Life in the swamp just got wilder…
“The Swamp Massacre.” That’s what the media dubbed it. A family on a boat tour through the Florida Everglades. Abducted by the infamous Roy family. Forced to endure hell.
Five years later, an aspiring filmmaker and her friends are keen on making a documentary about the incident. To venture into the isolated wilds of the Everglades in hopes of capturing footage that will stun the world silent.
They’re going to get their wish. Unfortunately.
In this terrifying follow-up to the critically acclaimed Wildlife, Wildlife: Reckoning plunges us deeper into the darkest corners of the swamp…and reminds us that man is the deadliest animal of all.
Wildlife: Reckoning
Jeff Menapace
2018
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Author’s Note
About The Author
Chapter 1
South Florida
The Everglades
They drifted in the boat for a while, men of the world, happily swigging from their Mason jars, drunkenly singing into the night sky.
Periodically, a curious pair of red eyes would surface close to them on the black water, glowing as they do at night, and the men, with their liquid courage, would spit mouthfuls of moonshine at the alligators, watch the glowing red eyes drop back quickly into the black water, and then laugh heartily, mocking the reptiles’ fearsome reputation, usually following with some trite joke about not being able to hold their liquor.
In spite of night being alligators’ prime feeding time, the three men felt safe in the boat; it was far too large for any alligator to bother itself with. A bump or two after drifting into a particularly aggressive one’s turf was the most they could expect.
On land? In the remote spot just off the shoreline where they filled their Mason jars from their still? Different ball game altogether.
Even when getting back to shore after becoming sufficiently inebriated, they would still somehow manage to lift their veils of drunkenness that masked common sense and be wary. Those glowing red eyes that silently appeared on the black water could just as easily materialize in the dark wilds, a mere few feet from where you stood, patient as the day is long in waiting for the opportune time to claim their meal.
But for the moment, that veil of drunkenness had no interest in entertaining such foresight, especially within the throes of celebration. And celebrate they would. It was Friday. They had money in their pockets (payday for their jobs working security at The Hattenworth Home for Boys), and after their ritual Friday night drinking on the river, they were going to head back to town and hit up their favorite strip clubs—the ones that gave you just a little bit more if you gave just a little bit more. And they, in their oft-boasted genius, saved plenty of money by drinking from their own still, and not spending it on overpriced booze at the club. No fools, them.
“Hey, dumbass? Could you please look where the hell you’re going?”
Buddy James, aka dumbass, was guiding them down a narrow channel, towards a particularly dense thicket of mangrove tree roots. The above- and below-water roots, spindly and gray and not unlike giant fingers in both appearance and their aim to snatch, were dead ahead. Once entangled within a particularly grabby bunch, as the thicket ahead appeared to be, an entire night could be spent trying to free yourself. Not a good time when there was moonshine to drink and strip clubs to attend.
“I see it,” Buddy said. “Think I’m stupid?”
“Think?” Ed Jones replied.
Owen Shaw laughed and spit out his swallow of moonshine.
“Y’all keep laughing,” Buddy said, one hand behind him on the handle of the outboard motor, trying to steer them clear. “Just keep that damn light straight ahead.”
“I’m serious, man,” Ed reiterated, “you’re heading right the hell for it.”
“Would you shut up? I know what the hell I’m doing.”
The boat drifted too close, a root’s fingers below snatching the motor’s propeller, grinding it to a stop.
“Goddammit!” Ed yelled. “You see?!”
“Would you relax? It’s not the first fucking time I been hung up.”
Owen set his Mason jar and flashlight aside, grabbed an oar, and thrust it into the water and the roots below, trying to work them free.
Buddy continued moving the motor’s handle back and forth.
Ed gestured towards his efforts. “And what the hell you think that’s gonna do? If the propeller’s caught, it’s caught. Ain’t no amount of jerking it back and forth gonna change that.” He pointed his flashlight on Owen struggling to push them free with the oar. “Owen there’s got the right idea.”
“So then why the hell aren’t you helping him?”
Ed shook his head and spit overboard. “Stupid ass…” he mumbled as he bent for the second oar.
Ed and Owen worked the oars over the side of the boat, grunting and cursing. There was a whoosh and a thump behind them, but they paid it no mind—life in the swamp had a language all its own, especially at night.
The two men managed to nudge the boat back a few inches. A little juice from the motor in reverse and they could likely back their way out.
“Put her in reverse and try it now,” Ed called over his shoulder. Both men were still working the oars, trying for a few more inches of freedom.
Buddy said nothing in return, nor did he do anything in return.
“Put her in reverse, stupid!” Ed shouted again.
Again, Buddy neither said nor did anything.
Both Ed and Owen spun simultaneously, ready to give Buddy hell. Except Buddy was already there, sitting by the motor as he’d been, now slumped to one side, the tail end of a sizable arrow jutting from the side of his head. His dead eyes were open. One lid fluttered involuntarily. His feet and hands occasionally twitched.
“Jesus H…” Ed whispered and snatched his flashlight. He shined it on Buddy and pecked his head forward, not ready to actually move forward just yet. “Jesus H. Christ,” he finished, the clarity of the flashlight now offering no mystery as to what had happened.
Owen asked all the same, both men frozen, both speaking in frightened whispers.
Owen: “What the hell happened?”
Ed: “The fuck you mean, what happened? LOOK, for Christ’s sake.”
Owen: “But how? WHY?”
Ed: “An accident…had to be an accident. Like a hunter’s stray bullet, right?”
O
wen: “Who goes hunting in the swamp at night with a bow and fucking arrow?”
Ed: “It was probably a crossbow, dummy.”
Owen: “Even still.”
Ed spun and turned the flashlight into the wilderness beyond the river. The light’s beam, suitable for guiding them along the river, was now challenged to penetrate the swamp’s thick forest from such a distance.
Still frozen in place, still talking in quick, frightened whispers.
Ed: “You see anything?”
Owen: “No. You?”
Ed only shook his head and aimed the beam towards another section of forest. The clarity was no better.
Owen: “Can’t see shit.”
Ed: “Neither can I.”
A crackle of underbrush and a flash of movement in the distance.
Owen: “See that?!”
Ed: “I seen it! I seen it!”
Owen: “What was it?”
Ed: “I reckon it was the fella who shot the bow.”
Owen: “Then what’s he hiding for? Why don’t he come out and own up to it? It was an accident, right?”
Ed turned his head slowly towards Owen. “Was it?”
Owen turned his quickly towards Ed. “The fuck you mean?”
Ed frowned. “The fuck you mean, the fuck I mean? You know what the fuck I mean.”
Owen swallowed hard. Spun back towards the forest and cupped both hands beside his mouth. “HELLO?!” he hollered. “IS SOMEONE THERE?!”
Ed elbowed him. “The hell you doing?”
Owen ignored him. “HELLOOO—”
A second arrow whistled out of the darkness, catching Owen in his open mouth. He gurgled, stumbled backwards, and fell out of the boat with a weighty splash.
“JESUS CHRIST!!!” Ed dropped to the floor of the boat, pressing his body flat. “Oh God oh God oh God…”
He stayed like that for several minutes, not daring to move, like prey faced with a predator that relied on movement in order to obtain the kill. And wasn’t that exactly what this was?
No—no it was not. If he’d spotted the predator first, such a survival tactic would be sound. But the predator had spotted them first. Knew exactly where he was already.
Ed desperately tried to steady his breathing, slow the drumlike pulse in his ears. He did not dare risk peeking over the edge of the boat, exposing his head; he would need to rely on sound to gauge the predator’s whereabouts in the black beyond.
And then what? Fucking then what? Just what the hell do you plan on—?
Ed’s eyes stopped cold on the rifle lying lengthwise against the side of the boat.
The rifle! The fucking rifle! How the hell had he forgotten about it?
Stomach flat as ever to the boat floor, Ed reached out with one arm and pulled the rifle to him, holding it tight to his body as if gripping it alone was sufficient for salvation.
But of course it wasn’t. His only course of action was clear. He would do as he’d initially considered: rely on sound to gauge the bastard’s whereabouts. And no then what? this time. He had the rifle now. The moment he got a general idea of where the bastard was, he would quickly rise up and fire in his general direction, knowing he would need a miracle to hit anything, and that was okay; he only needed to get close. Perhaps follow the shot up with a firm threat of more to come if the son of a bitch didn’t back off. In Ed’s world, a rifle beat a crossbow any damn day.
He slowly rolled onto his back. Held the rifle across his chest, slid back the bolt to make sure it was loaded, and then slid the bolt back home. Tried harder to steady his breathing, to slow the pulse hammering in his chest and ears. He took deep, purposeful breaths—in through the nose, hold, and then slowly out the mouth.
He repeated this three times until at least some measure of calm had taken effect. He gripped the rifle tight and strained to listen for movement in the distance. Nightlife in the swamp didn’t make it easy. Birds shrieked and screeched; insects clicked, buzzed, and chirped; frogs croaked and whistled.
Whistled.
Whistling.
Whistling a tune?
Someone was whistling a tune in the distance. An easy, pleasant tune.
Was it him? Was the crazy bastard who just killed his two friends with a fucking crossbow now whistling in the woods as casually as a man watching a lazy day go by?
This wasn’t right. Good Lord help him, this was not right.
So then do something about it. He couldn’t ask for a better sound towards the bastard’s whereabouts. Aim towards the whistling. Do it now.
Ed scrambled to his knees, steadied the rifle, and fired into the wilderness, towards the whistling. He immediately slid the bolt back and forth, expelling the bullet’s shell and chambering a second live one.
The explosion of the bullet had momentarily silenced the wildlife. Ed took the opportunity to listen, hoping to hear distant scurrying in the underbrush—sounds of a man fleeing once realizing that he was literally outgunned.
He heard nothing.
“I GOT MORE WAITING FOR YOU RIGHT HERE, YOU SON OF A BITCH!” he yelled.
He paused. Heard nothing. Fired a second shot, popped the shell, and reloaded another.
“THINK I’M BLUFFING? I’LL SHOOT YOU DEAD, YOU CRAZY BASTARD!”
He paused. Listened…
And heard whistling again. The same lazy tune as before.
He fired a third shot. Then a fourth.
“GODDAMMIT, WHERE ARE YOU!?”
He expelled the fourth shell and tried loading a fifth. The gun was empty. “NO!!!” He slid the bolt back and forth, knowing it was futile, yet doing it all the same.
A third arrow whooshed out of the dark, catching Ed in the thigh. He cried out and fell to his side, the boat rocking heavily from his weight. He gripped his wounded thigh with both hands and flashed an excruciating grimace at the moon.
Whistling again. Growing closer now. The silhouette of a large man was soon visible as it emerged from the wild. He approached as casually as the tune he was still whistling.
The last—incredulous—thought Ed had before waking up upside down was that he knew the crazy son of a bitch.
Chapter 2
A bucket of water in the face woke Ed. If that wasn’t disorienting enough, he was also upside down, strapped to a cypress tree, his head inches from the ground.
His head throbbed, both from the blow that had rendered him unconscious, and from the increase in blood pressure after being inverted for a spell.
His view of the man before him was, of course, inverted. Boots for a head, and a head for boots. And he recognized the head. Had recognized it on the boat before the man had attacked and strapped him to the tree.
“Please,” he begged. He tried fighting the endless coils of rope binding him to the thick cypress, but this only reminded him of the arrow wound to the thigh he’d sustained; it burned like fire with every attempt at a struggle, eventually forcing him to give up, pray, and pray some more that the man would have mercy on him.
“I’m sorry,” Ed said. “I’m so, so sorry for all that we done.”
The man ignored him. Started whistling that same casual tune of his as he picked up a second bucket and threw the contents in Ed’s face. Ed braced himself for another blast of water, but he was hit instead with something more substantial—and pungent.
Fish guts. The man had doused him with a bucket of fish guts.
Ed gagged, spat out the bits that had entered his mouth, snorted out the bits that had gone up his nose.
“Please…” he begged again. His head throbbed harder; the recent blow and the inversion now had the third ally of absolute terror to heighten its intensity. Absolute terror because Ed had a fairly good idea of what the man’s intentions were.
“Please, God, help me…”
“God?” The man finally spoke. “Well, if this isn’t a funny bit of irony. I used to ask the big man for help myself on many a night. Of course I’m sure you know best of all he never did come calling.”
“Might as well go on back to asking God for help, mister…’cause you sure as hell got a better chance with him than you do me.”
Ed started to weep.
The man pulled something from his pocket. Ed strained to see it, his thigh crying out from the exertion. It was a handheld tape recorder.
“What’s that for?” Ed asked.
The man said nothing, just started whistling again, pressed play on the recorder, and set the small device next to Ed’s head.
The recorder began to play the oddest sounds. Odd, yet familiar. Ed had heard them before. Had heard them right here, in the swamp. And it did not take long for him to realize what they were. He started weeping again.
The man presented a third bucket, reached in, and produced a whole fish, not just guts this time. He then turned his attention behind him, towards the riverbank some ten yards ahead. He made a smooching noise as though calling for a dog, followed by a glance back at Ed with a wink and a smirk.
“You’re crazy…” Ed moaned.
“If I’m crazy, it’s your doing.”
“Please…have mercy…”
The man bent and turned the volume up on the recorder. The odd sounds grew. He turned back to the riverbank, and they were there, seemingly floating in the darkness like two embers.
“Oh God!” Ed cried. “Oh Jesus GOD!”
The glowing red eyes approached slowly, cautiously. The man shined a flashlight on them, and the alligator flinched and turned slightly from the beam, but only for a moment. The reptilian distress sounds from the recorder, the ripe smell of fish—it was all too interesting a prospect to abort the mission.
“Big fucker, isn’t he?” the man said.
Ed wriggled desperately on the tree, the endless coils of rope affording him no slack. Only his head, still inches from the muddied earth, was capable of movement. It flopped and turned, banging against the thick cypress, not seeming to care. “PLEASE GOD PLEASE GOD PLEASE GOD…”
The man tossed the alligator the whole fish he’d pulled from one of the buckets. Without hesitation, the alligator cranked its giant head to the side and snatched the fish from the ground with one greedy bite, swallowing it whole.
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