Ghost of the Swamp: Subwoofers, #2

Chapter One

Shot

Is this gonna be a day trip, Pud?  Or were you planning on making a weekend of it?

Patrick Davies, known to his buddies as Pud, glanced over where Art stood by the airboat he'd been working on. The man was wiping grease from his hands with a red oil cloth and giving him a big grin.

I thought I'd go over to Bayrick's Bayou. The oak trees should be shedding a nice crop of acorns this time of year.

The big man chuckled. Got a hankering for some fresh and crunchy acorn butter, eh?

And some sassafras bark. Thought I'd brew a cup of tea while I was at it.

Art grinned. Sounds like a plan. I'll let Brew know he can leave your supper growing in the back yard. Hey, don't forget to take your phone.

Pud held it up for the man to see.

Art gave a little wave goodbye. You be careful while you're away.

Pud nodded. Aren't I always?

Throwing the rag down on one of the airboat's seat, the big guy began walking up the slight incline toward the lodge. Pud turned and continued toward the office. More specifically, the narrow building adjacent to it. The hunters who came to Bag It and Tag It Excursions believed the small wood building next to the company office was a storage shed. Probably because he and the other guys who ran the business referred to it as such.

Opening the side door, Pud entered the changing area and closed the latch behind him. Shedding his clothing, he carefully folded and placed his pants and shirt on top of his shoes inside the all-weather locker. Next, he secured the combination phone and walkie talkie inside its leather case looped onto his belt. Once he fastened the buckle so that it wouldn't slip open, he drew the belt over his head, letting it dangle against his chest.

His transformation began with his head and neck. The face elongated, and a pair of antlers sprouted from his skull. He felt his throat thicken, taking away his ability to speak. But his eyesight grew keener, as did his sense of smell and hearing.

His body changed next, followed by his arms and legs. Within a matter of seconds, Pud dropped to all fours on the gravel covered ground and lifted his face to nudge the inner latch to the door facing the swamp. Slowly, he exited the side building, pausing only long enough to kick the door shut with his hind hoof before taking off into the thick growth.

As much as he loved his new life as a member of the squad, he loved the marsh and swamplands more. He belonged here. His kind thrived amid the high grasses, although he believed there were so few of his kind left in the world.

Pud stopped to sniff the air, alert to anything that may be dangerous, or not, and mentally smiled to himself. There was little here that could harm him, as long as he avoided the alligators and their nesting grounds. Likewise, any local wildlife who might try to attack him could be dissuaded after being jabbed with his sharp antlers. And if that wasn't enough to deter them, his hooves were capable of inflicting major pain. Short of a hunting rifle or well-placed arrow sent by man, there was almost nothing in nature that could bring down a mature red deer buck.

Several hundred yards from the hunting lodge, the trees cleared somewhat. Pud took off through the woods, galloping at full speed, reveling in the pull of his muscles. Energy poured into his bloodstream, allowing him to leap and bound over fallen trees and dodge tangled thickets. With every spring, the belt hanging around his neck lifted momentarily in freefall, then slapped against his wide chest as it came down.

He raced for several hundred yards, giving the swamp a wide margin as the wind tugged at his rack. Atop a small rise, he finally stopped to catch his breath and survey the area. Bayrick's Bayou was a good five miles from the lodge, and located in one of the densest sections of the marsh. But it provided the perfect refuge. Quiet. Secluded. A place where he could open his soul and allow nature to cleanse it of all the darkness that continued to infest it. He knew it would take a while for the memories, those horrors he'd endured, to dissipate. Although he had no reason to believe he'd ever completely be rid of them, at least he hoped they could be laid to rest to where every little unknown sound or movement no longer felt threatening.

Something skittered nearby. He sniffed, and if he was capable of smiling, he would have. The nutria wasn't afraid of him. More likely it was searching for something to eat.

Speaking of eating...

Jumping off the slight tumble of rocks, he moved with a slower gait toward the section of land where the large strand of oak trees were located. He'd told the others about the place, but he'd never taken them there. Neither had he given them the coordinates, figuring the GPS on his phone would provide them with the information the guys would need if he ever failed to return to the lodge.

In the distance, the dull roar of a bull alligator echoed from the edge of the marsh. It wasn't mating season for the creatures, but unfortunately it was for deer. For all deer, including shape shifters like himself. Although he didn't feel the sexual call as much when he was human, he definitely was affected when he reverted to his other form. His inhuman form. The need was like a hard, internal itch that he couldn't scratch, even if he wanted to. Even if he found a woman who was willing to provide him with the kind of relief required to temper the rutting urge.

He shook his enormous head, rattling the overhead branches with his wide rack. The phone dangling on the belt looped around his neck clicked a few times, but no one spoke. As far as he knew, everyone else was at headquarters, so there was no need to call. But sooner or later he knew someone would try to contact him, to make sure he was all right if he didn't report in first.

A gust of wind threw an armful of leaves into his face. The smell of earthy rot and decay smacked him in the face, and he huffed. Giving a little back kick with his rear legs, he continued toward his destination and the promise of some very delicious acorns. Normally, his human body wouldn't be able to tolerate eating many of the flowers and plants that he consumed while in this form. It was one of the unexplainable oddities that he'd learned when he was old enough to understand. But, like his animal counterpart, he tended to lean toward a similar kind of diet of greens, vegetables, and fruits. His ex-military buddies liked to tease him about being a vegetarian, but they knew he was just following the needs of his genetic makeup, the same as they.

He exited a strand of sweet gum and black gum trees, into another small clearing. The grove of oak wasn't too much farther.

Lowering his nose to sniff the dry grass, his long tongue wrapped around a patch and pulled it from the ground. Munching contentedly, he started walking out of the open area when he heard the gunshot. Instinctively, he leaped backwards.

The bullet grazed the lower part of his neck and slammed into his chest. Pure animalistic survival mode kicked in, and he took off in a blind rush. Another shot sounded in the still air, but this time the bullet struck the dirt a micro-second behind him. He was barely aware that bits and pieces of debris had flown into his face as he dove for the safety of cover.

He continued to run until he felt his legs giving way. Breathing was like pulling fiery acid into his lungs. Reaching the tree line, Pud struggled to put as much distance between himself and the poacher as more hot, numbing pain overwhelmed him. He could feel himself beginning to revert to his human appearance as he lost his grip on his animal form. He also knew he was quickly losing consciousness. His world focused on finding a place where he'd be safe. A place where he could hide in case whoever shot him tried to search for him.

He rose onto his two legs, unaware that the change was complete. The overhanging branches no longer tugged at his antlers, restraining his progress. With the permeating chill deadening his bare skin, he barely managed to crawl underneath a heap of tangled scrub and deadfall when he collapsed and passed out.

* * *

The man emerged from the brush and scanned the area. He knew he'd hit the deer. Got it right in the upper chest or neck. He'd swear to it. But somehow the damn thing had managed to run off.

He searched the ground for signs of blood, but all he could find were a couple pieces of plastic. He'd noticed the animal had been wearing some sort of collar, but it didn't matter. If it was somebody's family pet, the thing had probably escaped.

Too bad, so sad, he muttered. It's a dead pet now. Fuck. We coulda fed off that deer for at least a week.

Angrily, he kicked a piece of wood and tried one last time to find which way the animal had gone, hoping to come across the carcass before the animals got to it. After another twenty minutes of futile searching, he cursed again and gave up. Turning his back