Pierce gave him a chin lift in greeting. “Hey, Mo.”
“Hey, Pierce. Got everything you asked for.” Mo dropped the tailgate and lifted the cover on the truck bed. “Flatboats are already in the water. Twenty-footers, gassed up and ready.” He jerked a thumb behind him where two low shapes rested at the edge of the gravel. “I added the special compartments you wanted, too.” He thrust a box at Pierce who in turn passed it to Brian. “These are the good automatic life vests that inflate when you hit the water. Easier to move in. Almost like wearing a pair of suspenders. Got a regular one for the puppy, though.”
“Good deal. And the sampling devices?”
Mo flipped open a long case and pulled out two very odd-looking rifles. “Modified a couple of the taggers marine biologists use to get biopsies from whales and sharks. Shoot your beasties and then pull the line back. Tissue sample’ll be in the dart. I stuck plenty of extra darts in the case.”
Marcus examined one of the taggers. “Will these penetrate alligator hide? I imagine it’s way tougher than whale skin.”
“Uh huh, and I thought of that,” Mo said with a touch of pride. “I worked up sharper darts, then tested it on the gator who hangs out in the canal behind my house.” He chuckled. “He didn’t like it none, but I got a sample.”
Pierce nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent work as always, Mo.”
While Rosario adjusted the doggy life vest for Marla, the rest of us loaded the boats. In addition to gear and food, each boat had a satellite GPS, a cooler of brain packets labeled “protein gel,” and a gator tagger and darts—stowed in a cleverly hidden compartment of Mo’s design. And, of course, weapons: a 12-gauge shotgun and two Remington Model 700 .308 bolt-action rifles per boat, as well as a number of handguns concealed beneath clothing. Even I had a sweet little Glock .380 in an ankle holster, both on loan from Marcus.
“I’m sure I don’t need to warn everyone to be on their toes,” Pierce said once we were ready. “But I’m going to anyway. Not only are we looking for a body and alligators who might be more aggressive than usual, but we also need to keep an eye out for search and rescue teams, and Wildlife and Fisheries agents. Our radios are tuned to the Sheriff’s Office frequencies, and with luck that’ll give us an idea where they are. We have over an hour until civil twilight, so first we’re going to where Angel finished off shambler-Judd, locate and sample as many alligators as possible, then head to the accident site for first light. Yes, Angel?”
I lowered my hand. “Gator season has been over for months, and these boats don’t exactly have a lot of storage space. How are we supposed to hide a zombie-gator if we find one?”
“We won’t,” Marcus put in before Pierce could reply. “Hide one, that is. Since we’re not sure if infected alligators appear any different than uninfected ones, Dr. Nikas suggested we take tissue samples from as many alligators as we can. But if we have clear indication an alligator is infected, we’ll dispatch it and remove the brain.”
“Probably safest,” I agreed with a sigh. I felt oddly sorry for the poor zombie-gator, but it helped knowing Dr. Nikas was on board with the plan.
“Let’s get moving,” Marcus said. “Angel, Rosario, and Marla will be with me. Rachel, Brian, and Pierce will take the other boat.”
I clipped on the life vest and climbed into the indicated boat, masking a smile at the brief look of annoyance on Pierce’s face. He’d probably wanted the dog in his boat, but he could hardly override Marcus without raising questions. Ha! Suck it!
Marcus moved to the rear and started the motor, shattering the velvety peace. Rosario and an eager Marla took the front, while I settled in the middle.
Mo untied the lines then gave us a cheery wave and a “Happy hunting!” I returned his wave with a chipper one of my own, and then we were off, with Pierce and the others a short distance behind.
Though the boats had spotlights, Marcus kept our pace slow—a decision I heartily approved of. Any one of the numerous submerged obstacles in the marsh could end this mission before it even began. Since it was too dark to see much beyond the spotlit area, I sat back and watched the sky progress to deep indigo. The last time I’d seen it that color was after I spent a hellish night in this very swamp. I crossed my fingers that today’s mission would turn out a whole lot better.
Once the waterway widened a bit, Pierce’s boat pulled alongside us. The indigo sky shifted to a dark purple, with a handful of stars standing their ground against the approaching dawn. The trees remained little more than black shadows, but one in particular drew my attention.
“I think that’s the bald eagle nest,” I said, pointing. “It’s one of the landmarks I used to find my way out of the swamp. We should be getting close to where I finished off Judd.”
Pierce nodded sharply. “Let’s switch to the trolling motors. Rachel and Angel, get the taggers out and ready.”
But twenty minutes of slow patrols produced exactly zero hyper-aggressive alligators. Twice I caught sight of eyes shining red in the spotlights, but we couldn’t get close enough for the tagger to be effective. And though Marla seemed to be having the time of her life sniffing the breeze and watching wildlife, she gave no indication she detected shambler-scent. I thought for sure Pierce would be frustrated by our lack of progress, but his face remained impassive as he scanned the water.
“So much for hyper-aggressive gators,” I grumbled.
“Maybe they’re shy hyper-aggressive gators,” Rosario said.
Pierce flipped a cooler open. “Well, we need samples from any gators we can find, so let’s chum the waters.” He hauled out a bag of bloody beef lung chunks and tossed several overboard.
The floating bait lured two alligators close enough to be darted, but no others found the lungs so enticing as to risk getting jabbed.
“Time to start working our way east,” Marcus said after a glance at his watch. “We’ll see if we can lure any others along the way.”
Lavender and orange painted the heavens, and apparently lulled the alligators into a blissfully trusting mood. By the time we crossed Bayou Cher and the Tribe property line—marked with prominent PRIVATE PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING signs—I’d managed to get samples from seven alligators, and Rachel had edged ahead with eight.
Tree frogs chirruped and a bullfrog boomed in the distance, while birds hidden in the cypress and scrub sang their hearts out to the impending dawn.
Yet still no sign of anything that might be a zombie-gator.
As I reached for my water bottle, movement from the other boat caught my eye. Rachel was lowering a 35mm camera, soft smile on her face as she gazed at the brilliant pre-dawn display. The smile vanished when she saw me watching.
“Too pretty not to capture it,” she said with a small, defensive shrug.
“Yeah, it’s gorgeous,” I replied then pulled a face. “I can’t take decent pictures.”
She ignored me as she took several more shots. I looked away, silently cursing myself for giving her more ammunition for insults.
Pierce lifted his head. “Boat. Stow the taggers.”
As if choreographed, Rachel and I slipped the taggers into their hidden compartments, then sat and acted natural.
The sound of an engine grew louder, and a sleek white patrol boat with a dark green stripe rounded the curve up ahead.
“Crap. It’s Wildlife and Fisheries,” Marcus muttered, though he kept a pleasant expression on his face.
Any hopes they’d continue on past died as the boat slowed. One agent stood near the front of the boat, a deeply tanned man with sun-bleached hair cropped short. The second, a slim, black woman who looked younger than me, worked the wheel and throttle with a deft touch. She eased the boat to within a few feet and idled the engine.
The male agent had “Z. Carbo” stitched above his left front pocket. To calm my nerves, I tried to guess what the Z stood for. Zeus? Zuul? Zebulon?
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“Mornin’, folks,” Agent Z. Carbo said with a friendly but official smile. His eyes flicked over both boats, most likely counting people and life jackets, and taking careful note of the weapons. “What’re y’all hunting today?”
“Wild hogs,” Pierce drawled with a shockingly convincing redneck accent. He turned and spat over the side of the boat, even though he didn’t have any dip in his mouth. “And coyotes,” he added, pronouncing it to rhyme with “pie-oats,” just like god intended. “Hogs’re tearing up my fields, and the coyotes done kilt two of my barn cats.”
Agent Carbo nodded. “Uh huh, they’re a real problem this year. And don’t forget the boat has to be at a full stop before you shoot.” He paused as if trying to get a point across. “Y’all mind showing me your permits?”
It was nicely asked but an order all the same. I dug my permit out of my vest pocket and handed it over along with everyone else.
Except Rachel.
Shit. Naomi had a lifetime pass, so Marcus hadn’t bought a permit for her. And apparently no one thought of that when Rachel replaced her.
The agent handed the permits back then rested that very official smile on Rachel. “Ma’am, if you’re going to hunt, you need a permit.”
To my utter shock, Rachel gave an airhead-worthy scoff and made an ew face at the guns. “I canNOT stand hunting,” she announced, packing the words with enough vocal fry to rival a Kardashian. “I’m only here because my boyfriend wanted me to come along.” She simpered over at Pierce.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from cracking up. Pierce affected a put-upon expression and heaved a sigh. “Yeah, you don’t have t’worry about her downing a hog. I ain’t never seen her touch a gun unless it shot t-shirts.” He grinned up at the agent. “She used t’be a cheerleader. Ain’t she cute?”
Agent Carbo pursed his lips. “That sure is interesting. See, you may not realize it, but this waterway curves back on itself, and a little while ago, my partner and I were taking a break not even a hundred yards away from y’all.”
My gaze went to the spit of land, and my heart sank. The grass was tall but not terribly thick. How much had they seen?
“Thing is,” he continued, “I could’ve sworn I saw this former cheerleader here standing up—while the boat was in motion, mind you—and aiming at something on the bank.”
“It was a camera!” I blurted, thinking fast. If they’d seen us from around the bend, Rachel would have been facing away from them with the tagger. “She likes taking pictures.”
Rachel seized her camera and held it up. “It’s true!” To my amazement, her lower lip trembled, and her eyes welled with honest-to-god tears. “It wasn’t a gun,” she said with an utterly believable quaver in her voice. “I promise.”
The agent’s expression softened. “All right, sweetheart. You don’t need to cry. It’s okay. But if y’ever change your mind and want to take a shot at something, you gotta get you a permit, y’hear?”
She sniffled and nodded. “Ok-kay.”
Agent Carbo returned his attention to the rest of us. “You folks should also be aware that search and rescue is still looking for the body of a man who went missing and is presumed drowned,” he said in a grave tone. “Y’all are several miles from where they’re searching, but I’d hate for these pretty ladies to get themselves a bad fright.”
Somehow I managed to not roll my eyes and instead did my best to look suitably anxious about the possibility of encountering a dead body. Oh, the horror.
“Where are you searching?” Marcus asked. “I mean, so we know to avoid it.”
“Piney Waters area,” the agent replied. “If you stay south and west, you should be fine. And best not to do any swimming either. Alligators have been known to bite people who get close to their nests.” He offered Rachel and me a nod of apology for offending our delicate sensibilities with the topic of wildlife acting wild, then he gave his partner the thumbs up. She nudged the throttle, and they motored away.
“That’s good news for us,” Marcus said once the agents were well out of earshot. “They still haven’t twigged to the other possible location.”
“Then let’s get moving before they do,” Pierce growled.
Chapter 9
Since the encounter with Wildlife and Fisheries had been such a close call, we all agreed the taggers would remain in their hiding places until needed. No sense tempting fate.
Of course that meant I had nothing to do now except stare at the scenery.
Grass. Water. Trees. Bug. Frog. Water. Algae. Fish. Bug. Grass. Trees. Water. Grass.
I swiped Marcus’s map from beside his seat then scrutinized the route he’d marked. “Do any of these waterways have names? Besides the bayous, of course.”
“I don’t know of anything official,” Marcus replied. “That’s why I have this.” He lifted the satellite GPS.
“Then I’m naming them. We’re currently on Medium Squiggle. Next we cross Blob to Small Squiggle and then we hang a left onto Yet Another Squiggle and finally reach Biggish Squiggle.”
“Biggish Squiggle is Pauvre Bayou,” Marcus pointed out.
“It’s a terrible name. Pauvre means poor. Biggish Squiggle has much more character.”
“I can’t think of a single counter-argument to that.”
We picked up a bit of speed as we crossed the patch of open water known as Blob. In the other boat, Brian had the sheriff’s office radio pressed to his ear, and Rachel snapped more pictures. Rosario sat with his arm draped around Marla while he scanned the area.
I glanced at Marcus. “How much longer?”
“Fifteen minutes, tops. We’ll get there a bit after sunup.” He glanced down at the GPS. “And in another hundred feet we’re going to take Small Squiggle, so keep your eyes peeled.”
But Small Squiggle turned out to be Shitty Squiggle. We were barely a quarter of the way through when the engine on Pierce’s boat stopped.
“Hydrilla,” Brian said through clenched teeth as he helped Pierce hack the snaky weeds off the prop. “It’s an invasive. Not too many things here eat it, so it grows out of control and clogs up the water.” He tipped his head to the left where tiny white flowers dotted an expanse of green. “And that’s alligator weed. Those big mats block the sun. Kills off native fish and screws up water quality.”
Pierce muttered something filthy and continued yanking at weeds until the prop was clear.
Five minutes later it was me and Marcus’s turn to hack and curse.
“The whole channel is filled with this shit,” Pierce fumed. “Is there any way around?”
Marcus gave a sharp head shake. “It would take twice as long. Another quarter mile and we’ll be in clearer water.”
“We’ll burn out the motors if we keep this up,” Pierce said. “Best break out the paddles.”
“Paddle,” Brian said, holding one aloft. “We only have one.”
“Same here,” I said after a bit of rummaging. “To be fair, I don’t think they’re required in this kind of boat.”
Pierce looked anything but mollified by that bit of helpful info.
With only one paddle per boat, it was slow going, with plenty of splashing and switching from one side to the other. Pierce cursed nonstop, while Marla stood with her front paws on the bow, tongue lolling and big doggy grin on her face as she sniffed the air.
By the time we propelled ourselves out of the weed-choked channel and into Yet Another Squiggle, we’d lost over half an hour, and the sun had cleared the trees. I put the paddle away while Marcus and Pierce started the trolling motors. Smooth, steady, and quiet.
I dug sunscreen out of the gear bag and slathered it on.
Rosario gave me a puzzled look. “Zombies get sunburn?”
“Yup,” I said, making sure to get my ears and the back of my neck. “The parasite’ll heal any damage, but I’m so stupi
d pale it would be a criminal waste of brains.”
He chuckled. “I’m glad I don’t have to rely on brains.”
After several more minutes, Marcus cut the motor and signaled Pierce to do the same. “See those twin pines up and to the right? This waterway joins Pauvre Bayou there.”
A hundred yards ahead, the two pines stood at the end of the strip of brushy land that ran alongside us, the final divider between Yet Another Squiggle and the larger bayou. I looked from the map to the brush and the hint of water beyond. “Not far to go now, right?”
“We’ll head past the pines then turn downstream on the bayou. The hunters’ boat was found about fifty yards further on. Once we get there we’ll—” He held up a hand for silence.
A breeze riffled the surface of the water, bringing with it a shout of “Fuck! Watch what you’re doing!” accompanied by heavy thumping.
“That’s coming from near the accident site,” Marcus said, jaw tight. “At least the wind is in our favor.”
As if in agreement, Marla tensed then sat.
Rosario straightened. “She’s indicating.”
I craned my neck to peer without success through the thick brush. “What’s she got?”
“Funky zombie or regular decomp. No way to know yet.”
Pierce jerked his head to the right. “Let’s hug the bank along the spit. There’s enough cover to shield us, and we can get in position to see who’s over there.”
Using the paddles, we made our way quietly over then let the current pull the boats along. The underbrush thinned to tall grass and scattered scrub as the spit narrowed. When we were a dozen yards from the pines, Marcus waved for us to stop.
“Damn it,” he growled.
“What is it?” I scrambled to kneel on my seat for a better vantage. The spit was barely ten feet across at this point, with steep banks, but the grass was sparse enough to allow a partial view of the bayou beyond. A light grey patrol boat with “Sheriff” stenciled on the side in big blue letters lay anchored some forty feet away, on the far side of the bayou. Two deputies stood at the back—one a carrot-top and the other bald as an egg. A scuba diver broke the surface by the stern and gave them a thumbs up, then the deputies crouched and hauled something into the boat. No, someone.