Bayou Story

By FM Burgett

Young teens go camping in the bayou near Tarawa, Louisiana. They must battle for survival against alligators, in a swamp infested with a deadly plague. Does this infestation foreshadow a coming apocalypse?

This is book one in the Plague Dream series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cassandraparkerbooks
• Release date: Aug 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463813157

FM Burgett

I have always been an avid reader. I am here to write, to learn, to be creative, and to have fun. I write because that is who I am. I see inspiration in everything such as the falling of a leaf, a child's laughter, etc. I write because I can remember and to keep those memories alive. I remember my mother's voice calling to me to come in for lunch on a hot summer day. I remember the smell of fresh mowed grass in the early morning. I remember how cool the lawn felt with dew drops glistening from each green blade. I write for pleasure. I write because I must.

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Bayou Story

A Pre-apocalyptic Novella

FM Burgett

Copyright© FM Burgett 2019 All rights reserved.

The right of FM Burgett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 First published as an e-Book by FM Burgett. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincident.

Burgett, FM (2015-02-21) Bayou Story. FM Burgett First Publication.

Burgett, FM (2019-08-31). Bayou Story. FM Burgett. Ebook Edition.

Burgett, FM (2019-08-31). Bayou Story. FM Burgett. Paperback Edition

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

Bayou Story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any errors are entirely made by the author.

Cover by SelfPubBookCovers.com/Willisin

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Bayou Story

Small towns and rivers go hand-in-hand. Memories of summer, rope swings, and swimming holes often come to mind when thinking about small towns and rivers. Sometimes the rivers are called streams or creeks, and sometimes they’re called bayous, marshes, or swamps. The name depends on the geographical region of the United States you happened to be in at the time. Down south, these bayous are the murky outlets of rivers or lakes, the small bodies of water that never seem to go anywhere.

In the south, they are sluggish, marshy areas with ‘skeeters’ and other bloodsuckers, birds, and fish and ‘gators.’ But most importantly, they are places where legends thrive in backwoods towns and parishes, villages and counties, creating an eternal sense of mystery and danger. Bayous are the habitats of horrible creatures such as Bogeys...those large, hairy mammals also known as Bigfoot. Maniacs recently escaped from state hospitals, also like to reside in bayous.

Billy was thirteen going on fourteen when he first made friends with a swamp witch. His friendship continued to grow and deepen through 1969 when he turned eighteen, four decades ago. Sometimes it doesn’t seem so long ago to him, especially on the nights when the world outside is still with nary a breeze or night bird calling.

Louisiana, the heart of Dixie, land of the Deep South, was the kingdom of cotton, sugar and shrimp. New Orleans was to the north and east of Tarawa. Bourbon Street and Mardi Gras swung with blues and jazz on every corner. The air wafted with scents of alcohol, and shrimp Creole, dirty rice and spicy gumbo, and people danced all night. Every night was a party down in the French Quarter. Outside New Orleans, the night was still.

Driving south from the city on Highway 23 takes you to Gretna and still further south are Port Sulphur, Buras, and Venice. Coasting westerly along Highway 90 you run into Raceland where Highway 1 joins in. Headed south along Highway 1 will take you to Golden Meadow and eventually Grand Isle. Tarawa, not located on any map, like New Orleans, is set dab in the middle of this convoluted triangle. The town is surrounded by the Mississippi River to its immediate east, Barataria Bay to the south, Bayou Lafourche to the west, and Little Lake to the north. Like New Orleans, you must cross a body of water, no matter which direction you come from into town.

In 1969, the roads leading into and out of Tarawa had not yet been paved and were mere dirt tracks, often muddy or under water. The main users of the roads were the delivery trucks, the postman, and the townsfolk escaping for a weekend in the big city. In 1969, fewer than seventy-five people lived in Tarawa. In those days, Tarawa wore a shroud of the past, surrounded by the remnants of white gentility, the tradition of black slavery, and the ghosts of great plantations. It appeared the ideal backwoods town, a forerunner of Mayberry in the old Andy Griffith Show. Under its sleepy mantle, however, the racial tensions of the decade could be felt.

Billy had a secret place that summer. It was a meadow he had carved out behind the gigantic yards, back in the swamps. There, he strung up a swing made from vine rope he had twined and a stolen tire from Mike’s garage. It was located due west of Harold’s Grocery, although, if you didn’t know what to look for, you’d probably miss it. The large, blackened stump provided the only visible landmark to the clearing. It served as a sort of hiding place without a name. It was his place and only his closest friends were welcome in it.

There were four steady guys and a girl that tagged along sometimes. They’d spent a good portion of June dragging away the fallen debris to get to the sturdy cypress with its ten-inch thick branches. The tree was old and looked as though it might topple at any minute from the way its roots pulled up out of the ground and the crazy way its twisted body leaned. Spanish Moss hung thick from the smaller branches so that their wispy fingers frequently brushed against their faces as they worked.

Gary was the next to the oldest and often kept the others out of hot water. Only Terry was insane enough to swing until she was level with the branch. Mitch and Ted were terrified she would slip the tire swing over and go sailing through the air like a trapeze artist without a net.

It was just such a weekend that scrambled their fates so extremely. Only a traumatic experience could have usurped their plans. Mitch was going to be in the NBA; Ted wanted to be a doctor. Ted’s twin sister Terry was a racer. Billy planned to marry Mary Lou. So what happened to them? In 1969, they were teens about to discover a terrifying death on earth.

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They chattered noisily and tossed a battered baseball back and forth as they strolled toward the pop machine at the local grocery store.

Which one you want, Gary? Ted asked, fishing coins out of his pocket, and jingling them.

Pepsi, of course, Gary replied, picking up a corner of his blue shirt and wiping his sweaty face.

Of course, Ted said, rolling his black eyes.

After they all had gotten their soda, they ran to the shade of the store’s porch. Sure is hot here, Terry rubbed the sweat from her gray eyes. Perspiration streaked her forehead. The group sprawled in front of the general store of Tarawa, Louisiana and drank thirstily from their pop cans.

From their dress, it was easy to distinguish between the summer residents and the natives. All the visitors wore permanent press shorts, while the natives wore patched, cut-off jeans. My brother hunts alligators, Gary boasted.

Wow! Terry exclaimed in awe. Hey, I heard there’s a witch in the swamps. Is that true? she demanded.

Yep, Gary nodded. "Town folks claim Hattie lives somewhere back in the bayou. They don’t try to