The Alligator © Sue Babcock
Sharp teeth snapped at his calves. Cyriaque ran faster, mud splashing under his feet. His arms swung front to back, chest pushing forward. Each breath burned and his legs trembled, pain stabbing his side. But the beast gained, its wide maw dripping blood.
He hadn't counted on the alligator expecting to be fed, recognizing him as a source of food. Alligators had brains the size of lima beans. That's what he'd been told, anyway. How could such a dumb critter remember him, let alone figure out where he lived? * * * For six days, he had brought it food during the blackest part of the night, carrying large chunks of meat and bones through dimly lit streets to the bayou path where the vines grabbed his legs and branches of trees entangled him. Each leaf that brushed across his face felt like a water moccasin determined to impale him with venomous fangs. His hands clutched to his chest, the weight throwing him off balance. As he leapt across a fallen log he wavered, but managed not fall into the dark stream below.
By the third visit, he navigated the faint path with confidence; his head held high, eyes adjusting to murky light. He carried twenty pounds of raw meat in a knapsack slung over his back.
The thirteen-foot alligator waited, half submerged in muddy water. The shore sloped steeply; he was safe. No way could it leap up the cliff. He dangled the meat, stretching his body over the water as he grasped a tree branch in one hand and the meat with the other. The alligator swam towards him, ripples spreading across still waters. In a movement he never tired of watching, it leaped into the air and snatched the meat. Two rows of teeth flashing upward, gleaming white even in the dark. He dropped the hunk of meat, the jaws snapped shut, and he pulled himself back to safety.
Then, with five visits done, he breathed easier. One more night and all one hundred and twenty pounds of flesh and bones would disappear. No one could trace it to him. Without a body, no one could even be sure a crime had been committed. His wife had been a disappointment to him, hating his cottage on the edge of swampland, hating his drinking and the stench of the swamp; nagging, always nagging him.
At first she fixed his meals, cooked up the dead 'possum found undamaged on the road. She skinned it like a pro, slitting the belly and cleaning the guts, flipping it, slitting the back and pulling the skin off. He was amazed at how easily fur slipped off flesh. They had eaten stew with gusto, and she'd kissed him and told him what a great man he was.
A twinge of guilt bubbled up from deep inside. Maybe he shouldn't have taken that knife to her when she told him she was pregnant, but he'd never fathered a child in his thirty years of screwing. No way was that baby his.
On his final visit, he lugged his twenty-pound pack, brushing stray branches from his face, following the familiar path. The moon would be up in an hour. He scurried faster, jogging a few steps, his breath coming in rough pants. A rustle near the trail halted him and he peered through shadows. His heart hammered as he ducked and paused in the mud.
The alligator waited, a gruesome head poised at the water's surface, eyes peering up. It bellowed, teeth gleaming in the starlight. Cyriaque threw off his pack and yanked the meat out. He eyed the last of her--a thigh--bone glimmering, the flesh cool and dark. He licked it. A sweetish taste tinged with iron and salt flooded his mouth. He nibbled a corner, then gnawed the tough meat. Gristle choked him. He gagged and spat it over the cliff.
The ‘gator snapped and stared. Cyriaque hung onto a vine and dangled the meat over the alligator's head. Water exploded in fury as it leapt. He let go and jerked back as the ‘gator's teeth scraped his hand. Blood oozed from a gash, but he didn't care. He would never have to feed the ‘gator again. His job was done. Breathing deeply, he turned and walked back to his shack. * * *
A crescent moon hung low in the eastern sky. The pale light drifted across beer cans and cigarette butts as Cyriaque lay awake, relieved to be alone. A soft breeze swayed branches outside his window, a mesmerizing motion with its soft rustle. He dozed.
A shutter slammed against the side of the shack, jerking him awake. The wind stirred the trees into a frenzy, soft moonlight darkening as the clouds churned. Blackness seeped into the spreading shadows, shrouding the night. Scraping noises merged with the wail of the winds, crunching and rustling like a monster on the loose.
“It's nothing,” he said, the inky gloom echoing his words. He sat up and peered into the pitch void around him. “Just trees rubbing.”
The flimsy door slammed open, shattering windows. Rasping filled the room as a creature blacker than the night slithered through the doorway, teeth glistening. Cyriaque leaped from his cot and raced out the back door, unshod feet sinking in mud, wind chilling his bare chest. He dashed down the path, seeking a tree to climb, someplace to hide.
The alligator nipped him again with its great razor teeth. He howled as blood gushed down his leg, searching the path ahead. He needed a tree, one high enough to escape the alligator's jaws, but only tall limbless cypresses and emaciated shrubs encircle him.
He raced onward, realizing too late the alligator had herded him back to its swamp. Steep banks tumbled away below him. That they appeared so abruptly disoriented him. He didn't remember the trail or crossing the felled tree.
Doubling over, he clutched his ribs and breathed deep, the alligator snapping, eager.
Clenching his teeth, he turned to face the monstrous beast. With that woman gone, he had a future, one without incessant chatter and complaining, without a bastard child to rear. A deep growl grumbled within him. This would not be his end.
The alligator paused, as if surprised to see him take a stand, its eyes unwavering atop endless barbed teeth.
He looked over his shoulder at the swamp far below. Panting, he braced himself as the ‘gator took a step closer. It hesitated, then stepped forward again, its huge body shivering just before it charged.
He stood at the edge of the cliff, watching each swish of the mighty tail. The gator rushes, tail whipping and head snapping sideward at his leg. Cyriaque jerked away, and the ‘gator raced past, tumbling down the cliff and into the water below with a tremendous splash.
Trembling, Cyriaque rose, gulping air. He peered into the dark chasm. The monster had disappeared.
He breathed. Its over. At last, safe. He'd bar the door when he got home; that ‘gator would never catch him unawares again. Straightening, knots in his gut loosening, he looked one last time at still waters below.
His stomach lurched, his heart jumping. Glowing in the inky blackness, as if lit from within by a thousand candles, an image emerged. Long hair floated around her head; hips and breasts draped in gauzy cloth, naked stomach bulging.
“No!” He screamed. “You're dead. You damn whore, you're dead.”
The figure lifted her head and stared. She pointed a long slender finger his way, and he crumpled into the slimy mud, covering his face.
“Cyriaque.” The misty figure drifted up from murky depths. “I was the faithful one.”
He rose and staggered back a step. This wasn't possible. He had fed her and her bastard to the beast below.
“You're lying!” He'd never admit that spawn was his. Never. He pressed his lips together, his head throbbing. Torment gagged him as the truth churned deep in his gut.
The apparition rushed by him, shifting and swirling, her mouth open wide. The shrieks deafen him.
He clawed at the slippery cliff, scrambling to get away. A foot slipped out from under him, sending him to the ground, his feet dangling over the edge. A great splash sounded from below. Teeth scraped his toes. He jerked his feet up, hands gripping the vines, and he pulled away. The specter howled again and flew by his head. He dodged, lost his grip and slipped, inch by inch into the abyss below.
He struggled to hang on to the wet vines, scratching at them, scrabbling to cling to something. White teeth glistened below.
“You're a liar!” Deny. He must deny, though the truth gnawed at his heart. The specter's wail filled the night, echoing across the bayou. He couldn't look at it, at the belly protruding with his child.
His grip failed and he shrieked as he slid down the bank into the shadows where two unblinking eyes waited.
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