A Crying Shame (119 page)

Shut up, Whacker,” Joe said.
Five o'clock in the morning, now. Be here! Right now, let's all join in a moment of silent prayer.”

Whacker passed out on the ground.

 

Whacker woke up stiff and sore. Dusk was settling its cloak over the bayou country. He needed a drink bad. He looked around him. Everyone was gone. That didn't bother him; he was used to that. But what he didn't know was why the hell he was way out in the country. Oh well, he shrugged it off. No matter.

Whacker began walking back to town. The leading edge of the swamp reared up dark and ominous to his left. Whacker fought back a shiver of fear. Calm down, now, he cautioned himself. Ain't nothing to be afraid of in that swamp.

Oh, hell, no,” he muttered, his voice comforting in the gathering gloom.
Jist 'gators, snakes . . . and them cryin' sounds.”

Whacker had lived in the parish all his life. He knew the swamp cried. He'd heard it cry many times.

It cried.

Whacker froze to the gravel road as the weeping sounds drifted to his ears. Sounded like a woman crying in fear and pain.

Who's there?” he called.
Answer me, ma'am. You hurt?”

Only that faint crying sound in the sudden, silent, falling darkness that enveloped the lone man.

A scream drifted to him, chilling him, bringing out a cold, clammy sweat to his skin. Whacker put one foot in front of the other, heading back to town, miles away. But he could not shake that moaning, crying voice. It came to him again and again.

He mustered all his courage and left the road, climbing the fence, heading for the darkness of the Crying Swamp. He neared the edge and sensed something tracking him. His heart pounded in his chest, thudding heavily. He wiped his dry lips with the back of his hand.

Who's there?” he called.

A snarl came to him.

Let me alone, you guys. Stop all this foolishness. It ain't funny. Y‘all been makin' them cryin' noises?”

A foul odor drifted to him, wrinkling his nose.

What'd y'all have, a bag of shit?” he called, his voice rising.

He lost his voice as his eyes picked up the shapes circling him. He tried to speak, to yell, to shout, but his throat locked on him as the creatures drew nearer. Awful-looking things. Horrible.

Whacker lunged, attempting to break through the circle. He was hurled to the ground. His clothing was ripped from him, exposing his nakedness to the night.

And to the fangs.

Teeth flashed in the night, white, then red as the man's blood stained them. No one heard his choking screaming.

It did not last long.

Fangs clamped onto and into his throat. Blood spurted. A leg was ripped from his torso, one Link tearing the flesh from the bone, another cracking the leg bone, sucking at the marrow. The night became almost silent, except for the sounds of lips smacking in satisfaction at this meal, and the incomprehensible grunting of the beasts as they talked.

The Links slipped away, back into the swamp, leaving Whacker's bones to gleam dully under the moonlight. Like their distant cousins from far down the ecological chain, the Links had stripped the bones as bare as a swarming school of piranha.

A curious opossum lumbered and lurched its way across the field, literally stumbling over the carcass of Whacker Jolson.

The opossum found a few scraps of meat to feast upon, under the light of the moon, shaded this night a strange blood-red.

 

Governor Parker has been hospitalized,” Sheriff Saucier said over the phone.
Stroke. It's real bad. They don't give him much hope.”