1
PLUNK, SPLAT, GLORP, SPLURGE ...
The Dirge Chemical Plant had been dumping toxic sludge into the swamp for the past twenty-five years.
The illegal dumping was a fact well-known to the folks in Avarice County, but no one complained.
Because of course, they didn't.
Most of the waste leaked into remote swampland and drained into the good earth. Out of sight, out of mind. Dirge Chemical was owned by the wealthiest family in the state. It employed more than five hundred hardworking men and women from all over the county. Folks depended on that plant for their survival. If it were shut down, they'd lose their jobs and their homes. And what then?
So when it came to a little bit of poison sludge oozing into the earth, folks looked the other way.
DRIP, DROP, SPLURK. It leaked into the streams and waterways, into ponds and lakes. Poison soaked into the ground.
What about the creatures of that environment? The fish and birds and snakes and gators? The animals that drank the water daily? That swam amidst the burbling toxins? Well, most died off. But some adapted. Mutated. Learned how to feed off the toxic waste. Those creatures grew stronger, bigger, tougher.
More dangerous, too.
The pollution was the worst out on the Dead River, which ebbed into Dismal Swamp like a last, dying gasp. Hardly anybody lived out there. Nobody important. Some poor folks, mostly. And that's where our story begins-with two boys, Lance and Chance LaRue. On this day, they were knee-deep in the foul, nasty water, swiping at mosquitoes, searching for frogs.
That was their first mistake.
2
SWAMP PET
Chance and Lance were brothers, and twins. They both had narrow faces, pointy noses, large eyes, and long, yellow hair that had never seen a comb. Half the time Chance and Lance even shared each other's clothes, inside out and still muddy.
Chance was the firstborn, the oldest by three minutes, and still in a hurry. Lance was the twin with a chipped front tooth and worried eyes. That's how people told them apart.
"Chance is the lively one," their mother would say. "Lance always looks like he thinks a piano is about to fall on his head. Hasn't happened yet, though, and I'm mighty glad of that. Them pianos are expensive to repair."
Then she'd laugh and laugh, holding her round belly.
It was true. Lance was prone to accidents. Lance was the one who spilled milk, got splinters, sat in poison ivy, and got stung by bees. If Lance stood next to Chance in a thunderstorm, Lance would surely be the one who got struck by lightning. Chance wouldn't even get wet.
Even so, despite these differences-or perhaps because of them-the two brothers loved each other fiercely. Maybe it was the hard times that bonded the boys together. Life was not easy at home. They were dirt poor and lived in a falling-down, two-story shack their daddy had hammered together long ago behind Dismal Swamp. And there it remained, sagging into the mud, drained of color by the hot Texas sun. Home, sweet home. Even worse, their daddy had a habit of disappearing for long stretches at a time. Out hunting, or away with friends, or locked up in jail somewhere. Mama said he was a "ne'er-do-well." Chance and Lance didn't know what that meant, exactly, but they figured it was another way of saying "good for nothing."
Sad, but true.
On this sweltering summer morning, the boys headed deep into the shaded swampland. Chance carried a metal bucket in the hopes they might capture some critter worth keeping. That was a constant pursuit for the boys-they longed for a pet. Once the twins found a stray dog, and begged their mother to keep it. She replied, "Boys, I can barely feed you two, ain't no way we can take in another hungry mouth," and that was that. No dog. End of story.
The muddy path skirted the edge of the swampy water. Fortified by peanut butter sandwiches-no jelly to be found at home-the boys felt strong and adventurous. They went deeper into the woods than usual. The trees thickened around them, with names like black willow and water hickory. Long limbs hung low. Spanish moss dangled from the branches like exotic drapes. Snakes slithered. Water rats lay still and watched through small, red eyes. Once in a while, a bird called. Not a song so much as a warning.
STAY AWAY, GAWK, STAY AWAY!
The farther the boys traveled, the darker it got.
Lance stopped and slapped a mosquito on the back of his neck. The bug exploded, leaving behind a splash of blood. "I don't know, Chance," he said doubtfully. "Getting dark, getting late."
Chance chewed on a small stick. He spat out a piece of bark. "Let's keep on going." And off he went, leading the way, content that Lance would follow.
After another while, Chance paused and stooped low, bringing his eyes close to the ground. He pointed to a track in the mud. "What you think, Lance?"
"Too big for a gator," Lance said. He turned to gaze into the dark, snake-infested water as if staring into a cloudy crystal ball. "But I'd say it's gator-ish."
"Heavy, too," Chance noted. "You can tell 'cause the print sank way down."
"Guess you're right," Lance agreed.
"Here's another," Chance said, moving two steps to his right. "Three clawed toes, webbed feet. Weird."
"Never seen the likes of it before," Lance said. "Looks like it was moving fast, judging by the length of the stride-"
"-and headed right there," Chance said, pointing to the swamp, "into the water."
"You reckon those tracks were made by Bigfoot?" Lance asked.
Chance grinned at his brother. They both laughed until the swamp swallowed up the sound. They stood together in the echo of that lonely silence.
"Maybe we should head back," Lance suggested.
"I suppose," Chance said, a little mournfully. "Hold on a minute." He pointed to a hollow by the edge of the water. "Is that an egg?"
"Good eyes, Chance. Turtle egg maybe," Lance confirmed.
Chance inspected it. Cocked his head, listened, looked around. No creature stirred.
"Let's take it home with us," he said.
"It don't feel right," Lance said. "That's some critter's baby."
"It'll be fine," Chance said. "You and me, we'll be real good mamas."
Lance snickered. "I'm not no mama-that's your job, Chance. I'll be the papa."
And that was that. Chance made a bed of mud, twigs, and leaves in the bottom of the bucket. He gently lifted the egg and placed it inside.
"Carry that real soft," Lance advised. "Like a sweet, nice mama."
In response to that, Chance gave his twin a quick kick in the pants.
"Hey!" Lance protested. He pushed Lance in the chest.
"Hey nothing," Chance replied. "Don't start messing around, I don't want this egg to crack."
Right, the egg. Lance peeked into the bucket. The egg was unharmed. So the boys headed home, stealing away with their curious prize through the gathering dark.
Text copyright © 2015 by James Preller
Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Iacopo Bruno