like “Shut the fuck up.”
“There’s the pipeline.” I pointed.
Desmond and Luther nodded. We all remembered that thing as a landmark from before.
“There it is.” Luther pointed to a track off to the left.
Desmond turned in. He did it gingerly and at a crawl. “Ain’t got no four-wheel drive,” he told us. “Switch went out or something.”
I couldn’t blame Desmond for leaving that particular repair undone, given his love for hard roads and civilization.
“Muddy up there.” I pointed. “This is probably far enough.”
We climbed out and the bugs descended on us. The chemicals kept them at bay in the open, but back in the woods they were thick in the air and hungry. Gnats and flies and mosquitoes—we were all wearing a layer of them straightway.
We did what most sane people would do. We got back in the Escalade.
“Don’t usually need nothing,” Desmond said as he rooted through his console after something with Deet in it. He turned up four tubes of Cruex and a roll of antacids.
“Try this,” Luther told us. He stuck his hand down his shirt. He swabbed his armpits for some stink and then rubbed his fingers across his face. That was enough to convince us we’d rather be carried off by the mosquitoes, so we bailed back out of the Escalade and into the buggy woods.
Eugene’s place was maybe a quarter mile ahead. Dale charged along the track, and me and Desmond and Luther followed at enough of a distance to guarantee that any snake Dale stepped on would have just him to bite. Dale reached the clearing and was waiting there swatting flies while I was still slogging out way up through the woods.
“I don’t hear any dogs,” I said. Ordinarily, Eugene kept a half-dozen hounds. He was a fanatic coon hunter and didn’t think anything of tromping through the big woods in the middle of the night.
“You been out here lately?” Luther asked me.
“Been three years probably.”
“Maybe he moved.”
“Or died,” Desmond said.
It was hard to tell at the corner of his yard if the place was abandoned or not. The thorny thicket that bordered Eugene’s yard was as full of snagged shopping bags and impaled pouch chew boxes as it had been the first time me and Desmond had dropped in on Eugene. The same junked cars were still clotting up the lot along with a muddy Nova that looked like it hadn’t seen the highway lately. No tags. No stickers. No nothing. And two of the tires were flat.
There was a paper sack full of paper sacks floating at the edge of the bayou that lapped at the pylons holding up Eugene’s house, but no fresh garbage that we could see. Nothing in the yard or in the swamp that looked the least bit recent.
Desmond pointed at the soft ground to the right of where we were standing. Tire tracks, and they looked like fresh ones.
“Might just be off running around,” Desmond said.
“Maybe. Who’s going up?” I asked.
Dale told me, “Hell, I will.”
Eugene’s place was so slapdash and rickety that we all couldn’t go up at once. One guy on the swamp-rotted stairs at a time and one on the jackleg cantilevered walkway. The house would probably hold us safely enough, but there wasn’t any chance of us getting up there in numbers all of a sudden.
“Hold on,” I told Dale and shouted out for Eugene.
Luther chimed in behind me with a “Hey here, buddy.”
I thought I heard some kind of whimper but laid it off to the swamp and woods. There were all kinds of creatures around us making every variety of noise.
“Go on,” I said to Dale.
Dale bent over with a chorus of grunts and groans and made of show of producing a .38 he carried in an ankle holster. He spun the barrel to check his load and then tried to spit in a manly way, but his stitches confounded him, and Dale ended up just dribbling down his shirt.
“Just shout down what you find,” Desmond told him.
Dale nodded and dribbled again.
Then he climbed to the landing, paused for breath, and headed up to Eugene’s
“There’s the pipeline.” I pointed.
Desmond and Luther nodded. We all remembered that thing as a landmark from before.
“There it is.” Luther pointed to a track off to the left.
Desmond turned in. He did it gingerly and at a crawl. “Ain’t got no four-wheel drive,” he told us. “Switch went out or something.”
I couldn’t blame Desmond for leaving that particular repair undone, given his love for hard roads and civilization.
“Muddy up there.” I pointed. “This is probably far enough.”
We climbed out and the bugs descended on us. The chemicals kept them at bay in the open, but back in the woods they were thick in the air and hungry. Gnats and flies and mosquitoes—we were all wearing a layer of them straightway.
We did what most sane people would do. We got back in the Escalade.
“Don’t usually need nothing,” Desmond said as he rooted through his console after something with Deet in it. He turned up four tubes of Cruex and a roll of antacids.
“Try this,” Luther told us. He stuck his hand down his shirt. He swabbed his armpits for some stink and then rubbed his fingers across his face. That was enough to convince us we’d rather be carried off by the mosquitoes, so we bailed back out of the Escalade and into the buggy woods.
Eugene’s place was maybe a quarter mile ahead. Dale charged along the track, and me and Desmond and Luther followed at enough of a distance to guarantee that any snake Dale stepped on would have just him to bite. Dale reached the clearing and was waiting there swatting flies while I was still slogging out way up through the woods.
“I don’t hear any dogs,” I said. Ordinarily, Eugene kept a half-dozen hounds. He was a fanatic coon hunter and didn’t think anything of tromping through the big woods in the middle of the night.
“You been out here lately?” Luther asked me.
“Been three years probably.”
“Maybe he moved.”
“Or died,” Desmond said.
It was hard to tell at the corner of his yard if the place was abandoned or not. The thorny thicket that bordered Eugene’s yard was as full of snagged shopping bags and impaled pouch chew boxes as it had been the first time me and Desmond had dropped in on Eugene. The same junked cars were still clotting up the lot along with a muddy Nova that looked like it hadn’t seen the highway lately. No tags. No stickers. No nothing. And two of the tires were flat.
There was a paper sack full of paper sacks floating at the edge of the bayou that lapped at the pylons holding up Eugene’s house, but no fresh garbage that we could see. Nothing in the yard or in the swamp that looked the least bit recent.
Desmond pointed at the soft ground to the right of where we were standing. Tire tracks, and they looked like fresh ones.
“Might just be off running around,” Desmond said.
“Maybe. Who’s going up?” I asked.
Dale told me, “Hell, I will.”
Eugene’s place was so slapdash and rickety that we all couldn’t go up at once. One guy on the swamp-rotted stairs at a time and one on the jackleg cantilevered walkway. The house would probably hold us safely enough, but there wasn’t any chance of us getting up there in numbers all of a sudden.
“Hold on,” I told Dale and shouted out for Eugene.
Luther chimed in behind me with a “Hey here, buddy.”
I thought I heard some kind of whimper but laid it off to the swamp and woods. There were all kinds of creatures around us making every variety of noise.
“Go on,” I said to Dale.
Dale bent over with a chorus of grunts and groans and made of show of producing a .38 he carried in an ankle holster. He spun the barrel to check his load and then tried to spit in a manly way, but his stitches confounded him, and Dale ended up just dribbling down his shirt.
“Just shout down what you find,” Desmond told him.
Dale nodded and dribbled again.
Then he climbed to the landing, paused for breath, and headed up to Eugene’s
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