Swamp Mist (986 words)

Swamp Mist
By W. David MacKenzie

Steve crawled out of the small tent, twisting and stretching as he stood up and breathed the invigorating aroma of swamp and coffee. Jeff held out a cup and Steve took a long drink of the steaming brew and gagged.

“Dang, Jeff, I’d forgotten how bad a cook you are. This is awful!”

“Ya, it is,” Jeff agreed. “But it’s the best damned coffee for fifty miles around.” Steve just grunted and took another drink then went to get his gear.

Jeff had scored a coveted permit to bag two alligators in the Everglades and now, camped on the edge of the swamp and staring into the gator's home territory, they were eager to get started. The sun had cleared the trees but the morning mist was still rising from the murky wetlands like a translucent curtain that blurred the scraggly pines and muted the already dull colors of the swamp.

“So, do we have a game plan?” asked Steve dejectedly. “Do we have to wait for this mist to burn off?”

Jeff looked out over the swamp and frowned. He was about to tell Steve it would be safer to wait when he spotted something moving a hundred yards or so off to their right. It was walking very slowly toward the swamp. It…that was the only label Jeff’s mind could grasp onto and he just pointed.

“Oh My God” Steve breathed, “I can't believe it. It's a Skunk Ape!”

Jeff pulled his eyes away from the shambling creature and looked at Steve incredulously. “What the hell is a Skunk Ape?”

“You damned Yankee! Sasquatch, Bigfoot, Skunk Ape...they're all the same.” Steve hurriedly patted his pockets and pouches in search of his digital camera but came up empty. “Damn! I forgot my camera.”

“Camera?” Jeff spat and swung his rifle up to his shoulder. “Who needs a camera when we've got these?” He took aim and forced his breathing to steady. He wasn’t sure he could kill it from this distance but he’d sure as hell wound the monster. Jeff squeezed the trigger but at the last moment Steve thrust out his arm and pushed the rifle up sharply. The shot went way above the creature’s head and, alerted to the hunters’ presence, it lumbered with a bit more speed toward the safety of the swamp.

“Why the hell did you do that?” Jeff exploded.

“You can't shoot it. What if it's the last one?”

“To hell with that. Do you know how rich we're gonna be when we bring back a real Bigfoot? Proof, Steve!” Jeff studied the beast for a few moments then started jogging toward it, hoping to get a better shot at it before it moved into the misty swamp. “Look at it move,” he called back to Steve. “It's limping. It's already injured. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity!” Steve wasn't convinced that this was the right thing to do but he wasn't going to stay behind either. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and ran after Jeff and the Bigfoot.

The tall hairy figure reached the boggy shore ahead of the hunters and plunged into the mist and muck. At the edge of the morass Jeff and Steve launched themselves into the water. They were soaked up to their thighs and their feet battled with the mud as they slogged through but they kept the Bigfoot’s shape in sight and Jeff again fired off another round. An unearthly wail pierced the mist.

“Got him!” cried Jeff as he reached a hummock and pulled himself out of the water. It wasn't down yet, though. Jeff took another bead on the Bigfoot and fired. The eerie cry sounded again as the beast fell into a shallow bog with a soft splash.

The stench assailed them as they eased closer to the fallen beast. “God, it stinks!”

Steve dropped his rifle and waved his hand in front of his face as if that meager breeze could drive off the sulfur-like smell. “They don't call it a Skunk Ape for nothin'.”

“Hey, be careful.” Jeff called as Steve knelt down to examine the Bigfoot.

“You're a good shot.” Steve said pointing to the blood oozing from the gaping wound in the creature's head. “He's dead.” Steve ran his hands over the contours of its face. It wasn't human, and it wasn't quite like a chimp or gorilla either, but Steve could see something that told him this creature wasn't just a dumb animal.

“This is friggin' AMAZING!” Jeff said excitedly. “We're gonna be famous!”

Steve found another wound on the Bigfoot, not a gunshot, more like a ragged tear that ran down the length of its thigh. He pushed the fur aside and found several shards of yellow plastic. “I think he was hit by a car before we spotted him.” Steve said as he picked a piece of plastic out of the fur and turned to show Jeff. “That would explain the limp....” Steve's voice trailed off as he looked up at Jeff, then his eyes went wide.

Jeff heard the low rumbling sound behind him and in one fluid motion he spun around and brought his rifle to his shoulder but he wasn’t fast enough. The impossibly tall Bigfoot that stood behind him swung a huge hairy arm down on Jeff's shoulder shattering his collarbone. Jeff cried out in pain and fell to his knees beside Steve.

The two men huddled together as more shapes emerged from the mist. Soon half-a-dozen Skunk Apes surrounded them. Their leader squatted down, picked up the fallen rifle by the barrel and raised it high over it's head like a club.

The screams didn't last long but they woke a nearby alligator. The reptile launched its twelve-foot body into the swamp with a speed that belied it's size and swam quietly off to find a more peaceful spot for it's mid-morning nap.


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Story Copyright 2005 W. David MacKenzie
Photo Copyright 2005 Jim Damaske
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The Map (683 words)

The Map
by W. David MacKenzie


His cheeks burned as the frigid dawn wind clawed at the hood of his parka. His hands were icy and numb but still he trudged onward. His robotic steps brought him to the crest of the snow-covered hill and then over it into a protected valley where he didn't feel quite like an arctic explorer.

Not that exploring the arctic was beyond his capabilities—he prided himself in his back country and harsh weather skills—but these winter gales were a bitch!

The slope leveled out and he stopped to get his bearings. After flexing his fingers repeatedly to get the blood flowing again he reached into a zippered pocket in his parka. He wasn't exactly nimble-fingered yet, but he had regained enough dexterity to pull out the envelope and retrieve the folded document from inside. He reviewed the sheet of laminated paper, scanned the terrain, reviewed the paper again, turned to orient himself correctly and looked straight ahead. Yup, that's it, he mumbled to himself,and started toward the trees.

He moved slowly at first, but exuberance got the better of him and soon he was jogging through the calf-deep snow, wheezing great gusts of condensing breath.

---

When the bellboy at the ski lodge handed him the envelope the night before he thought it was odd. No one knew he was vacationing in the remote resort. Inside was a laminated topographic map of the ski trails with grease pencil markings indicating a path into the wooded hills. A scrawled circle at the end of the trail enclosed what looked like a number one. A few lines of cryptic text were written in the boarders.

Two pines lean left, four cedars lean right
Your reward lies between in dawn's early light

What the f...? He turned the map over, nothing. He flipped it back and looked at it again. Was it a joke? A test? From whom? Then it clicked...the geocachers!”

A few months ago he joined a geocaching club. The members spent their weekends using GPS systems to play high-tech hide and seek. Someone would hide a “treasure chest” then post its GPS coordinates on a web site. Other members would note the coordinates and hunt for the prize. Someone in the club must have found out where he was staying and sent this low-tech treasure map as a test.

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The trees, two scraggly pines on the left and four snow-shrouded cedars on the right, towered above him as he gasped for breath in the bitter cold air. He turned this way and that, looking for his prize. Nothing. It must be under the snow. Picking a spot between the marker trees, he walked in an expanding spiral, dragging his feet and kicking at the snow until he hit something solid.

His ego swelled as he dropped to his knees, discarded the map, and brushed at the snow with his hands, eager to get his reward and start the trek back to the lodge. He pushed more and more snow out of the way until he realized what he was uncovering—a man—dressed in winter gear and frozen solid.

He jerked back reflexively, landing on his ass in the snow. His heart raced and he shook his head in denial. That's when he saw the man in arctic camouflage fifty feet away aiming a rifle at him. The sound and the slam to his chest were almost simultaneous.

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The man in arctic camouflage lowered the rifle and watched the man in the bright yellow parka sprawl backward into the snow. He walked over and stared down at him as his hot blood stained the snow then leaned down and picked up the map. He used his gloved finger to rub out the mark in the middle of the circle then took a grease pencil from his pocket and wrote a number two. He folded the map and slipped it into a new envelope then scribbled a name on the outside. He tucked it inside his camouflaged jumper and walked back toward the ski resort as snow began to fall.


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Story Copyright 2005 W. David MacKenzie
Photo Copyright 1998 Phil Schermeister
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The Lamp Post (248 words)

The Lamp Post
By David MacKenzie


“I wasn't always a drugged-out thug, you know.” Carlo whispered to me as he raised his head slighlty. Our eyes locked. “I was a kid once, a good kid, a clown even.”

I studied Carlo's watery red-rimmed eyes. I peered past the green irises and tried to see beyond the tainted soul of the multiple murderer to find the innocent youth he was remembering, but I lost my way among the dead bodies. I closed my own eyes and swallowed hard, determined to get on with my job, but Carlo was still staring at me when I opened them again.

“I remember one winter when it snowed and my best buddy...” a brief smile danced across his face. “He dared me to lick the frozen lamp post and...” Carlo's already soft voice trailed off and he blinked, freeing me from his hypnotic grip.

I quickly moved behind him and busied myself with the routine tasks so I wouldn't think about his words and I wouldn't meet his gaze again. I tightened the bands around Carlo's head and chest then moved to the controls on the wall behind him. I stood ready.

The warden’s perfunctory voice came from the overhead speakers. “Carlo Anthony Fuguerro, do you have any final words?” A heart beat passed, then another, and another, but Carlo was silent. A red light blinked on and I flipped the switch, closed my eyes, and tried to forget the snow, the lamp post, and my childhood buddy.


Story Copyright 2005 W. David MacKenzie
Photo Copyright 12/23/2005 Mason Thompson