Billy: A Tale Of Unrelenting Terror (6 page)

"I figured as much," Jean replied. "But had to ask all the same. If’n you change your mind, you better do it quick. S’posed to be here by Sunday, and not much time left to get to higher ground."

"We ain’t goin’ to change our minds," Poppie said. "Y’all be careful out on da road, and tell dat sheriff don’t waste his time comin’ out here ‘cause we ain’t leavin’."

"Don’t let dat worry you none, Poppie," Jean answered. "No one gonna come all da way out here now. Take care of da wife and dose boys, and tell ‘Celia we sends our love. You be with us in our prayers."

Poppie nodded and watched as Jean and Robert started up their boat and rode out of sight. No one else was coming to
Bayou Noir
to warn them or see if they needed any help. There was not enough time now. It was almost Friday, and within two days, the storm would be upon them. Dorcelia wasn’t going into town this weekend, and Billy was staying put. They were going to hunker down and ride out the hurricane for good or bad. Only then would they take care of the unsettled business in the attic.

For the remainder of that day and all of the next, they hurriedly prepared for the coming onslaught. The boats were double and tripled tied off to the dock, and as much of their possessions as possible were taken in to the relative safety of the small cabin. What they couldn’t bring in, Poppie and the boys tied down as best they could. By Sunday, the rain began to fall, and they shuddered up the windows before settling down together inside the wooden shack.

By the next morning, the wind began to howl. Strong gusts crashed against their home and shook the tiny building, only to be followed by an eerie silence uncommon so deep in the swamp. Generally, they were surrounded with a concert of the natural sounds emanating from the vast array of wildlife that lived in the marshlands. Not today. The swamp was quiet. The creatures that could leave had already left; the ones that could not were hiding from the upcoming melee, much like the St. Pierre’s. The only other times Poppie remembered the swamp being this quiet was on the days when Billy was on the prowl.

Billy had been riding out the storm all alone in the dark attic in relative silence. The occasional sound of rattling chains drifted down from above to remind everyone that the monster was still waiting in the space above them, but no more noise than what they usually heard from him.

From time to time, Justin claimed to hear a creepy scratching sound and wondered aloud what the beast was up to, but no one else ever claimed to hear it. In these instances, T-Roy routinely mocked him, calling him a
capon
, which usually resulted in the two boys coming to blows before being forcefully separated by their irate father. By the time Poppie was finished with them, the damage they had inflicted upon each other paled in comparison. By the time that Sunday afternoon reached them, no one was calling anyone else a
capon
.

As darkness began to fall, the water began to rise. By this time, the wind was howling loudly – only now accompanied by Billy’s howls from above.

"EEEEEEEEaaaaaaaaaaaagggghhhhh!"

The waves crashed against the pilings on which their house stood, and the entire world swayed from the force of the hurricane. One of the shudders tore off from its mountings, and one of the window panes cracked from the power of the wind. A loud screech rang out as the wind and rain shot in from the small opening.

"Go get dat board and push it against dat window," Poppie shouted to T-Roy above the din.

"EEEEEEEeeeeeeaaaaaaaaggggghhhhh!"

"It’s getting bad out dere, Daddy," Justin shouted. "What we gonna do?"

"We gonna be alright, Jus. We just sit tight and hold on."

"EEEEEeeeeeeeeaaaaaaggggghhhhhh!"

"
Maudit
! Goddamn!" T-Roy yelled. "Billy’s going
motier foux
, half-crazy up dere."

The heavy chains rattled above in time with the thunderous clasps of the raging storm. The family below huddled in each other’s arms at each crash of Katrina’s fury.

"EEEEEeeeeeeaaaaaaaaagggghhhhh!"

"Ooo eee! Dat howlin’ giving me da
freesons
," Justin hollered.

"Dat boy just scared, same as us," Dorcelia exclaimed.

"EEEeeeeeeeaaaaaaggggghhhh!"

"He ain’t scared. Not dat one," answered Poppie.

He knew better. He had looked on as the beast confronted alligators and poisonous snakes raw-handed without hesitation, without fear. Hell, Poppie thought, almost with evil delight. He knew the demon he leashed into the world wasn’t human. Billy was the Devil himself. The monster didn’t feel fear, except the fear in others, and at those times, he relished it.

"He up dere all alone, in da dark," Dorcelia pointed out. "Of course, he’s scared."

"EEEEEeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaggggghhhh!"

"Dat don’t sound like no fear to me," Poppie said. "Almost sound like he likin’ it."

The family shuddered collectively at the thought. A loud crash hit the cabin and almost knocked them all down, and the front door blew open from the force of the tidal surge. Cold water rushed in at an alarming rate. In seconds, it was up to their ankles; within minutes, up to their waists.

"Poppie," shouted Dorcelia, "what we gonna do?"

"Get dat ladder, T," Poppie shouted. "Jus, get my shotgun."

Dorcelia said nothing, tears running down her cheeks as she bit her tongue. Justin handed the gun to his father and helped T-Roy position the ladder under the small, square opening in the ceiling above. Poppie climbed up and pushed the wooden door open, then reached down to grab the flashlight from T-Roy. The water was climbing up toward their chests, and the entire family was beginning to panic.

"Hurry up, Daddy," Justin shouted, his voice cracking with fear. "We all gonna drown."

Poppie glanced at his boy, but said nothing. Justin was right. He had to do what he had to do. He took a deep breath, and then headed up the ladder.

He pushed his way quickly into the small opening and swung his light around. The rancid smell hit him, and he promptly choked back his nausea. A blast of cold water hit him in the face, the result of a hole that the storm had torn through the aged roof. Poppie felt the cold water at his feet and knew he had little time left before the entire family drowned. He flung himself up into the attic and leveled his shotgun, aiming for the spot against the far wall where he had chained his youngest child. He shone his light in the dark and froze in terror at the sight of empty chains.

Lightning burst through the ragged hole in the roof and lit up the dank chamber. The beast’s shadow flashed upon the wall to Poppie’s right, and he swung toward it and fired. The blast rang out in unison with the thunder clasp overhead and temporarily blinded him. He felt sick and heaved the remaining contents of his stomach onto the dirty floorboards in front of him.

"Daddy, please help us," he heard from below.

Poppie swung the flashlight around to the empty spot where he had fired his shotgun. Another flash exploded in the sky above the cabin and lit up the attic. Poppie swung around just in time to see Billy’s sharp teeth inches from his face. The beast was laughing with sadistic pleasure, feeding off of the cruel man’s fear at his impending death. Poppie looked into the dark red eyes of his son and breathed his last breath. Billy swung his sharpened claw with almost supernatural speed and ripped the old man’s neck open, sending blood splattering out from the severed arteries and veins.

The water was up to their necks as the clan held on to the lone hope that their father’s blast had cleared the attic of the waiting beast. Dorcelia stood on the table and clung to Justin as she craned her neck to keep above the rising tide. T-Roy stood on the ladder, almost to the top, as he waited for his father’s call. They all heard the blast and held their breaths.

Another crash of thunder shook the cabin, followed by a brief moment of silence. A sickening thud echoed off of the ceiling and a trickle of blood dripped out from the attic opening and landed on T-Roy’s face. He glanced toward his mother and brother, seeing the horror on their faces, then looked up again in time to see the square, wooden door to the attic slam shut on them, sealing their fates.

"EEEEEEEEEEeeeeaaaagggggghhhhh!"

Within minutes, the water overtook them all. Dorcelia accepted her death as punishment for failing once again to protect her children from the evil under their own roof. Justin scratched and clawed at the ceiling above as water filled his lungs, feeling like the
capon
his brother branded him as his life gave way to darkness.

Even as his life slipped away, T-Roy never tried to gain access to the attic. The last thought in his dying brain was the realization that his father was right. The beast was savoring the moment. Billy’s howls were not born of fear; they were roars of victory.

"EEEEEeeeeeeeaaaaaaggggghhhhh!"

The storm tore a hole in the roof of the small cabin and the rain poured in, riding on the gusts of the powerful wind. The sensation reminded Billy of the time he rode on the airboat, when the feeling of speed made him feel exhilarated. He was free of his chains, free of his prison in the attic, and free of his tormentors below. When the storm was over and the waters subsided, Billy stared out of the hole in the damaged roof and toward the endless swamp that surrounded him.

"EEEEEeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhh!"

Freed from his chains by the storm, Billy was loose.

PART TWO

PRODIGAL SON

Chapter Nine

Evangeline Defante’

B
y the time Nick returned from the Search and Rescue Conference, everything had changed. His untimely departure from the Crescent City, prior to the horrendous events in the late summer of two thousand five, only exacerbated the alienation from his co-workers that he had already established. Timing is everything and, without it, Nick had managed to end up with nothing.

It was his decision to leave early for the meeting with the hope of escaping the oppressive summer heat of New Orleans. A couple of weeks in Colorado were just what he felt he needed to recuperate and recharge his system. Nick hoped that he’d be able to start fresh upon his return and eventually regain the respect and camaraderie of his fellow officers that he’d lost after his last assignment. No one liked anyone associated with the Internal Affairs Division, particularly an undercover operative, and Nick only held out a faint hope of recovering professionally from his ill-advised rotation. The fact that he was successful in his duties only made his fellow officers despise him more and the chance of cooperation with any future endeavors harder to obtain.

Although Nick made every effort to return home after the levees broke and the city flooded, all that was remembered was that he was not there. By the time he reported back to duty, weeks had gone by and the National Guard was already in place. A large portion of the population had long since vacated, and groups from all over the country were providing the lion’s share of the search for survivors and recovery of the deceased. His new position in Missing Persons was much needed, but not at all secured because of his absence when he might have been the most useful. Nicholas Vizier missed his chance of redemption once again. It wouldn’t be the last time.

What was left of his home in the eastern part of the city was a heartbreaking sight. His humble abode was never all that much to begin with, little more than a two-bedroom single-family dwelling in a sketchy part of town that was well on its way to becoming a ghetto. Still, as humble as it was, it was all Nick had. Now, it was gone.

The waterline was clearly visible on the exterior wall at about ten feet high; the interior was a sad and putrid mix of mud, mold, and garbage. The stench was unbearable inside, even before he opened his refrigerator without thinking. Even the faintest of memories his olfactory nerves held of the event would continue to cause his stomach to wretch for years afterward. Judging by the multitude of discarded freezers taped shut at every curb, he figured he was not the only one to have made that mistake.

From that moment on, he wore a bandana soaked in cheap cologne around the bottom half of his face every time he ventured into the abandoned dwelling. Third world technology trumped first world luxuries in times of disaster, thought Nick. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the broken mirror above his bathroom sink, his reflection reminded him of a bank robber in some ridiculous B-movie Western. Drawing two pistols with his fingers and thumbs, he aimed and fired at his absurd image. Nick shook his head and chuckled, then tears welled up and drifted down his dirty cheeks, his sobs choked by the pungent cloth tied across his mouth.

Nothing in his house was salvageable. Nick sighed at the pathetic sight, thinking about the irony of it all. His domicile mirrored the state of his career. The wasteland that was his home symbolized his life. There was nothing left for him here; there was nothing left for him anywhere. It was time to go home.

Although he was born in St. Martinville, Nick spent his formative years moving from town to town every couple of years. His father, Russell Vizier, was a marginally-employed electrician and handyman who never seemed to have enough money or luck to support either him or his family. A raging alcoholic and habitual gambler, Nick’s father moved his family from pillar to post in an unsuccessful attempt to gain steady employment and run from creditors.

When Nicholas was ten years old, his father left the house for a pack of cigarettes and never returned. Nick waited for his father on the front steps of the ramshackle duplex his family lived in at the time to no avail. His heart was broken at the realization that his father had abandoned him and his mother, and he longed for the day when he would see his father again, if only to repay the pain that he had felt. He never got his chance for revenge, however, since his father was never seen in the vicinity again.