Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LXXXIV. Uncleʼs Mercy

3
Scott
New Orleans, Louisiana
Manchac Swap
October 21st, 2014
Time: 2:30 AM
_____________________________

       Two bullets.

     Footsteps in muddy water. Sweat was his second skin, his first beinʼ fear, and he couldn't stop running. The wind was a knife, a whip, pushing back – and with every pulverizing slap, he pushed past the garish curtains of metal rain and ran. The rocks and rope of the vined trees lashed at his feet, dirt thick as it cried between his toes, his ankles. The sky was a bruise, deep and black and dangerous, and as he ran – the ferocity of the October storm began rolling in. Slicing into his back and neck, spurting blood in long, flowing, beautiful arcs of artisanʼs blood – and when he scraped his flesh against the banks of the swamp, his son gurgled against his chest. Crushed under the weight of Scottʼs chest, Gabrielʼs throat filled with water and blood – cold, acidic, bitter as it spilled out of his throat.

     "Hang in there, lilʼ man," Scott breathed, shaking in his bones, shivering underneath a torn, blood-ridden dress shirt and dirt-smeared, damp pants. Gabriel coughed again, belching all over him.

    "Hang in there, bud," Scott whispered, panicking, kissing his crown as he squeezed so tightly he swore he almost broke his nose and Gabeʼs body doing it.

     "Hang in there."

     One bullet.

     She cackled as Scottʼs bullets snapped through the night sky in an angry howl. Slipping into the water, the bog makin' his skin crawl, Scott searched furiously. Trembling, quaking, from head-to-toe. Gabriel continued to gasp and gurgle in his grasp, the wind continued to howl, and the leaves of the canopies sprayed moss and water his way. Everything was black, black, black – and as Scottʼs chest heaved against the gusts of angry air, the evergreen mangroves clinging to the trees that hovered above him, the cypress and timber crashed into the swamp. The gators whined. Bodies swelled up to the surface. Wraiths circling him, crusted in ice, splashing his face. Dismembered torsos drained of blood, intestines tucked into the assholes of the victims. Gabriel wheezed in his clutch, squeezing his body and expelling whatever was left inside.

      "Hold on, lilʼ man," Scott breathed, more desperately. "Please, Gabe, please."

       Bullseye.

       She wore webbed skin; the woman in black. Skin that was swollen, and pink, and melting as it clung to her. The skeleton he saw was deformed. She walked on all fours like a lizard, slow and steady. She stretched across the bayou on all fours, mouth unhinging from her jaw as she approached Scott, armor-plated and feral. Her crooked razor teeth widened, her long fingers and fingernails hooked around the dunes of the swamp banks – sharp, barbed talons making the woman in black elongate her body. When she moved, the bayouʼs currents grew more violent, more ravenous, working at godspeed and making Gabriel choke even faster. Scott watched her forehead swallow the bullet, and plucked a silver knife from his pocket.

     "Stay the f*ck back," Scott snarled. "You move a step closer and Iʼll make your corpse my f*ckinʼ dinner."

     He began chanting.

     "Exorcizamus te, omnis immunde spiritus, omni satanica potestas, omnis..."

      She continued cackling. Laughing in a way that resonated. Her voice sounded like two voices meshed together, a Tibetan throat song coming to life, and as she did – the woods bled. He saw bodies, the ghosts of bodies, animated before him. The gators swallowed their heads whole, blood convulsing out of their throats, baptizing his and Gabrielʼs face. Mud caked his arms as he plunged deeper into the bayou, but she kept coming – the gators staking him impaling him, pulling him under as they sank their fangs into his teeth.