Down That Road

Word Count: 5,186

Over my long years with the firm, I accumulated such a vast amount of vacation time I was going to lose two and a half weeks if I did not take it now. Things were not well at the office, the current economy taking its toll on everyone, so I insisted I stay on until a better date. When my supervisor told me to use it or lose it, I decided to take my pick-up truck to do some driving across the country.

The next morning, I loaded my cooler, made sure I had what I needed in my tool box, and packed up a suitcase full of clothes and toiletries. I really had no idea where I would go, but since I lived so close to the east coast, I decided to drive west.

In a few hours I passed through Atlanta and got on interstate highway 20. That was more or less a straight shot through Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana. I never before traveled through any of the states in the Deep South, and I was rather excited to see it.

I made some stops to enjoy the unfamiliar scenery and take in the local culture. There were vast amounts of pine trees from the west side of Alabama, which created a rather dense forest, and almost all of the way through Mississippi.

Crossing over the Great River from Mississippi, I entered the vast, monotonous landscape of the steamy state of Louisiana. A long highway stretched in front of me; a straight lengthy path expanding off far into the horizon. Miles upon miles of vibrant green crops surround both sides of the highway for as far as the eye could see.

I assumed the endless rows of crops must be cotton. I had no idea what a cotton plant looked like; I only ever saw it in ball or swab form. The large steel grated rail cars covered in white puffs are what clued me in. I knew of no other type of crop that produced such a thing.

It felt like I was driving forever without seeing any sign of another car on the road. I knew I should have stuck with the interstate highway, but I thought the smaller state highways could provide me with some nice scenery. I was sorely wrong about that.

Two hours after crossing the border, the rows of cotton plants ended and gave way to massive flats packed with countless small ponds. Each pond could not be more than one or two hundred square feet in area. They were filled with some sort of grass and packed edge to edge going on for as far as I could see.

It was only ten o’clock in the morning, but the heat pounded down upon my black truck without mercy. The air conditioner was cranked up as far as it would go. Normally the thing had me freezing my ass off at that setting, but in this heavy Louisiana heat with the sun beating down on my black truck, it was just enough to keep the cab at a bearable temperature.

A large obscuring haze formed from the steadily increasing humidity. The heat rose up from the concrete roadway in obviously visible waves, pulling the moisture along the highway back up into the air. Because of those thousand upon thousands of grassy ponds, the air became so thick with humidity there appeared to be a fog from a distance.

That ungodly long tar-patched stretched in front of me, relatively free from the haze, taunting me with hopes I would find something more than farmland. Turning around became a consideration, but I thought I could see a gas station off one of the small side roads. As the building drew closer, I was relieved it was not some sort of mirage generated by the tortuous heat.

It took me much longer to get there than I thought. Without even realizing it, I was driving over ninety miles per hour; the ponds alongside me flew by with a blur. Twenty minutes elapsed before I reached the turnoff to the road on which the station sat.

It looked like it was once a large truck stop, but now it was in serious ill repair. Cracked, crumbled blacktop and densely choked weeds replaced what was once a smoothly paved surface. The old parking lot looked like an overused minefield. To call it a parking lot would be generous. It was really more of a bunch of dirt-filled potholes surrounded by the occasional patch of blacktop.

I climbed out of the truck as a large cloud of dry red dirt my truck stirred up rolled over me. I made the mistake of breathing in while the cloud still engulfed me. The fine dust choked my lungs and stung my throat. The red-orange cloud quickly blew past me, but I coughed and my nose ran for a minute or so afterward.

Withdrawing my wallet, I stepped around the truck to the pump. To my dismay, the pumps did not have a credit card slot. I was not even sure the pumps worked. These were of the sort installed in the 1970’s. The grimy white paint curled and chipped off the rusty metal gas dispensers.

The building did not look much better than the parking lot. It appeared to be an old diner turned into a garage. Paint covered the windows from the inside and one was covered from the outside with sheets of plywood. A stack of car hoods taller than me stood amongst a litter of other parts scattered around. I knew this is very cliché, but I actually heard banjo music coming from the one open door.

Were it not for the fact my truck was almost completely out of gas, I would climb back in the cab and leave this unnerving place. A young man, of what age I could not tell, stepped out from the door and onto a small porch-like area at the entrance.

Something in his demeanor and his stereotype Louisiana redneck appearance made me extremely uncomfortable. He was dirty, dressed only in jeans, an old rock and roll t-shirt, and a faded John Deer hat.

“Sumpin I cun do fer ya mista,” the boy said with an incredibly thick accent. I assumed he must be eighteen or nineteen judging by his voice. Because of his sunbaked skin and his wiry black scruff on his face he appeared to be much older.

“Ay, mista,” he called out louder than before. He sounded either agitated or rude. It was difficult to determine the underlying tone of his voice with it camouflaged under that heavy accent.

I realized I was standing there like a fool, gawking at the unfamiliar scene. I thought places like this only existed in movies. I apologized to the young man, who wore no socks or shoes. His feet were covered in dry dirt. His T-shirt was sleeveless and his jeans were worn with holes. I did not think I could come up with a better stereotype than this. I took my credit card out of my wallet and informed the grungy country boy I needed some gasoline.

“If yu cun pu at thar plastic back’n yer wallet’n pull ‘at sum cash, I sell ya some,” he replied with a snarky sarcasm.

I fumbled with my wallet, nearly dropping it to the ground. A vague sense of relief passed through me when I saw I had sixty dollars in it. I so rarely use paper money anymore, I was not really sure if I had any on my possession.

“Yea, uh, yea,” I stammered. The boy rolled his head and used the momentum to roll his back off of the wall, and then walked inside. Reluctantly, I followed.

Inside a radio played bluegrass music, which explained the banjo music I heard. I gave the filthy young man the cash from my wallet and told him to put it on premium.

“Mista’, we got two kina gas. We got gas ‘n we aint got gas. Whichun’ you wawnt?” I had to admit, I was somewhat taken aback by the young man’s boldness. Possibly normal in this region, his demeanor made me feel extremely uncomfortable. His matted blond hair showed in patches from underneath his worn ball-cap. A chunk of tobacco bulged behind his left cheek and he continuously rolled a wooden toothpick from one corner of his lips to the other. His eyes looked sunken and dark. The dark brown of his eyes seemed to convey a sense of infinite depth. I could not explain it, but he scared the hell out of me.

I inquired as to the nature of the endless acres of small ponds.

“Dem’z rice paddies,” he said.

“Rice pattys?” I asked rather stupidly. I never heard of a rice patty.

“Ya know, fer grown rice in,” he said with a patronizing sarcasm.

I thanked him in words but not in tone. Walking back out to the pump, I put my sixty dollars of gas in the tank and began to leave. I wanted out of there as fast as I could. It may only be culture shock, but there was something about this whole place that gave me the shudders. Despite the incredible heat, chill bumps ran down my arms.

As I pumped the gas, I stayed facing my truck. Even so, I could feel the boy’s sharp stare boring into the back of my head. When I turned around to put away the nozzle, I found him leaning against the same wall as before with his back and one foot propped against the mostly exposed wood. It felt like he was looking at me like he was sizing up a game animal.

“Hey, you uh, you know how I can get back to the interstate?” I asked the dirt coated boy with discernible apprehension.

A long pause and an eerie, uncomfortable silence followed. It was as if the boy acted like he was trying to decide if he was going to help me or not. It did not take me long before I grew weary of the blatantly rude wait. I was about to ask him again when he finally spoke.

“Get back on at dared’n go right,” he began. I saw a dark brown stain on the matchstick in his mouth caused by the mass of tobacco squirreled in his cheek. “Ater jes tirty miles yer gonna turn right on da dirt road marked ‘leven sitty fow. At’ll take ya to highway twenne.”

Again I thanked the unnerving young man. Just before I climbed back into the cab of my truck the boy called out more.

“You gonna pass a white-top a’fore ya git to da dirt highway. You aint gonna wanna go dat way,” he instructed me. “It’ll take ya to I-20 z’well, but ‘member, you aint gonna wanna go down dat road.”

I nodded my head and shut the door. I was so eager to get off of that long state highway, but now I found it a welcoming sight. The long lonely stretch was a welcomed relief from that unnerving young man. I drove a little over seven miles and saw a sign for I-20. The boy told me not to go this way, but I believed he was only giving me a hard time. I saw no reason in driving another twenty something miles to get to a dirt road that may not exist when this one would take me where I was going.

It was an oddly paved road. It had a blacktop base, but it was covered with white marble rocks embedded in the black tar. I did think it awfully strange the rocks managed to stay so chalky white. It seemed like they would be dark and scuffed with tar and rubber. I dismissed the boy’s instructions and turned to the right. I did not see why I should drive to a dirt road when I could take a paved one. That boy probably saw me as a target for enjoyment and thought it was funny trying to get me lost.

Immediately after my turn onto the snow-white street, I saw a sign saying I-20 was only thirty miles away. That kid wanted me to drive twenty miles to get to a dirt road, a dirt road that might not even exist. Right after the reflective green direction sign was another much older sign. Two tall stone obelisks covered in moss and lichens held between them an aged wooden sign. The paint was peeling away, and I could barely make out the words “Moon Lake.”

Not too far ahead I saw a mass of trees comprising the edge of a dense forest. When I entered the shade of the trees, it was a great relief from the direct sun of the farmlands. My air conditioner instantly began cooling the cab of my truck.

It was not like any kind of forest with which I was accustomed. The floor of the cypress forest was no more than a shallow lake of water, and cypress knees of various sizes surrounded each tree. Fallen logs lay scattered about making convenient gathering spots for congregations of hundreds of turtles. Some appeared stacked to six and seven high atop each other.

Spanish moss choked the tops of the trees to the point very little light made its way to the road. Every now and then I saw a spot of land pass me on one side or the other, but for the most part there was nothing but water and vegetation.

The rapidly passing trees scattered with patches of Spanish moss produced a mild mesmerizing effect. I was momentarily captivated by this unfamiliar scenery, and when I pulled my gaze back to the road, I found myself quickly approaching a large alligator lying stretched across my path. The reptile stretched from one shoulder of the road to the other. It was twenty feet in length if it was a foot. In a panic, I hit the brakes with all of my strength. The wheels of my heavy-duty truck locked and I went into a sideways slide. I jerked my steering wheel the other way in a desperate attempt to straighten my progression, which only served to send me into an uncontrolable spin. I drove right over the narrow shoulder of the levee road and into the dark, murky water.

I cannot say how long I was out, but when I came to, the sun was gone. A roar of noise – crickets, frogs, birds and other nocturnal creatures – flooded my ears. Suddenly I became aware of sharp, stabbing pains coursing through my head.

My truck rested at a forty-five-degree angle, and the grill wrapped half way around a cypress tree. I tried to rub my eyes, but an intense burst of pain from a broken nose filled my eyes with sparks. It took me several minutes before I could again open my eyes. I realized my left eye was almost swollen shut and I could feel blood dripping out of my nose. I suppose I was fortunate the crash did not kill me.

Opening the driver’s side door, I tried to climb out of the truck and back to that ghostly road. I almost passed out from the pain. My right leg was broken in at least one place.

Judging by the pain in my chest, I must have cracked several ribs. I screamed in pain as loud as my injuries let me scream, which was not much at all. At first I thought I heard my voice echoing off of the water, but then I realized someone was calling out.

“Ey, inney un in dare,” the voice shouted.

All I could manage was one loud ‘yes.’ A few seconds later I could hear the splashing of oars in the water. The man calling to me was in a boat. I would prefer he came from the road, but I would take any help I could get.

“Old on air,” the voice echoed through the swamp. “Gonna be dare innamunnut.”

The truck budged just a little as the aluminum boat bumped against it with an audible metallic scraping sending shivers coursing through my spine. It was fortunate this man happened to be around when I needed him. My hopes were dashed a bit when the aged, deeply tanned man looked in through my shattered windshield. I could not tell the man’s race. He must have a sorted mix of ancestry, as he carried an unusual mix of facial features.

There was something in his eyes that frightened me. It would be better to say there was something not in his eyes frightening me. His hazel-brown eyes gave me the impression of a voodoo zombie. The kerosene lamp in his hand cast a shadow over his face, making him look like he wore a Halloween costume.

“Haw ya goin’n git yawself aw turnt up round dis heya tree?” the old man asked me with a tone of concern. Judging by the look on his face, I did not think he really cared anything about me at all. His mouth said one thing, but his facial and body expressions said something else.

Moths and other insects of all sizes swarmed around his old kerosene lamp, many of the creatures falling into the shattered windows of my truck. I felt the pests crawling on my face and arms, some gnawing and biting my fresh wounds. I built up the strength and asked the old man to move the lantern away from me. I was in enough pain without insects feasting on me.

The old swamp man hung the lantern on something; I assumed it was a tree branch. The direct light was out of my eyes, but the insects continued to fall into and fluttered about the cab. The lantern now cast a shadow, giving the man a strange ominous look. He removed his torn hat, revealing a head of greasy gray-black hair, and hung it on my side view mirror. I shuddered over the thought of him touching me, but what other option did I have?

“Es git ya atta dare,” he said, his voice betraying his wrinkly old body. He sounded like a healthy young man in his prime.

I went numb when he put his cold hands under my arms. Sparks filled my vision as darkness overtook me and I again lost consciousness. When I came to I was resting on the bottom of the aluminum boat. Underneath me I could feel the cushioning of what I hoped were life jackets.

The lantern hung from a pole at the front of his boat. Each time the man paddled the boat, the lantern swung side to side. The shadows of the trees moved with each sway, creating the illusion of creatures dancing in the forested darkness.

I rose my head up as much as I could in an attempt to try and get a good look at my rescuer. He was standing in the back of the boat. Rather than using an oar to slowly propel the boat, he was using a long wooden staff to push along the bottom of the swamp water. The cypress trees crowded the water, making it effectively impossible to work with a set of paddles.

“Don ya be worrin naw,” the old man said as he stood over me. “We gonna git ya all took care’v.”

I could feel a stinging sensation all over my body. It felt like someone sticking me with pins. I tried to wipe away the bugs piercing into my flesh, feasting on my blood, but every time I did they only moved somewhere else.

“Dem skeeters eatin ya up?” he said with a cackle. “Day shaw do like at sidde blood. Ole Justin been living out here so long, skeeters done stopped feastin on me no moe. Day lookin foe’a fresh meal.”

Mosquitos? I’ve never felt such painful bites from mosquitos before. These things must have been huge. With the light of the lantern shining in my eyes, I could not see the individual insects biting me. Swarms of insects circled around the lantern, most of them probably being mosquitos. I almost lost my bowels when something large swooped down at me, took a sharp turn, and darted in another direction.

“Careful dare,” the old man, who introduced himself as Justin, warned me.”Dem bat aint wont you nun. Day her fur dem bugs. Don worry yer body nun. Naw. Dem bats hep keepin da skeeters down. Show is plenty nuff for dem ta eat, no?”

I turned my head to the side so I was able to look over the water. A light fog settled over the surface, and it seemed to emit a faint green glow from within. ‘Swamp gas,’ I thought. I heard of swamp gas creating its own light, but I thought that was only a tale. I did not think it was something that happened outside of movies and television.

Three lanterns broke through the fog up ahead. As we drew closer, it became much easier to make out a small shack. It was built among the trees about four feet above the water. Underneath the crude structure were several dozen oil drums keeping the home a constant height above the water.

Two lanterns hung from the corners of the shanty, and the other one dangled from a tree. As we got closer, I could see an old woman. She was fishing off her deck using a bamboo cane pole. Bugs gathered around the lantern on the tree, many of them falling into the water. I could hear the fish feasting on the insects. With her bamboo cane pole, the aged lady yanked one fish out of the water after another. With amazing proficiency, the woman removed the fish from the hook, dropped it into a bucket, and re-baited her line. She paid us no attention. She never made any attempt at a greeting, not even to my rescuer.

We passed alongside the crude but sturdy structure, and I saw two other individuals standing on that porch floor above the water. One of them was a man and the other a woman, so I assumed they must be a couple. Their own boat bumping gently against the pier jutting out from the house, the man and woman appeared to take a great interest in us. The woman was probably an attractive person, but her hair was unkempt and her clothes worn and dirty.

After we passed this shanty, several more of the swamp homes came into view. I looked around the boat as much as I could and saw what appeared to be a whole town built among the trees. The fog retreated from the groups of dwellings. I could still see the haze, emitting its strange green glow, outside this perimeter, but it stayed away from the buildings.

I became aware the soft splashing of Justin’s pole sounded strange. Initially, I thought it must be an echo of his staff in the water. My stomach churned with fear when I realized there were a multitude of other boats, pushing their way through the tightly compacted trees.

It appeared these trees, cypress knees and fallen logs made some form of a natural maze. Anyone not familiar with the area could get lost here for weeks.

“Why are they following us?” I managed to ask, despite the pain in my face and my dry, parched throat.

“Day’s cumin t Pawpaw’s wid es,” the sunken eyed man said very casually. I tried to ask why, but my dry throat and swelling tongue would not allow it.

“Yun, Ole Justin aint even reconed ya’d be tirsty,” he said in a compassionate tone. Again, his face showed more contempt than compassion.

Justin laid his pole along the length of the boat. Kneeling down, he retrieved something resembling a thermos.

Handing the receptacle to me, he said, “Yeya, dis water’d be yo need naw.” I took the strange thermos from him and examined it for a minute or so. The metal was strange, appearing more like glass filled with flakes of gold and platinum, and covered in inscriptions that reminded me of hieroglyphs.

“Na aint be worring,” he explained to me. “Day be un’a dem coal filters ta make da wata fresh.”

Reluctantly I took a sip from the container. I expected the water to be very warm, but it was actually quite cold. I guess something like this came in very handy in the putrid swamp.

I expected the swamp to reek of the smell of death, but the aroma in the air was actually quite pleasant. The cypress reminded me of the scent of cedar, just a little. It was then I noticed there were not only more poles propelling boats through the water, it appeared each of them brandished a lantern of their own.

All of the individual lights hanging from poles, swaying with the movement of the boats gave the appearance of horrible creatures jumping from tree to tree. The green mist grew thicker and brighter, but seemed to leave a clear path for the boats.

“Where?” I asked through the pain causing my head to throb.

“We takin’ ya ta Pawpaw’s. He gonna git ya awl fixed up.” He said, never taking his eyes off our course.

“The others?” I choked.

“Day jes gat big noses. Mose’a dem ain’t never seent no city feller a’fore.”

That gave me very little solace. Apparently, I was a spectacle to these swamp folk. The fear I felt earlier now escelated into terror. We passed yet more of the swamp homes, and I began to feel as I would never leave, not on my own. Shortly after, I could hear even more boats adding to this sojourn.

I felt Justin pull the front of the boat onto land. I could not wait to get to land earlier, but now I wished we could go back into the water. Several dozen boats, the boats following us, also pulled themselves to shore. Two younger men approached Justin’s boat.

“C’mon, ets give Ole Justin sum ‘elp,” one of them said to him.

I thought they might be Justin’s children or grand-children. The two were both young and healthy and shared the same sort of odd facial traits as Justin. I thought I would pass out from the pain when the two men lifted me from the boat. The other people from the procession of aluminum boats carried lanterns and torches. The ones I could see also showed the strange, mixed racial faces, but none of them really looked like the others. I did not know how to explain it. The motley group of swamp-folk filled me with a chilling dismay.

The procession led in between two large, gently-sloping mounds. When the two men carried me past those mounds, I could see more of the mounds surrounding us. It looked like there were thirteen of them in total. Lanterns burned on hangers and torches burned on poles. Despite the multitude of small light sources, it looked like there was too much light. The green fog surrounding this area glowed brighter than ever.

The two men gently carried me to the center of the area. They carefully laid me on top of a stack of reed mats. I was surprised over how comfortable the crude mats were. The men stepped back when a rattle sounded. I lifted my head enough to see who was approaching.

I expected the approaching man to appear something like a Native American medicine man. For the most part he dressed normally, normally that is for one of these locals. The hair on his head grew in patches only, and the matted tufts were three feet in length. His face looked ancient. He easily looked a hundred years old.

Several aspects of his attire stood out in comparison to his filthy clothes and dirty skin. In his left hand he held a rattle, fashioned from a gourd. In the other hand he carried a lantern made from a human skull. The light shining through the empty eyes, mouth and nose hole gave me the impression of looking into hell. Woven snake skins covered the length of the rod atop which the skull rested.

Around his neck and at the bottom of a hemp string hung a strange amulet. It appeared to be forged from the same metal as the water dispenser Old Justin gave me. When he reached me, the shaman shook that horrid rattle and waved the ghastly candle holder over me. All the while, the man chanted in a language I did not recognize.

He jammed the shaft holding the skull into the ground, never ceasing his chanting. The others that followed Justin and I to this unholy place all began to chant in unison.

“Justin dun tol ya, Pawpaw gonna git ya took care of,” the man said in an ancient, scratchy voice.

I felt people grabbing me by the wrists and ankles, pulling my limbs tight. The pain was excruciating. My broken leg burned with intense agony and my broken ribs made it nearly impossible for me to breathe. I wished the pain would allow me to go unconscious, but as intense as it was, I was perfectly aware.

Yellowish smoke poured out of the mouth of the mounted skull, producing the putrid, stinging odor of burning sulfur. Something cold clasped around my ankles and wrists. It took me a moment to realize I was shackled to the ground.

Absolute panic and horror flowed through my body as the strange, pagan ceremony continued. More and more people crowded into the circle of mounds, chanting in sync with all the others.

The voodoo priest raised his hands and the chanting ended.

“Ole Justin bring us a freshen,” the patchy bald-headed man called out to the massive crowd. Justin, the man who rescued me from dying in my truck, stepped forward and joined Pawpaw.

“Da ona’s yo’s.” Pawpaw said as Justin knelt down beside me and smiled.

“Why did you save me?” I plead through my burning throat.

“Taint no need in wastin dat life dare’n dat truck. You gonna see dat Ole Justin not so ole anymo.”

With those words, my rescuer plunged his hand into my chest. He broke no bone nor tore any skin. His hand simply passed inside of me. I screamed in unholy agony as I felt Justin literally grab onto my soul. The feeling was indescribable. It transcended any earthly fear or pain.

Justin grew younger and took on facial features to resemble some of mine as he grabbed the very life inside me to give immortality to his own.

The man tugged at my soul and I saw the darkness coming. Before me lay no afterlife, I did not die, I was consumed. The heaven I was promised did not greet me, only the emptiness of oblivion.

Why didn’t I listen to that boy? I never should have gone down that road.

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