The devastation in the city showed how badly we had been affected by the storm. But spare a thought for the people of Bayou. While we paddled around our flooded streets or waded through our damaged homes and businesses, at least our lives were never in any real danger. Bayou folk lost everything. In some places the water had reached as high as the roof of their—in the main—rundown and dilapidated shacks. They had started with nothing, and by the end of the first day of the storm, they had even more of it.
Now rumors were emerging of a new horror lurking in the bayou: a creature so terrifying that people had been driven mad just thinking of it. Bayou folk tend to score rather low on the credibility scale: city-dwellers will wink and tap their heads, and mutter of “moonshine” and “inbreeding.” There was something in this tale, however, that had the ring of truth. Perhaps it was all those hapless refugees with their white faces and staring eyes: zombies in all but name. Perhaps it was because the tales of zombie infestation, dismissed with derision in the saloons and salons of the city, had turned out to be true. Or perhaps it was just a reporter’s nose for news. In any event, this reporter determined to investigate.
The ferry had been out of service since the start of the bad weather, so your intrepid reporter bravely poled her pirogue down to Bayou, not without many glances back at the city, where lights still burned in upper windows. As I steered into the flooded land I reflected that even on the sunniest day, there was something that lurked behind Bayou’s beauty: some strange, dark magic. Today, there was nothing beautiful about my surroundings—bloated animal carcasses floated past my pirogue, colliding with chairs, tables, and other items of cherished furniture, now lost forever. The thing that most struck me was the absence of noise. The swamp is usually alive with the cries of birds, frogs, and crickets, the droning of insects and the barking of dogs. The sounds of jazz and drunken singing drift from every juke joint. Now all was still; even the incessant rain and the howling wind was muffled by the live oaks and spanish moss and the dark, oily water. The splashing of my paddle seemed unnaturally loud, and I dipped it as slowly and quietly as I could.
As I moved deeper into the wilderness, I had a sense of being watched. It was not zombies—however fearsome, they are wholly lacking in subtlety and announce their presence by loud growls. It was something … alien. I took a long gulp of the holy water I had purloined from Our Lady of Bourbon Street and wished I had laced it with something stronger. I had an overwhelming desire to turn around and paddle back to the safety of New Toulouse, but they didn’t call me Fearless Frannie for nothing (NB: they have never called me Fearless Frannie, but I’m hoping this article will change that), so I forged ahead.
I was beginning to think that after all this had been a wasted journey when a vigorous stroke of my paddle propelled my craft into a clearing. A break in the clouds above allowed the dreary moon to illuminate the scene. The sight that met my eyes was too horrible to describe, but I had the presence of mind to grab my camera and take a picture of the … thing. I then knew no more until I woke up in this nice, white bed.
Judge for yourself—if you dare. The camera cannot lie.
Francesca Alva, Girl Reporter
Francesca Alva is the proprietress of the Green-eyed Fairy and strongly refutes any suggestion that she sells watered-down liquor. She is writing this from her padded cell in the New Toulouse Insane Asylum, where she is convalescing.