Swamp Thing 2 - The Return of Swamp Thing, Page 2

  And as if she were reading his mind, she said, “I would. They could. We will.”

  Somewhere from within him he found the last bit of strength he needed.

  He screamed.

  It carried high and long, hanging over the still air of the swamp. Alligators paused momentarily in their swimming; birds looked up but did not chirp. The echo of the scream hung there long after the source had lost the ability to utter a sound.

  From his desk in the lobby, Alan looked up from the magazine he was reading. He paused and then slowly shook his shaggy, black-maned head.

  “I told him he shouldn’t have come here,” he said, and then went back to his article.

  Something . . . was trying to get . . . my attention.

  The fly . . . saw a thousand images . . . of suffering . . . but it was only . . . human suffering . . . not the green.

  I do not . . . care for humans. There is too much pain . . . in humanity.

  Too much . . . hurt.

  My consciousness . . . stirs slightly . . . and a few trees . . . rustle their branches . . . but then I return . . . to the peace . . . of the green.

  I hope there are . . . no further disturbances . . . or I may have to . . . investigate.

  2

  Eunice Berger, a saleslady at Abby’s New Wave Flower Shop, sat in the back office engrossed in watching a six-inch black-and-white image of Geraldo Rivera, his nose pleasingly bandaged, grilling an educator who claimed that watching The New Adventures of Mighty Mouse led to hard drugs. A well-read copy of Roots leaned against the set.

  She half rose out of her seat when she heard the jingle of the bell hanging on the front door, indicating someone had entered, but when a cheery voice chimed out “Hi-ho, Eunice,” she dropped back down.

  Eunice, heavyset and bespectacled, was on a yogurt diet. She had created it herself. She reasoned that one cup of yogurt was slimming, so she was currently in the middle of her fifth cup of yogurt this morning (in the belief that that would be five times as good for her).

  To say Abigail Arcane walked into the cramped back office would be like saying a hurricane stirred up a little dust. Abby did not enter a room. She enveloped it.

  A stunning young blonde, Abby somehow came across like a cheerleader for caffeine. Eunice was of the opinion that Abby had two modes: talk and sleep. Knowing Abby, she probably talked in her sleep as well. Of course, Eunice also knew that if she had half of Abby’s looks, she’d have twice the social life she did.

  If it had been the sixties, Abby would have been the quintessential flower child: this being the eighties, however, it was more stylish to think of her as the quintessential “flake.” This was because her main concerns were with things that “real” people didn’t worry about. The air. Plants. Water. Natural foods. Environmental action. Endangered animals. Far easier to think of Abby as a flake than to dwell on mankind’s environmental shortsightedness. “Real” people had other priorities . . . like antiperspirants and automobiles.

  In her midtwenties, Abby had the kind of figure that made construction workers choke on their whistles. At the moment that figure was clothed in a bizarre striped and flowered skirt-and-leg-warmers combination that looked as if it had been swiped from the wardrobe of Godspell.

  “Great morning, Eunice!” she called. “Isn’t it great?!”

  Eunice didn’t even answer the “Isn’t it great” comment. With Abby it was always safe to assume any question posed was rhetorical. She turned back to the set as Abby began to speak to, and water, the assorted plants dotting their cramped office. They had name tags reading MURRAY, TOMMY, CHUCKY, and ANETTE.

  “Morning, guys,” she said, sounding distinctly chipmunkish. “This shrink I’m seeing, Wong Sing Bernstein, a shrink acupressure guy, right?” She turned to the next plant, splattering water from her watering can. “Guess what he says to me. None of my relationships will ever work until I confront my feelings about my stepfather. You know therapists. Everything’s always related to families and stuff. Like there’s not enough in the world to drive you nuts—you need relatives to really send you over the edge. Of course . . .”—she paused—“if Dr. Bernstein knew who I was talking to, I’d really be committed.”

  She bustled out into the main part of the shop and started chattering away at the other plants as she tended to their needs. At one point a potential client looked in through the window, but once he saw a cheery blond lunatic blathering at the begonias, it seemed a good cue to take business elsewhere.

  “Why can’t men be more like plants?” Abby said. “You can be nice to plants without them getting the wrong idea. Plants don’t tell you they love you, then go back to their old girlfriends. Whoever heard of a plant doing anything mean or nasty? So what do you think?”

  Eunice, in the office, heard with one ear that Abby was pausing, and thought it amusing that only Abby would wait for a reply from a nonhuman source.

  Abby stared eye-to-eye with a sunflower. “I wish you wouldn’t look at me that way.”

  She put down the watering can and stared out the window. She saw her reflection staring back at her, and in this light the ghostly image, in its very unreality, reminded her of the phantomlike recollections of another woman—someone who was beginning to slip away completely into the dimmest recesses of her memory.

  Abby turned away then, but the image stayed with her. She pursed her lips and then looked back at the sunflower.

  “Okay,” she said softly, partially to the flower, partially to that ghost of another woman, “you’re right. I’ll do it. I’m not even going to call. I’m just going to go down there and confront him.” She stood and continued her monologue as she walked toward the back office. “Why should he mess up my life? He sure didn’t care about my mother. He didn’t even give her a funeral . . . or if he did, he didn’t invite me.”

  She strode into the back office and turned toward Eunice. She plunked the watering can down as if to emphasize her words as she said, “Eunice, I’ve got to go straighten out my life.”

  “Hallelujah!” Eunice erupted. “Girl, you are the most screwed-up person I know, and if you, of all people, have actually decided to get your shit together, then there is hope for the future of all humankind.”

  Actually, that was what Eunice intended to say. All Eunice managed to get out was “Ha—” before the good ship Abigail sailed right through her half of the conversation.

  “I know you don’t know what I’m talking about,” said Abby, “but there’s something I’ve got to take care of, and I can’t do it by vegetating here in this store,” and suddenly realizing her poor choice of words, she turned to the plants and said “Sorry about that” before turning back to Eunice and continuing, without taking a breath, “I’m going to see my hermit stepfather.”

  “That lunatic!” blurted out Eunice. “After ten years of telling me what a creep that guy is, how he’s dangerous, how he should be turned into mulch, now you’re going down into his backyard. Honey, if that’s getting your life together, better you should stay disassembled.”

  Actually, that’s what Eunice intended to say. This time she got as far as “That lu—” before Abby jumped in yet again.

  “No, don’t try to talk me out of it. Now, I’m leaving you in charge of my friends,” and she waved at the plants. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “You’re just waltzing off, just like that? That’s not fair! You can’t just vanish and leave me short handed without at least warning me.”

  Naturally that’s what Eunice intended to say. This time she didn’t even bother to open her mouth. She just stared at the TV.

  “I’ll call as soon as I can,” said Abby as she pulled on her wrap. “Keep them watered! And talk to them. They like you.” She paused and then, bending over, shouted in Eunice’s ear. “Talk to them! Here.” She handed Eunice the watering can. “Leave the TV on. They love the Mets. And that cop who used to be in space, T.J. what’s-his-name.” She caressed the plants lovingly and said, “Good
-bye, babies.”

  She barreled out of the store, and Eunice settled back to watch the rest of Geraldo and to enjoy the peace and quiet.

  She would never see Abby again.

  3

  Think of the swamp as if it is a body. Its lungs provided by the great, lush trees and sinewy vines stretching around and through the system. Its heart and mind are deep within the green, the moist loam and dirt, teeming with thousands of microorganisms. Its blood is the water, water filled with life, water thick and cold yet somehow with an undercurrent of throbbing heat.

  The lungs. The heart and mind. The blood.

  Five foreign organisms had now entered the blood, and it coagulated around them, inspecting them, probing them . . .

  The five invaders had names: Harry Dugan, Bob Bissette, Morty Totleben, Chuck Veitch, and Dave Wrightson. Back in the office, in the safe, clean treasury department office, they had even had individual characteristics. Bob was tall and muscular, the immediate supervisor with sleeves usually rolled up, tie loosened, who started off each day with the exact same words: “It’s show time.” Harry, his second-in-command, was his physical opposite—shorter, thin, and bespectacled, zealously addicted to his two cups of morning coffee.

  Morty was the department’s best agent, and also the office rake. Word had gotten around about him, yet somehow there always seemed to be a new notch on his gun. Chuck, balding and thin, was the clock-watcher, rarely doing more than he had to but doing what he did with precise efficiency. Dave considered himself to be intellectually the superior of the group, and always wore a vest in the office since he said it indicated sincerity (and, as George Burns had said of acting, once you can fake sincerity, you got it made). He rarely, if ever, spoke, preferring to communicate his thoughts with withering glances.

  Each of them had been individuals then, each with his own look and style, hopes and goals. But here, knee-deep in the blood of the swamp, they combined into one formless invading mass. All of them wore heavy, camouflage hunters’ outfits, hats pulled down low around their ears (except for Morty’s rather cheery fisherman’s cap, which was perched jauntily to one side).

  Wading through the blood, you lost your distinctiveness. You lost your uniqueness. If you weren’t careful, you also lost your life.

  It had seemed like such a good plan last Wednesday during their weekly poker game. Life was slow in the New Orleans office. All of them were dissatisfied with the pace of their individual careers. They needed to do something that showed initiative, that showed imagination, and that would let them kick some ass while they were at it to make up for the day-on-unending-day of involvement in two-bit operations.

  The TV had been tuned in in the background to some old film they were barely paying attention to. Something about hillbillies or somesuch, and then all of a sudden shooting started in the program. They turned as one to watch as the hillbilly patriarch started shouting “Revenooers! Thar after the still! Run!”

  The five drinking buddies had looked at one another then and grinned. “We’re ‘revenooers,’ ” Bob had said, in what can easily be classified as “famous last words.”

  “I think it’s time to get out of the office and into the field,” said Harry. “Y’know . . . there’s a still somewhere in Suicide Swamp we’ve never been able to find. Two hick morons, Clyde and Gurdell, run it. Love to nail their asses.”

  And so Operation “Nail Their Asses” had been thrown into motion. A week later, armed with their courage, their wits, M16s, and six-packs of Coors back in the Land-Rover, the five “revenooers” had entered the bloodstream of the swamp with great expectations and visions of promotions.

  Fifteen minutes into the expedition the disenchantment had set in.

  The only sounds to be heard were the ones they themselves made. They slogged through the brackish water, the slime welcoming them to a place that was undoubtedly the rough draft for hell.

  They stopped to get their bearings, swinging their powerful flashlights around and lighting on nothing except their own squinting faces, which were already covered with dirt and grime. Dave wiped an arm across his face in a vain attempt to clean it off and only managed to rearrange the filth that was already there.

  Harry looked down nervously at the water that was waist deep on him. His high rubber boots were doing him not a bit of good as he felt the soggy mud beginning to accumulate around his feet. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  At the head of the group, Bob gestured and pointed, and the others saw he was indicating a small mossy island just ahead of them in the bog. It seemed a comparative oasis in a desert of bilge.

  They made for it, hopes buoyed by the thought of getting out of this garbage for even a few minutes. One by one they clambered up onto the island. Harry was the last one up, but as he tried to climb up he lost his footing and fell backward into the muck.

  “Damn!” he snarled. “Damn damn damn!”

  He tried to haul himself up but succeeded only in getting himself wetter. The other men glanced at one another, trying to decide whether they should do the humane thing and help him out, or enjoy a few more moments of amusement at his expense.

  While they were deciding, Harry continued to rant, “Bugs! Snakes, ’gators. I hate this place! I’m tired of this slimy crap!”

  As one, the men decided on the latter course of action and snickered at Harry’s frustration. Trying to get his footing, Harry grumbled, “Go ahead, guys . . . yuk it up.”

  Taking pity on his second-in-command, Bob extended a hand. “Here,” he said. “Grab hold and stop your griping.”

  Feeling more grateful than he wanted to show, Harry took it and staggered onto the comparative safety of the island. “Sheez . . . how the hell can I be so hot and cold at the same time?”

  “Schizoid metabolism?” offered Morty.

  Harry snorted at the lame attempt at humor while Bob managed to fish out Harry’s glasses and started to wipe them off. “Whose idea was this, anyway?” Harry demanded.

  “If memory serves,” replied Bob, holding the glasses up to the small amount of moonlight available, “I think it was you who said, and I quote, ‘I think it’s time to get out of the office and into the field.’ End quote.”

  “I said that?”

  Bob replaced Harry’s glasses on his face and patted his cheek. “Well, welcome to the field. Now, playtime’s over. Let’s find that still. Morty, take the point.”

  Reluctantly Morty complied and stepped back into the water, muttering “Why me?”

  Bob followed directly behind him, followed by Chuck, Dave, and Harry, to whom Dave turned and said tersely, “This time take up the rear instead of falling on yours.”

  Harry grimaced and, ignoring the exchange, Chuck said in a voice he thought was too soft for Bob to hear, “Take the point? Where does he get this crap?”

  In the silence of the swamp, however, his voice carried, and Bob replied without looking, “Too many John Wayne flicks.”

  Harry paused only a moment to catch his breath, and that was when he heard a splash behind him. He wasn’t sure where it had come from. It seemed to echo and re-echo all around him. He swung his flashlight around quickly, trying to discern where it had originated. His M16 was cocked and ready.

  Nothing. The black mass of water seemed to suck the light in greedily, giving back no indication of what might lie beneath its surface.

  He played the flashlight about a bit longer, then turned and headed toward his friends, who seemed intent on leaving him behind.

  “Hey, guys,” he called. “Guys!”

  The moment he had turned away, the swamp’s blood bubbled.

  An Antibody rose slowly, peering through mad eyes at the departing mass of invaders.

  The blood. Blood so thick with life, blood as red as the gleaming eyes of the Antibody.

  The Antibody sank back into the blood as Harry’s voice could be heard in the distance, shouting “Wait up, guys!”

  There is . . . something in the swamp . . . something
human . . . followed by something . . . inhuman.

  The inhuman . . . has thoughts and emotions . . . laid bare and evil. It will kill the humans.

  But that is of . . . no concern to me. The bodies of the humans . . . will merely serve . . . to feed the swamp . . . and I am . . . the swamp . . . so why . . . should it matter.

  The five men stopped short of the chain-link fence barring their progress. At first there was the brief hope that perhaps this was a fence created by the still owners, but Bob’s flashlight played across a sign miraculously devoid of the muck that seemed to grow on anything that stood still for more than thirty seconds in the swamp.

  The sign read: ARCANE CORPORATION, NO TRESPASSING.

  An old line from a cartoon flittered through Harry’s mind, Bugs Bunny’s voice saying “I knew I shoulda made that right toin at Albequerque.”

  “Something tells me,” Morty said slowly, “we’re not gonna find that still around here.”

  Harry spoke up. “I told you we (shoulda made that right toin at Albequerque) took a wrong turn at that last bog.”

  Bob turned his light on his map. Naturally the still wasn’t marked on it, and it wasn’t even a hundred percent accurate as a guide, but he had thought it enough to keep them from getting lost. So, okay. He’d thought wrong. Just because they worked for the federal government, didn’t mean they had to make a federal case out of it. “Can it, Dugan,” he said in irritation to Harry. “I thought for sure we were headed in the right direction.”

  “You thought!” Chuck now said. “You stupid . . . if you could think, we wouldn’t be here.”

  Bob shot him a glance indicating jobs were on the line, but he realized in the dimness Chuck couldn’t see it, and besides, it seemed as if they had been wandering about in this mass for hours. It was natural for Chuck to be getting high-strung. “Take it easy, Chuck,” he said, trying to sound mollifying.

  But Chuck wasn’t interested in being mollified. “No! Why couldn’t we nab these moonshiners during the day, huh?”