by Peter David
Omar grinned. “My man, I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
Darryl smiled inwardly, certain he had maintained his cool in this extremely stressful situation . . .
Then the pounding began on the door.
The boys looked at each other, a moment frozen in horror.
Inside of a split second, Omar’s rigidly maintained cool crumbled as he leapt to his feet, trying to gather up all the magazines. “My parents! It’s my parents! Put ’em away! Get ’em away!”
Magazines were falling out from between his arms. Darryl was running in place, yelling “Where? Where?” over the music videos.
“Anywhere! Anywhere! Just make ’em gone. Right away! Right away!”
Fearful of being caught holding one, Darryl madly kicked the ones on the floor out of sight beneath the couch. Omar ran into the bedroom and hurled them into the footlocker helter-skelter, slamming the box closed so quickly he caught the edges of a couple of the magazines.
The banging came from the door again as Omar shoved the footlocker under the bed. He envisioned his parents standing out in the rain, wondering what the hell was going on in there.
He dashed back out to find Darryl chugalugging the soda to get rid of the can (as if there was somethin’ wrong with drinking soda!). “Be right there, Ma!” he shouted over the pounding. He went to Darryl quickly, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and, trying to pull together his own shaken confidence, said, “C’mon, take a chill pill, man—you look guilty as hell.”
Darryl looked the way he felt as he tried to compose himself. “Just a sec,” called Omar, who took one last quick glance around the room, then went to the door and undid the chain lock.
He swung wide the door.
The Leech was standing there, making sickly sucking noises with its mouth.
Omar tried to speak, tried to think of something to say, tried to find his voice. In the squeakiest of whispers he managed to get out, “Darryl . . . it’s for you . . .”
With a low moan the Leech took a step forward, and that snapped Omar out of his paralysis. With a shriek, a shriek echoed by Darryl who was standing right behind him, he slammed the door shut and bolted the chain lock.
He turned, back against the door, feet braced, and shouted, “Help me keep it shut!”
A large, misshapen ebony fist smashed through just to the right of Omar’s head. It tried to grab the boy, but Omar leapt away, his jump carrying him past Darryl, who was once again running in place, his mouth opening and closing with nothing coming out. Omar paused only long enough to grab Darryl by the front of his catsup-stained shirt, and they bolted out the back door.
Two seconds later the Leech had smashed the door off its hinges. It scanned the vacant room, and a howl of anger emerged through its inhuman mouth.
The boys darted outside, and Darryl skidded in the mud, falling flat. The rain poured down, matting down their hair in a matter of seconds as Omar yanked his friend to his feet and pointed off to the right. The bungalows on either side of Omar’s family had been vacant, but there were inhabitants in the ones farther over.
They started toward those, somehow believing that merely being with adults would provide safety. Obviously they were being pursued by the bogeyman, after all, and the bogeyman only went after children.
They were less than halfway there when the Leech cut them off, stepping in their path from the shadows. Lightning crackled overhead, giving unearthly shading to the creature’s already inhuman appearance.
The boys screamed, all pretensions of cool long since gone. They bolted in the other direction, toward where all the local cars were lined up, station wagons and four-by-fours and a large RV and all kinds of things, man-made metal monsters bearing silent witness to the activities of a different man-made monster.
The Leech was picking up speed behind the boys, fingers grabbing, and Omar suddenly felt it catch the trailing end of his shirt. He pulled free with a howl and crashed headlong into a tree that had not been there moments ago.
No. Not a tree . . .
Once again . . . this monstrosity stalks the swamps . . . as if it were entitled . . . to be part of . . . the natural order.
It is a belief . . . I must dissuade . . . now.
The Antibody promptly forgot the invaders it had been pursuing. Once again it was confronted by the mind and heart of the swamp. This time it knew there would be no negotiation, no moment of painful request for acceptance, followed by rejection. This time . . . there would be no mercy.
Omar looked from the Swamp Thing to the Leech and back again. “Hey, man, it’s Monster Central around here”—saying that mostly because he thought it sounded good as famous last words.
But Darryl, who was not at all ready to utter his final syllables, said, “Cripes, I don’t wanna die! I just reached puberty . . . I think.”
And even as he spoke he yanked Omar by the collar and away from the two creatures he was sure had come to divide the two of them up, one kid per monster.
He heard an agonized grunt and paused only momentarily to glance over his shoulder and gape in astonishment.
The monsters weren’t friends!
This was an interesting turn of events, he realized, as he and Omar ducked behind a bush for cover.
Swamp Thing stood there, patient as the great redwoods, as the Leech charged him, determined this time to overwhelm him by sheer brute force.
It was like a pebble trying to overwhelm a boulder. The Leech slammed into the Swamp Thing, certain the way to defeat him was to rip apart the vines, send the dirt flying, dig and dig, for somewhere within had to be veins it could suck dry, a living heart it could rip from a chest and drink the still-warm blood from.
Swamp Thing’s only acknowledgment of the charge was a mild grunt as he reached down and lifted the Leech high over his head. He paused, prepared to toss the creature in one direction until he saw the boys in the line of fire, so he turned and hurled the Leech in the direction of the cars. The Leech smashed into an old DeSoto, crushing the hood and front fender.
It staggered to its feet, reeling from the impact as the Swamp Thing advanced on it. It reached down with its malformed hands to steady itself, its fingers wrapping around the front bumper.
Swamp Thing came closer, closer, with rain pouring down and his red eyes blazing with fury.
The Leech ripped the front bumper from the car and, with all its strength, smashed the bumper into the Swamp Thing’s head.
The blow came with such force it decapitated the marsh monster, and his head went flying across the expanse of the grounds.
From the bushes Darryl and Omar let out a shriek in unison.
Swamp Thing’s body thrashed around, confused and disoriented, and now it was the Leech that was closing on him, swinging the sharp-edged bumper with speed and fury. Unable to defend itself, the headless body fell quick victim to the Leech’s merciless assault. Within seconds the ground was covered with dirt and weeds hacked out in huge chunks from the body. Determined to do a more thorough job than before, the Leech had also severed both arms, and now, with a massive windup, it swung through and sliced Swamp Thing’s torso clean of the lower half of his body.
The legs staggered about helplessly for a moment, like a grotesque, stringless puppet, and then fell over lifeless.
The Leech stood there, chest heaving from its exertions, clutching the muck-covered bumper, and then it made the most inhuman sound of all. It laughed, the laugh of Satan when a new soul has been consigned to hell.
It turned then, glowering, its inhuman eyes resting on the two boys cowering behind the bush. It took one step toward them.
One step, and no more.
It paused in confusion and looked down.
Its foot had taken root. Or, more precisely, the roots had taken foot.
It yanked experimentally, unsure what was happening. It couldn’t move its foot. Roots had grown from the ground, surrounding the Leech’s foot in a deceptively gentle manner. The Leech yanked upward with more force,
managing to raise its foot perhaps a few inches before the roots actually yanked the foot back down again.
And while it was concentrating on its left foot, its right one was also ensnared. Green vines stretched forth, working their way upward gracefully, and the Leech howled in confusion as it found its entire lower legs completely enveloped in plant life.
The growth swelled outward, beginning to take a form other than that of the Leech. The plant legs developed their own shape, musculature formed of the strongest wood fibers coming into existence. There were small, curious popping noises as leaves uncurled, slapping moistly against one another.
In one horrific moment the immobilized Leech realized what was happening. The monster of the green was reforming, growing a new body . . . and was doing so around the Leech.
With a scream of pure terror the Leech drew back its only weapon, the ripped-off car bumper, and started to pound furiously at its own body, trying to rid itself of the earthen invader. Clods of dirt were smashed away, but as quickly as they were, new ones took their place. And now the Leech was covered with the creeping grass all over its body, and ivy was stretching out and encompassing its arms as it began to lose mobility, and mud was filling its nostrils, and it couldn’t breathe.
The world blacked over as the Swamp Thing’s head formed over that of the Leech.
In a mad paroxysm of fear the Leech struggled with one last hysterical burst of energy. It had only seconds with which to act, for its air had been cut off. The Leech had literally been buried alive. It twisted; it fought even as it lost the ability to move its arms. Mud and sludge that had a life of its own worked its way into the Leech’s mouth, started down for its lungs, slim tendrils beginning to probe . . .
And trapped there, in the coolness of the dirt, someone else’s life flashed before the Leech’s eyes—a life that had been consumed by a woman with black hair and ivory skin, of heat and passion . . .
The Leech ripped free.
One of its once-human appendages tore free from the mud, grasping for the air, and once finding the air, would not be denied. It wrenched its entire body, felt bones snapping, and somewhere inside it something was ripped out of place, but the Leech succeeded, tearing out of its vertical grave like the reborn vampire it had become.
It was covered with mud and muck, almost indistinguishable from the swamp creature it had been fighting. Incredibly it was still holding onto the bumper. It turned, staggering, sucking in lungfuls of air. From somewhere nearby it heard the dismayed cries of the two young boys, but they could wait. The Swamp Thing was its total concern now—the Swamp Thing it had killed once, and would kill over and over, as many times as it took.
The heavy rain washed away some of the dirt from its eyes, and it turned to see the Swamp Thing watching it from nearby, standing in front of the RV, the most notable feature of which was a large fading decal on the side of the Terminator with the inscription I’LL BE BACK in menacing letters.
The Leech pointed challengingly at the Swamp Thing and then shrieked as pain lanced through its shoulder. In its twists to break free it had dislocated its left arm.
The only time the Leech ever sounded human was when it was in agony, and it never sounded more human than it did now. Choking, it grabbed its left shoulder with its right hand, and somewhere in the back of its mind was some vestige of medical training as, howling and sobbing, it shoved the arm back into its socket.
It turned toward the Swamp Thing then, consumed with hatred and ache—ache for what it had gone through, and ache for what it had lost, which was beginning to return to it with a faint dimness.
The Leech charged, swinging the bumper back and forth like a great sword.
Swamp Thing watched it coming, and there was something in his eyes that could no longer exist in the Leech’s eyes, or in the Leech’s soul, as black and hell-blasted as that might be.
And just as the Leech was about to connect, Swamp Thing said with unutterable sadness, “I’m sorry.”
He left his body, diving back into the green.
The Leech’s makeshift weapon swung through the now-lifeless pile of weeds and fiber and struck what Swamp Thing had been standing directly in front of: propane tanks mounted on the sides of the RV. The Leech had a brief flash of the warning signs on the side of the tanks that read DANGER: CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE, DO NOT PUNCTURE. They were warnings that had no meaning.
The tanks exploded.
Omar and Darryl, many yards away, were nevertheless knocked back by the force of the explosion. They shrieked in alarm and then from nowhere the bush they had been hiding behind grew larger, became an impenetrably thick shield of branches, blocking them from harm.
They heard a repeated series of explosions then, and realized the fire had spread to the other cars. Omar moaned. “Aw, shit, Mom’s new station wagon,” he said.
Shards of metal hurled through the air, smashing windows of bungalows, leaving trails like miniature comet tails through the night. Hundreds of them were hurled toward the boys, any one of which could have ended their young lives. Instead they buried themselves harmlessly in the bush that acted as the boys’ protective screen. Before any of the flaming pieces could cause the growing matter to catch fire, the rain extinguished it.
The rain was helping to dampen the fire roaring from what had been a row of parked cars as well.
And then the boys heard a shriek.
They stood, miraculously being missed by the last bits of metal, in time to see a creature of pure fire emerge howling from the inferno.
Completely aflame, the Leech lurched out. It twisted and staggered like an out-of-control robot. Its face was starting to melt like a waxwork. Guttural, incomprehensible sounds emerged from what was left of its mouth. Its clothes had burned away completely to reveal a crispening, blackened, and distorted body.
It lunged toward the swamp, still screaming, instinctively pounding at itself to try and stop the flames, and then it hurled itself into the waters. A huge cloud of steam rose from where it had entered, and in less than a second it had sunk from sight.
And then the boys’ view of the departed creature was blocked as the bush in front of them continued to grow. Insanely the bush twisted in and back on itself, taking on the vague shape of human features and appearance.
It stood and looked down at them with glowing red eyes.
Slowly Omar raised his hand and gave a thumbs-up. Darryl looked on with wide-eyed astonishment and then did the same thing.
The Swamp Thing looked from one to the other, stared at his own hand as if trying to recall that it, too, had once been human, and then clenched it and returned the gesture to the boys.
All around them now were shouts of confusion, people roused from their slumber by the explosions. Screams of “Fire!” and “Get the extinguishers!” abounded. The air was filled with heat, and the Swamp Thing felt the small leaves and branches of his body beginning to dry and crackle, a few trailing wisps of smoke rising from them.
As if afraid, he quickly tore the crisping leaves from himself and then strode off slowly into the shadows. He seemed to just melt into the trees as all around the boys now were adults in various states of undress, with hastily tossed-on robes or old sweat clothes, doing whatever they could to fight the fire. And there was that gorgeous babe who lived over in cabin six, wearing only a T-shirt and panties that were already becoming soaked through and you could see everything . . .
Except Omar and Darryl were not paying the least bit of attention to the gorgeous babe. Even the magazines were forgotten. They were staring off into the shadows, and slowly Darryl summed it up.
“Awesome.”
9
The sun was not completely able to cut through the gray clouds still hanging in the air. Somehow the gods never seemed to tire of threatening rain upon the beleaguered inhabitants of Suicide Swamp.
Arcane sat in bed, Lana sleeping deeply next to him. But the warmth of her body was forgotten as Arcane stared at the newspaper that had been
left quietly, as always, at the foot of the bed.
The banner headline in that day’s Bayou Post read LOCAL RESORT GOES BOOM. Below that, in smaller type, was LOCAL BOYS CLAIM THEY SAW NOTHING. There was a grainy photograph of two boys, a taller back boy who was clapping his hand over the mouth of a shorter, stockier white boy.
Moments later Arcane, dressing gown swirling around him like a dark cloud, strode through the hallway to find Gunn lounging against a decorative pillar, trying to make time with fellow security guard Tasha Points. As always, even though it was first thing in the morning, a cigarette was dangling from Gunn’s mouth.
“Those things will turn on you someday,” snapped Arcane.
Gunn tipped his beret mockingly. “Morning to you, too, Doc.”
Arcane shoved the newspaper into the pit of Gunn’s stomach. “Have you seen this?”
Gunn unfolded the paper and stared at it uncomprehendingly. He read: “IRATE FANS LYNCH STEINBRENNER. Well, hell, it’s about time.”
“Not the sports pages, you imbecile,” snapped Arcane, switching the paper around.
This time Gunn scanned the appropriate article, but clearly the pertinence escaped him.
“Holland,” said Arcane.
“How do you know?”
“I am Arcane.”
“That’s for damned sure.”
“He is in the area. I want his head.”
“You mean you want us to kill him?”
“No,” said Arcane with forced patience. “I mean precisely what I say. I want his head. Frozen, in a special subzero unit I will provide you. The rest of him, dispose of. Now go.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, tossing off an exaggerated salute.
Abigail went to the window and watched Arcane’s troops deploying themselves, heading out in truck after truck. It was confusing to her . . . as confusing as the bizarre dreams she’d had the night before. Only the faintest traces of them remained, and that same name . . . a name that, curiously, gave her a sense of inner peace. She repeated it to herself over and over in the course of the day, like a mantra. She drew strength from it. The strength that, she hoped, would enable her to deal with her stepfather.