Swamp Thing 2 - The Return of Swamp Thing

by Peter David

  There are humans . . . scurrying about like ants . . . this day. I wonder what they want . . . but it is of no concern.

  The woman . . . whose soul I felt in the night . . . I cannot stop thinking . . . of her. Earth mother . . . what is she to me . . . ?

  If I am of the earth . . . as was Adam . . . is she my Eve . . . in this fruitful garden? Will I lie naked with her . . . my soul exposed to her . . . ?

  Can I trust her . . . for she is only human . . . and I am so much more . . .

  . . . and so much . . . less.

  Deep in the green, the Swamp Thing gave no heed as Arcane’s troops tromped through the brush. They hadn’t the faintest idea of what they were looking for except to be concerned since, at any given moment it appeared, the vegetation might turn on them.

  Not surprisingly they found nothing despite an entire day of searching. One security man, Conklin, was busy staring at the trees, and before he knew it he was up to his ass in quicksand. Fortunately he was rescued from this ignominious fate. (Unfortunately he was destined for a far more ignominious fate, so this was a mixed blessing at best.)

  Night had fallen, and surprisingly the skies had yielded no further rain that day.

  At the bottom of the mansion’s central stairway, Arcane stood waiting, immaculately dressed in a white dinner jacket.

  Abby appeared at the top of the stairs and hesitated. Looking down, she had a dizzying, uncomfortable association she did not like at all. She closed her eyes a moment to compose herself and then forced a smile and walked slowly down the steps. She was freshly coiffed, stylishly dressed in an attractive green gown with matching gloves she hoped hid her tightening knuckles.

  She stepped off the bottom step, breathing an inward sigh of relief as Arcane said, “Formally dressed for dinner. How fun.”

  “Yes, indeedy,” said Abby with false cheer. “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”

  He extended an arm, and after only the briefest of hesitations she took it. They walked slowly down the hall toward the main dining room.

  “After all these years I never thought I would ever see you again. Perhaps this visit will bring us close. Very close.”

  He sounded so polished, so suave. There didn’t seem to be the slightest hint of the sinister about him. Indeed, when she looked back on her visit thus far, she had been the unpleasant one. As if she were reacting to something imagined. Uncertain, she gave a tentative smile.

  At the doorway to the dining room, that creepy guard Arcane had called Gunn was standing there. He looked like he’d been trekking through the swamp all day, and he was lovingly stroking an M16 in a most unsettling manner.

  He stared at Abby in that way he had earlier and then turned to Arcane and said, “Doc, just thought you should know, we haven’t found anything yet.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” replied Arcane calmly.

  “What’s going on?” Abby asked.

  “Nothing. A group of hitchhikers got lost. I volunteered my people to find them. No luck, I’m afraid.” The answer was very smooth. Too smooth, her mind warned her.

  They went on past Gunn, and she could feel his gaze still on her. A chill cut through her. Just being near him made her feel unclean.

  The spread that had been laid out was most impressive. Arcane, at his end of the long, elegant dining room table, was meticulously dissecting the drumstick of a roast duck. Abby poked at her potato without much enthusiasm, not touching any meat. To Arcane’s left was Lana, clad in a clinging gold lamé dress. She looked impassive but stared at Abby with burning . . . what? Resentment? Fear? What was it? To Arcane’s right was Rochelle, who merely watched Abby with that same detached air he always had.

  Abby got the distinct impression she should be between two pieces of glass on a microscope. Perhaps she already was.

  “So, Abigail,” said Arcane cheerily. “Tell me about yourself. What have you been doing these last ten years.”

  “Gee, that’s funny,” answered Abby, unconsciously imitating Arcane’s jovial manner. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Arcane stared at her for a moment. Then he put down his fork, the creases in his face deepening. “I’ll be blunt. Why this unexpected visit?”

  So there it was. After the better part of an hour engaged in meaningless banter, commenting endlessly on the quality of the food, there it was in the open. Still, she speculated, it was surprising candor from a man she believed to be a master of prevarication.

  She held onto the fork, as if holding a sharp instrument in her hand gave her a measure of security. “I guess you could call this an exorcism,” she said after a time.

  The idea seemed to intrigue him. “And how is that?”

  “I seem to be haunted by things I can’t resolve . . . feelings about you, about my mother, about her . . . death.” She paused, mustering her main assault. “Why was there no funeral?”

  He sighed. “We went through all this before. She wanted to be cremated without ceremony.”

  An image flashed in her mind, unbidden, her mother cold as death, with blue skin and her white-blond ringlets of hair now delicate curls of ice . . .

  She shook it off with effort as she said, “My mother loved me. I was her only child. She would have wanted me there; I know it.”

  Arcane sighed, putting on the air (or was it genuine) of a patient but tired father. He got up and moved to a cabinet, picking up a beautifully framed photo of Abby’s mother. “Abigail, I loved your mother very much. I was lost after she died. I didn’t contact you because . . . well, it was always very clear that you didn’t approve of my marriage to your mother.”

  “And you were, what, punishing me somehow?” she demanded.

  And Lana, who had been silent until that time, now blurted out, “What do you want from him? You twist everything! He cared for her! And for you!”

  “More than he does for you? Is that it?” shot back Abby.

  Arcane interposed himself between the two, putting up his hands pleadingly. “Let us put this all behind us. I want us to be friends. Good friends.”

  He paused, looking from one to the other, and then said softly, “Lana . . . there’s a small box in the top right-hand drawer of the desk in my bedroom. Would you bring it back down to me, please?”

  She bit off a response, and it was clear to Abby that Arcane was trying to put some distance between the two women. But was it to prevent further fights? Or was it because he was concerned Lana might say something she should not?

  As Lana left, Abby said, “This small box she’s getting . . . is this your way of buying me off?”

  He looked repelled. “Buy off? What an ugly expression. It’s something very precious, and I want you to have it.”

  The silent Rochelle was looking from one to the other as if watching a tennis match. He was able to give his neck a rest now, however, for a silence hung over the dining room. Both Abby and Arcane seemed determined to look everywhere but at each other.

  Moments later Lana returned, setting the small box down in front of Abby. Abby stared at it, running a finger across the finely carved wood. It seemed to be in the intricate shape of a tree. She couldn’t help but smile, and she said sincerely, “It’s beautiful.”

  “Open it,” he prompted.

  Slowly she raised the lid and gasped. A large diamond ring glittered from within, its facets shining with inner fire.

  “It belonged to your mother,” said Arcane quietly. “Just as I know her wish would have been for you not to inflict the raw emotional wound on yourself that attending her funeral would have been, I know she would have wanted you to have this ring.”

  She removed the ring, studied it, and admired its beauty, and then slid it on her finger. “I hope this doesn’t mean we’re engaged,” she said with a light laugh. It was the first moment of humor she’d felt since she’d come there.

  And then she gave a small yelp.

  From directly beneath the setting, blood began to flow freely. Something sharp had dug into the fles
hy portion of her finger as she’d slid the ring on.

  Immediately there was a flurry of activity. As Arcane apologized profusely, Rochelle stepped in quickly, holding a clean cloth against the wound.

  And Abby felt something under the cloth. Something plastic.

  She stood quickly, knocking aside the cloth.

  To her astonishment she saw that Rochelle was palming a small vial. A small amount of the blood had been soaked up by the cloth, but the majority was in the vial.

  “What’re you, nuts?!” she shouted, pulling away her hand and wrapping a cloth around it.

  “I was . . . I was just . . . just . . .” Rochelle began to stammer helplessly, looking to Lana for support.

  And Lana, stepping in smoothly, said, “You know, Dr. Rochelle was mentioning earlier that you didn’t look quite well. Actually slightly anemic. You know how men of medicine are. Once he saw that you were bleeding anyway, he just—”

  “Just happened to have a test tube on him?” Abby said incredulously. “That’s sick! You people are sick!” She backed away from them. “And you’re the head sick-o!” She stabbed a finger at Arcane.

  He gestured helplessly. “My dear, I had nothing to do with this! I merely wanted to give you this gift.” He pointed to the blood-encrusted ring Abby had thrown to the ground.

  “Right! Like you gave it to my mother,” snapped Abby. She headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, in a voice filled with concern.

  “Out! Don’t wait up!”

  The door slammed behind her.

  Out by the front gate, Points and Conklin were playing a bizarre form of mumblety-peg, with a machete, throwing it at each other’s feet.

  “Getting dark,” said Conklin nervously.

  “Don’t worry,” replied Points. “Enough light from Gunn’s cigarette.”

  She chucked a finger at Gunn, who was leaning against the fence, sharpening his knife against a rock.

  He dropped the rock, however, and his hand went toward his gun as he heard quick steps approaching the gate, coming from the direction of the mansion. The other guards also assumed ready positions, but they all relaxed when Abby came into view.

  “Excuse me, Miss Arcane,” he said as Abby got within distance. “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  He took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette as Conklin spoke up, saying, “The swamp is dangerous at night.”

  “So’s the dining room. I’ll take my chances.”

  Gunn surveyed her for a moment, then picked up his walkie-talkie and said slowly, “Doc? Your lovely stepdaughter’s here. Wants to go for an evening stroll. Wouldn’t suggest it.”

  In the dining room Arcane’s finger hovered over the intercom, considering what to say in response. The easiest thing would be to hold her there.

  But he had an instinct, something bothering him in the back of his mind. Then it came to him, a name, shouted by his stepdaughter in the night that he had at first heard and then thought he had imagined.

  Alec, she had called. Alec. But he knew only one Alec.

  He looked out through the dining room window, out at the swamp beckoning beyond the perimeter.

  His place . . .

  Alec, had been the cry. Was it possible . . . ?

  All this went through his mind in only a moment and then he depressed the talk button and said crisply, “Abigail is not a prisoner here. If you have warned her of the risk, she is certainly free to come and go as she pleases.”

  At the other end he heard Gunn’s surprised voice say, “Okay; you’re the doctor.”

  Arcane nodded and clicked off as he turned toward the questioning Lana, Rochelle having already disappeared into the bowels of the laboratory.

  “We may need her,” Lana said, as close to disapproving as she ever got with Arcane. “If her blood is the same as her mother’s . . . well, she shouldn’t be allowed to run around in the swamp at night unescorted. It’s crazy.”

  He smiled mirthlessly. “Sanity is an accusation that has never been leveled at me,” he said.

  Gunn’s voice crackled back on. “She’s gone, Doc. Off into the swamp.”

  “Follow her. Keep me apprised, and make no move without my direct order. Keep a far distance.”

  “On it.”

  He turned back to Lana and said, “Have no concern. I don’t believe she will be unescorted. As strange as it may sound . . . I believe she’s going on a date.”

  10

  In the darkness of the swamp, an area was lit up by two fires, one next to the other.

  The first was the roaring power source that kept the still brewing its moonshine. The second was the smaller campfire that a beefy, well-muscled man named Gurdell was hunched in front of. The cuffs of his unwashed jeans were frayed, and his large beer belly (suggesting he had imbibed as much of his hooch as he had sold) hung over the unbuttoned tops. In addition he had striped suspenders, and a baseball cap worn backward like a catcher’s.

  Gurdell swigged down another draft of the hooch as nearby his brother Clyde checked to make sure the still was operating smoothly. Clyde was thin where Gurdell was fat, blond where Gurdell was dark-haired, nervous where Gurdell was loudly confident, and stupid where Gurdell was . . . well, stupid, really.

  He ambled back to the fire. “Great batch o’ shine, eh, Gurdell?” he said eagerly.

  “Best this month, Clyde. What we gonna do fer fun tonight?”

  It was a question Clyde always dreaded, for it meant using imagination, something in which he was in short supply. “Feel like stealin’ a car?”

  “Nah.”

  “How about we burn down a house?”

  “Nah.”

  “Hey, how ’bout,” and he drew closer, “how ’bout we drive to the motel and run over some dogs.”

  “I’m sick of runnin’ over dogs—’sides, that motel is spooked.”

  “Well . . .”—Clyde sighed in exasperation—“what you feel like doin’, then? My brain’s gettin’ tired comin’ up with all these ideas.”

  Gurdell pondered that. “I feel like killin’ somethin’,” he said at length.

  “You always feel like killin’ somethin’.”

  That brought a coarse laugh. “Maybe I’ll kill you.”

  Clyde picked up his own bottle. “I’ll kill you back with my dyin’ breath.”

  “Your breath’s so bad, you might just do it.” He laughed again.

  “Gurdell,” said Clyde impatiently, “it’s time we went to town and got us a woman.”

  Gurdell blinked at that. Damn, it had been a long time. Things seem to crawl to a halt in the swamp.

  “I don’t recall what one looks like,” he said in wonderment.

  And the gods, in their infinite jest, decided to give Gurdell a visual aid.

  Abby, waterlogged, gown soiled, stumbled into the clearing.

  They gaped at her in open astonishment. The timing alone was enough to affirm belief in a supreme being—provided you believed in a supreme being who would give a gorgeous woman . . . any woman . . . to two utter scuzzballs as a plaything.

  Clyde and Gurdell chose to believe.

  “Hi, guys,” said Abby, who had been tramping around for so long that Arcane and Lana with their significant looks, and Rochelle with his little vials, were starting to look pretty good. “You wouldn’t happen to know which way back to the Arcane place, would you?”

  Gurdell approached her. “You talk funny. Where you from?”

  “Uh . . . California.”

  “I hate California.” He came closer.

  Backing up slowly, Abby shrugged. “Hey, I’ll move. Nooo problem.”

  And now Clyde was shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother. “Anybody know you’re out here?”

  “Oh, sure . . . the FBI. Charles Bronson. The Rams defensive line . . .”

  “You’re real pretty.”

  “Not really,” she said quickly, trying to find a way out. “Actually I’m dark and swarthy
. Like Dukakis. My parents were Greek immigrants. This is all makeup.”

  “She’s from California,” Gurdell spat out.

  “I like her,” said Clyde.

  “I hate her.”

  “Okay,” said Clyde reasonably. “I’ll grab her, and you kill her.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then we’ll go run over some dogs.”

  Gurdell grinned a toothless smile. “Yeah.”

  She turned to run and Clyde leapt, throwing himself onto her back and driving her down. She clawed at the dirt and struggled as she felt Gurdell grabbing at her, touching her.

  A name screamed through her mind and she tried to speak it, but she couldn’t as Clyde pressed his foul mouth against hers.

  She couldn’t speak the name.

  It didn’t matter.

  The earth erupted around them.

  Clyde and Gurdell coughed violently, dust up their nose and in their eyes, and Gurdell staggered to his feet, trying to pull himself together.

  He stopped, rubbed his eyes, stopped again.

  A massive creature was standing there, with burning red eyes and a body covered with moss and muck.

  “Damn! This guy’s dirtier’n you, Clyde!” said Gurdell in shock.

  Abby looked up from the ground. Her eyes widened.

  “What in hell are you supposed to be?” demanded Gurdell, the shock giving way to amazement.

  And Abby whispered, “Alec . . .”

  He turned his gaze on her, and nodded slowly.

  Her voice choked in her throat, the oppressive nearness of the offensive Clyde forgotten. “Oh, God . . . I’m not losing my mind . . . It’s you . . .”

  There was the ugly click clack of a shotgun round being chambered.

  Gurdell had pulled out his weapon from behind the logs they’d been sitting on, and he said dangerously, “One more time . . . who are you?”