by Chris Pike
“It’s good experience for when something really bad happens,” he told her once.
He had given her strict instructions that if there ever was a crisis that she was to bug in, and hopefully she had heeded his advice. If she rationed food and water from the airplane, she would likely have enough for a month.
If there was one survivor of the plane crash, there would be others. He prayed his daughter was one of them. Yet if she left the crash site, she would have had to find her way out of the swamp, cross inhospitable terrain, and keep to the lowlands away from people.
Wading into the cool, murky water, he wiggled his toes in the silty bottom, relishing the brief pleasure. Maybe later he’d come back with a bar of soap and take a bath, knowing he sure could use one. Riding horseback for days tended to make a person gamey. Maybe he’d even shave, because his beard was itchy. His hair too. He absentmindedly scratched his scalp. A hot shower was a luxury of the past, even a cold shower, and his mind took him—
The water exploded.
A powerful force ripped him off his feet and Dillon fell backwards with a splash, swallowing a mouthful of the sediment laden water.
Buster rose and ran to the edge of the water, barking. Instinct told him to stay back.
Dillon didn’t have time to react or to reach for his gun. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream in the amount of time it took his heart to beat once.
He struggled to the surface and a garbled yell escaped Dillon’s lips. He tried to yell again, but was slammed back underwater.
Buster barked furiously at the edge of the lake, long strings of drool hanging from his mouth. He raced back and forth, splashing through the shallows, his underbelly wet with swamp water.
Dillon was thrown to the surface and he spit out the swamp water and gulped air just as he was dragged back under. He held his breath and clawed and pounded at the alligator clamping down on his kneecap and thigh.
It was hard and bony. Massive.
He had a brief thought that alligators should be hibernating, or at least so sluggish as not to be a threat.
The alligator violently twisted Dillon and his head hit a stump protruding from the muddy bottom. Again he was thrashed. He didn’t know which way was up, but when he felt air on his face, he gulped a breath.
Think!
He was being pulled further into the swamp, into deeper water. The apex predator was trying to drown him. Dillon was loosely aware of Buster barking.
Dillon reached for his Glock. If he could get a good shot at the alligator, maybe he had a fighting chance. His hand went to the holster, but his gun wasn’t there. His hand felt all around. It must have been wrenched loose.
Think!
The death roll started again, the thrashing, the crushing weight, and the thousand pound prehistoric beast had gotten the upper hand.
Dillon hit his head on a log, again. He was disoriented and desperately needed to breathe. He slapped at the water, at the massive jaw crushing his leg. He concentrated on keeping his mouth closed. Inhaling a lung full of water would be the demise of him. How much longer could he hold his breath before he blacked out? Before he died?
Maybe a few seconds he thought.
His heart hammered against his chest, feeling like it was about to explode, while his lungs screamed for air. He struggled desperately to keep from inhaling the murky swamp water.
So this was how it was going to end—alone, in the jaws of a monster alligator in the swamps of Louisiana.
In his adrenaline-charged state, Dillon didn’t feel the crushing weight against his leg or the chilling water soaking his soul.
He frantically searched for anything to hold onto, a tree limb, a submerged stump, but all he felt was the cold, leathery skin of the alligator.
Dillon’s eyes were shut tight and his lips pressed hard together. He didn’t know which way was up to the surface to the air he needed.
With the sensation of his life ebbing away his thoughts became fuzzy, and even though his eyes were closed, stars appeared against the backdrop of his life.
Buster’s barks became fainter, echoing, like they were coming from deep within a tunnel.
In one last desperate effort, Dillon thrust his arm into the alligator’s mouth, between bone-crunching teeth and the crushing jaw. He stretched, reaching for the soft palate, to rip it out.
His heart pounded.
He needed to breathe…
He kept his mouth clamped shut.
The alligator continued thrashing him.
Water exploded on the surface, mud and murky debris swirling around them.
He felt his life slipping away…everything became eerily silent.
The overpowering need to breathe vanished, and Dillon went limp, his arms swaying in the water. He had no more strength to fight the beast and his body rolled soundlessly in the dark water.
Images of his life came to him, of his wife and daughter, when they were young when the world was different, when the world was safe. Cherished memories flashed before him, ones to be revisited, and an ethereal, spiritual peace enveloped him. Still, he was vaguely aware of the power pummeling his body, of being dragged through the water.
Dillon opened his eyes to a facet of consciousness still refusing to surrender to death, a spark of life flickering in the dank, murky waters. His dying body violently convulsed in a last ditch effort, struggling to live, an automatic survival response.
He had a strange sensation of walking or floating. He couldn’t quite understand where he was, everything was so hazy and bright. His wife, Amy, was beside him. She was smiling and laughing. He hadn’t seen her in so long, and he ached to be reunited with her, even if it had to be in death. She was so young and pretty. Her sun-kissed hair cascaded down her shoulders.
She held out a hand, motioning for him to take it, whispering words he couldn’t understand.
He reached for her hand, eager to thread his fingers through hers.
To touch her once more.
She was just out of reach. Inches away. Then her face relaxed, and a curious sadness stretched across her beautiful features. She turned her back on him, walking away.
“Come back,” he said.
She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes downcast…
He ran to her. “Don’t go,” he said. “I want to stay with—”
Boom!
Silence.
Boom!
The violent sounds jolted him back to reality and to the pain of dying.
He’d never imagined dying like this. After everything he had been through, after fighting to live for so long, this was it, and nobody would know what happened to him. Worst of all, he would never fulfill his promise to find her.
He shuddered once, his body fell limp and he submitted to the blackness closing around him.
Holly had seen Dillon’s writing in the dirt, and decided to surprise him with the bounty she had found. Walking in the direction he had gone, she picked up the pace when Buster started barking. After being around the dog for a week, she knew he wasn’t one to bark unnecessarily.
Running through the thick underbrush, she hadn’t felt the briars scraping her arms or the branches slapping her face, all she could think was that something was terribly wrong.
Bursting through the clearing she came upon Buster running frantically at the water’s edge. Seeing her, he ran to her with a desperate look in his eyes she had never seen before. It was then she saw the alligator rolling Dillon over and over in the water.
She took a quick look around for any type of weapon, perhaps a sturdy stick or a rock, and it was then she saw the AK propped up against a tree. Holly sprinted to it, and recalling Dillon’s handling of the weapon, she picked it up, took the safety off, sighted it and fired a practice round.
It was now or never. Peering through the front and rear sights, she aimed at the alligator and squeezed the trigger.
It had only taken one shot to kill alligator. Holly briefly thought about a second shot, but she co
uldn’t be sure what she was shooting at because both the alligator and Dillon were still tangled up.
The alligator relinquished its hold on Dillon.
Marching forward, she waded into the water, keeping the AK on target.
The water had become calm again, and Dillon had floated to the surface. She expected the alligator to launch a surprise attack, but it never did.
Now in waist deep water, Holly looped the AK over her shoulder and rolled Dillon over on his back. His eyes were open a slit, and she looked for movement on his chest.
“Don’t die on me, Dillon!” she yelled. She slapped his face. “Don’t die on me!”
There was no response. Putting her index and middle finger on his jugular vein, she noticed a faint pulse. “You’re not dead yet! You hear me, Dillon Stockdale? Fight! You have to fight!”
Holly dragged Dillon through the water, the air cool rushing over his face and he reactively gulped a lungful of air, sputtering water out of his mouth. He coughed.
Dillon opened his eyes to a foggy and unfocused landscape of swaying trees and murky water sloshing around him. He blinked once, trying to force his eyes to focus.
He was on his back staring at the gray sky. A shiver captured his body.
A sensation came to him that something or somebody was dragging him through the shallow water.
The alligator!
His hands slapped the water in a feeble attempt as he struggled against the hold on him. With all his strength, he clawed at whatever had him. It was like his mind was disconnected from his body and he had no control over his movement.
He was being dragged through the water, but the sensation was different now.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and a woman said something. Maybe it was a hallucination. His mind felt drugged, and he fought to stay conscious. The world started to bend, the trees moved and came alive, green fingers reaching to him. Dillon put his hand to his face trying to protect his eyes. He squeezed shut his eyes and opened them to the clouds coalescing into grotesque shapes.
“Stop fighting me!” Holly yelled. “Keep breathing!” Coming to the shore, Holly heaved him on dry land.
He became acutely aware of the cold breeze washing over him and he shivered uncontrollably until finally he passed out.
He woke later, vaguely aware of something warm and rough licking his face. Dillon closed his eyes and turned away. With a weary hand, he tried to shoo away whatever it was until an overwhelming fatigue came over him. His hand fell to the side, and he gave in to the need to sleep.
For hours he shivered and drifted in and out of consciousness. He watched the sky turn blue then dark; listened to the sounds of the night crickets and the trees rustling.
Smoke filled the air, and Dillon was somewhat aware of a fire, crackling and sizzling.
When he tried to move, his body felt like it was a lead weight. A fuzzy image of a person stoked the fire, sending embers into the air. A dog whined, an owl hooted, and Dillon drifted off to a fitful sleep.
Time meant nothing anymore. Seconds or minutes passed, or maybe it was an hour or a day. He couldn’t be sure in his drugged state of mind. He was vaguely aware of being on his back, strapped into a stretcher of sorts. He tried to speak but his mouth wouldn’t work. Hour after hour, he was jostled as he listened to the rhythm of hooves upon the earth.
Clouds floated by, misty rain fell upon his face.
Then the hard stretcher didn’t feel so hard anymore. Hands flew over his body, turning him, lifting him onto something soft. A man spoke something to Dillon and he tried to answer, but the effort was too great. Keeping his eyes open and his mind focused required a herculean effort that escaped him.
Bed springs creaked and he felt the weight of something warm next to him.
He drifted back to sleep. Voices came and went, a door shut, various cooking smells wafted in the air.
When he woke, he became conscious of something warm and rough licking his face. He moved his hand and much to Dillon’s surprise, it worked.
Reaching out, he let his hand drop to a large shape, something warm with rough fur. It moved and he immediately recognized the shape belonging to a dog.
“Buster?” Dillon’s voice was weak and gravelly. “That you?”
“Yes.” The woman’s voice had a tinge of relief in it. “That is Buster.” She moved closer to Dillon until her face was near his. “Tell me my name.”
Dillon looked at her. “What?”
“What’s my name?”
“Holly.” Dillon looked around the room. A kerosene lantern illuminated the room with bare walls. There were two open windows on opposite sides of the room. A breeze came in, fluttering the curtains.
“Where am I?” Dillon asked.
“Remember the fish shack we stopped at?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Remember the old-timer who gave us dog food?”
“Sort of.”
“We’re at his shack.”
“Huh? I don’t understand.” Dillon turned on his side and tried to get up. Dizziness assaulted him and he put his head back on the pillow.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
Dillon didn’t immediately answer. He let his mind work, trying to recall his last memory. “The fish trap. I remember checking the fish trap.”
“Anything after that?”
He shook his head. “Not really.”
It was quiet in the room. A cool breeze came through the window rustling the curtains, Buster scratched a flea, and Holly observed Dillon as his mind whirled, trying to remember.
“Oh wait,” Dillon said. “I remember something now. An alligator. There was an alligator! Oh my God, my leg.” Dillon’s eyes darted from Holly to the bed. “Do I still have my leg?” His voice was frantic.
“Yes, your leg is okay. Badly bruised, but no broken bones.”
Dillon let out a big breath. “Thank God.”
“Can you wiggle your toes?”
“I can.”
Holly explained to him that she saw the message he wrote in the dirt that he was checking the fish traps. She followed his tracks and when she heard Buster barking she knew something wasn’t right. When she got to the lake, the alligator was already thrashing him in the water, trying to drown him. Looking for a weapon, she found the AK he had left propped up against a tree, so she fired a practice round before killing the alligator.
“I thought you didn’t like guns.”
“I don’t. Never said I didn’t know how to use them.”
“Even the AK?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I watched you.”
Holly explained he must have had a dry drowning. “If any water had gotten into your lungs, you would have died by now from pneumonia or a lung infection.” She told him she had made a stretcher using nylon cord and strong sticks, and that she had tied him in. “It wasn’t the most comfortable ride, but we made it. It took me longer than I thought it would, but we made it back to Henri’s place.”
“Who’s Henri?”
“Henri Delacroix. We’re at his fish camp. Remember him? We stopped at his place and he gave us directions to where the plane might be.”
“He was the one who gave us the fish trap.”
“Right, and dog food,” Holly said. “You hungry?”
“I could eat. What’s on the menu?” Dillon asked.
“Alligator.”
A knowing grin spread across Dillon’s face. “In that case, I’m famished.” Dillon put his head back on the pillow. “Give me about a day and I’ll be ready to go again. I’ve got to find Cassie.”
“I’m sorry, Dillon,” Holly said. “That won’t be necessary.”
“What are you talking about?”
“While you were unconscious, another survivor managed to find his way here. I found a picture of Cassie in your wallet and I showed it to him. He said he recognized her because he had helped her with the overhead bin.” Holly dropp
ed her gaze and looked away. “I uh, I uh…”
“What?” Dillon asked.
“I don’t know how to tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
Holly cast a glance at Henri, who was standing in the doorway. He nodded for her to continue. “The man said he saw the seat she was in get sucked out of the plane.”
“That can’t be,” Dillon said. He propped himself up on the pillow. “It can’t be. No, I don’t believe it. How did he know it was her?”
Holly came over to Dillon, sat on the edge of the bed, and put her hand on his. “He said he overheard her saying her real name was Calista, which is also his daughter’s name. That’s why he remembered her. It means beautiful one, doesn’t it?”
Dillon said nothing, staring blankly at Holly in disbelief.
“He told me she had on a dark green Tulane t-shirt. I’m sorry, Dillon.”
“I still don’t understand. How did he make it here? Wasn’t he injured? How did he survive?”
“I don’t know. He said he remembered the plane disintegrating seconds before it crash landed. He was thrown out of the plane, away from the cabin. When he came to, he said he was laying in marsh grass. The only thing he wanted to do was to get out of there.” Holly paused. “Dillon, it’s time we go home. You saved my life, and now I’m saving yours. We will leave to go back to my ranch as soon as you’re able to ride.”
Dillon turned his head away and withdrew his hand. “Go. Leave me alone.”
“I’m sorry, Dillon.”
“Now!”
Reluctantly, Holly rose, left the room, and closed the door, leaving Dillon to his thoughts. He had failed his daughter, his wife was dead, and now there was no need for him to return to his home or to the life he knew. Lying in bed, he pounded the mattress in frustration, wishing the alligator had drowned him. It would have been so easy to die, and then he would have been reunited with Amy and Cassie. But that would have been too easy, too simple.
Living was hard, dying was easy, and Dillon wished he was dead.
Several days passed and when Dillon was ready to travel, he and Holly said good-bye to Henri. With a heavy heart, the weary travelers headed west, back to Holly’s ranch, back to an uncertain future. Even though they hadn’t been gone that long, Hemphill, the town of Holly’s childhood, the place that had shaped her into the person she became, had been taken over by a deadly bunch led by a man known as the Boss, a man Holly and Dillon knew as Cole Cassel.