Unabashed

In the Everglades a lot goes unnoticed by the general public. A lot goes on that even the avid observers of the swamp never get wind of, too. The swamp is a dangerous place, full of malaria, rot, and animals that see people as just another (weaker) link in the food chain. A dominant male alligator is one such creature. Given the opportunity, a gator will gobble anything likely to bleed, like this one specific gator, Fred, who lives in a south Florida swamp and is often observed by the NWF. Fred is the largest living alligator in the world, and a good many people intend to ensure that he remains alive. But, as stated, a lot goes on in a swamp that even the watchers miss. Those things that make the swamp their home don’t miss anything, though. They talk the talk, and they definitely walk the walk. Take old Fred, for instance: he hasn’t wanted for a meal in fifteen years, almost half his lifetime. The NWF folks are always dropping a road kill deer or dog for him to munch on, so he rarely bothers with hunting for himself any more. When he does, it’s because he wants to. But old Fred has been watching the swamp, and especially his ten acres of it, for a long, long time, and when the bottom gets stirred up, he’s the one that will be there to see if there’s anything good to eat in the end. Fred knows when things change; he feels changes. A staff of scientists could watch Fred twenty-four hours a day through binoculars and with a helicopter and still not know half of what Fred knows about his little patch of swamp.

Fred reclines through most days nowadays. He’ll roll over, get good and wet, dig a little in one of his holes, but mostly just sit like a statue on the bank. He’s old for his kind, and he doesn’t have to eat nearly as often as he used to, and when he does there’s usually something waiting for him already sweetly rotting, so all Fred’s had to spend his time doing these past few years is growing. This one night, though, Fred was lazing around an area that had had his interest piqued for several days. 

The swamp, she stirs, and Fred observes. 

It was an overcast, rainy night and the swamp was alive with night sounds and the rain. He was on a pine hammock in an area that was densely covered with mangroves and pines. His nose pointed toward the water, and when he felt the first stirring in the water his eyes rolled open. About twenty feet from his bank in the black murky water (the kind Fred loves best!) the water began to shiver slightly, as if a giant catfish was unearthing itself from the mud floor about ten feet down. Fred thought that was grand. Catfish were quite tasty, and he just loved to catch them when they’re half covered with mud. From the look of the bubbling water, it must’ve be a doozy of a cat; for two days there had been air bubbles rising out of the mud floor of that spot in the swamp, and now, those bubbles were becoming larger and larger and… the water began to roil.

Fred the frozen suddenly became Fred the functional, and soon, he hoped, he would be Fred the fed. Not because he was hungry; just because he was in the mood for a tasty treat.

He pushed off toward the water’s edge and slid down into its warmth. He was in no hurry, he could still see the activity and he knew that that big catfish was just-a squirming down there in the mud trying to get wriggled free. That’s okay, too, because Fred abides. He circled the spot slowly, widely, and then he closed a little and a thrill shot through him as the churning water’s bubbles caressed his flank. The smell of flesh met his nostrils. He swam through the bubbles and his whole body shuddered from tip to tail, then he turned and dove, straight down to get a good feel for what was soon to be satisfying his always-ravenous appetite.

At the bottom, there was a bubble of mud expanding that was quite large. Fred swam over it and let his belly lightly brush against it, and he recognized solidity within; whatever it was, it was big. But that was a good thing for Fred, cause there ain’t nothing bigger than Fred in this swamp, and Fred was well aware that he ruled the roost ‘round Hell’s Half Acre. He doubled back around and settled right up against that wonderful, bulging bubble of mud. Bubbles were vigorously jetting from around the edges of the mud swell, and Fred could just detect a slight temperature shift in the water immediately surrounding the spot; it was about ten degrees warmer than the water beyond it. He grew so anxious, craving the deserts inside, so in need of a delicate meal, that he let one of his little (four inch long) claws rake ever so slightly across the side of the bubble and

WHOOSH!

out popped a thick, gooey mess of something that made Fred shiver with pleasure. It tasted of afterbirth, a particularly fine delicacy for Fred. Fred drove his nose into the mass of mess and there found purchase on what he knew would prove to be a magnificent morsel of meat. He knew it was, he knew it was, and now he had it and

OH!

how it struggled! He used a thrust of his giant tail to propel him and his treat out into the deeper water and then dove to the bottom and began the wondrous death roll, which to Fred was like a ballet step that he’d managed to perfect beyond anyone else’s ability. He rolled as fast as he ever had, the water around them a cauldron of dynamic, roiling energy and he felt the blood spill from his broken prey and

REJOICE!

it was done.

Except that it wasn’t.

An underwater cry sprang from his prey and sudden strength livened its limbs. The water was red and thick with blood, but the prey was alive, struggling…and… Strong.

Roll again, then…

And Fred danced the roll again, and then

Shake!

he shook until the normally placid swamp took on the look of a cauldron of boiling blood, but not Fred’s blood…

But then it was Fred’s blood, and Fred suddenly wanted to let go and get out of the water because something had a hold of him and was hurting him and he could not make it let go. Whatever it was, this prey of Fred’s, it had swung the tables on him. Now Fred found himself being dragged by the tail, something that’d never happened before. Fred struggled to swim away, but it was no use. He went limp and allowed himself to be dragged back to the bank.

Near the edge of the hammock Fred was released. Quizzically, he turned an eye toward the prey-turned-predator, but saw nothing through the murk. Then a tender touch traced its way up his back, and soothing sounds settled into his mind, emanating from nowhere. Fred calmed. And just like that, Fred’s mind expanded, Fred became conscious in a way he never had been before. He thought. He realized. And his first realization in the wake of his revelation was of love. It was a man, this prey, and this man was now the boss of Fred as nothing and no one else ever had been. Fred shivered with the fury of his love, and he felt a reciprocation of the sensation from the man. He would curl around this man and give him everything; he would do anything for him.

From that moment on Fred could do nothing if he didn’t please this man, whose name, he somehow knew, was Gregg.

***

Reality was comfortably hot for Gregg, he remembered that much, but then came a searing sensation of light and cold and a tug that he felt down to his soul. It pulled him, squeezed him through one reality into another that felt vaguely familiar but all-too unreal. It was dark, wet, and violent. He groaned and was surprised by the sound he heard issue from his own throat—not the deep, rumbling growl he should have heard but a simpering cry, light and weak, a cry of prey. He felt his body disintegrate into atoms and felt them slowly reassemble, thickening like soup, becoming solid again. Then, with a sickening belch, his body was simultaneously reformed and thrust through solid matter into a wet, comforting darkness.

The respite was brief.

He was just puzzling over the absence of thrust when he kicked out with his hind legs when he felt a razor-sharp pain shoot through him and he thought he was done for. He fought, flailing out in uncoordinated barrages. He continued to weaken, however, and soon the fight was over. His limbs went numb and his consciousness dulled and Gregg, an elder of the universe, thought for the first time in his long, long life that he was about to die. But something familiar resonated nearby and attracted his focus, so he concentrated on it, focusing all his will and determination on it. He reached out and touched its leathery hide and sighed, loving it for its familiarity. It responded with a soothing, bellowing growl, and Gregg felt loved by it. As his consciousness waned, his face broke the surface of the water and he gasped, sucking in a breath full of air, coughing and expectorating afterbirth, dragging the beast that’d almost killed him up onto the bank. He was delirious with pain and blood loss, but that familiar thing was still there; its color and shape and texture all comforted him. There was a part of him that was telling him this was his own hide he was looking at, but he stroked it and knew deep down that it was another’s. Then he saw the flayed-open mess of his own body, or what he thought must be his body, and he began reeling in thirty-odd feet of ropey guts, winding them around his arm.

Pain for Gregg had arrived the very moment he was conceived and, in his very short life so far, was all he knew. He felt cold and knew somehow that the blood that was running out of him represented his life spilling onto the muddy bank. He was shivering out of control, his skin was ghostly pale where it wasn’t wet with blood or ripped open. He began to cry as he reeled in the last few feet of his intestines; shivering, freezing, coughing, and ultimately screaming and collapsing in defeat.

As he lay there, pondering what was left of his life, he knew only two things—that his name was Gregg, and that his death was at hand.

***

Fred watched as Gregg laid back and closed his eyes and a sick feeling began to spread its way through him. Fred had never, in all his life, felt like he was kin to something. He’d never really felt anything at all but basic, instinctual urges. But now he was enthralled by the nearness of Gregg, and at the same time he was deeply concerned that the damage Gregg had suffered from their little twirl in the water might now kill him. When Gregg collapsed Fred inched forward and sniffed him. Not liking what he smelled, Fred did the only thing that he could do—he put his newfound consciousness aside and reverted to instinct. His instinct told him that he should dig a hole, so he began digging a hole. It took him a little while, because he was very out of practice except for a little scraping here and there (it’s hard to dig a hole big enough to fit in when you’re as big as he was), but he just knew

felt

that this would be just the thing Gregg needed. What was better than a hole? Especially when you’re hurt

oh yes…

when you’re hurting nothing is better than a hole to get into. For a gator, a hole in the ground is the womb from which he was born, and this man

Gregg

was born from the earth, just as Fred was, so all Fred had to do was stick him in a nice hole and he would be fine.
Once the hole was dug he pushed Gregg gently into it and covered him up; then he posted himself atop the hole. No other creature in the ‘Glades could move Fredd from that perch.

Two days passed before Fredd felt the mound stir, and he immediately retreated and watched from afar, shivering with delight, as Gregg exhumed himself.

The sun was high and hot, baking the clearing where Gregg’s grave was dug. Gregg came out scratching and clawing his way into the light, gasping for air. As soon as he breathed in a full breath he began screaming and became frantic with his efforts to escape. He crawled on all fours down to the swamp and plunged in, drinking in the stagnant water in desperate gulps.

He rose from the water then, his body streaked with black mud from head to toe, his hair matted together, and shook his head. Then he looked down at his palms, spreading his fingers and clenching his fists, inspecting his arms and then his chest, touching tenderly where he once had been split open like a blood-filled canoe. Then he looked up at the sky and howled (roared?) like some craven animal that was mad with desire and longing and hunger.  

Seeing that Gregg was whole again filled Fred with delight. Gregg surveyed his surroundings and then looked at Fredd with a glint in his eye, taking a step toward him. Fredd shivered, ecstatic. He begged for nearness with Gregg. Gregg stopped though, and seemed to consider something, and then he said, “Food.” Without another thought Fred launched into the water and swam away as fast as he could go. No donation meat for this guest of honor: Fred was going for the freshest meat available in the Everglades, and he knew just where to find it, too. There was only one question: turtle or armadillo?

***

Gregg looked around. The gator peeked out at him from nearby, looking very much like a statue of himself, but with a penetrating eye that betrayed that disguise. Snarls of vegetation pressed in on him from every direction, and below that the swamp was full of murky, rank water that smelled of sulphur and decay. There was no food in sight, except maybe for the alligator. His body was weak and needed sustenance, that was his first major concern and, for the moment, his only real concern. Food, he thought, and took a weak step toward the gator.

Then something odd happened; out of nowhere a name popped into his head. It was the name “Fred.” He wondered where it had come from, and then, narrowing his eyes at the alligator: It understands me.

He looked at Fred and said, “Food,” and the gator responded by thrusting quickly into the water—very quickly—and disappearing. Gregg watched for a moment as a swirl eddied away from Fred’s big body.

He walked up onto the bank and sat down a few feet from the water’s edge. He began taking stock of his condition and his situation. “My name is Gregg,” he said, and it felt good to have this thought sail into his mind, but that was where it ended. He shook his head, squinted his eyes to tears, and felt a dull pain in the back of his mind holding all his memories hostage. He put one hand on his forehead and the other on the back of his head and he cradled it there, trying to force the memories out, but they wouldn’t come.

He looked up, blinked, and looked in the direction Fred had gone. “Fred,” he said again, as if testing his voice.

I’m naked, he thought, but he felt no shame in his nakedness. It was simply a state; something to remedy when he comes in contact with people. People! Where were the people? As he looked around now he saw a skunk wobbling across a hammock fifty feet away across the water. On his arm, a mosquito bit him and then fell, dead, to the ground. Insects hovered about him but soon learned not to light on him. He could see the shadows of birds on the ground and flitting through the trees; hear their cries, along with all the insects and reptiles of the swamp. He saw the silhouette of a frigate bird soaring in the sky above him and thought for a moment of dragons, strangely comforted by it. He tossed a stick into the water and saw a big fish swimming near where it broke the water’s surface, then he noticed there were many small fish all along the bank, but there were no people. Why did he believe there should be people here?

He picked up another stick and began breaking it into tiny pieces.

Soon, Fred showed up with an armadillo in his mouth and laid it on the ground before Gregg. If Gregg had had any qualms about it he didn’t display them; he found the bright red split in the gray hide and tore it open with his hands and ate. He pulled at the meat with his teeth, tearing off big chunks and chewing them hungrily and swallowing in big gulps. Blood dripped onto his chest, smeared across his face. He ate half the armadillo and then tossed the carcass aside. Fred caught the remains in mid-flight and swallowed them whole.

Gregg lay back on the bank, belly distended, and laughed out loud, bloody spittle flying from his lips, crying, “Damn that’s good!” He punctuated this by tossing a small bone into the water and exhaling a luxurious breath of air. Fred shivered with delight.

After a few minutes, his hunger finally sated and for the first time in his short life not suffering in any way, he dozed off and began to snore softly. Fred, still hungry, slipped off and found a small deer and ate it.

When Gregg awakened he got up and urinated into the water. “Damn that’s good!” he cried again. Then he rubbed his round belly, smiling, and wondered if there was any way he could ever have been happy before this moment. Somehow, he was sure there was.

written by Matt Mitchell