smoking weed, which was his nightly indulgence, as he disliked beer, wine, and most spirits. His family’s history with alcohol directed him to weed, but he never overdid it. He couldn’t overdose on the devil’s lettuce, he reasoned. Mellowed out to a pleasant euphoria, he never took notice of the gargantuan menace rising from the water below his floating dock. He had a nice buzz in his bones and Braves baseball on the radio.
A long accordioned neck connected to a deadly set of jaws extended six feet from the water and snatched the tall man from his lawn chair. The gaping maw was anchored to a hideous beak wide enough that when it stabbed his torso, the vicious shaking sent his severed head bouncing into the water. Swimming away with his prey under the surface, the animal dragged the man across the river where he could eat in peace inside a cove spiked with tree trunks and rotted stumps. A river mouth full of wooden teeth.
The following afternoon, Sheriff Ron Reubens waited for the regional game warden, Neal Cross, to arrive. He stood by the water’s edge, not really wanting to go much closer. The Sheriff was concerned that the river’s legendary bull alligator, Methuselah, had finally taken human prey for the first time in Reubens’ tenure and may need relocation. But Neal had been busy chasing his nemesis, Bubba Frank Dudley. Bubba had grown up on the water, boasting that he’d descended from a long line of trappers and was the best hunter in the south. Neal and Bubba had been adversaries since high school.
“Thanks for coming on short notice, Neal.” Reubens ruminated.
“It’s okay Ron, I was tired of chasing that idiot Bubba Frank through the swamp anyway,” Neal replied crossly.
“What’s he up to now?”
“Some of everything. I found a stash of twenty-four marijuana plants growing in some pots on a raft back up in the bog. He’s the only one who’d know how to get back in there. I knew he was watchin’ me when I tossed them in the water, but he’s probably got a lot more hidin’ places.”
“Pot in pots, eh?” Reubens smiled at his own humorosity. “Ahh, he’ll screw up one day and we’ll snatch ‘em up. Neal, do you think Methuselah could have killed Barry?”
“Nah, no reason to. There’s plenty of fish, snakes, ducks, and smaller gators everywhere to eat. Let alone dogs if he preferred.”
“Well something big sure as hell got ‘em. We took pictures of the dock and right on the edge we saw these. Looks like gouges from a gaff-hook or something. It’s real strange.”
Neal took a gander. The nature biologist, who had his master’s degree in Predator Speciation in Swamp Biomes, was mystified. A lot of animals in the swamp had claws, but not large enough to do that kind of damage.
“This could be anything or nothing Sheriff. It could have been done sometime before.”
“I dunno. The coroner said that his decapitation was fast and exact. Not from a blade, but something unknown. The water diluted any kind of DNA evidence… so he’s stumped.”
“Well, let me get out on the water, Sheriff, and see what I can see. If something new is hunting in Methuselah’s territory, he’ll be the best answer to finding it.”
“How big is he now?” Reubens wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
“Well, my jon boat’s eighteen feet long and I painted foot marks in yellow on both sides. He cruised next to me one day with a coon in his mouth and I read fourteen-foot easy. He’s at least 105 years old now since old man Cooter took that picture back in 1936.”
Reubens spat on the ground. “Every time I see it hanging at his son’s bar I still can’t believe it. A 100-year old gator.”
“He’s real alright. Have a good day Sheriff.” Neal left for a muffuletta lunch and later got out on the water. He always hunted better on a full stomach.
Neal didn’t know that Bubba was also gorging on muffuletta, licking his wounds regarding the potted pot plants that Neal had capsized. He had heard around the swamp about Barry. And as he sopped up brown onion gravy with the rich bread he sort of wished that whatever had got Barry had gotten Neal instead.
Days of fruitless hunting turned nothing up for Neal so he took a day off.
On the intensely hot afternoon of said day off, deep in a remote section of the swamp, Methuselah finally tracked and cornered his rival predator in a dead-end gator hole he’d dug. All of the egrets and other birds nesting in the trees flew high above the water sensing double danger below. The previously unchallenged Methuselah cruised in unaware of the sheer size of his enemy concealed underwater.
The monstrous alligator snapping turtle was over ninety years old. Its shell was eight feet in diameter and it weighed in at over 935 pounds. But its true power lay in its cavernous jaws that opened over three and a half feet wide. Methuselah’s jaws were formidable as well, but the turtle’s compact size made a world of difference.
When the bull gator smashed into the turtle’s hard shell, its flexible neck swung around clamping down on the gator’s back and softer underbelly, gouging huge fatal holes into its flesh. Methuselah thrashed wildly in the shallow water trying to dislodge his body, deploying his gator-roll. For over a painful hour, his blood spilled, mixing with the murky water and mud until he finally died from his wounds. The turtle held on for another hour to be sure of a complete kill before beginning his feasting. After devouring most of the internal organs, its jaws hacked away the meaty tail. He swam away, saving the snack for later.
Now there was only one danger in the river, but no one was prepared to deal with the menace.
Teens, by nature, challenge the rules no matter how well intentioned they are. Jeffery and Trent Hurley’s desire to take their new jet ski (gifted by loving grandparents) out on the river was all a matter of timing. Their father had taken a day off to take his wife in for important medical procedures and they’d be gone all day, leaving the boys at home on a teacher workday. Sixteen-year-old Jeff and his thirteen-year-old sibling Trent were normal rambunctious teens who loved the outdoors.
When they were sure that their parents were at the hospital an hour away, they made their move. Their plan was to take their jet ski out for an hour or so, return it to the garage after drying it and cooling the engine with the leaf-blower, refueling it to the exact same level and using a marine polish their dad used on his prize bass boat. Their plan had one fatal exception: Murphy’s cruel Law.
Out on the water their plan was working brilliantly. The older, stronger Jeff drove with Trent sitting behind, laughing all the time, water spraying up into his face from the wake. As powerful as it was, the machine’s controllability was exceptional, as their grandfather had done his homework on the purchase for his grandsons. They sped south to the Porter’s dock, then whirled around heading north, then west toward the swamp and deeper water. Rounding the bend, the ski struck something big in the water, causing Trent to fall off the recreational water vehicle.
When Jeff saw that Trent was okay, he positioned the ski and extended his right arm to pull him aboard. Trent’s laughing made him smile. He slowly turned to head back towards home when his brother’s laughter turned to a horrifying scream. Trent’s fingernails dug hard into his belly, and he turned to see what was wrong. The monster’s jaws were locked sideways across Trent’s body, nearly cutting him in half.
For a brief second, the brothers’ eyes locked on each other. Then Trent’s body disappeared underwater. Birds flew away when Jeff screamed his little brother’s name. Then, he stood frozen in shock on the jet ski. A trail of bubbles rose to the surface, heading into the bog. When another boater out for a day of bass fishing on the water swung around the bend on his boat, he immediately stopped his engine when he saw the crying teen. He drifted over and grabbed the shivering boy, who fell deeper into distress.
Utterly confused, the man pulled his cellphone from his vest and called 9-1-1. In minutes, the river was full of rescue boats, and Jeff was taken home with his jet ski in tow. While boaters patrolled the river searching for Trent Hurley’s body, his parents rushed home behind a high-speed motorcycle escort. Slamming to a stop with the front tires in the grass, the Hurleys ran inside where the Sheriff sat with their son. Katrina hugged him before convulsing with tears. Trent was nowhere to be found and she passed out from shock onto the carpet. Jeff Sr. was conflicted, consumed with rage and despair. He fell on his knees in front of the sofa, sobbing. Paramedics attended to Katrina and Sheriff Reubens went outside to look at the jet ski on the grass. Everyone stared at the gash on the hull from the jet ski being struck by something hard in the water. Needless to say, everybody had an opinion.
Bubba Frank knew all of the swamp’s secrets, including signs of death on the wind. He possessed an acute sense of smell honed by years of hunting. He followed the distinct scent of rotting flesh into the swamp. He poled his jon boat with the motor raised around every bend, lowering his head, brushing away the ubiquitous moss. Ahead in the distance, he knew that this branch led to an old gator-hole dug by Methuselah where he’d been before. Previously, in that same spot, he had snagged a twenty-two-inch bass using a hunting arrow with a fishing gig, but today was very different.
Jamming the pole into the mud, Bubba positioned the boat next to the bloated rotting corpse of Methuselah, which was being fed upon by a family of raccoons and a lone possum. Flies were everywhere but the hunter was used to ghastly sights in the swamp, so he nonchalantly used the pole to poke the old alligator’s body, flipping it belly-up. The entire underside had been eaten away by something big. It was unusual, but not too otherworldly looking to the swamp-hunter. In fact, it looked just like the wounds made by a notorious snapper, but he’d never heard of one this large. Methuselah’s whole tail was missing as well. Bubba decided to leave and report what he’d found. He’d dump this one right in Neal’s lap before he’d be accused of slaughtering a legend. Bubba snapped six photos with his phone to corroborate his story.
Several people were outside the Sheriff’s office when Bubba rode up on a muddy four-wheeler in his ragged cut-off jeans and light blue denim sleeveless shirt. Barefoot and unashamed, he strolled inside where Neal and the Sheriff’s deputies were gathered, planning their next move.
Neal glared at Bubba who spoke up first.
“Sheriff, I got some news. Methuselah’s dead, all chewed up in de swamp and he wus et by sometin’ else bigger and badder than he wus.”
“Yeah, Bubba Frank Dudley and a 30.06,” Neal scoffed, not buying Bubba’s innocent act.
Bubba was perturbed because for once he was trying to do the right thing by the law. “Shut up Neal, you don know what de hell you talkin’ ‘bout.”
“Y’all settle down. You got any proof he’s dead Bubba?” Sheriff Reubens tried to wrangle the conversation on course.
“Right here, look,” Bubba handed the phone to the Sheriff who then connected it with a USB adapter to his hi-def TV screen on the wall. Bubba hoped the cops didn’t swipe too many times on the photos as they may find some incriminating pictures deeper in the album…
“Damn, look at that!” A deputy exclaimed, gawking at the gore the beast left in the swamp. Methuselah was a pile of bone and blood. A younger policeman who was taking his lunch at his desk had to put down his po’boy at the sight.
“I know dat ain no 30.06 Sheriff and I wus no way round.”
“Alright, alright. What are we going to do, Neal?”
“I don’t know, Sheriff. What are we looking for? First it was Barry, then the Hurley boy, and now it’s Methuselah. This thing is racking up bodies.”
“Boy, what boy, Sheriff?” Bubba was concerned. His heart was small and cold, but he still had one.
“Oh, a teenage boy was killed today on the river and his body’s missing, Bubba. Something snatched him right off a jet ski and his brother said that a big ugly snapping turtle ate him.”
“I node it, I node it! I node it reminded me of somethin’ I dun seen befo, Sheriff. Look at dem holes, they’ze just like the kind made by a snapper. Dat beak must be big as a damn shark-hook, jus like de one at Cooter’s bar.”
Pensive, the Sheriff looked to the expert, Neal.
Neal wiped his brow. “Sheriff, gigantism does exist in nature, but it’s rare. Y’all remember Hogzilla? That boar the hunter shot over in Georgia back in 2004?”
Of course Bubba had heard of Hogzilla. “Yeah, he weigh almos’ eight-hunnerd pounds I hurd. Sure do wish I coudda got to ‘em,” he said as he imagined that scenario wistfully.
“Well, thanks Bubba. We’ll be in touch,” Sheriff Reubens tipped his hat to Bubba.
“Y’all wont me to git ‘em?”
The Sheriff may have had a soft spot for Bubba, but Neal was still adversarial. “You stay outta there, Bubba. This official business now.”
Bubba smiled through checkerboard teeth, wisdom molars still intact back in the recesses of his head. “Say who, Neal?”
Everyone was silent as the hunter exited the office. They all knew that Bubba would go after the turtle just to spite his nemesis Neal, and the Sheriff would be glad if he did rid his parish of the killer. Bubba began planning as he rode away.
We all joined in the river search for the killer turtle and I was loaded for grizzly bear with my AK-47 onboard. Everybody knew that I owned one but I’d never broken any laws with it. While we patrolled the main river, Bubba and Neal were in the swamp hunting, as both men were skilled. Neal poled along narrow courses between the trees in a smaller boat, but Bubba had a better plan.
He’d selected three prime locations deep in the swamp that were key trail-nexuses used by gators and other wildlife. Some spots were as shallow as a foot deep while others required swimming. Taking three young sows from his pen for bait, Bubba penned one in estrus at a crucial spot where he’d made many kills on hogs and deer. The sow’s pheromones were sure to draw in something. After a long night with the sow’s noisy squeals, the turtle tracked the bait.
It was a half hour before sunrise with a cool mist covering the swamp’s surface. Bubba listened with his 30.06 securely hung on a short limb, sitting on a smooth plank in his tree-stand with his Aunt Gussie Mae’s battle-ax strapped across his back. Gussie Mae Crowder was meaner than a moccasin, fearing no man nor anything living in the swamp.
Gussie once turned-the-tables on two young Klansmen out to terrorize her sister. Gussie Mae stood 6’1”, weighing over 320 pounds and could out-work most men with her ax. When she and her ax destroyed the white boys’ new pick-up truck, they both ran home, leaving it to the swamp. Not even the Sheriff went after Gussie. After she died, the ax went to Bubba who kept it as a keepsake of his aunt and used it to chop logs for his mama Tussie’s wood stove.
As mourning doves cooed, the swamp awakened. Bubba heard familiar noises near his bait. Using his binoculars, he strained to see beyond the mist over the water, but something else caught his eye. An enormous 400-pound boar locked in on the sow and began smashing down the pen to get to her. He saw Neal was yards away, hearing the commotion too. Bubba knew that he had to get closer for a good shot with two dangers near. His narrow boat slid through the water. He was yards away from disaster.
Just as the big boar mounted the sow, he was turned from amorous to full of rage when the huge head and neck of a strange beast dove for his body. The sow bolted away, splashing to safety. The boar attacked with incredible power using his tusks on the leathery neck, but the snapper’s jaws crushed its left front shoulder pinning him to the mud. The beak easily penetrated the boar’s tough hide. The death squeal lasted for two long minutes, but sensing different danger, the snapper released his grip and slid into the water beneath Neal’s boat.
Neal was unprepared for the attack. As his boat flipped, his finger pulled his shotgun trigger, unleashing the thunderous boom of a 12-gauge blast with a deer-slug. He fell sideways into the water in panic as he couldn’t see a thing. The turtle now slid over to Bubba’s boat, breaching like a whale, bouncing the man backwards into the muddy water. Bubba dislodged his rifle when he fell. While underwater, he frantically tried to recover the rifle, but it had fallen over a submerged log.
Meanwhile, Neal was on his feet but spinning in circles when he tripped backwards over the dead boar. He hit the back of his head on a broken peg from the smashed pen. As he tried to slide away, the ugly maw of the turtle rose over his body, cocked for the kill. Neal’s boyhood nemesis rose from the mist and mud with Gussie’s ax and fell like a guillotine, severing most of the snapper’s head. Blood gushed, mixing with the boar’s viscera. Bubba swung again and the threat was ended.
He stared down at Neal coated in blood and mud, then surprised him by extending a helping hand. Neal returned a smile and they both stood examining the monstrosity.
“Oooh-Wee, dis a big-un! I wonder how he taste wid some onion gravy and rice togetter?” Bubba laughed, breaking the tension.
Neal was grateful to be alive. “Damn Bubba, you’ll eat anything from this swamp.”
“I no das rite Boss-man and he jus de rite size too.”
Neal shook his head laughing as they loaded the gargantuan head into his dented boat. When they slid out into the main part of the river, a flotilla of hunters surrounded them, stunned by their trophy.
Later that morning, Bubba returned with his buddies and their power-tools to carve out the shell and put the best meat on ice in coolers. Sheriff Reubens and Neal took lots of photographs to complete their reports. Neal would pass them along to the university for further study.
All Saturday afternoon at Cooter’s, Neal and Bubba sat at a center table in the shade on the outside dock, eating crawfish and chicken wings and washing it down with beer. I watched as the two men, now buddies after thirty-four years of hostility, were acting like they were the best of friends. In gratitude, Neal’s Visa card paid for Bubba’s long lunch.
