Southern Fried Weirdness

By Rae Bryant

Jackson rolled his body off the sleeping bag and onto the cold edge of the metal observation deck. A Peregrine Falcon called from above. Distant waves crashed beyond the dunes. These were the sounds of North Carolina -- Falcons and waves -- but the other sound wasn’t. The other was a hoarse hissing sound, fuller than a snake, more guttural than an alligator, and alligators were sparse this far north, even alongside Alligator River. Jackson felt his body tense. Neck, fingers, toes, hell even his dick tensed up. That was an anomaly he’d not felt in ages.

Jackson searched the ground for a swarm of snakes. Maybe they were mating, coiled up and slithering. Did snakes have orgies? The sandy earth was no more than ten stairs down, a safe enough height, high enough that anything less than a tiger, would have difficulty making that jump, and there weren’t any tigers round these parts.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t a tiger.

The hissing grew louder, as if right below, and Jackson peeked further over the edge. There, below him and highlighted in twilight purple hue, lay the sputtering and hissing creature.

From the waist down, it looked like a proper mermaid. From the waist up, it looked like it had crawled out of the Black Lagoon, but it hadn’t. It had crawled out of Alligator River, likely made its way up from the sound. A wonder, as it would certainly have attracted blood creatures in its wake, for in the mermaid’s side, was a large red-rimmed bite.

The creature sputtered, and red blood spewed up and out of its mouth then landed, spattered across its face. Then it closed its eyes. Whatever blood was left, there couldn’t be much. Not with a bite like that. It wouldn’t be long until the alligators followed it.

***

“Ah! Just my shittin’ luck!” Jackson rolled onto his back again. It was supposed to be a nice calm evening. He’d even found a brand new sleeping bag in some rich hoity-toity’s trash bin. It had just one little tear in the end of it.

Life had always thrown hurdles at Jackson. They danced and quivered beneath him as he jumped over, trying to win the race, keeping ahead of the other hurdlers in his periphery. A vicious trick, it was. The hurdles often popped up and caught him in the balls, midair as he leaped with one leg stretched forward, the other leg back. Jackson had accepted this irony long ago. It was when he was in the race, that life knocked his manhood about. Yes, he’d felt many hurdles in his time. Finally, he’d just stopped running, stopped jumping, and let the hurdles lay silent.

Sometimes, just for kicks, Jackson watched other people get knocked down in the mud by their own hurdles. He sometimes spent his days on the boardwalk, eyeing the vacationing couples, dragging their bratty kids along, or nights watching the liquored-up couples exchange cycled remains of irritations and horny sentiments. Jackson lived vicariously through the endless parade that crossed the boardwalk, and no one ever bothered with him. He moved from bench to bench, and the police let him alone, so long as he didn’t beg.

After a time living in the outskirts of civilization, Jackson had come to know one truth. It wasn’t so much that life knocked anyone down, as it knocked them up, in one form or another. One swift hurdle in the groin, and it rendered a man impotent, a woman pregnant, or any other of life’s altering effects, failures, and disappointments. Whatever the hurdle, it was always there to remind the jumper that nothing was easy, but one swift turn of fate or magic, or whatever you want to call it, and a person can win their race. Just like that. 

*** 

The Peregrine Falcon called out into the night air again, and Jackson looked up and a long sigh fell out of him. “To be a Peregrine,” he said with wonderment and fantasy. There was no hurdle tall enough to knock that bird down or up, so to speak.

The key is, how to land on your feet. Jackson’s mother had always said this, but when she got hit by a bus right outside the Piggly Wiggly, she didn’t land on her feet. She’d got knocked right on her ass and stayed there. Jackson stretched over the side of the observation deck again and stared at the mermaid. It wasn’t surprising when its hideous face turned into his mother’s soft, sweet features. 

Jackson laughed quietly to himself. Fright and death can do a lot to a man. He didn’t mean to be self-possessed at a time like this, but it wasn’t the first time he’d seen death in the wild. The homeless knew the rough exterior of the world. It was, however, the first time he’d seen a mermaid die, or whatever it was.

Still, he thought, a mermaid was no different than any other of life’s random concepts, even though this one was, admittedly, stranger than most. Jackson felt a sense of relief in his position. At least the mermaid wasn’t about to climb the stairs to his perch. Thank God, he’d decided to sleep up top tonight.

Jackson turned over to look at the mermaid’s form again. Did mermaids have magic? He wondered silently. Might he get a wish or something if he saved it? 

*** 

The proposition of magic and wishes swirled round and through his head, when another hiss cut through the air, and Jackson knew it wasn’t the mermaid. This one came from the water. Jackson rolled over again. He glanced from the mermaid to the gliding, dark forms. They were headed toward the bank. The mermaid let out a noise that made Jackson whence. Was it afraid?

Even if he could climb down and escape the alligators, no one would believe him. A mermaid attacked by alligators? He certainly couldn’t fight them all off on his own. Not with a bloody victim in their sights.

Jackson watched as the alligators climbed the bank. The mermaid must have sensed the predators, for its eyes opened. It looked up, and for a moment, it appeared to ask for help. The beastly scene below Jackson had turned to something else, something human, something emotional, and now Jackson had a part in it. He felt like he did, anyway.

Jackson sat straight up and inched toward the stairs. The alligators were in a circle, now, closing. Jackson counted three ... no, five. The mermaid’s sputters now faded into the approaching hiss and teeth.

Perched upon his deck, Jackson watched the twilight scene below. The Peregrine landed softly upon one of the columns of the deck, and it looked at Jackson then at the mermaid. The Peregrine shrieked into the air then flew off. Jackson might have done the same if he could fly. He might have shrieked at the alligators, too, but could alligators climb? The closest alligator was no more than three feet from the bottom step.

The largest of the swarm advanced with a quick shuffle of steps, and sank into the mermaid, who lay unguarded. Yes, the mermaid was now a who. Jackson felt every muscle in his body, as the mermaid let out one curdling scream after another, but the predators did not flinch. They ripped at the creature, tearing away red chunks of meat, oblivious to the ravaging songs beneath them.

After only a few moments, the mermaid rested upon the earth in the chewed remains of nature. The mermaid was fantasy no more. It was nature now, a used carcass, and as the largest of the alligators pulled the mermaid’s carcass back into the river, an arm lay resting behind.

The Peregrine Falcon called again from above. Jackson looked up to the sky, now navy blue, and watched the Peregrine fly. No one would believe him. Who would believe such a story? Probably best, he thought. Fantasy should stay in the head, and he closed his eyes again, and settled into the thought that he had at least been above the mess. God keep him from such a mess!

Jackson tried to listen to the waves again, but the Peregrine called loud and biting into the air. Jackson opened his eyes and watched the bird’s black form glide against the navy, starlit sky. It swooped down, and Jackson turned over, watching it land upon the ground, picking at the mermaid’s arm. It loosened a piece of flesh then flew off with it and into the trees. Jackson considered the prospect. A shame to let a piece of meat go to waste, especially one so fantastic as this. As he crept down the stairs, looking for any sign of lingering alligators, and dried kindling, Jackson couldn’t help but wonder. Does mermaid flesh have magical properties? And in that single moment, he imagined deep inside that maybe just this once, the hurdles might lay flat upon their track.

When the teeth grabbed the mermaid’s arm, it took Jackson only a second to realize that the teeth did, in fact, have hold of his hand as well. He pulled back and felt the teeth tear through his flesh and bone. Stumbling back from the alligator, Jackson looked at his hand. He straggled up to the deck again, his right hand slipping with blood. His pinky and ring finger were missing, as well as a large section of his palm. Jackson crawled to his sleeping bag, and bundled a section of it around his throbbing hand.

“Just as well,” he said, and he felt tears streaming down his cheeks. He lay back upon the deck, listening to the waves and the call of the Peregrine above. A splash echoed up from below, no doubt, his hand, now swimming away. “Just as well,” he turned over on the sleeping bag, and couldn't help thinking that the hurdles had finally knocked him out of the race. 

Rae Bryant is a short story author, poet, reviewer for The Fix, slushreader for Fantasy Magazine, and promotions editor for Apex Digest. Rae is a recipient of the Whidbey Writer's Prize (July 2008), and her works have appeared or will soon be appearing in Weird Tales, The Willows, and Shine, among other print and online periodicals. She's currently working on a novel and lives in a little valley just outside Washington DC with her husband and two children. Read more about Rae at RaeBryant.com or visit her at www.RaeBryant.LiveJournal.com.

© 2008, Rae Bryant