Mud

If you ever happen to look at a map of Florida you may have noticed that giant blue spot in the middle. That would be Lake Okeechobee. I used to live near the South East part of that spot, in Palm Beach County. I am originally from Irvine, California, but moved to Belle Glade when I was offered the same amount of money for a new job at a small and understaffed law office. Rhonda, my new boss, was close friends with Ted, my old boss in Irvine, and took time to explain the cost of living differences between an expensive area in California and an inexpensive area in Florida. I was happy to live like a king, even if it was a swamp that was so muggy it was usually like living in a sauna. On a single lane road with only two other homes within a five mile radius, I was looking forward to something different from California’s endless urban sprawl. At the time, it seemed like a great idea. My name is Marty, and this is how I landed in Florida.

I was only able to afford a one bedroom apartment in Irvine and it was taking the majority of my money, while in Florida I could afford a sprawling four bedroom home on two acres of property with no difficulty. I called the man on Craigslist and could barely understand him through his drawl, but I gathered that the home was a rare surviving wooden one built around 1910, but that it was in fantastic condition. If it were on sale in Orange County it could have fetched a few million.

It had light teal paint and white trim that made it look as tropical as reasonably possible. It was kind of similar to a railroad apartment, which I was used to, although the landlord told me over the phone it had originally been a shotgun shack that was expanded on. There was a central chamber that used to be the “railroad” part of the home, where air could travel through easily if two sets of massive French doors were opened, which was different and interesting. But the bedrooms were the most captivating part; each was equally sized, filled with gorgeously well-crafted woodwork and larger than my apartment back home. The pictures were stunning, especially to someone used to less than 400 square feet of space. The land had a canal on it and directly bordered the massive Herbert Hoover Dike which rose above the ground and water to surround the lake.

Belle Glade, my new sparsely populated swampy home, is a far distance, geographically and culturally speaking, from everywhere else in South Florida and even further from my home in Southern California. It’s flat as a board here, and there is so much water it seems to find its way into the air even when it’s sunny, but it’s beautiful none the less. A lot of its inhabitants are black people who have been screwed for generations and continue to be on the receiving end today. That and people who could be optimistically referred to as “White trash” who didn’t exactly have the same excuse for the conditions they seemed to prefer living in. My new landlord, a man with squinty eyes and no chin named Frank (who looked like his first name should have been Cleetus) was the first introduction to this while he was showing me the property I had already agreed to move into.

“I know you California types think they know everything, but yuh might wanna consider getting something to defend yaself.”

He lazily spit the words out through what was left of his teeth before spitting chew into an empty Mountain Dew bottle and giving me a disinterested look of appraisal.

“I’m sure I’ll work things out.”

I tried to say this as pleasantly as possible, but he just shook his head in disgust and left the moment I had given him a check. I didn’t care that much at the time, the house was too gorgeous. With a small river in the back, pond apple trees surrounding the property and intricate patterns on woodwork throughout the elegant one floor wood house I spent hours of time just to take it all in. Jim Bob and his relatives must have been amazing carpenters because it looked and smelled like fresh wood, as if it were cut yesterday. My first night in my new home, I hadn’t bothered beginning to unpack. I just lay down on my mattress amidst the boxes and thought about how great it was going to be making excess money and living in a place that wasn’t embarrassing. Thank God someone had installed central air, or it probably wouldn’t have been so relaxing.

I woke up the first night when I heard something. At first I thought it was just some animals in the canal. It didn’t take long to realize that what sounded like a wet, sloshing sound was coming from the kitchen, at the end of the railroad hall that led to the rooms. When I heard it a second time, I decided it would be best not to ignore a potential leaking whatever in an ancient house made entirely of wood, and climbed out of my bed to go check. As I walked towards the door of my room and into the railroad hall, I heard a muffled crack and crunch, as if something had been broken and slowly stepped on. My sleepy gait turned into a light trot as I ran into the kitchen expecting to see some junkie or previous tenant trashing my shit. Right before I reached the kitchen door I heard a tremendous “whump” noise and the sound of straining wood.

“Get the fuck outta my...”

Was about as far as I got into threatening whoever it was. When I opened the kitchen door, the smell was no longer pleasant cut wood, but something that smelled both fetid and earthy. Being used to the lights of a heavily populated area, it took a second for my mind to figure out what I was looking at. The back door that led out of the kitchen was wide open, and a massive black smear seemed to cover it. At the bottom of the door, laying belly down, was what appeared to be the head and arms of a person whose details I couldn’t quite make out. A sickening gurgling sound seemed to come from the area. I took a single step forward to get near the light switch and whoever it was took off, turning around on their stomach incredibly fast and seemingly dropping off the side of the back porch onto the ground and into the dark. The house seemed to groan as whoever it was did so. I flipped the light and rushed to the back, but didn’t pay attention to the ooze that had been liberally spread and ended up slipping and falling onto my back.

I got back up as quickly as I could, but it was pretty clear that whoever had just fled the kitchen was pretty quick for someone who seemed to be on their belly. Two of the boxes I had placed near the back door were utterly annihilated, crushed and covered in the same disgusting smelling black and green goo that seemed to cover a good section of the floor near the door as well. I cautiously stepped forward, making sure to place my feet more precisely. I flipped the other light switch so that the outside light would turn on and moved to look out to see if the invader was still there.

There was black sludge leading all the way to the side of the dike, but no creep on his belly. I was pretty familiar with crack heads and break ins, so I called the police right away in case whoever it was decided to check and see if I was the only person home. A tired looking man in a Crown Vic appeared 15 minutes later, and a man who introduced himself as Officer James Hatch began to survey the scene.

“So you’re telling me he was on his belly?”

He looked absolutely baffled.

“Yeah, whoever it was. They dragged a ton of black goo in too, but didn’t get too far. I guess my boxes were in their way.”

He gently moved the box that had previously contained stacks of plates.

“Fucking crack heads. Pardon my French. It looks like whoever it was crushed your stuff by wriggling around on it, by this mud angel. By the way, this is more or less what a lot of the muck around here looks like. They probably had to cross the canal to get to your house, and judging by the height of your porch they probably had to crawl up on it. Been unoccupied for years, maybe they had been squatting before you came in?”

Suddenly, my landlord’s suggestion of buying a gun didn’t seem entirely insane, but I was pretty pissed off that he hadn’t mentioned it.

“Maybe? The place was pretty clean when I got here and the landlord didn’t mention and previous squatters.”

He snorted with derision and shook his head.

“Of course not. Wouldn’t want to file a police report that might scare potential renters. It looks like whoever was trying to get in learned the hard way that it’s occupied now, so hopefully they won’t come back. Is anything else damaged or missing?”

I suddenly realized I hadn’t bothered to check.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Well, you might want to do a thorough inventory. I’ll get a copy of the prints and see if whoever did this had any priors. I see the culprit kind of fell off your back porch, but not enough of a drop to hurt them, so they’re probably not in a hospital unless it’s for withdrawals.”

Sure enough, a quick move of his flashlight showed the trail of mud going up the side of the porch.

“Well, I’m going to head out, but give us a call if anything pops up, and don’t be afraid to use 911 if someone is on or coming near your property. Have a safe night, sir.”

He looked like he was ready to pass out. I guessed he must have been new to the night shift. He left quietly and sat in his squad car for a bit while he filled out paperwork before leaving. I went back to sleep and had some barely remembered nightmare. I’m pretty sure it was about drowning.

The next morning I immediately thanked whatever passes for a God in this universe that I had made sure to take a few days before my first day at work. I had originally planned on taking the time to familiarize myself with the area, the neighbors and perhaps check on Palm Beach, which passes for a city in Florida. I cleaned my kitchen thoroughly and threw away my now destroyed plates and glasses. The black and green ooze was apparently swamp mud, which was much more obvious to me in daylight. I felt more than a little relieved noticing the clumps of grasses and weeds that made this clear, but it certainly didn’t make it easier to clean. I recalled the landlord telling me about getting a gun and wondered if the crime statistics I had read were a bit misleading. I showered and cleaned myself up before meeting the neighbors, who I hoped weren’t as painful to communicate with as the landlord.

It turned out, happily enough, that my neighbors were actually very friendly. Both of my neighbors were almost 15 minutes of driving through long stretches of flat farmland, interrupted frequently by lakes, canals, and rivers strangled with green life. Around Lake Okeechobee was a massive wall of earth that seemed sadly unnecessary since the lake had dropped foot after foot, year after year, due to environmental mismanagement and on top of that dike was one of the main roads of the area. The obese Haitian woman living in a renovated railroad shack whose name Google told me would be Myra was delighted to see me.

“Oh welcome! Welcome!”

The massive woman in an orange and turquoise mumu threw up the slightly decayed wooden door and I stepped into the home, a festival of strong smells and bright colors. Without asking she rushed to the kitchen in the slender home and poured three giant glasses of what looked like tea. She handed me one quickly and the flavor was alien and earthy, with hints of ginger and what tasted like fresh mint of some kind.

“Jean-Luc! We have a new neighbor, get here!”

The entire tiny home groaned with displeasure as a massive young man marched dutifully towards the front in athletic shorts and a badly stained white shirt. He reeked of weed and looked like depression was something he was used to, but managed to work up a respectable smile none the less.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

He took a glass that the woman I assumed was his mother had placed on the table.

“So what brings you down here?”

The young man asked pleasantly while his mother sat at the table next to him and motioned for me to take a seat. I sat on an ancient wooden chair that felt as if it could barely support me, much less either member of the family before me and took another drink before responding.

“A change of jobs, change of scenery. I’m from California, I figured I would live some place cheap for a little while. I just moved in to that big blue house down the way and so far I like it.”

I decided to leave out the part about the home invasion. Both of them looked at me as if I had grown a second head.

“That place ain’t got no one in it for years. Why they rent it now?”

Myrna asked, seemingly baffled.

“Maybe the owner needed money?”

I attempted to offer helpfully. They both looked at each other and shrugged. The rest of our brief conversation strayed into the topic of her favorite church, of which she had only the best things to say. She invited me to a cookout they were having, and despite her casually mentioning that the people only spoke Haitian Creole (or “kreyole ayisyen”, I would come to learn) I committed myself to it. I learned that her son had been unemployed for a very long time and that she worked at a Laundromat. Jean-Luc walked me to my car and offered to sell me some weed, which I accepted since I had already gone through my own job’s PR nightmare.

He also asked me if I could give him a ride to a job interview, to which I said I was more than happy to help. We promptly exchanged numbers and I was delighted to have $100 bucks of what looked and smelled like some pretty dank stuff to help me relax. I made an internal note to hang out with the guy, as he seemed friendly enough.

My other neighbors were just as interesting. Their home was a beautiful little thing, painted bright yellow with blue trim. A former railroad shack as well, this one had been improved endlessly. An expensive looking grill and two massive four door pickup trucks out front seemed to actually be larger than the home itself. An older looking white guy, who was clearly still in fantastic shape, was practicing his golf swing in the back, but turned to wave and meet me as I pulled up.

I could almost see his flawless white teeth from about half a mile away as he picked up his pace. His hair was grey and white, but seemed to be full and incredibly thick. In combination with his obviously muscled frame and unusually less wrinkly face, it made his age difficult to guess. He wore an expensive looking deep yellow polo shirt with khaki pants, and he looked like the Whitest man I had ever seen. I was almost surprised that he wasn’t smoking a pipe, but the golf club made up for it. I pulled into his driveway behind one of the trucks and made sure to wave back, with an equally or more eager smile.

“Good afternoon, pal!”

The man’s crisp, clear New England accent rang out across the vast yard, echoing only slightly off of the dense walls of pond apple and palm trees that seemed to be attempting to envelope the property. I hopped out of the car to meet the man as he approached.

“Hey there! My name’s Marty, nice to meet you. It would seem that we are now neighbors!”

Somehow, the man’s pristine smile grew in intensity as he finally passed his home and reached the driveway where I had pulled up.

“Well it’s about time! That old beaut has been sitting around for a year now. So you must be the feller our nephew Frank was talking about. He’s been trying to rent that thing out for forever. Carter Hess, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The thought of that hick being related to a person who didn’t look inbred was stunning. The man extended his hand and I grabbed it for a good old manly shake. The man’s hand was clammier than it should have been, even in the brutal Floridian mugginess. He had a vice like grip, and seemed to be aware of my noticing his abnormal skin humidity, probably by some surprised look on my face.

“Nothing to worry about, my wife and I came down with a health issue. Old people problems, you’ll find out soon enough. Nothing contagious though. So what brings you down to our little old town?”

I chuckled and nodded. His smile smoothly shifted into a playful grin.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Carter. I just moved here from Southern California, Irvine to be specific. I got a job at the local hospital and decided to relocate.”

I wiped my forehead briefly with a washcloth that had turned into a handkerchief shortly after I got off the plane.

“Don’t worry, once you get used to the humidity you’ll love it here. My wife, Delores is from Newport Beach originally, right near Irvine, and it took her a while too. Delores will be delighted to meet you! It’s a pretty scarce area, so it’s wonderful to meet someone new. She used to love having guests over for dinners and parties, but the area doesn’t have as many people as when we moved here anymore. What am I saying, come in, come in, let’s get you a glass of Delores’s famous mango lemonade.”

I never actually liked lemonade before being introduced to the stifling heat of Florida. After that night I understood its appeal in the muggier states. I met Delores, the man’s wife, who was inside making croissants with orange glaze. The two had clearly grown together over the decades, and their home was filled with beautiful black and white pictures that seemed to be of the area and what looked like expensive furniture. She was also in incredible shape, and when I mentioned it they both began to preach the health value of regular swimming and lots of fresh fruit.

We chatted about the area for the entire afternoon. They both enthusiastically hyped every small restaurant and pastime in the area with a vigor and club promoter would have a difficult time matching. I drove home with a smile on my face just as it was getting dark, thinking maybe shuffleboard and bocce ball were just cooler than I thought the entire time and I just didn’t notice.

After I got home and took time to unpack, I began to realize that I may have spent the day avoiding my new home because of my new fear of Floridian crack heads. I managed to get most of my bedroom done while wondering if buying a firearm actually was necessary in “rural” spots like this. I went to sleep quietly praying the good people of Florida had enough drugs to keep them content that night. Unable to find anything resembling a decent weapon on hand, I decided to sleep with an old steak knife from the kitchen.

I lay in bed for a few hours before the frogs were able to sing me to sleep. When I woke up, the wind had picked up from nothing to a steady howl. It was almost morning, with some light in the sky but still dark. My home looked wonderfully peaceful in the gentle light. I could hear someone shouting something outside and ran to the kitchen back door to check if my visitor had returned, but saw nothing. As I looked out the back, I could hear someone shouting for help, their voice seeming to come from the other side of the dike. I could barely hear it over the wind. Normally I would walk away from this kind of thing, but there was no one else around and if someone was drowning in the lake I didn’t want to find out I had ignored them. I began to walk, first cautiously and then at a steady jog, to the edge of the dike.

I heard a horrible sound, like someone trying to speak through a gurgle, coming from the edge of the dike near the lake. I could barely hear it over the incredible and sudden wind, but it was undeniable. When I got to the water to investigate I saw nothing in or near the water, except angry waves pushing the water ever upwards. The water itself was much higher than I remembered, its muddy banks seeming to stretch over the first section of the dike. I remembered a black top road earlier, but the road I saw seemed to be covered in gravel. As I marveled at this, a gurgling sound began near my feet. I looked down and saw something round and white slowly emerging from the mud. First there was one, then two, then three and then I stepped away from the bank as the mud from the area seemed to loosen around what looked like several dozen massive stones rising from the receding waters and gunk. I kept backing away as more and more of the stones were revealed by the fleeing waters, only to see the dark sockets on the front of the stones begin to stare at me. They were skulls.

I woke up with a scream, only to realize that this time no one was outside and it was just a dream. The quick yell turned into a slow sigh as I breathed in and out deeply a few times to calm myself down. It was early morning and I decided that even if it was just a dream probably brought on by a crack head home invasion, I would feel better outside of the house for a bit. I got into my rental and wondered if it might be a good day to look for a permanent. The road leading away from my home was black asphalt, unlike in the dream, which was reassuring. As I pulled to the top of the dike where the main road was, I saw the police officer who had visited me after the break in standing on the watery side of the road with two EMTs and another cop. He looked dumbfounded, but waved to me and seemed to want my attention. I pulled over in the nearest available area and walked up to him.

“Is everything alright, officer?”

He shrugged and seemed nonplussed.

“Yeah, I guess. Someone was digging around out here. Hear anything last night?”

I searched my memory for anything suspicious but found nothing.

“No, I managed to get some fitful sleep.”

Considering how close it was to my home I didn’t blame him for hoping I knew. He looked disappointed, but not surprised.

“Good for you. Well, if you see anything, let me know.”

The small excavation site didn’t seem that large, but the cop and the EMTs stared at me with thoroughly disturbed looks. An EMT I didn’t notice slowly walked towards us, carrying a shovel and largely covered in mud.

“Is it illegal to go digging on the banks?”

“No, but it’s not exactly smiled upon, unless you’re part of the dig site on Kreamer Island.”

I said nothing, but nodded and went back to my car. I wondered if the officer would have been interested in my creepy dream for a moment before continuing on. I decided to go to Palm Beach proper and see the area a bit, maybe go to the beach for and do some shopping. I ended up bringing my laptop and heading to City Place, an upscale downtown shopping area directly adjacent to what seemed to be a massive, sprawling ghetto. I bought some flip flops and a new bathing suite at the Macys there, since I ran out of my home too quickly to grab my own.

The Starbucks at City Place seemed pleasant and was filled with beautiful young women, so I decided to spend some time there with a Frappuccino and my laptop. At first I just checked my email and Facebook, things I could have done on my phone in whatever part of Belle Glade has reception, had I not been in a hurry to get out of there. Eventually I realized I didn’t want to go home or the beach and really didn’t have anything else to do, so I got a small snack to eat and began aimlessly surfing. It took a while, but I happened to finally start Googling Belle Glade and my home in earnest, as I should have done to begin with.

After a solid hour of driving, the curiosity of why digging was a no-no in the area had finally eaten away at me. A large part of myself was not surprised that apparently Lake Okeechobee had more than a few literal skeletons in its closet. [This article, which I found in a nearby newspaper, made it abundantly clear as to why digging was something the police would take an interest in.)[ http://articles.orlandosentinel.com/2003-06-15/news/0306140108_1_lake-okeechobee-osceola-county-carlson]. Other related articles pointed out Kreamer Island, which was all but in my backyard, as an archeological dig site that researchers from the University of Miami had been working on for some time.

The natives in the area, Calusa or Miccosukee, generally built quite a bit on the shores of the giant lake. Prior to the invasion of Europeans who would eventually kill them, they built homes on the small island that filled the lake, eating fish and using the buoyancy of their small boats to transport goods that would otherwise be cumbersome due to the lack of pack animals. Apparently, they must have also buried their dead there. While local legend claimed that a village of Seminole had committed suicide to avoid torture by American hands, anthropologists were apparently under the impression that the skeletons were earlier, as there were no records of a Seminole village in the area.

Still others claimed that many of the skeletons could have been from the thousands of settlers who died in a brutal Hurricane. In 1926 a massive hurricane came through and destroyed many of the homes and the primitive dike around the lake. Two years later, one of the largest hurricanes in American history swept through and drowned almost every person in the area. It was big news at the time, and was apparently responsible for the popping of one of Florida’s many real estate bubbles. Suddenly, the presence of some disturbed looking EMTs made sense, as did the signs of their own digging.

I felt more than thoroughly unnerved at this. I spent as much time out as I could, despite the need to unpack, but eventually it began to get dark. I almost stayed in a motel for the night. I still didn’t believe in the supernatural, but the combination of weird crime and strange events gave me the impression that rural Florida was farther from the trappings of civilization than I had wanted to believe. I didn’t feel afraid, just extremely overwhelmed. I decided to call Jean-Luc early, before heading home, to see if he was down for some pizza, weed and movies, with the excuse that I needed someone to show me the “funner” parts of Florida. He seemed delighted, an explained that he barely got out anymore but that he would love to hang out with practically anyone, confirming my suspicions of his loneliness.

When I got home, the sun was in the process of heading to sleep. Before getting out of my car, I called the nearest Pizzaria, a non-franchised restaurant and asked if they had any specials. I had ordered two large pizzas, one with pepperoni and extra cheese, the other with chicken, pineapple, cilantro, jalapenos and some non-mozzarella cheese that the kid on the phone said was a local favorite. Then I texted Jean-Luc, got inside, and toked harder than I had in my entire life. A heavy knock on my front door came just a few minutes later, along with Jean-Luc and, than God, a lot of beer that he decided to bring as a housewarming gift. I knew I liked the man for a reason. A few minutes into the weed and beer later and another knock signaled the arrival of the pizza.

For the record, normally I consider pineapple on pizza an abomination, but this one was actually outrageously good, even if it was outrageously different. Only a single slice of the pepperoni was eaten, but we decimated the Florida special. A few hours later, stoned and slightly drunk, I agreed to let Jean-Luc sleep on my couch, since he seemed justifiably worried about being pulled over wasted. I went to sleep feeling stoned and comfortable for once, especially since Jean-Luc showed me his “totally gangster” 9mm he had bought illegally off of a friend. That’ll teach some crack head, I thought.

I dreamed the wind was roaring again, but this time I seemed fully aware of the fact that it was a dream. I could see a faint hint of light through my window and walked to my living room to see if Jean-Luc was there. He wasn’t, and neither was any of my furniture or stuff. I reminded myself that it had to be a dream and tried to focus on waking up, before a sudden crack of glass from the kitchen woke me. I walked to the back, but saw nothing but a window shattered by wind. I cautiously moved to the window and looked outside. My back yard was surrounded by a ring of White people who seemed to encircle the entire house. They were dressed in old timey clothes and looked as if they had been through hell. All of them had varying amounts of mud covering the lower part of their bodies. Most were soaking wet, many had blood on their clothes and some were badly mangled. Carter Hess stood in front of them, looking pristine in a well-made white suite and matching porkpie hat. He smiled at me, and then slowly raised his finger accusingly.

I woke up to Jean Luc violently shaking me. After a split second of getting my bearings together, I was vaguely relieved for just a moment to not hear wind, before I made out what Jean-Luc was urgently whispering.

“Wake the fuck up, man! Wake the fuck up! We gotta go! Wake. The. Fuck. Up!”

He seemed to get ready to try and lift me out of the bed before I swung up and out on my own.

“What’s wrong? Let’s call the cops.”

I began dialing before he even responded, expecting another crack head. He shook his head quickly and looked thoroughly terrified. As the operator picked up the line, I heard a crash and a terrible splintering sound of wood giving way coming from the kitchen. Jean-Luc looked back at me and took out his gun, motioning for me to get behind him.

“Yes, operator, there is an armed break in process…”

I whispered my address urgently, not giving a shit that I hadn’t seen a weapon yet and praying to God that it would make an officer arrive sooner. Jean-Luc braced himself before stepping into my hallway and pointing the gun down and towards the kitchen.

“We gotta go!”

This time he screamed it at the top of his lungs. It was the last thing I heard before the deafening pop of his gun went off three times in quick succession. He quickly motioned for me and backed away to the front door. I ran to the hall and for just a quick second looked back into the kitchen. I had expected to see a junkie with a gun, but there I was nothing standing. The door had been smashed down, the wood frame severely damaged. I looked on the floor of the kitchen and saw what I thought was a body, black with mud, laying on the ground. For a split second I was relieved, and tried to focus in the dark to see who had broken into my home.

Except it wasn’t staying put. The twisted form smoothly twisted to one side, and then to the other, like a snake. Then another came through, and another, and another, each slowly moving on the ground towards us. It looked as if there was mud clinging to their bones without flesh. Every inch of them was covered in mud, despite the incredible amount being dropped as they moved. Where legs should have been was one long extremity, like the end of a tadpole. There were more and more, slithering over each other and into the home, almost swimming in the mud between them as they moved. Their heads were turned up at us, mouths wide open but without making sound, their empty sockets. Mud dripped down from the eye socket of the one closest to us and through its mouth as a low hiss seemed to escape it slick black teeth. As I stood watching, not believing what I was seeing, the first managed to crawl past the kitchen and into the main hall.

That was about the time Jean-Luc grabbed my shoulder and threw me back. I saw the light from the blast, and then I was effectively deaf, as a bullet ripped through the skull of the one that seemed to be ahead of the others. Not wanting to see if it was able to get up from that, I turned towards the front where Jean-Luc had already opened the door. It had only been a few seconds, but I could clearly see incoming lights and I began to sprint, as hard as I could out the front. I felt the wood of the house adjust to Jean-Luc behind me began to follow. We both jumped into my rental and went down the road, flagging the oncoming cruiser down. James Hatch shot his head out of the window.

“You alright?”

I couldn’t hear a damned thing, but I saw the words mouthed clearly. I rolled down the window, but nodded instead of answering directly. Jean-Luc shouted at him before I could say anything.

“Bro! There a fuck ton of some kind of people! You need backup! There like ten of them at least!”

That part managed to get through some of the ringing, enough that I was able to make out the individual words. He nodded, with an aggressive look of calm on his face, but he sped off almost directly through the front doors of my house before either of us could elaborate on what kind of people. I didn’t really know what to do, but suddenly realized that in order to leave my home, we had to drive directly on top of the dike. Right next to the lake. Jean-Luc glanced over to the banks and took his gun out immediately.

“Go! Go! Get the fuck out of here!”

I did the fastest U-Turn I’ve ever done in my life before speeding the shitty Chrysler 200 onto the muddy shoulder and towards Jean-Luc’s mothers house, which was a fair distance away from the waterfront. Jean-Luc stuck his hand out the window and fired blindly in the general direction of the water. As we sped past my brief home, I saw light erupt repeatedly, lighting every window in the house. I remember seeing Officer Hatch’s silhouette the first time, but not the second or third. When we got to Jean-Luc’s house, he jumped out of the car and in less than what couldn’t have been ten whole seconds, got his poor mother out and began to encourage her to the car. We drove to the police station, which was thankfully in the middle of town, relatively far away from the water.

“Listen man, this might get hairy. We gotta tell em we didn’t get a good look at who it was. We gotta tell em this gun came off one of them. You feel me?”

I nodded, knowing that things would be much worse if we attempted to tell the cops the truth. After a very long night and a much longer morning, the three officers that had been left behind told me that charges wouldn’t be filed against me or Jean-Luc. I blinked hard and asked them what they meant by that.

Officer Hatch was apparently missing. They looked through the surrounding area and found no evidence of him. What they did find was a human skeleton, which appeared to have been shot at by both Officer Hatch and Jean-Luc. They implied at least one of the shots was a hit. He told them that he found the weapon on someone who tried to grab him and wrestled it away from them. Despite it being obvious bullshit, they let it slide, probably more worried about Hatch’s desperate radio for backup and the fact that he shot a skeleton for some reason. Lab results would imply that the skeleton found was extremely old, as it had surgical work that hadn’t been performed on anyone since the late 1950s, as well as evidence of mercury in the bones of what was left of the head. They notified my landlord, who claimed he had never heard of anyone by the last name “Hess”. I decided I didn’t want to look into it any further.

I paid to get a nice three bedroom motel room a decent distance north of Palm Beach for me, Jean-Luc and his mother. That night, I managed to sleep after a lot of weed, NyQuil, Valerian Root and Melatonin. I dreamt I woke up on the side of the bank of Lake Okeechobee and heard Officer Hatch screaming for his life. I looked to the edge of Kreamer Island and saw him, desperately trying to use what was left of his arms to drag his bleeding body away from a mass of eel like things with human hands. As they slowly pulled him down, into the mud, he stared me in the eye and I woke with a scream.