by Tom Hansen
T he powerful jaws of an American alligator can easily crush the shell of a turtle or the bones of any animal. Willy’s skull was the target of the hungry monster of the swamp, and it was time for the beast to do a little grocery shopping. The huge, muscular sheriff’s deputy had been dragged and abandoned at the edge of the moat by Roy’s thugs, left there for a reptilian breakfast. If not for a pesky mosquito buzzing in Willy’s ear, he may have drowned before being eaten. As he lifted his head to the annoying sound of the hovering insect, he began to snort the water that had seeped into his nasal passage. The inundating sensation burned from his chest all the way up his throat as Willy choked and coughed out the slimy mixture of cow feces and swamp water. The rope tied to his wrists behind his back had loosened a bit, most likely due to Willy being dragged to the water, but it still firmly held his hands in place. Suddenly, goose bumps covered his limbs and fear triggered an arrhythmia Willy had never experienced in his superiorly fit body. Glancing to his left, Willy noticed two green eyes and large, coarse nostrils floating on the surface of the water, terrifyingly motionless, only four feet away.
A sales representative from the Gaston Glock Company had been very pushy working off straight commission while trying to sell several of the company’s newly designed, waterproof pistols to Sheriff Al Bonty. The Glock has a synthetic polymer frame and a ferritic nitro carburizing surface that was corrosion-proof. Al never received a grade higher than C- in any science class, however, he nodded affirmatively at the salesman just the same. Wanting the rep to take a hike, but knowing that an elected sheriff needs to use tact when dealing with the public, Bonty said he would be happy to try out one of the small guns for a month to see if it had any value. When the rep left, he tossed the gun on Willy’s desk and told the deputy to “shoot up” a few garfish for dinner. The Glock came with a holster that could be strapped to the calf of a leg and Willy had been wearing it dutifully for the past two weeks, thinking that he might just have a chance to hunt some water moccasins for sport. The thought never occurred that the pistol might save his life.
With awkward agility in the muddy water, Willy was able to slowly reposition himself to his knees. But the moment of truth came next. Willy purposely fell forward, face down into the swamp so that his legs would bend upward behind his back. With nothing to breathe but slime, his time was expiring. The elongated fingers that could palm a basketball and enable the athletic deputy to slam dunk were a Godsend at this critical moment. His fingers barely touched the holster snap, but Willy was able to undue the strap after several attempts. But time was running out. He could only hold his breath for a few more seconds.
Water pressure provided slight levity on the Glock, and it slid scarcely into Willy’s fingers. With all ten fingers working as a single unit, he turned the gun in his hand, placing the cylinder on the rope. The top of his middle finger touched the trigger, but he would have to engage the finger in a backwards motion to fire. Did he have the strength in his fingers as he did the rest of his body? Would the pistol actually work under water? No time to rethink his decision, for as he turned his head beneath the surface he could see the scaly, pointed toes of the carnivorous reptile moving toward him. The gator was on the move.
The muffled explosion rippled the water and Willy felt a sharp pain in his upper back. The bullet had torn through the rope thread and lodged in his scapula. Willy’s hands were free, but could he get on his feet? The nine-millimeter cartridge was causing a searing sensation throughout his body. Shear adrenaline kicked in and Willy rose uneasily in the shallow water as a thunderous sound racked his eardrums. The gator’s huge muscular tail slapped the surface and the creature sprang at Willy with his jaws wide open. Willy tried to back pedal out of the water, but the gator was too fast and locked Willy’s massive thigh into his gigantic mouth, then whipped him vigorously left and right trying to break the deputy into two pieces. The swamp ruler pulled Willy into deeper water and rolled several times trying to drown his victim, but the gator could see his human fodder wasn’t going to be an easy lunch. With all the torso flexibility and bicep power he could muster, Willy grabbed the gator’s jaws in his bare hands and pried the reptile’s mouth just enough to escape for the moment. Along with the open wound under his shoulder, blood was squirting madly out of Willy’s leg as the alligator had severed the femoral artery with his sharp molars, and puncture wounds deeply penetrated the thick skin of his hands. Then, without hesitating, but in extreme pain, Willy circled behind the gator and jumped onto the leathery back of his attacker and clamped the reptile’s mouth shut with his left bicep. He took the forefinger of his right hand and jammed it deeply into the gator’s right eye, then extracted quickly and did the same with the left eye. The creature snorted in pain and submerged into the dark water, then quickly surfaced and floated awkwardly to the shore. He no longer could see what his nose could smell.
Willy scrambled back on shore and smothered his leg wound with his injured hands. In scorching pain from the bullet gore, he then lifted his top hand, reached up to his neck and ripped his t-shirt vertically off his body. Letting go of the pressure to the artery momentarily, blood once again gushed out and Willy began to feel light-headed and dizzy. He knew in a few short moments the loss of blood would cause him to faint and lead to a certain death. With his last bit of strength, Willy wrapped the dirty makeshift bandage around his leg and tied tightly. He laid his head back on the mud and couldn’t fight off the overwhelming feeling of tiredness. Bright white light, then sudden darkness. Willy had passed out.
* * * * *
Pancho Sanchez didn’t much care for his job picking grapefruit and oranges for the Gold Coast Fruit Company with a hundred other migrant workers from Mexico, some imported legally and some not so legal. In fact, he didn’t like picking cotton in north Texas last month either. But Pancho sure liked catching catfish, whether it be the big mama Mississippi River variety, or the small, tasty Taylor Creek scavengers from the good old Sunshine State. Problem was, Pancho liked fishing when he should’ve liked working.
Each morning, he would squish into a rusty, one ton Chevy cargo van with fifteen other migrants and be transported to the groves near Fort Pierce. As a daily ritual, the caravan of workers would stop for a few moments at Quick Stuff on the east side of Seminole Bend so the driver could get coffee and Little Debbie’s for the forty-five-minute ride down Highway 74.
On days when Pancho felt like fishing instead of picking, which was most days, he would purposely position himself last in line at the convenience store’s restroom door out back. As soon as his buddy in front of him entered the biffy, Pancho would make a mad dash to the rear of the dumpster located across the alley and hide until the van pulled away.
A supervisor checked off the migrant workers in the morning when they were picked up from their rundown shacks west of town, and then again in the evening after taking them home. But, no one thought to do a head count following the daily pit stop at Quick Stuff. On those days that he thought he could get away with it, Pancho would be off to the river. Later that evening, he would sneak back in with the gang of migrant workers when they made their customary dinner stop at McDonalds, a daily company perk following a hard day’s labor in the groves. Pancho would slip into the van while the rest ate in the restaurant. He didn’t need to eat because he was by no means hungry. By late afternoon he usually had his fill of cypress wood-smoked catfish fresh off the river bottom which was much more tasty and healthy than American junk food anyway.
So today, after the van pulled away, Pancho came out from behind the dumpster and hustled down to the creek. He picked up his cane pole and a milk carton full of black dirt stuffed with squirming night crawlers that were hidden under several shrubs near the riverbank. Then he scrambled down a worn path to his fishing hole, a route he could maneuver in his sleep.
Every time he skipped work and went fishing, he walked past a small Alumicraft boat with a twenty-five horsepower Johnson outboard tied to a dock jutting out into Taylo
r Creek. He had trekked this path many times, each time becoming more envious of the boat’s owner. The owner’s house was located about a hundred feet from the dock, but Pancho noticed that several large grapefruit trees covered the picture window, thus blocking the view of the vessel. Hmmm. Who would know if today he borrowed the watercraft and dumped it later somewhere along the riverbank?
Pancho figured he had fished the muddy banks of Taylor Creek long enough, so this morning he decided to upgrade his angling adventure and take a little joy ride in this guy’s boat. He would cruise over Lake Okeechobee and test out those cane-bending catfish critters that dwelt in the mighty Kissimmee River. Well, the Kissimmee wasn’t anything like the Mississippi, but nobody told the catfish that!
The mooring rope was loosely wrapped around the dock anchor, making it an easy task of undoing the boat. Pancho softly tossed in his cane pole and bait. He glanced nervously left and right, then pushed the boat off the dock and quickly jumped in. The boat shimmied outward and Pancho fell backwards, landing clumsily on the floorboard. He regained composure, grabbed the oars, and rowed quietly down the shoreline. He didn’t want the engine noise to startle the owner or his neighbors, so he waited until he reached a bend in the creek to fire up the Johnson. One pull on the starter rope and the engine sprang into action. Pancho twisted the throttle that doubled as a steering handle, and off he headed towards the Taylor Creek locks.
Ernie Hyle, the bald-headed, obese lock operator, gave Pancho a puzzled look when he entered the water elevator. It was as if Ernie recognized the boat, but not the owner. Three other small craft entered the lock at the same time, and all the captains and passengers reached out to grab the side safety ropes that dangled from above. Ernie picked up his binoculars and glared downward, searching for Pancho’s license number. The Florida marine sticker attached to the bow of the stolen boat was the right color for the current year, so the actual number should be listed with the Department of Natural Resources. Ernie picked up the phone to dial the DNR, but the phone’s cord knocked his jelly donut off the counter. As he reached out to catch the donut, his elbow struck the open thermos bottle of coffee and it spilled onto his khaki work pants. The boats in the chamber had almost risen the six feet needed to equalize the water in the lock with Lake Okeechobee, when Ernie put the phone down to wipe the hot liquid that was beginning to penetrate through his pants and onto the skin of his leg. After dabbing up the Folgers, it was time to open the lock’s spill gates. The boats revved up their outboards and headed out into the wide expanse of the lake. Ernie was too busy rinsing off his jelly donut stains and he plain forgot about checking out the name and nationality of the Alumicraft’s owner.
Pancho clipped briskly across the lake and soon reached the mouth of the Kissimmee River near the Angler’s Delight marina. He was afraid fishermen might recognize the stolen boat, so as he cruised up the Kissimmee he kept it at full throttle until he was many miles north and out of sight of the locals. When he noticed a partially hidden, small creek running eastward, Pancho thought it looked like a mighty catfish-biting tributary, so he headed directly into the mangrove-lined stream. Five miles upriver he came to a large opening that appeared to be a swampy grand finale to his anxious voyage. Across the bayou, Pancho could see a huge grassy pasture that led to a luxurious, three-story ranch mansion. Pancho decided it was best to veer away from the ranch so he wouldn’t be seen on what looked like private property. Soon, he found what he was searching for: a shaded narrow section of the swamp with lily pads floating close to the banks. Pancho killed the engine, dropped the anchor that hung over the bow, baited his hook with a worm, and then flung the hook, line and red bobber over the side.
Almost immediately, the bobber submerged and the end of the cane pole arched wildly, looking like it could snap in half at any minute. Pancho knew to let the fish take the line slightly, and then he jerked the pole straight upward. Bingo! The barbed copper hook caught the fat lips of the catfish and the rest was history. Pancho grabbed the fishnet that the boat’s owner had left on the floorboard, and then reached over the boat with the net while slowly guiding his pole toward it. Soon, he could see the whiskers of the catfish as he pulled the tail-flapping little rascal to the surface. Pancho scooped the net underneath the fish and the capture was complete. One minute, one catfish. Dinner today was going to be a feast!
By noon, Pancho had fourteen catfish, two speckled perch and a small bass, now all strung through the gills with a thin rope that he tied onto the oar post and hung over into the water. With the midday sun beating down on him, Pancho was getting a bit sleepy and he didn’t much care if another fish bothered him for a while. So he baited the small hook and tossed it softly into water by the lily pads. Then he laid his head down on some greasy towels, propped his feet up onto the bench seat and took a snooze. An hour later he awoke to find the pole slipping out of his relaxed hands and the bobber nowhere in sight. Pancho quickly arose and his adrenalin was pumping – it must be a ten-pound bass! Strange though, it wasn’t putting up much of a fight.
Pancho could barely see the fish through the murky water as he was slowly pulling it toward the net. When he finally did see it, he didn’t recognize the shape. Could it be a garfish? Pancho slipped the net under the fish and pulled up. By God, it wasn’t a fish! The shiny hook had snared a human finger that was attached to a human hand that was attached to a human forearm! The arm was ripped to shreds just below where it connects to the elbow and the blood had completely drained out, leaving a puffy, cloud-white human extremity in a net that should be holding fish! Pancho damn near fell out of the boat! He dropped the cane pole and net over the side and scrambled over the bench seats to the motor. The engine fired on the first pull and Pancho twisted the handle to full throttle. The stern began to lift and the bow tilted toward the swamp before Pancho realized the anchor was still stuck on the river bottom. He reached overboard and under the surface of the water to grab the anchor rope, and then yanked. As he pulled, Pancho fell backward onto the boat floor but his hands held on tightly to the rope. But it wasn’t rope . . . it was hair . . . with a head attached, eyes wide open and staring directly into Pancho’s terror-stricken pupils!
Lying on his back holding tight to the hair, Pancho yelped, “Oh, mierda!” He tried desperately to toss the bloated head overboard, but it hit the edge of the boat and rolled backward, finally settling at Pancho’s bare feet, and once again, the glassy, lifeless eyes peered directly into the Mexican’s panicky pupils!
Pancho grabbed the skull again by the hair, closed his eyes, and with all his might tossed it onto the shore. This time he took his pocketknife out of his pants pocket and slashed the actual anchor rope to shreds. He then noticed that the string of fish was still dangling over the port side of the boat. He quickly untied the string from the oar post and was beginning to haul the barely alive-and-kicking fish in, when an enraged, psychotic gator opened its jaws and snapped the string in two just six inches from Pancho’s hands.
Pancho was overcome by fright and the denim surrounding his buttoned fly became soaked with urine. The alligator’s throat expanded, and in one large gulp, devoured his southern sushi appetizer. The black beast was now ready for the main course and was moving back toward the boat as Pancho scrambled to the motor and gunned the throttle. The boat jerked forward momentarily, and then the motor sputtered to a halt in a puff of smoke.
The gator moved rapidly, heading directly for the stern where Pancho was pulling madly on the ignition rope. The reptile submerged and Pancho knew what was going to happen next. He stopped pulling and grabbed the wooden oar tightly with his hands. Sure enough, the gator whipped his powerful tail and his head splashed out of the water, the pink of its throat lunging at Pancho’s belly. Pancho never played baseball, but his stance and swing could have rivaled Babe Ruth’s! The oar connected into the basin of the gator’s throat, and Pancho pushed with every bit of strength he could muster. The jaw slammed shut, breaking the oar like it was a toothpick, but the gator
slipped back down into the murky water readying itself for round two. Pancho again yanked hard and fast on the engine rope and it coughed and choked to a start. Slowly, so not to kill the motor, Pancho opened throttle and the boat began to move. The gator sprang at the outboard’s propeller and just missed as Pancho made a beeline for the creek that connected the swamp with the Kissimmee River.
“What the hell is going on?” Pancho muttered under his breath? Alligators are definitely flesh eating creatures, but they usually avoid any type of engine noise. And whose body was laying in pieces on the bottom of the swamp? Pancho needed this nightmare to end. Never again would he sneak away from his citrus-picking partners to go fishing! He would savor the life of an orange picker, hopefully for many, many more years to come. But as the stolen boat cruised forward, Pancho noticed something lying on the shore to his right.
“Leave it, damn it, just leave it alone,” Pancho thought. But Pancho could see it was a body covered with blood and if it was alive, it was surely suffering. He turned the boat toward shore when he noticed a strange sight. About twenty feet away from the body was another gator just sitting on the shore. Could the gator have no appetite? Why wasn’t he lunching on the bloody body?
Pancho decided it was best for his own health to first check out the status of the gator on shore. He idled down the motor to a purr. Moving slowly and very carefully, he came closer to the cold-blooded reptile, hoping it wasn’t hungry for a Mexican lunch. Pancho edged the boat towards the embankment, and then began a parallel turn northward. If the gator attacked, he could open throttle quickly. But what Pancho saw startled him . . . the alligator appeared to have no eyes!
No wonder the huge swamp creature didn’t prey on his wounded victim – he couldn’t see him. But surely he could smell him. Pancho decided not to hypothesize and he turned the boat toward the shore to check out the bloody body. When he could hear sand rubbing on the underside of the Alumicraft, he jumped out of the bow and yanked the boat on land with what was left of the anchor line. Pancho glanced at the ghastly, injured body – and damn if he didn’t see the big man’s chest rise!