Bayou Days Read online

  CHAPTER 1 - Pam

  I open my eyes and look at the clock: 4:58 AM. It is two minutes before the alarm goes off. I get out of bed and look out my second story window to the east. Stars are in the sky.

  I make coffee, dress and sit outside. I always shower before bed because that gives me more time in the morning to watch the stars.

  It’s late October and the Orion is high overhead. The bright star Betelgeuse has a hint of red. One nice thing about military bases, they keep the lighting to a minimum at night. Bright lights paint targets for the enemy. Soon the eastern horizon has a rosy glow – sunrise in about twenty minutes.

  I have to say; I do like having money. I’m still a navy officer, but money makes things easier.

  At the end of summer, I took Hermes to a social event. At the Baron’s party, he broke into his financial accounts and made off with twenty million credits. Then he gambled in the stock market and doubled the payout. Technically, it wasn’t gambling, more like insider trading.

  I split the cash with my father since he’s the one that got the Baron’s retinal scans. That left me with ten million credits.

  The bio-wars killed most of the population either by direct infections or malnutrition. With everyone sick, no one was left to harvest crops or keep the pumps full of fuel. There are cities worldwide that have been wiped out with the bodies left to rot.

  That was thirty years ago and the economy is starting to turn around. The Feds don’t ask a lot of questions when you fill out your tax form. My tax accountant found an obscure schedule called “Windfall” that you can use to claim stolen money. The Feds took half, but that still leaves me with five million credits.

  Hermes convinced me to buy forty acres of farmland sight unseen. The feds sold off the west coastline of the Sacramento Estuary – twelve hundred acres split into 40-acre lots zoned as single-family farm. The military got first pickings and the lots were sold out before noon.

  Ceres’ farmers grow genetically engineered rice made to tolerate sea water, and their deep roots sprout new plants every spring. With the land sale, Ceres’ borders extend to the sunken city of Davis, California.

  Hermes says my land has a lagoon filled with bass that are fat on apples. I don’t know if the bass are walking around on their fins and grazing like cows or the apples are falling into the water. His text was vague on the details.

  The roads are rough north of Ceres, so I rented a four-wheel drive jeep for my trip and packed it with camping gear and supplies.

  I finish my coffee, get up and rinse the cup out in the sink. I pick up my bag and then put it down. I linger by my footlocker. I open it, look inside and get the watch box. Inside is a blue star sapphire the size of a golf ball.

  Holding it up, I say “Pam Macy Fields, what have you done.” I talk to the gem. “Hermes stole you from Mr. Fukui and who knows who he stole it from. But I do know where the trail ends – the Japanese Imperial Palace.”

  The sun rises and illuminates the gem from inside. It gets cool to the touch, and I put it back on its blue silk pillow and close the box. I put it in one of my cargo pockets and zip it close.

  My eyes keep going to my service pistol, a MK 20. The twenty is the number of rounds in the clip. It’s a nine-millimeter pistol with a coating to protect it from seawater. The only metal parts are the hammer and the barrel. The rest is a plastic resin so light it floats. I put the weapon in my purse along with three clips.

  Things have been tense since the summer virus riots. A lot of mutants are angry at the Purebloods. There have been reports of piracy in the south end of the Sacramento Bayou but not on the north near Ceres. But you never know.

  After picking up my pack, I grab the rental keys to the jeep and head for the door. Just as I pull out the front gate, the sun rises. Everything looks better in the dawn light.

  I go north on highway 101 to the new highway 12. It is located a few hundred meters above the water line, and parts of the old highway can be seen crumbling below.

  I rented a bio-diesel for the trip. Electric jeeps are fine if you don’t use the four-wheel drive. When you need power to four wheels, nothing compares to an eight-cylinder diesel.

  This road is the only way to Ceres that doesn’t involve going through Frisco. The big city is not safe for a single woman driver.

  I smell rotting seaweed, and a wave of nostalgia passes over me. I spent my summers as a youth on the bayou. My parents would rent the houseboat from MWR and go out on the water. You could go days without seeing anyone.

  I clear the last pass that heads down to Ceres. It’s a new road put in by the Army Corps as a backdoor for the town. By the time I make it to the city limits, clouds move in, and a drizzly rain keeps the dust down on the road.

  I turn on the heat and lower my window. I love the smell of rain and outdoors.

  Winter is the rainy season. The rivers flood and fill the estuary. It’s perfect farmland for the new rice and wheat. The grain is a perennial and does not need to be replanted. Once the plant takes root, it comes up every year.

  Now it’s late October, and the misting of rain will pass in a few hours. Around March the rains can last a few days to sometimes May.

  Right now, the rivers are still low, and the estuary is filled with mostly sea water. Saltwater makes the Sacrodiles go dormant. The ones that stay active are in the north around the old town of Sacramento. Now it’s under ten feet of water. Where the two rivers meet, the fresh water keeps the genetically engineered crocodiles active. Otherwise, the Sacrodile builds a nest and hibernates through the dry season.

  During grade school, I spent my summers in the estuary. Then it was voice lessons, piano and daddy insisted on weapons training. With my career path being chosen by age seven, there was not much time for childhood. Except on the bayou, because out on the water, there are no pianos.

  Soon, I dive up to a gate with a horizontal bar. I push a button and look at the camera.

  “Hello,” a male voice says over the speaker.

  “Hi, I’m Pam Fields.”

  The bar goes up, and I drive through. I called ahead yesterday and let security know I’m was coming.

  On each side of the street are fruit trees in their autumn colors. The homes are standard composite block construction with metal roofs painted with pigments that turn light into electricity.

  A few homes have pastures for goats and chickens. As I get closer to the town center, pastures turn into gardens and lawns.

  I take a right onto the main road. A quarter mile away is a charging station for vehicles. On the left is a house set close to the road with a big backyard and a large covered porch. A sign over the door says “Maggie’s.”

  I park out front, climb the steps and walk through the front door. The right side is all counter space. The other side opens into a kitchen. Three refrigerators line the back wall. Four stainless steel ovens are on the other side.

  A small girl with large violet eyes watches the second hand of a large vintage Coca-Cola clock.

  The nearer the second-hand moves to the top, the more the little girl flaps her arms. When the second-hand touches the twelve, she jumps up and opens the oven. Inside is a bread baked to a golden brown. “It’s ready!”

  “Don’t yell!” a woman’s voice replies twice as loud as the young girl’s. A black woman with a short afro walks out of a door marked “bathroom” and heads to the oven.

  The woman uses a wooden paddle to take the bread out of the oven and onto the counter. With the work done, they look up and notice me.

  They just stare awhile. The little girl is the first to speak. “Hermes likes Pam-eh-lah.” She chants and stomps around the kitchen floor. She swings her arms in time to her chant. “Hermes likes Pamela.”

  The woman points to the back d
oor that leads to the covered porch. The girl stomps off in that direction.

  Once the child leaves the room, Maggie walks over and opens the door next to the counter. Her smile invites me into her kitchen. She takes my hand and says, “Ms. Pamela Fields, I’m Maggie Carter.”

  Then I remember my research. Kim is Hermes partner in crime and Kim’s girlfriend is Maggie Carter; the girl's name is Vike.

  She motions for me to sit at a table. Cuts an inch slab of bread off the loaf and puts it on a plate. After she cuts another slice, she puts the bread in front of me and asks. “You want lunch?”

  I watch the steam rise off the bread and nod. Then Maggie puts a half a roasted chicken on a plate between us along with goat butter.

  She cuts the chicken in half

  “How did you know my name?”

  Maggie smiles. “Cause Hermes was showing off your prom picture. You two are standing in a circle and getting your names announced. He especially liked the one where your head is tilted back, and your hair is flowing down in ringlets that cover your ass. That boy has got a thing for hair.”

  I feel the heat under my cheeks and I take time to butter by bread and eat. After a few bites, I say, “It’s delicious.”

  “I’ve known Hermes all my life,” Maggie says, “He is a kind and generous man. But, he’s also moody. And when he gets in one of his moods…”

  I nod. “The laws of physics break down.”

  Maggie shakes her head back and forth. “The things that boy has gotten away with. Enough about Captain Chaos. What brings you this way?”

  “I’ve bought land about ten miles north of here. I saw your sign and stopped to get something to eat.”

  “Five miles out of town is gator territory.”

  “Hermes told me that they deployed ground thumpers that chase the crocs away.”

  Maggie leans back in her chair. “Young crocs get scared off but the mature crocs know it’s a trick.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out. “Why didn’t Hermes warn me?”

  “Because he doesn’t think crocodiles are dangerous.” Maggie butters the last of her bread and continues: “He’s been teasing them since he was ten. Running up and down their backs when they sleep. He made a video series called the ‘Crocodile Dash.’”

  She gets up, finds her tablet computer and loads a video called “Corpse-a-pult.”

  A crocodile buried in mud appears on the screen. A voice says, “This is the croc I call ‘Sleepy,’ all summer I’ve been stomping up and down her back. Last time I dug up her nose, put a carp in her nostril, and nothing happened. So, I’m pretty sure that Sleepy is a deep sleeper.”

  The scene changes and a young Hermes stands in front of a camera. He’s dressed in light olive-green pants and shirt. He smiles and says, “Hi. It’s the rainy season addition of Crocodile Dash. We had a good soaker rain for a few days, and I think I saw Sleepy’s tail move.” His eyebrows furrow together. “But I can’t tell for sure because someone ratted me out and showed my last video to my parents. He moves closer to the camera. I’m looking right at you Maggie.”

  “Now, I promised I wouldn’t get within a hundred feet of a croc. That’s why I made the Corpse-a-pult.” He walks off screen and swivels the camera in its mount. He points it at a four-wheel electric vehicle with a hitch. Connected to the back is a trailer filled with rotting corpses.

  He points the camera for a close-up of the carnage and says, “This time of year the nights are long and days short. The plants slow down their growth. With less food, the sicker and older manatees die. They’re the first meals of the waking crocs. Today I drove up and down the banks and snagged about four hundred pounds of rotting Manatee flesh.”

  The young Hermes walks back to the camera and swivels it to a tripod several meters tall. There is a round pipe to the top and held back to ninety degrees by a piece of rope.

  While the twelve-year-old boy explains the mechanics of the catapult, the mound behind him begins to move. A crocodile nose goes up in the air, then it rises to its feet and shakes the mud off its back.

  While Hermes explains why the device is technically an onager because it employs a sling, the croc moves closer.

  The young boy doesn’t see the beast until it’s a few meters behind him. The croc walks casually past Hermes and out of the frame of the camera.

  Next, the camera swivels to the trailer with the corpses. The twenty-five-foot crocodile plunges its open mouth into a pile of decomposed flesh. Then raises its head up and swallows.

  I watch transfixed for the next ten minutes as the croc eats her meal. Then the beast stands up on its legs, lowers her head so she can see Hermes with both eyes.

  The black vertical slits would be like the eye of Sauron if he had two eyes. But instead of red, it’s lush green with yellow star-bursts radiating from her pupils.

  “You have the most beautiful eyes,” young Hermes says.

  The beast blinks, catches a scent, turns her head and walks towards the water.

  Hermes walks in front of the camera with a big smile and says, “See ma, I told you crocs aren’t dangerous.”

  When I look up from the screen, and a cup of coffee is in front of me. Maggie puts the dough in a pan and places it near the oven to rise. “Kim will be here soon. It would be best if she comes with you. Not everyone is as lucky as Hermes.”

  “Or has four hundred pounds of a croc’s favorite meal as a distraction.”

  “He’s just too skinny to eat. He weighed seventy pounds in the seventh grade”. Maggie tilts back her head, laughs, and stomps her foot.

  “Why was he barefoot?”

  Maggie laughs some more. When she catches her breath, she says, “He didn’t want to get his shoes dirty.”

  “So he’s walking around on a beach barefoot and throwing dead animals into the back of the trailer? Did he at least use gloves?”

  She shakes her head. “Type A mutants don’t care much about gloves or whether you cover your mouth when you cough.”

  I nod, remembering that fact being recorded on his medical chart. Type A mutants are ten percent of the mutant population. It’s the most common subtype. These mutants have proteins in their blood that protect them from infections.

  Vike pops her head up from the other side of the counter. She crawls over and drops down into the kitchen. She holds her hand like a pistol, her finger pointing up. “You going gator hunting, like on those shows?”

  “You’re only allowed to kill a gator in self-defense in the Sacramento Estuary. And driving a boat up to a crocodile to make it snap at you doesn’t count as self-defense.”

  “That’s not what Kim says.”

  “Hey Vike,” Kim speaks up from behind me.

  I look down at Kim’s feet. Real crocodile leather boots and matching cowboy hat. Kim looks at me and then at my breasts. “Nice rack, is that the new mesh bra?”

  “I… I don’t feel comfortable talking about it.”

  “Okay, so I don’t talk about your rack, and you don’t talk about my new boots.” Kim smiles at me, “So, we’re looking at land in gator country.”

  Kim is a telepath. She just looked in my head, found something I was sensitive about and used it to deflect that fact she’s wearing poached footwear. Bitch.

  “They’re not alligators,” Vike speaks up and breaks the tension. “And they’re not crocodiles either. The scientists mixed them up and added some new genes, so they get bigger on less food. The crocs in the estuary grow two feet a year until they turn twelve.”

  Vike continues: “The scientists made the Sacrodile from both species. They wanted a top predator to eat the manatees, but they didn’t want it aggressive towards people. So they took the alligator temperament and the croc’s ability to tolerate salt water and mixed the genes. The new Sacrodile is as smart as a sheepdog.”

  I smile at Vike. I remember when I was that age and how exciting it was to discover a Cretaceous Period reptile in my backyard.

  “Hold the phone,” Ma
ggie leads me back to my chair. She fills the coffee cup and says, “What’s a mesh bra?” Then Maggie sits down. Then Kim sits, and Vike climbs onto the counter and sits cross-legged. They stare at me.

  I take a deep breath. “The military has adopted its mesh technology as a fundraiser. It’s designed to protect the breasts. It keeps them in… proper military bearing.”

  “‘You mean way up firm and high,’” Maggie says, “Just like the Bob Seger song.”

  I nod.

  “How does it work?” Maggie asks. “Can they hold up a double D?”

  “You could lasso a fully loaded commercial jetliner and bring it to a stop with a spider rope as thick as my finger.”

  “So that’s a yes.”

  I nod. “A mesh wraps the around breasts, upper back and shoulder. It’s made to distribute the load evenly.”

  “Why you do it?” Vike asks.

  I smile at the pre-adolescent girl. “When you get older and need support, bras need to be adjusted – usually at the most inconvenient times. Now I wear a silk undershirt, so my nipples don’t chafe, and I’m good to go.”

  “That, and you’re a Pure Blood woman with a lot of expectations surrounding you,” Kim says.

  Damn telepaths.

  “You have money,” Maggie jumps in, “You could walk dump the Pure Blood style if you want.”

  “I like being a navy officer. I like my friends and family. Yeah, my world has lots of rules, and there are some bigots. But overall, these are good people.”

  Maggie shakes her head. “Family.”

  “Yeah, family,” Vike and Kim say together.

  Kim is first to change the subject. “For croc country, I'd take an M14; it’s a solid punching .308. Just in case.”

  “With hungry Sacrodiles about to come out of hibernation, that’s a good idea. I can’t hold an M14 and shoot straight. I know it’s a sin, but I like an MK12 over an M16. It’s better in wet conditions.”

  “If we’re spending the night, you’ll want a set of night vision goggles. I got a spare set,” Kim replies.

  “Good, I want the ones with video so we can both follow the rules.”

  Kim smiles. “Why are the girls with the nicest tits the biggest bitches?” We walk out the back door that leads to a garbage bin with wheels. She rolls it out of the way revealing a manhole. Using a metal hook, she lifts off the lid and climbs down a ladder.