The Real McCoy

Orlin Messina trudges past the patchwork shotgun shacks and weather-beaten businesses that confirm Panther Swamps, Louisiana is on the verge of extinction.

The local tourist attraction, the statue of Civil War hero General Beauregard Bruinoogie, is covered with gull crap.

“What the hell am I doing here?” Orlin says to himself.

At thirty-two, divorced, with a slight paunch and premature grey hair from fifteen years as a geologist for Dunmore Oil, Orlin can recognize the end of the line when he sees it.

Orlin opens the door to the Honeysuckle Hotel, which creaks in protest. Behind the desk, her dishwater blonde hair pulled back in a bun, stands a painfully thin woman with weather-beaten skin and sallow cheekbones that make her look older than she is.

Orlin drops his suitcase on the floor, sighing wearily.

“You must be the man sniffin’ for oil,” the woman says.

“News travels fast.”

“Specially if it’s the only news in town. I’m Hattie Blackwood, housekeeper, front desk clerk, manager, and owner. So, if you find oil, Mr. Messina, will be rich enough to buy my husband a fancy air boat?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Hattie cracks a smile. Orlin notices that unlike most of the locals, she has her own teeth.

“Did my equipment arrive?”

“Yep. It’s already on Eustice’s boat. He’s grateful for the extra work. It’s been a bad season for shrimpin’.”

“Is that how people around here make a living?” Orlin asks.

“Yep. Most of the fishermen give up the ghost after the last big hurricane. Ain’t but a handful left. The rest have taken to huntin’.”

“Like Orlin.”

“He’s licensed to harvest gators.”

“Still, there’s something unsavory about it.”

“Orlin’s a bit gruff around the edges and he dresses like a sloppy bear, but he’s honorable. I should know. He’s my husband,” Hattie replies.

“And his partner?”

“Zeb? He’s cantankerous by nature. He thinks you’re gonna dredge up the bayou and bring in fast-food joints and chain stores.”

“It’s called progress,” Orlin says.

“Zeb prefers sameness,” Hattie replies. “Don’t let him intimidate you, and for Christ sakes, don’t call him Jeb. You’ll like Clay right off, everybody does. He’s what you call a sensitive type. He don’t hunt, but he’s the best navigator in the bayou. They make a good team.”

“Still, I was thinking I might want to go out on my own.”

Hattie smirks. “I know you think you can, but you ain’t going on no day cruise. You’ll see things in the swamp you ain’t never gonna see no place else. There’s a gator lives out there must be close to twenty feet long.”

Orlin laughs. “I’ve been waiting to hear a good backwoods yarn. C’mon, the biggest alligator on record is fifteen feet.”

“Zeb’s tangled with him and was the sole survivor of a huntin’ crew of seven, includin’ his three brothers. They named the gator after Roland McCoy, who came here in the seventies, bought up a lot of property and swindled a lotta folks in the process. My ma put a hoodoo on him.”

“A what do?” Orlin asks.

“A hoodoo. A curse. She turned him into a gator. McCoy killed all the men the oil company sent down here to drill, so they cancelled the contract. So, if I was you, Mr. Messina, I’d make sure to do right by the people in Panther Swamps, or you’ll have to answer to McCoy,” Hattie says, laughing.

“Very amusing story. It was a long trip. I could sure use a cocktail or two.”

Hattie smiles, her sharp features pinching together. “I can make you a Vieux Carré, with whiskey, Cognac, and sweet vermouth with bitters and a twist of lemon. You’ll sleep like you’re in a coma.”

His head pounding, his stomach dancing wildly, Orlin watches the grubby fishermen milling about the wharf. On the nearby deck, two bearded salts wearing bandanas dress an alligator. With a deft slice of the younger man’s knife across the alligator’s stomach, a pile of rainbow-colored intestines spills out onto the dock along with its last meal - two open cans of Dinty Moore stew.

Orlin gags. A muscular, heavily tattooed black man walks up to him, harrumphing under his breath.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Eustice and Clay Terrell and Jeb Stuart,” he says, intimidated by his appearance.

The black man surveys Eustice’s L.L. Bean attire. “Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, look at you,” he says gruffly. “I’m Stuart.”

Orlin nervously offers his hand. “Nice to meet you Jeb…ah…Zeb.”

Zeb refuses to shake hands, growling, “Jeb. Do I look like a Confederate General? Get on board, oil man. And don’t puke on deck!”

Orlin surveys the Aurora, a rusting, tired, flat-bottomed fishing boat, muttering to himself, “What the hell am I doing here?”

Eustice Terrell greets Orlin, vigorously shaking his hand. Heavy-set, with thick forearms, forty-two-year-old Eustice’s generous blonde moustache and beard contrast his close-cropped crew cut, but he is as jolly as Zeb is morose.

Thirty-five-year-old Clay Terrell looks too refined and delicate to be living in the backwoods. His lavish blonde locks are neatly combed, his clothes without stains or wrinkles.

The Aurora quietly bobs back and forth. Looking over his shoulder, Orlin watches Eustice shoot an alligator.

He leans over the side of the boat, retching.

“I can’t believe you people. You say you want to live in harmony with these creatures, yet you slaughter them.”

Eustice and Zeb haul their fourth alligator on board, pushing the carcass toward the stern. “Sorry, Orlin, but this was part of our deal. We take you out to do your tests, then we check our traps. We’re just conductin’ business.”

Flexing, Zeb glares at Orlin. “You done playin’ with your toys?”

“For today.”

“Good. ‘Cause that air gun you use disturbs the gators.”

“I don’t think it’s the gators who are disturbed,” Orlin mutters.

Clay comes out of the pilot house, choking back his breakfast.

“I’m with you, Mr. Messina. Gator huntin’ just don’t seem right.”

“I’m sure it’ll be all right come Saturday night when you got a full pocket of money to spend,” Zeb replies.

Clay turns to Orlin. “What was that device you were usin’?”

“A compressed-air gun,” Orlin replies. “It shoots pulses of air into the water that create shock waves. I record the waves. Depending on how the water flows it could indicate if it’s mixed with oil.”

“Maybe the boys could borrow it and use it to stun gators,” Clay jokes.

“Ole Betsy still does the trick,” Eustice says.

Orlin looks at Clay, perplexed.

“That’s what we call our bangstick,” Clay answers.

“We can’t use a shotgun ‘cause it’ll tear the gator apart and he won’t be worth nothin’, so the feds make us use a one-shot gun,” Eustice explains. “But I only need one shot.”

Orlin glances at the shotgun propped up against the side of the boat. “So, what’s that for?”

For the first time since they met, Zeb smiles, displaying a line of jagged teeth. “That, oil man, is for huntin’ humans.”

Clay attempts to distract Orlin. “He’s just funnin’ you. It’s to scare off anybody who tries to hijack our catch. It’s so old I doubt it works. So, you think you found oil?”

“Remember those buoys I dropped? Those are markers for two possible spots.”

“You hear that Eustice? Zeb? We’re all gonna be oil barons.”

Zeb’s dark eyes burrow into Orlin’s. “Jehoshaphat. Cursed is more like it.”

“Change is good, Zeb,” Orlin counters.

Chuckling, Eustice says, “Don’t worry about Zeb. As long as Zeb still can fish, hunt, and make his own liquor he’ll be happy. And Zeb ain’t turnin’ his back on fifteen percent of an oil strike.”

“Ten percent,” Orlin reminds him.

“Fifteen,” Zeb counters. “Anytime you wanna walk back to town, oil man, you let me know.”

Clay skillfully guides the Aurora through the brackish water, the thick brown ooze slurring off the side of the boat like chocolate pudding.

The further the Aurora ventures into unfamiliar waters, the quieter their surroundings become. Only the occasional shriek of a loon, spooked by the purr of the Aurora’s intrusion, pierces the air.

Zeb points at a cypress tree close to the shoreline. “Hey, oil man! You need a new pair’a boots?”

Orlin sees a seven-foot snake dangling from a tree limb. “Funny. You boys put that big rubber snake in the tree just to scare me?”

The snake turns its head, hissing.

“Consider me petrified,” Orlin says.

He crinkles his nose. “Hey, what the hell smells so bad?”

“Somethin’ dead,” Clay replies, gripping the wheel tighter.

“You usually come out this far?” Orlin asks.

“Nope. It’s not safe ‘cause of the poachers. We get by with the gators we can catch in our traps. But since it’s matin’ season and we had to come out a little further so you could look for oil, Zeb thought we could catch more gators out here.”

A loud, booming roar sounds in the distance.

A second, more ravenous roar pushes their hearts up in their throats.

Zeb grabs a gaff and Eustice reaches for his bangstick.

Orlin crosses himself.

Another roar. Closer, hungrier.

The Aurora drifts further into the interior of the swamp, barely clearing a group of low hanging cypress trees.

Anxious moments later, the swamp widens.

The surrounding trees are uprooted and splintered. Dead fish float by, mingled with the torn, gutted carcasses of several alligators.

The splintered wrecks of a dozen fishing boats lay smashed against trees or tilted along the shoreline. Life preservers bob past. Orlin realizes that the men on the wrecked boats never got to use them.

Ahead of them, the muddy water ripples nervously.

A flock of frightened loons flee their hiding places, speeding past the Aurora.

Another roar.

Eustice’s booming voice grabs their attention. “DEAD AHEAD!”

At first glimpse, Orlin thinks he’s looking at a massive fallen oak. Then it moves, and Orlin sees a tail whip high in the air.

Zeb’s gruff voice is transformed into a stunned whisper. “…Jehoshaphat... It’s McCoy…”

“Lucky for us, alligators usually don’t attack humans,” Orlin says.

“This one does,” Zeb replies. “Time to get steppin’, Clay!”

“What the hell am I doing here?” Orlin says to himself.

Clay runs to the pilot house.

McCoy turns his head, his bolder-sized eyes glaring fiercely at them as he slides off the sand bar into the swamp.

Streams of water shoot from McCoy’s snout as he comes at the Aurora like a scaly torpedo.

Eustice raises his bangstick. McCoy’s blood red eyes bore into him.

“Shoot man, shoot!” Zeb screams.

Eustice fires. McCoy raises his jaws in defiance.

“I never miss. I hit him right between the eyes,” Eustice mutters, nervously trying to reload.

Clay turns the key to the engine. It sputters, then dies.

Zeb grabs a nearby gaff. Taking aim, he launches it at McCoy. The spear strikes McCoy in the center of his skull, digging in.

“Remember me? That’s for my brothers!” Zeb says triumphantly.

McCoy roars furiously. Veering off, he disappears.

McCoy rises a few feet away from the boat. The spear between his eyes is gone.

“How ‘bout it, Clay?” Zeb bellows.

Clay turns the key, getting a tired, weak response from the engine.

“Flooded,” he says, feeling nervous beads of sweat rolling off his forehead.

McCoy slams against the side of the boat. The force of his strike tilts the Aurora sideways, hurling the dead gators into the swamp. Clay slams against the wheel, momentarily stunned. The others roll across the deck, grabbing for whatever is nearby to keep from being flung overboard. Eustice loses his grip on the bangstick, watching helplessly as it skids off the deck. Orlin turns in time to see his equipment turned into pieces of scrap metal, the air gun whipping wildly in the air.

The Aurora slowly steadies itself. McCoy gnashes at the deck, turning it into splinters.

Clay reaches for the wheel, pulling himself upright.

“Get us outta here, boy!” Zeb yells.

McCoy’s tail rises behind him, sweeping Zeb off the deck.

Zeb rises near the side of the boat, coughing up blood.

“…Jehoshaphat…”

Zeb lets out a short, tortured scream as McCoy pulls him under.

Eustice grabs a gaff, racing to the side of the boat. He raises it, ready to strike, but all he can see is a dark red blotch where Zeb once was.

McCoy rises from the muck, roaring and ready to strike.

Orlin reaches for the compressed-air gun. Turning the battered machine up as high as it will go, he points the gun at McCoy’s open maw. The blast of air confounds McCoy. He shakes his head, whipping his long tail wildly in the air, then disappears underwater.

Smiling, Eustice says, “You bought us some time, Orlin.”

“Or I may have pissed him off even more.”

McCoy slams against the bottom of the boat, trying to turn it over. Orlin hugs a vent and Eustice latches onto a hatch to keep from going overboard. Clay reaches for the door to the pilot house, but his desperate grab comes up short and he slides across the deck.

McCoy snaps at Clay as he slides past him. Clay slams into the Aurora’s stern. An agonizing burning sensation shoots through his arm. Looking down at his shredded sleeve, he realizes McCoy has bitten him.

McCoy’s jaws latch onto the side of the Aurora, shaking it from side to side.

“Enough!” Clay shouts.

Regaining his feet, Clay reaches for a gaff as it clanks by on the deck. Marshaling his anger he hurls it McCoy, burying it in his side. McCoy releases the Aurora, his vast tail churning up bayou muck as he roars in pain.

Clay sprints past a flummoxed Eustice to the bow of the boat, grabbing the anchor. The chain grinds loudly against the deck until it’s stretched to its full length.

Swinging the chain like a lariat, Clay throws it at McCoy’s gapping jaws. The metal chain hits its mark wrapping itself around McCoy’s open jaw, sealing it shut.

Eustice runs toward the pilot house, yelling, “C’mon, Orlin, grab an axe! If we don’t cut the chain, McCoy’ll takes us down with him the next time he dives!”

Eustice and Orlin find the axes. Running to the bow, they hack at the anchor chain. The chain snaps and the Aurora spins to a peaceful stop.

Eustice and Orlin rush to the side of the boat.

Clay joins them to watch as McCoy, his jaws wired shut, angrily shakes his head.

“Think he’ll get loose?” Orlin asks.

“Not before he dies,” Clay replies.

Raising the family’s ancient shotgun, he fires it at McCoy.

McCoy stiffens. Roaring defiantly, he rolls over on his back.

Orlin drains his third Vieux Carré.

“So, the trip was a success,” Hattie says.

“Yeah, but I’m going to recommend that the part of the bayou where McCoy lived be turned into a wildlife sanctuary. So, the company gets its oil, there’ll be more jobs, the town’s economy will get a boost, and the late Zeb gets a piece of the swamp named in his memory. It’s a win all around. Speaking of win, where’s the local hero been lately? I thought you’d throw a parade for Clay when we brought back McCoy.”

“Clay’s been feelin’ poorly. He’s not himself.”

“I’d like to see him and Eustice before I go. I’ll stop by the house.”

Hattie smiles nervously. “I’ll come with you.”

Eustice answers the door, looking flustered and flushed.

“I’m leaving tomorrow. Just thought I’d say thanks again.”

“No problem, Orlin. It was great baggin’ a legend with you... Hate to be rude, but I gotta go tend to Clay.”

“Can I see him?”

From the backroom, a weak, desolate voice cries, “Please…Pleeeeaaasssee let me go.”

“Is that Clay?”

Orlin rushes past Eustice before he can close the door.

“Pleeeeaaassssee let me go.”

Orlin bursts into Clay’s bedroom, gasping at what he sees tied to the bed.

Clay’s face is a tragic collision between man and reptile. Crammed in his vaguely human jaws are rows of rapier sharp teeth. He breathes, with much difficulty, through an elongated snout. Roughly hewed scales cover his legs, chest, and arms. His once golden locks are gone, replaced by a hardened bald pate.

Clay, or what remains of him, whines “…Please... Please let me go.”

“I told you you’d see things you’d see in the swamps you ain’t never gonna see no place else,” Hattie says.

“What…What happened to him?”

“McCoy bit him,” Eustice says.

“It’s the curse of McCoy,” Hattie adds. “You know what you gotta do, Eustice.”

“He’s my brother, Hattie.”

“Not no more. He belongs to the swamp.”

“Pleeeaaasseee, set me free.”

Eustice carefully moves toward the bed, untying the ropes.

Crawling across the floor on his belly, Clay slowly slides out the door. He turns, taking a last mournful look at his brother.

The few townspeople in the street gasp, moving aside as Clay as he crawls down the street to the marina. The crowd watches in stunned silence as Clay slips in the water. Moments pass, then a twenty-foot alligator rises outside of the marina, its tail whipping freely in the sultry bayou air.