Page 14 of Vapor

“What are we looking for?” Tank asks in a hushed voice.

“Anything out of the ordinary.”

“What about that?” Tank points.

As we come around a bend, an old, weathered shack appears. The sagging structure’s wooden planks are warped and blackened with age and moisture. The roof, patched with rusty tin sheets, creaks with every gust of humid wind. Dark, grimy windows stare out like soulless eyes, obscured by grime and cobwebs, giving no hint of what lays within. A rickety porch, barely held up by rotting beams, juts out over the water, where a matching rickety wooden dock disappears into the thick mist.

“Should we check it out?” Fang asks softly.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to dock here. Find another spot where we can hide the boat.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Bones jokes.

After locating a safe place to tie up the boat, we file out, trying not to splash as we slip into the water. Wading toward the shore, movement off to my left catches my eye. Two glowing eyes peer at us from just above the water level. A gator.

“We’ve got company,” I murmur.

The others clock the creature and move slightly faster without panicking. Any sudden movement could set the animal off. Then we’d have to shoot it, and anyone else slinking through the bayou would know they’re not alone.

I don’t release my breath until I’m on land. Mud slides underneath my boots, slowing my pace. The slurp of sound isn’t much, but in the silence, it’s unnerving.

The shack reappears. A single, dim light flickers inside, casting long, dancing shadows through the gaps in the walls. It seems to pulse like a heartbeat, a beacon in the oppressive darkness.

As we move closer, I get my first glimpse of the interior. A solitary wooden table sits in the center of the room. It’s cluttered with strange, unidentifiable objects. Along one wall lies a series of shelves filled with jars of murky liquids and odd specimens.

“What is all that shit?” Tank asks in a low voice.

“Voodoo shit?” Diablo turns to Bones, our resident Voodoo expert.

“Maybe. Hard to tell from here.”

A rocking chair in the corner sways ever so slightly, as if moved by an invisible hand. My heart stills. I don’t exactly believe in swamp spirits and ghosts and shit, but I also never want to meet one.

“Should we check it out?” Ice asks.

Before I can respond, the silence is suddenly broken by a low, haunting buzz carried on the wind. It is impossible to tell where it comes from. The ever-present buzz of mosquitoes goes silent. The bayou seems to hold its breath, as if waiting for something.

In the distance, water ripples and shadows seem to move with a life of their own. A boat.

“Shit, hide,” I whisper urgently.

We rush into the darkness, not stopping until we’re far enough from the water that neither man nor gator can spot us, but close enough to see the men approaching the shack.

Four men, their silhouettes stark against the dim moonlight filtering through the Spanish moss, sit in the boat with a purposeful stillness. As they approach the dilapidated shack, the leader, a broad-shouldered man with a muscular build and a neatly trimmed beard, stands up, revealing a gold chain that glints briefly in the pale light. His cold, piercing eyes scan the surroundings with a predator’s gaze, ensuring no unwanted witnesses lurk in the shadows. Beside him, a younger man, wiry yet strong, with tattoos snaking up his neck and onto his face, keeps a firm grip on an assault rifle, his expression one of hardened resolve.

A small boat cuts through the dark, murky waters. Two men, equally imposing, move with a practiced efficiency as the boat nudges against the rickety dock.

The first man to disembark has a stocky figure with a shaved head and a scar that runs from his temple to his jaw. His heavy boots thud against the weathered wood, which creaks under his weight.

The second man is dressed in the same swamp camo tactical gear as the first. The rifles hanging across their chests indicate they’re ready for a confrontation.

A third man, older, with a weathered face and dead eyes, follows. His demeanor’s calm yet alert. A gold ring glints on his finger as he adjusts his rifle. Typically, a ring on that finger is a symbol of a higher ranking member within the cartel. My guess is he’s the one in charge of whatever’s going on.

Together, they approach the shack. Their movements are synchronized and silent. Each man exudes a palpable aura of danger and authority, but their purpose is as shadowy as the bayou itself.

Another, significantly louder, larger boat races around the corner, forcing small waves to lap along the riverbank. Four more men stand at the rear of the airboat, while five young girls huddle toward the front. I highly doubt they’re taking a tour at midnight.

“They’re being trafficked,” Tank murmurs.

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