Waylon Smithers drove for the rest of the afternoon, and Ryan helped navigate. The miles continued to roll away, and their time was spaced between conversation and silence. Eventually, they left Route 66; Ryan watching over his shoulder, and giving the highway a goodbye wave. They moved south and east, passing beyond the arid "cattle scrub" as Waylon called it, and into crop fields.

That night they pulled into a roadside motel. It was a place that Ryan loved almost immediately.

Unlike the modern chain motel they'd stayed in the night before, this one tottered between hopelessly antiquated, and delightfully kitsch. The décor was eclectic, retro. Waylon watched Ryan peering, bright-eyed, into a case of old fans and vintage movie memorabilia.

It was like watching Lydia at a swap-meet. Ryan had that same stopped posture, leaning in to examine everything, and the unbridled joy that lit his face when he saw some particular knickknack that caught his eye. Ryan truly was their son, he observed. He felt an odd feeling in his stomach, somewhere between nostalgia and remorse. His mind was full of memories as he got ready for bed: Lydia, and the good times they'd had together. It wasn't all bad, he thought as he rolled over. Ryan's right. I should've handled that better, he thought as he drifted off the sleep.

The next morning, they started the final leg of their journey.

Waylon didn't speak much for most of the drive. His mind had moved from Lydia back to Montgomery Burns. He wondered how Burns was getting on. His mind kept generating all manner of scenarios, each worse than the last. Monty Burns getting lost in the swamp, Monty Burns injured on the road. What if he never even made it to Belledouleur? What if he'd been assaulted by squatters? What if he were dead?

Waylon's all-to-vivid imagination presented each scene in painfully crisp detail. He saw Monty Burns lying in a pool of blood in center of the grand hall, a savage wound on the back of his head made by some blunt object.

No, Waylon snapped at himself. Don't go there. He'll be fine. Or as fine as he can be. He's not as helpless as you think he is.

The hours crept by.

The sun grew closer to the horizon before finally falling over the edge. Shadows darkened, turned to night.

Still Waylon drove.

Waylon had been pushing himself hard, mercilessly closing the distance between themselves and Mortrouge. Ryan was beginning to show signs of the long journey. Eventually, Ryan crawled into the back of the Durango and curled up in an exhausted heap.

By Waylon's estimate, they'd arrive in Colien, the largest city near Mortrouge around ten that night. However, he was still a good hour or more away from Colien. Waylon steeled himself for the final push. It would be far too late that evening to attempt going further, and Waylon knew there would be no place to stay once they arrived at Mortrouge.

After what seemed like ages, Waylon pulled into the Colien Motel parking lot and turned off the engine. "You made it, Waylon; more dead than alive," he muttered, resting his forehead on the steering wheel for a moment and closing his eyes. He didn't linger too long though It would hardly do to fall asleep like that, though Waylon had no doubt he could've.

With a groan and a sigh he pushed himself straight.

He reached back between the seats, and gently shook Ryan awake.

Ryan mumbled something, and covered his face with an arm.

Waylon shook him, more vigorously this time.

"Okay, okay, I'm up." Ryan ran a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his face. "Are we there yet," he asked, putting on his glasses and blinking around the dark parking lot, confused.

Waylon shook his head. "We're still a town over from Mortrouge. The village of Colien. There's no point even trying to get to Belledouler after dark. Those swamps can be dangerous at the best of times, and even the roads from Colien to Mortrouge weren't the best last time I was here. I doubt they've improved with age. We'll stay here tonight."

"What time is it?"

"Nearly midnight."

Ryan grunted in acknowledgement, and pushed the door open. He made a face. "Ug, it's muggy."

The sky was dark, and starless. The sky was misty, overcast. Waylon had been expecting some sort of glow from the cities nearby, then he shook himself. There were no cities nearby. They were in deep Cajun country, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of any major cities. The drone of the insects was deafening in the hot, moist air. They got themselves a room, simple, but cozy. Being as tired as they were, neither man even noticed the details of the room.

The roads from Colien to Mortrouge had not been well-maintained the last time Waylon had travelled them, nearly two decades ago. He had no reason to suspect they'd be any better now.

The roads still managed to fail even his low expectations. The drive wasn't far, but the crumbled pavement left the narrow road in want of repair. The Durango bucked along over the dips and potholes. Waylon wasn't taking it particularly gentle either. He drove quicker than would be advisable, ignoring the obvious discomfort of the car and its passengers.

The road widened as they got closer to town.

Once, over a hundred years ago, Mortrouge had been a prosperous little town, right on the edge of Cajun and Plantation country. With the shifting waters, the town's residents had left in search of drier lands. Though the area was still mostly clear of vegetation, the rows of brick buildings had a decidedly weary feel.

The last time Waylon had been through Mortrough, he noticed a handful of empty storefronts. This time, there were too many to count. A heavy fog hung in the air. Ryan put his hand up, as if somehow that would help him see more clearly. "This is it?"

"Mortrouge? Yes."

"It doesn't look like I was expecting," Ryan admitted, face creasing in thought.

Waylon drove the Durango down a south-running avenue, then cut onto a west road. "What were you expecting?" he asked as they passed a gas station.

"More swamps. Houses on stilts. Stuff like that." Ryan gestured to a block of brick building lined neatly in a row. "This could be any town. I was expecting something more 'bayou.'"

Waylon clucked his tongue. "That's swamp living. Mortrouge isn't there yet. There's a lot of quaint old towns in Louisiana."

They passed a sagging town hall, the roman-columned front cracked and peeling. "But Mortrouge isn't one of them. Not anymore."

Ryan watched the building fade into the distance as they headed down another avenue. "What happened?"

Wainwright happened, Waylon thought to himself. He shook his head. "After the Civil War, life changed down here. Some towns survived, others died."

"This one's still alive, right?" Ryan asked. His tone was oddly plaintive, seeking reassurance.

Waylon gave Ryan a sad smile. He tried to reply, but found he couldn't find the words. After a few false starts, he gave up and focused on the road. They were at the edge of town, close to the swamps.

Like Belledouleur itself, Waylon suspected in a few more years Mortrouge would fall off the maps as well. Aside from the derelict airport and its long runway, there was very little alive in Mortrouge anymore. Waylon secretly wondered if it was only because of Burns' influence that the airport and runway were maintained at all.

He pulled into a driveway at the edge of a slow moving muddy waterway. Several docks extended into the water, boats moored along their edges; and beside them a relatively maintained wooden building. A sign hung from the front porch. "Alphonse's Boat Livery and Bait," it proclaimed in hand-painted red letters. Beneath that, were the words "River Tours and Fishing Trips. Guide for Hire."

Waylon stepped out of the car, and straightened his blazer. It was uncomfortably hot, but the familiar clothes offered reassurance. It gave him a sense of control in a situation that seemed to have spiraled beyond his means to rein it in.

He heard the passenger door to the Durango open and shut, and the patter of feet as Ryan hurried to catch up.

Ryan Smithers watched as his father strode confidently onto the porch, past a few "bug zapper" lights. He let himself in through a screen door with a hanging tin sign that simply said "open."

By the time Ryan had made it inside, his father was already in the middle of a rapid negotiation with an ancient-looking man behind the counter. Ryan could barely make out a word of it. It sounded like he was speaking a combination of English and French, with a heavy, mushy accent. Ryan noted his father seemed comfortable with the dialect, responding in kind.

There was one bit though, that Ryan was able to make out clearly.

"Belledouleur? Mais non! Say, dat your boiy over thaire?"

"My son, yes," Waylon replied.

The man made a gesture with his hand. "I won't have a hand in bring a child over that cursed ground. That land's hainted. Even the river won't swallow it, that's how foul the place be. You're best leaving it well enough alone." He folded his arms across his chest.

"I'm looking for a man. I have every reason to believe he's gone to Belledouler."

"Light a candle in his memory then, and let it go."

"I need a boat. If you don't want to rent me one…" Waylon paused, looking up the river. "I'll have to make it on foot."

Ryan drew in his breath. His father was serious. The look in his eyes was one of sheer determination. Ryan knew that look; he'd worn it himself. It was the expression he bore when nothing could change his mind.

"Angels and saints preserve me. You're mad. And you'll be dooming that boy's life too. But if you're hellbound, the least I can do is lend you supplies." Alphonse gestured to a flat-bottomed boat with an outboard motor and a pair of long oars. "You take that johnboat there. Ordinarily, I'd say pay me when you return, but I don't want to gamble on that. So, we'll settle up now, before you go."

Waylon nodded. "Fair enough."

A handful of bills was exchanged. Alphonse counted them, then tucked them into the pocket of his dungarees. He brought over a fuel tank from the supply shed, and hooked it to the motor. He squeezed a bulb in the fuel line several times to prime it. The engine was a manual start. Alphonse gave the zip-cord a practiced yank, spinning the engine to life. It ran, a plume of grey smoke wafting up into the air.

Ryan immediately recognized the familiar smell of two-stroke engine exhaust. It smelled like his motorcycle.

Alphonse ran the motor, adjusted the throttle and choke, then shut it down.

"She runs as well as ever you could hope," he said, stepping back onto the dock.

"Thank you," Waylon said, extended his hand to Alphonse.

The man smiled graciously, but refused to shake it. "I don't want to be passing the luck of the dead. No." he said, tucking his hands under his crossed arms. "If you return, I'll shake your hand then." He gave Ryan a nod. "And good luck to you, young fils."

Waylon climbed into the boat, and gestured for Ryan to join him.

Ryan did, grabbing the gunwales nervously as he settled onto the seat. The boat was a simple, flat-bottomed "tin boat." Several seats were molded in, hollow, but sealed. Floatation. Even if the boat became completely full of water, it still wouldn't sink under. His father and Alphonse untiled the mooring ropes.

Alphonse gave them a shove into the open waterway, and stepped back. He made a gesture, extending the index and pinky fingers of his left hand, while curling his middle and ring fingers against his thumb. He kissed his thumb, and held the hand up. With his right, he crossed himself. That done, he turned and went back into his shop. He did not look back.

The boat was slowly drifting into a current.

"Ready?" Waylon asked.

Ryan packed himself up into the wide, sloping bow and drew his knees up to his chest. He leaned over the gunwales and peered into the opaque brown-green water. It was like staring into coffee… or paint. His heart pounded against the inside of his ribs.

He glanced up at his father and nodded once. "Let's go."

Waylon nodded, gave the engine a pull, and throttled against the currents, piloting them deeper into the murky swamp.

Ryan Smithers kept himself wedged at the bow of the boat, watching the water slip away. It was almost hypnotic, the way the bow waves seemed to break. After a while, it seemed to him that the water was moving, and they were standing still.

He started to see pictures in the waves.

A herd of white horses was racing across brown earth, leaping and cavorting. Or maybe they were hippocampi, sea-horses of legend, racing each other through the ocean breakers. Time felt weird, seemed to slow down.

Dreamily he reached a hand towards the water…

… The boat lurched suddenly to port.

Ryan yelped as he tumbled left. He regained his balance and pushed himself up. "What was that for?" he demanded, rubbing his leg where he'd hit the side of the boat.

His father, sitting on the rear seat, arm behind him to pilot the engine gave him a stern look. "You were getting tranced by the water. Another few minutes, and your would've fallen in."

"I would've done no such thing!" Ryan protested. In his heart though, he knew his father was right.

The wide waterway had given way to risen swamp. Large trees, cypress, rose out of the water, draped in moss. Here and there, a copse of ferns managed to find enough land to make a stab at survival. The exposed mud-bars filled the air with the scent of sulfur and fish. Beyond that though, there was an oddly sweet smell. Something floral. Some blooms Ryan couldn't see.

"This was old plantation land," Waylon explained as he shut down the engine and raised it. "There are too many weeds, the water's too shallow. We'll be poling from here." He handed an oar over to Ryan, handle first. "Use that end," he instructed, demonstrating.

Waylon stood up and pushed the pole into the water. "Be careful," he admonished.

Be careful of what? Ryan thought. He got to his feet, surprised by how stable the little johnboat was, and pushed the oar into the water. When it connected with the bottom, he felt the ground resist it. A flotilla of bubbles rose to the surface, breaking open with a rotten egg smell. He made a face. Swamp gas. That explained the sulfur smell.

Ryan lifted his pole, nearly hitting Waylon as he reached forward.

"Careful!" Waylon snapped as he ducked.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?"

Waylon sighed. "How about I just pole for a while? It'll be just as easy, and I know where we're going."

Ryan looked around. To him, the swamp all looked the same. "How?" he asked.

Waylon gestured with his chin at the trees around them. "This all used to be open fields. Sugarcane. Those trees there, to the right? Remnants of old magnolia, or live oak… or something. They like dry land. Once we get a bit closer, we'll be able to take the road."

"Road?"

Waylon nodded. "The avenue to Belledouleur is all cobblestone. We've been running more or less parallel to it. Belledouleur was built on a slight rise. This isn't so much swamp as a wide spot in the river. Probably from all the rain recently. If it were dryer, we could've probably taken the road by now."

Ryan sat down, looking through the shadows under the massive trees and hanging moss. "Why can't we just cut through, if that side's high-land. Why not just hike in?"

"Have you ever tried hiking through a swamp?"

Ryan shook his head.

"One false step, and you're up to your neck in a sump hole, or quicksand. It's fastest and safest in the boat."

Ryan couldn't think of anything further to say at that point. He leaned his knees on his elbows and watched the swamp grow darker. As they neared the higher ground, he'd expected it would get lighter. If anything, the canopy overhead grew thicker, the air heavier and more oppressive. He swatted at a mosquito, and listened to the heady drone of insects in the leaves.

Off to his right, a shadow detached itself from beside a wide cypress root. A pair of gold eyes, watched him through vertical pupils: narrow slits like a cat's. A pair of nostrils broke the water, then sunk back under.

Ryan shifted nervously to face Waylon. "Dad…" he began, pointing towards the eyes.

"Alligator," Waylon replied. "I see it."

Ryan turned back, nervously scanning the water for the eyes. The popped up, closer to the boat this time. Ryan could see the muddy water churning behind as the animal's powerful tail propelled it towards them with a deceptively lazy motion. It was almost as long as the boat. Ryan looked about for something to use as a weapon. All he had was the oar that would hardly-

BANG

The deafening crack of a handgun split the air. Ryan didn't even have time to cover his ears. His hands went to his chest in shock. I've been shot! His brain screamed.

The water a few inches from the gator's head erupted as a bullet whizzed into it.

The gator's eyes rolled in the direction of the disturbance, then up to the boat. With a quick tilt of the head, the animal turned and sunk underwater, heading off in search of safer prey.

Ryan clutched his chest with one hand, the seat with another. It took him a second to realize he was still holding his breath. Barely able to hear anything over his own heartbeat and the ringing in his ears he turned mutely around.

His father, Waylon, was standing there, a revolver held with a steady hand; following the direction of the alligator. After a moment, Waylon relaxed, lowered the hammer, and slipped the revolver into a concealed shoulder harness under his blazer.

Ryan realized his mouth was hanging open.

"You have a gun? How long have you been carrying gun on you!?"

Waylon straightened his blazer and buttoned it up. "Since we left Burns Manor."

"Wha? Why? What sort of trouble did you think we'd get into?"

The grey-haired man shrugged casually. "I wasn't sure, but I wasn't willing to find out."

"But you're been packing heat!"

"I have a national concealed-carry permit. It's all perfectly legal."

Ryan thought of the crime in Philadelphia. Armed robberies, shootings. He'd never felt comfortable around guns. The idea of his father wearing one made him nervous. He rubbed his aching ears. "Do you always carry a gun?"

Waylon poled the boat onward. "Oh no," he shook his head. "Hardly ever. Not unless theres a good need, or someone I want to protect."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. Hubby's not even here right now."

Waylon coughed and glared at Ryan. "He's not the only one I care about." He jabbed the pole into the water more forcefully than he needed to, and the boat rocked slightly. When he pulled it free, the bottom was covered in grey mud.

Oh… Ryan gestured to himself.

Waylon nodded. "You're my son, and I'm not going to risk anything happened to you. A lot can happen in several thousand miles. I'm not going to let it happen to you."

Ryan pivoted on the seat so that he faced Waylon. "You care about me," he said, wonderingly. It was new information, and a rather large piece. He knew it would take some time to digest. "Why?

Waylon gave him the most incredulous expression. "Because you're my son! Why wouldn't I care about you?"

Ryan muttered something softly to himself, and looked at his hands.

"Excuse me?"

Ryan looked up. "I said 'because you just met me… and I haven't exactly been the nicest to you.'"

Waylon pushed the boat further. "You're going through a lot. It takes time to adjust to it all. For both of us."

"Yeah… both of us." Ryan's voice trailed off. He looked into the branches of the trees. The leaves were really blowing. Wait, scratch that. The air was still. What were those things swinging from the branches? Ryan squinted through the clearing mists. It looked like dead animals swinging from nooses… or tiny bodies.

"Dad… Waylon… are you seeing those?"

Waylon Smithers grunted, digging the pole into the ground. Though water still covered everything, it had grown to shallow for him to push the boat further. After a moment of wrestling the oar out of the water and muck, he looked up.

Hanging from the trees were dozens and dozens of human-like forms, ranging in size from a few inches to over a foot. They were made from all manner of materials, straw, leather… even some plastic store-bought figures.

"Doll babies," he observed, looking up at the swaying figures. He'd seen them before. The eyes in the swamp just beyond the sunken lawns of Belledouleur. There had been a good number then. Clearly, they'd only increased with time.

"Like voodoo dolls?" Ryan asked nervously.

"Hoodoo," Waylon corrected, "not voodoo."

Ryan flinched away from one that hung close to the boat.

"What are they all doing here? A curse?"

Waylon shook his head. "No. Protection."

"For who? Wainwright?"

Waylon set the oar down in the boat and slipped off his blazer. "No. For us. To protect us from Wainwright." He folded his jacket neatly on the seat, and rolled up his sleeves. Waylon reached down and grabbed the bow rope. Without hesitation he jumped lightly out of the boat and into the shallow water with a splash.

Ryan gave a concerned yelp.

Waylon offered him a reassuring smile with a cheer he didn't feel. Time to put on a brave face, he told himself. "We're over the cobble avenue now. I'll have to tow the boat to shore." He grabbed the coarse rope in both hands and, mustering a courage he didn't know if he felt, he started forward, pulling johnboat, and Ryan, ever closer to the manor grounds of Belledouleur.