by Jacob McElligott
“Now, there. Ya see that?” My grandfather pointed one pale mottled finger to the center of the lake, and I craned forward in my lawn chair to see.
I only caught the last ripples as they died down on the surface, glinting in the pinkish sunlight. In a few seconds, they were gone altogether.
“Yeah. That a fish?” I asked, squinting and scanning the water for any further signs of movement. I saw none.
The old man shook his head, shadows sliding over the crags of his wrinkled face. His eyes glittered a bit, reflecting the lake in sharp focus. When he spoke, he did so in a low whisper:
“Gator.”
I stared a little closer at the lake, leaning in further and shifting my weight, so my feet sank into the boggy earth. The water was quiet—smooth and hard like painted glass.
“Big one?” I asked, whispering now as well. My hands shifted uncomfortably on my fishing pole, and I feared that at any moment, the thing might be torn from my grasp. It reminded me of summers past in that same swamp, my then-tiny fingers grasping the little fishing pole my father had bought for me.
Grandpa nodded with a small smile. He slid his pole into the PVC pipe he had punched into the ground beneath his feet and held his arms out wide.
“Maybe fifteen feet,” he said, “and strong enough to pull a cow down under that dark water and never let it back out. Smart too. Smarter than you or I—I swear it.”
I kept looking but still could see nothing moving beneath that liquid mirror. Something thrashed in the bushes nearby, and I jumped. My head swiveled that way, and a scrub jay looked back, its head cocked with a worm wiggling in its beak. It gave a shrill cry and took flight into the trees. Grandpa chuckled, reaching to clap a hand on my shoulder.
His hand was strong, still, but not as strong as I remembered it being when I was young. For every year I had aged, so had he. I just had not realized it at the time.
“Will there be any fish left in there, with that thing around?” I asked, pulling my feet away from the edge of the water and tucking them under my chair.
“Big ones like that don’t care much for what we’re after,” Grandpa answered confidently.
I just nodded, keeping my hands tight on the rod and my eyes on the surface. We sat in silence as the sun climbed along with the temperature. The air got heavy, and the droning of flying insects grew loud enough to drown out the morning bird song.
Around noon, the tip of my pole finally dipped. It twitched, the reel spinning as the line cut a swatch of ripples through the water. I gave it a jerk, sinking the hook as my grandfather had taught me. I stood, working the reel as I pulled down and to the side, drawing the fish closer to the shore.
It was strong, barely giving any ground. It sliced through the water, back and forth in broad lines across the lake. My grandfather stood slowly, eyeing the surface of the water. From behind his chair, he produced a large net in one hand. In the other, he lifted an old rifle by its forestock.
The set of ripples my fish left behind grew steadily closer, and just behind it grew a larger wake. The fish broke the surface a few yards from us, its mouth gaping wide and its dull eyes rolling. It splashed back to the surface, diving down, and headed straight for the shore now as the ripples to its rear grew closer.
My grandfather issued a low curse under his breath, dropping the net to the ground and lifting his rifle to his shoulder. He drew a bead on the water’s surface just beyond my fishing line.
Only a few feet more, and the fish would be practically swimming up onto the shore.
It stopped suddenly, the ripples halting and crashing together in a series of small waves as my pole bent over—nearly in half. My arms yanked forward, and I stumbled, almost falling as I pulled back with all my might. My arms screamed in exhaustion as I forced myself a few steps back up the bank.
I gave one final pull, twisting my whole body as I did. With a solid plunk, the pole snapped back into place, and the fish surged up from the water. The front half of it, at least. Everything behind the head was gone, leaving only a ragged and gory mess behind.
The poor thing plopped to the ground before my feet, the mouth and gills working to take breaths that would not come.
Another splash sounded from the lake. Something broke the water momentarily just where the fish had been grabbed. The gator’s tail, long and sinuous, sliding through the water to disappear again beneath the surface.
I stood, frozen as a rat caught in a snake’s gaze, staring at the fish as it died. Grandpa moved quicker than I did, setting his gun in his chair and grabbing my line, lifting the head to eye level. He produced a pocket knife, flipping it open and cutting the string with one hand.
The fish head thudded back into the soggy ground, where a stiff kick from an old cowboy boot sent it skipping back into the water. It sank silently, twitching and twisting in a spiral of bubbles until it finally vanished.
My grandfather eyed the spot where it had been, his bushy brow furrowed.
“We should go back home. Getting too hot out here for an old man like me.”
I nodded, my hands shaking. “Yeah. Getting hungry besides. And I should give mom a call.”
Grandpa gathered his gun, pole, and chair in his arms. He handed me the net and the tackle box with a grunt. I did not take my eyes from the lake’s surface as I took the load. It was still again, quiet enough to trick you into thinking it was empty. I wondered how many white-tailed deer and opossums had made that mistake.
Grandpa led the short way back through the swampy marsh towards the house. The path they walked was relatively dry land, gravel with tiny weeds sprouting in the spaces between the small stones. My feet crunched with every step.
“My father cut this path himself, long before your’s was born,” Grandpa said. “A few bags of gravel every year keeps it the way he left it for me.”
He had told me the story before, but I had no intention of saying so.
“How do you carry them all out here?”
“By hand,” he answered. “One by one. The same way he did it all those years ago. He used to say it built character. I think he was too cheap to pay someone else to do it, and God knows I am.”
I whistled in appreciation, following a few feet behind him. His feet did not shuffle, even with the heavy gear he carried.
Despite the wilderness of nature around us, the path ahead cleared within minutes. Grandpa’s little house stood atop a short grassy hill rising from the swamplands. His old Bronco squatted in the long gravel driveway out front, right where we had left it after we had returned from the airport the night before.
Two big dogs came out from under the truck, letting out a series of howling calls as they streaked towards us. Hugo and Monet, two Redbone Coonhounds—descended from Great-Grandpa’s stock.
My grandfather had followed in his father’s naming habits. The French had claimed this land before America had, and the older members of our family had always claimed to be of that blood.
Grandpa chuckled as the dogs slammed into his legs, nearly knocking him to the ground. They hit me next like twin freight trains. Monet came up on two legs sniffing at my gear, searching for any less desirable fish I might toss his way.
“None for you, good sir,” I said, pushing back against his chest with my knee.
The dog issued a whine, falling back on all four paws and giving a wag of his tail. His ears pricked up then, and he turned towards the trees. His hackles raised as a low growl issued from his throat. His lips pulled up, revealing his gleaming canines. Hugo, spotting his brother’s focus, let out a growl of his own.
They inched towards the swamp together, dropping low as their ears pinned back behind their heads.
“Yah! Leave us be a moment; there’s nothing out there for you!” Grandpa yelled. “Back to the house with the both of you. Git!”
The dogs obliged, darting off and around the back of the house.
I turned back to the spot the dogs had fixated on. Compared to the bright lawn, the swamp was dim and dappled. I could not see what had spooked them. Nothing moved within the trees.
After a moment, we continued our trudge up the hill. The mosquitoes and deer flies subsided as we moved closer to the little single story. We deposited our gear on the covered porch and kicked the mud off our boots on the mat beside the door.
I wiped a bit of sweat from my brow with my sleeve. The sun beat down harder there on the open hilltop.
“It’s the heat or the bugs out here,” Grandpa posited, “or both. Give your mom a call; I’ll make us up some grub.”
I nodded, plopping down on the swing at the far end of the porch. I dialed Mom’s number and brought the phone to my ear. It only rang twice before she answered:
“Hey, bud, what’s up?” She sounded muted as if speaking to the phone from some distance. In the background, I could hear birds chirping and wind blowing. I could picture her set up on the back porch back at her house, her feet propped up on the wicker ottoman and a book in her hand. She and Dad used to sit out there every day.
“Not much. Just got back from a fishing trip with Pops.”
“Oh, how sweet. I remember when the three of you would go out for hours and come back with fish for dinner. I miss those days. I know your dad loved it too. Catch anything?”
“No, a gator stole my fish, though. So there’s that.”
My mom gasped:
“You’re kidding! Your dad used to tell me stories of gators down there when he was young. He said they didn’t scare him, but I think that was all just macho man talk. I think the closest thing I had growing up was raccoons rummaging through our garbage.”
“Really did happen, and scary as hell.” I chuckled. “You can ask Grandpa.”
As if summoned, the old man arrived, kicking open the screen door with one foot as he exited carrying two paper plates. They were stacked with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
“I put ‘tator chips in yours, the way you like it.”
He handed a loaded plate to me as he lowered himself onto the bench seat beside me and set it swinging.
“You want to talk to Grandpa?” I asked, beginning to lift the phone from my ear.
“No!” My mom exclaimed. “I’m sorry, honey—it’s just—I’m not ready. You two have fun, though, and tell me all about it.”
“Uh—okay, yeah. Love you.”
“Love you too.” The line cut out, and I lowered the phone to my lap.
“How is she?” Grandpa spoke between mouthfuls of his sandwich. I remembered him teaching me never to talk with my mouth full. It seemed as though he had forgotten his own advice.
“She’s fine. She says hi.” I lied on both counts, more for my sake than his. I wondered how much longer she was going to put off talking to him. The two of them might as well have come from different planets, for all they understood each other, and my father had been the only bridge between them.
“I remember when you shipped off, how worried she was. Sent you letters every week.”
I stopped chewing, looking sideways at him. “Shipped off?”
“Iraq,” Grandpa said, matter-of-factly. “Desert Storm. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that, Jer.”
I looked closer into his eyes. There was something there that had been absent at the lake. A haze, as though we looked at each other through the foggy lens of lost time. His pupils shivered, unsure.
“Grandpa, it’s me, Sean. Jerry was my dad, your son. He went to Iraq, not me. That was a long time ago, Pops.”
His eyelids narrowed at that, bushy brows dropping over his eyes. He waved his hand at me with a dismissive grunt. “Oh, don’t mind an old man; you kids all look the same. Got Lily’s genes, the lot of you—and lucky for that.”
I stared at him for a few moments, unsure of what to say. I did not want to ask him if he remembered Dad was gone. I did not want to hurt him again, to open a wound he did not recall receiving.
Or maybe I did not want to remind myself.
We sat in silence for a bit, Grandpa rocking the swing gently with one leg. He gazed out over the lawn, his eyes tracking the dragonflies which flitted about like falcons searching after their prey.
“This old place will be yours, one day,” he said. “If you want it, that is. But listen, Sean, you don’t have to feel like you need to say yes. Maybe this place needs to die with me.”
I examined the aging wooden beams of the porch, carved by the hands of our fathers and theirs before them. My gaze trailed down the steps and over the driveway, scanning down to the dense mangroves.
“A lot of memories here,” I said.
“Enough for a dozen lifetimes,” he affirmed. “But it’s not for you, is it?”
I did not answer, staring at the planks of wood between my feet instead.
“You don’t need to say nothing. I already know. You’re about to graduate high school—big college plans. Smarter than I ever was. There’s no room for you in this little place. And your mom, well, she never did care much for it no matter how much your dad tried. I’m the final steward of this place.”
I kept my eyes on the ground. “She wants to move you up closer to us. It’s too far for us to check in on you, and we’re all you have left.”
The swing stopped moving.
“No.”
“She thinks it’d be safer to have you close by. In case anything happens.”
“I’m sure she does.” The bench creaked as Grandpa leaned back and crossed his arms. “She can drag me out by my hair, or what’s left of it. But till then, I ain’t moving. Your mother, Sean, well—she’s a wonderful daughter-in-law, but she isn’t like me, and she sure as shit don’t understand me.”
With that, he stood. He let out a long raspy sigh, pulled the front door open, and walked inside. I stayed behind.
I slept that night with dreams of the past rampant in my mind. I walked the swamp paths beside my father and grandfather, fishing poles and tackle boxes in our hands.
We were all younger, then: Grandpa’s hair still streaked with black and a slight smile still gracing the corners of my father’s mouth.
At times my grandpa even stooped down to lift me onto his shoulders. From up there, I could see everything.
The two men discussed many things, but my child’s mind could decipher none of it. I busied myself watching the trees, searching for hidden creatures among the leaves. Shadows flitted from branch to branch, never pausing long enough for me to make out their shapes.
At some point, Monet and Hugo joined us. They should not yet have been born, but that did not seem to matter much in the dream. Their coats and bodies shifted and morphed as we went, never seeming to settle upon one pattern.
As we walked, night fell. In a moment, I was alone in the dark. My body was grown now and waist-deep in black water. Somewhere deep in the woods, the dogs were barking. I called out to them, but they never grew closer.
When my eyes opened, it was still night, and the barking from my dreams had not stopped. I rolled, pulling the pillow around my head to block the noise. Knowing those two, they had treed some raccoon at the edge of the yard and would keep it there all night if they could.
The noise continued, raucous and violent. It came in braying yowls and yips—the bark-adjacent language of southern hounds. It reached a crescendo, growls and snarls and the thrashing of underbrush cutting through the night air to my window.
Then a yelp, long and strangled. A sound like none I had heard a raccoon utter.
When the barking continued, it was lonely. No longer a canine duet, but a mournful solo performance.
Within moments, Grandpa’s booted feet hit the floor somewhere in the house. He rushed across, slamming into the front door with an unintelligible yell.
The gunshot that followed sent me scrambling in shock, falling from the bed in a tangle of sheets. The sound of it ripped through the thin walls of the house without an echo, ringing in my skull and rattling the windowpanes.
Another shot followed, and another. I flopped out of my sheets like a caught trout, stumbling to my feet and rushing out into the hall.
Grandpa stood on the front porch in boxers and a white tank top with his rifle raised to his shoulder. Smoke curled up from the barrel in a thin wisp, and the acrid smell of it filled the house.
The dull flickering light of the porch lamp lit my grandfather’s body, but I could see none of the yard beyond. There was no sound of crickets, no flashing lightning bugs, no flapping of bat wings.
The old man pulled the trigger again, and his whole body wracked with the recoil. His feet, though, remained planted flat on the floor. In the dark beyond, a dog was still barking.
“Grandpa!” I yelled. “What’s happening?”
He looked over his shoulder, a strange focus in his eyes, and yelled back over the ringing in my ears:
“Jerry, come on! Something’s got after Voltaire and Verne!”
My father’s childhood hounds, not the same two Frenchmen I knew. I shook my head, choosing to ignore that for the moment. There was no time, besides, as Grandpa rushed down the stairs and into the yard.
I followed, grabbing his battery-powered lantern from behind the door and switching it on. It illuminated the lawn instantly, showing a million darting insects and painting the grass in eerie blue light.
The ground was soft and cool beneath my bare feet as I ran, barely able to keep pace with Grandpa’s gait.
“Boys!” He shouted. “Come here now!”
Somewhere in the night ahead, the barking faltered. Grandpa kept running towards it, sliding a bit on the dewy incline but recovering with surprising deftness.
Monet appeared from the trees, panting with his tongue lolling from his mouth. He was soaking wet, but something darker than water covered the whole left side of his face, pinning his fur down. A heartbeat later, I realized that his ear was missing. A pang hit my heart, catching the breath in my throat.
“Voltaire!” Grandpa yelled. He dropped to his knees and held the dog’s head in one hand. “Where is Verne? Where is your brother?”
The hound pulled away, barking back at us as he bounded back the way he had come. Grandpa followed just behind, and I hastened to his side.
Monet kept just at the edge of the light, leading us into the trees. There was no path here, and the big hound forded through water up to his chest. We followed, the bog murky and stagnant and the mud sucking at our feet. I ignored the sensation of unknown objects brushing against my bare legs. Thick mud pressed up against the soles of my feet and between my toes, sharp rocks and twigs within poking at my skin.
Further in, the ground sloped upward, and my legs caught on tangled mangrove roots. The light of my lantern fell upon an earthen mound and the crumpled and heaving shape atop it. The heavy stink of blood filled the air, and biting gnats swarmed in droves.
Monet hauled himself out of the water and rushed to his brother’s prone form; he nuzzled into him with his snout, turning back to us with a whine.
Grandpa got there first, falling to his knees. He dropped his rifle and held his hands to the dog’s flank; it still moved with breath, but only barely. One eye rolled to look up at him.
“Verne…?” Grandpa murmured, shaking his head. “No. Not Verne. Hugo. It’s okay, buddy. Sean, grab my rifle, boy.”
Flies clustered along the long gashes on Hugo’s stomach and side. Fat and bone showed in some places, and blood as black as the swamp pooled in the wounds.
Grandpa reached under the hound’s body, lifting him gently from the ground. The front of his white shirt reddened quickly, sticking to his chest. As he stood, his legs buckled beneath the dog’s extra weight, and he nearly fell.
I went to catch him, but he regained his balance with a grimace of pain.
“Watch the water,” Grandpa commanded. He splashed back into the mire, holding Hugo above the surface. Monet followed, close on his heels.
I rounded out the rear, lantern held aloft in one hand and rifle in the other. Something tickled at the back of my neck—I could not be sure whether it was my mind or some bloodsucking creature, and I could not reach to check.
Grandpa carried Hugo back up the hill, moving quickly yet carefully towards the house. He knew this land like a brother, every stone and dip in the dirt. He nearly buckled again on the stairs, and he leaned against the railing.
“The door, Sean,” he panted.
I put the lantern down and opened the door, switching on the lights. Grandpa pushed past me into the living room, dripping blood and water and mud onto the carpet. Monet followed, not bothering to wait for permission before entering as he had been trained to do.
“You’ll be alright, boy,” Grandpa promised, laying Hugo down on his little brown couch. He kneeled beside it.
The big dog was breathing, still, somehow. His eyes were open, fluttering about the room. Monet sidled closer, sliding onto the floor between the couch and my grandfather with a high-pitched whine.
“Should we call a vet?” I asked, still standing beside the door.
“No vets within hours of here! Couple hundred miles to the nearest twenty-four-hour one. Get my kit! In the Ford, behind the passenger seat!”
I dashed back outside, clearing the front steps in one bound and sliding on the wet grass. The truck was not locked, and I yanked the door open and pulled the lever to push the seat forward. A black leather bag sat right where Grandpa had said it would be. I grabbed it and rushed back to the house.
The old man snatched the bag from me and set to work, pulling out a plastic case containing needles and thread.
“Vodka, in the kitchen.”
That, too, I retrieved and handed to him.
Grandpa popped open the bottle and turned back to me:
“Hold him.”
I did, placing my hands on Hugo’s head and haunch. He was shedding heat like an old steam radiator. Even then, he was shivering.
Grandpa gave a nod and poured the vodka out over Hugo’s wounds. Instantly the poor thing cried out, squirming under my hands. He straightened his legs, pushing his paws against Grandpa’s chest, but he was too weak. After a few moments, his struggling subsided.
For hours, Grandpa worked over Hugo on the couch. He stitched up the gaping slashes and rubbed them with a salve from a white tube in his kit.
When he had done all he could do, he fell back onto the carpet with a sigh. Monet crawled across his lap, and Grandpa rubbed the dog’s remaining ear.
Hugo died sometime around sunrise. Grandpa lifted him off of the blood-soaked couch and carried him out to the backyard. There were a few shovels in the toolshed, and we dug the hole together in silence.
The ground at the top of the hill was not so swampy, and large stones marked the places where Hugo’s ancestors lay before him. When the hole was deep enough, we each lifted one half of his body and lowered him in. He felt limp—empty.
By the time we had filled the hole in and placed the marker stone, the sun was high above. Sweat drenched me, but not all the wetness on my face could be traced to that.
Grandpa’s eyes, too, were full. I made no mention of it.
He stood, staring at the earthen mound, for quite a while. His eyes were sharp and hard, no haze clouding his mind.
Eventually, he turned and went back into the house.
He did not speak for the rest of the day.
Not as he cleaned the blood from the couch, nor as he stitched Monet’s ear, nor as he made us lunch, nor when I returned from my shower and set a few cans of soup boiling on the stove.
He was still awake, watching the front door with his gun across his lap, when I finally retired to bed.
Before I fell asleep, I texted my mom:
Hugo died.
I did not wait up for her to answer.
#
I awoke to Grandpa pounding on my door:
“Work to do, Jerry!”
I groaned, rolling over and checking the window. The sun had not yet risen. I got up and pulled on jeans. When I left the guest room, Grandpa was in the kitchen with a pot of coffee brewing.
There was a whole frozen chicken on the table, alongside a length of chain and a steel hook bigger than my forearm.
The old man slapped a mug down in front of me, and I eyed the black sludge within warily. Grandpa did not bother keeping cream around, so I drank it the way he did. I only gagged a little bit on the grounds in the last draught.
“Alright,” he said, “get your shoes on. We’re going back to that goddamn lake.”
“You think it was the same gator?” I asked. I shuddered to imagine the thing hauling its way after us and lying in wait for hours.
“I’m sure of it,” he said. “Not a doubt in my mind. Big nasty one like that, ain’t many around. Smart, too.”
I reached over and lifted the hook from the table. It was heavy and rough, covered in a thin layer of rust that flaked off under my fingers.
“What are you going to do?”
Grandpa took the hook from my hands. “What my daddy did, and his before him—protect what’s ours. Now, like I said, get your boots on.”
Fifteen feet of reptilian flesh flashed before my mind’s eye. I pictured one of us tumbling into that black water—black turning red. I saw Hugo, his chest heaving as his life seeped out of him and onto Grandpa’s couch.
“It doesn’t sound safe, Pops. I don’t know if we should do this.”
Grandpa fixed me with a look like ice, and his nose lifted his lips into a snarl:
“Don’t lecture me, boy. I know how to deal with my own land.”
I lifted my hands defensively. “Maybe mom is right. If you came up to live with us, you wouldn’t have to worry about stuff like this.”
Grandpa advanced on me, the snarl not leaving his face. Suddenly, he was looming—huge and strong the way I remembered him being when I was young. Not cheerful and carefree like he was then, though. No, now he was full of venom.
“Run from our home like a coward?” He spat the words in disgust.
For a moment, I thought he might strike me or say more, but he just growled and turned away. He jammed the hook into the chicken, spearing it before lifting it off the table and dangling it from the chain. He headed for the door, stopping only to retrieve his gun before heading outside.
From the yard, he called:
“Come on then.”
I pulled on my boots, cursing as I did. I checked my phone as I shot out the door after my grandfather.
Mom had responded:
Oh no! What happene???
Happened*
🙁
I shook my head, putting the phone away. It would take too long to explain, and I did not have the time. Grandpa was already halfway to the woods and walking fast.
I stopped halfway down the steps, spotting the gear he had left behind for me: a gaff as tall as I was, a fishing knife, a pair of thick work gloves, and an old revolver in a leather holster.
I grabbed the gaff, slipped the knife into my pocket, and donned the gloves. I stared at the pistol, placing my hand on the cold steel but not lifting the weapon. I thought about leaving it there.
“Come on!” Grandpa shouted. He was already at the treeline.
I shook my head, grabbing the gun and running after him. I slipped the holster onto my belt, feeling the weight of it in every step.
We followed the same short trail we had the day before. The air felt quiet, empty. The bugs were there, but they seemed subdued. Maybe the gunfire the last night had damaged my hearing.
We reached the pond soon enough. The water was as still as it had been the last time I had seen it.
“There,” Grandpa pointed to a rutted section in the mud beside the water. “That’s where the devil dragged itself out of the water last night.”
It looked like any section of wet dirt to me—something a turtle or a nutria could have left behind.
“What do we do?” I asked.
Grandpa walked within a few feet of the water’s edge, watching the surface for any sign of movement. Seeing none, he turned to the trees. He pointed again, this time to a thick branch that extended out over the wetland lake.
Without stopping to explain what he was doing, he swung the chicken around a few times by the chain and let fly. The dead bird sailed through the air, up and over the branch. The chain caught as it plummeted, the poultry hanging four feet above the water with Grandpa holding the other end tight. Melted ice and chicken blood dripped to the surface. He moved quickly, then, going to another mangrove and tying the end of the chain around the trunk.
When he had finished, he turned back to me and wiped his hands on his shirt. “Now we wait. When it jumps to grab the chicken, it will get caught by the hook and hang by the—”
Crashing water sounded, and spray hit our faces as the gator crested out of the lake. It shot up directly under the chicken, its mouth agape. Its forelimbs had barely cleared the water when its jaws clamped shut, and I knew instantly and surely that the branch would not hold.
Sure enough, the gator dropped back down to the water, and the chain bit deep into the wood. With a tremendous crack and a splash, the branch came free of the tree and followed the beast down.
The chain went taut within seconds, the mangrove serving as its anchor groaning out in protest. The tree pitched forward, air sucking in under its roots as it threatened to fall.
I stood frozen yet again as Grandpa reacted. The chain moved as the gator did, swinging wide until it caught against a tree stump a few yards from the shore. He leaped into action, grabbing the chain and looping it around the stump.
“Help me, son!” He pleaded.
My eyes flitted from the huge shape gliding across the lake back to the little mangrove tree and my Grandfather. I shook my head but ran over and grabbed hold of the chain just beside him.
He placed a hand on my own as he let go. “When he gives slack, you wrap that chain around the stump. Watch your fingers, or you’ll lose ‘em.”
Before I could answer, Grandpa was scrambling for his rifle. He snatched it up and took a bead on the water.
He fired, the bullet slapping into the water just ahead of where the chain was submerged.
The gator reversed immediately, and the chain went slack in my hands. As it did, I looped it again around the stump.
And so it went, my arms screaming and my ears ringing. For every inch of chain gained, I felt the skin of my fingers wearing down even through my thick gloves.
We drew the gator closer until it was thrashing in the shallows. Soon, the front half of the monster was on the shore, pulling back with its feet sliding uselessly in the mud.
Its eye was swollen, its translucent second eyelid stuck shut. A parting gift, I imagined, from Hugo.
The thing was huge, like a dinosaur come to life. The gator hook was nowhere to be seen. It had swallowed it, just like it was supposed to. The thick chain ran out of the water and up to the gator’s mouth, disappearing into that vicious maw and down into its throat. There was blood in the pale folds of its mouth, mixing with swamp water and saliva into a bubbly pink slime that coated its teeth and dripped down the sides of its jaws.
It hissed and called out in loud grunts—I knew the things could make noise, but not like this. The water rippled with each call, and the trees shivered as it slapped its mighty tale in the muddy shallows.
The whole of the reptile’s body was crisscrossed with old scars. Here and there, rusty fishhooks sprouted from the creases in its leathery hide. Its teeth were still sharp, despite the wear of years, and as long as fingers.
I fell back from the chain, my chest heaving. Grandpa stood, still as stone, observing the saurian creature. He walked towards it, not letting the rifle barrel drop for a moment. He stood within three feet of the gator, each of them eyeing the other. He did not shake or shy away as the animal let out another low cry.
“You’re tired, old boy,” Grandpa said, lowering the barrel until it rested against the scaly plate at the top of the gator’s skull just between its eyes. “I am too.”
I watched, waiting for another gunshot to split the air. I lifted my gaff and moved in from the side, but a raised hand from my grandfather stopped me.
“You’ve been out here as long as me; I’d bet. Might be we used to fight over fish when the both of us were younger. Or your pa, I ‘spose. Maybe he knew mine; two old swamp boys, out here in this god-damned heat with these god-dammed bugs. I could never stand it much, but you’re built for it, aren’t you?”
The gator stared back with its one open eye. It had stopped its bellowing and sat utterly silent. Its flanks heaved with breath, and so did my grandfather’s.
“Cause your blood ain’t really cold, is it? It’s as hot as mine and just as red.” He pressed the gun closer, and the gator recoiled slightly. “Who’s family was here first? Yours or ours?”
Grandpa sighed, a small thing, and his shoulders slumped. He moved slowly, placing his rifle on the ground behind him. He placed one hand on the top of the gator’s snout, covering its nostrils, and with the other hand.
“Grandpa, be careful!” I yelled, making to move forward with my gaff.
“Come here, Sean,” he said. “It’s dying.”
I took a hesitant step forward, and the gator turned to me. It let out a huff, blowing air and bubbles of blood from its mouth and nose, splattering Grandpa’s arm.
“Quickly, boy, we can’t torture him any longer.”
I edged closer, feeling as though I stood on the edge of a cliff a thousand feet from the ground. Dying or not, I imagined those ivory teeth sunk into my flesh, pulling my body into the water.
My grandfather beckoned me again. His arm moved stiffly, bruised by recoil or strained from effort. His eyelids were heavy; his mouth parted as he breathed. I moved to his side, the stink of predator and blood hitting me on wet air.
“The revolver, Sean, you remember how to use it?”
I nodded, reaching to the holster and unbuttoning the strap. I pulled the weapon free, holding it in both hands the way my father had taught me.
Grandpa pressed his index finger to the space between the gator’s eyes. “Just here, Sean. It’s only a tool, boy. He’s suffering like this; that hook’s torn him up inside. We can’t go back now, none of us.”
Grandpa moved his finger as I lowered the gun. I did not let it touch the skin, another bit of my father’s wisdom.
Grandpa’s hand rested on my shoulder, and he gave me a gentle squeeze.
Jacob McElligott is a Fiction MFA student at Southern Connecticut State University. He tends to collect interests and hobbies at an alarming rate, and these include motorcycling, writing, drawing, cooking, video games, photography, and more.