Pointe Bordeaux | Grace Kennison
If Pointe Bordeaux had telephone booths, Grace had never seen them in her nineteen plus change years. She tucked her body next to a brick wall, the awning of the roof kept most of the rain from soaking her. Folding her jeans up neatly—she didn’t have the money to buy another pair if she ripped them—she exchanged them for her blue trackpants. Carefully stepping into the legs, she let out a mild noise of disgust as she put one her left foot down in a puddle. Throwing her track jacket over her yellow shirt, she zipped it most of the way up before hiding it beneath her brother’s old varsity jacket. She kept the helmet in her bag for now. Even if the storm was driving people indoors, she wouldn’t want someone hassling Thumper for an autograph (or a fight) unless it was truly necessary. Digging through her back, Grace brushed aside a flashlight, some FlexiCuffs, a water bottle, and some candy wrappers before pulling out a yellow umbrella.
Stepping out of the alley, Grace looked around as a frown slowly made its way onto her face. Pointe Bordeaux was her hometown. She didn’t know every nook and cranny, that would be a ridiculous thing to assume, but she knew her way around town. The way she was going? It wasn’t the right way.
No, scratch that, thought Grace. The way she was going? It was the right way, the right way just happened to no longer be towards City Hall. She just felt it; she had been filling it ever since she had woken up this morning. She didn’t know how to explain it. If Grace had to describe it the feeling, she’d say it was like sleepwalking if you were fully aware and capable of stopping it at any second. She had stopped twice already and doubled back towards City Hall. And twice she had found herself turning around and going the way her gut was telling her. It was like something was out there and she was meant to find it.
So she went to find it.
The path led her out of the city and into the swamp. Even when she was young, Grace had hated going out into the swamps. They were sticky, and icky, and full of spiders and gators and everything just wanted to kill you as if it was Australia, except none of the animals even looked cute so there wasn’t even a good trade off to getting rubbed out by mother nature. Now that she was older, though, she didn’t hate the swamps. She was terrified of them; one wrong step and she’d be breathing in mud, water, and algae for the rest of her life.Grace stood at the end of the path where the wooden planks turned into mud and shook as thunder clapped above her, the rain pattering against her umbrella to the rhythm of an ominous death march. She didn’t want to do this.
But this is the right way, she thought, clenching her teeth as her hand reached into her jacket and clasped around her necklace, careful not to squeeze it out of fear of turning it into dust.
She bent down, prying one of the planks out of the ground with ease. Grace didn’t worry about the mud that was getting on her hand; she knew she wasn’t going to make it through the swamp without getting dirty. Tentatively pushing her makeshift walking stick into the mud, she watched as it shifted through the muck before settling on solid ground.
Not too bad yet. You can do this, thought Grace, although the look on her face was one full of doubt and uncertainty. Taking one final deep breath as if it would be her last, Grace stepped off of the wooden pathway and into the mud. Her heart smashed against her chest as alarms went off in her head. She was sinking, she was sinking, oh God, she was—fine. She had gone down a few inches, but no further than the stick had gone. She exhaled loudly.
What’d the neighbors say if little Grace Bethany drowned in the swamp cosplaying as Thumper? she thought grimly as she prodded the ground in front of her, proceeding through the swamp step by step. The entire time she had her other hand clasped around her necklace and umbrella as her lips endlessly quivered out muttered prayers. It was a miserable, slow procession, and underneath her tracksuit Grace could feel her body drench itself with sweat. At moments she felt herself sink further than she had anticipated, but she never thrashed about, she never lost nerve and bolted forward, and she never turned back. She did unnecessarily yelp out loud a few times, but nobody was around for her fears to embarrass her. Grace pushed forward, uncertainly, until she saw something that made her stop.
You must be joking, she thought, letting the large plank drop from her hand as she stared at the figure in the clearing. A thick canopy of trees kept the ground from being too muddy as the rain dripped gently through the leaves. Grace knew that only two kinds of things went out into the swamp alone: idiots and monsters.
Please just be another fool in the rain. Tilting her umbrella up so that it no longer hid her face and somehow pulling together enough sense to make an effort towards producing a friendly yet nervous smile, the girl unclenched her fist and gave the man a half-hearted wave.
“Hey,” she said. A wave of diffidence rushed over her, and for a second she just glanced around at anywhere but the man. She pushed the feeling down, returning to her previous but still rather anxious state.
“Hey,” she said again. “Are you, what are you, why are you...” She grimaced and blinked as her mouth tried to form a sentence. She took in a calming breath as her muddy free hand rested on her hip. Her eyes flashed open as she tilted her head, giving the man a quizzical stare before finally asking the question that she couldn’t even answer herself: “Why are you alone in a flipping swamp during a rainstorm? Are you dim or something?”
The man looked at her with a flare of arrogance in his piercing blue eyes.
”I believe I’m far from dim,” he practically spat,
”compared to me, you’re the dim one. Now, I’m tired, hungry, and thirsty, so if you don’t mind, don’t bother me again.” He waved at her in dismissal, looking around at the surroundings with squinted eyes. A moan of frustration escaped his lips.
“You’re in the middle of swamp hungry, thirsty, and tired, but I’m the dumb one compared to you?” asked Grace, her teeth chewing on her lip.
Is it my accent? It’s my accent. She tried to better enunciate her words and sound like one of those news casters instead of a girl from Pointe Bordeaux. “Unless you’re planning on eating some alligators and drinking swamp water I’d say that you’re kind of in the wrong place. Are you just lost?” She frowned, reiterating her first question. “Why are you in a swamp? It’s...strange, you know?”
He raised an eyebrow, probably at Grace slowing her voice.
”I’m in exactly the right place, thank you very much. As for my being here? That’s for me to know and me only. Now can you just—” Suddenly, the man shook his head, pounding his forehead with the palm of his head.
”Oh, not again…”It struck her as increasingly suspicious that the man kept dodging her question. She was prepared to call him out on it and felt her shoulders rise up as if she was going to pose like a comic book hero. Instead of a show of confidence, however, she stepped back in startlement as the man in red flannel started to violently pound his head. Lowering her yellow umbrella, she held up one hand as if to try to calm him down.
“Hey, are you, uh, are you okay?” she said, cautiously. “Look, I have some water if you aren’t feeling good.”
”Yeah, yeah,” he batted his hands at invisible flies,
”I’m great, actually. Now, where were we? Something about ice cream?” The man’s attitude perked up, and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.
”There was something important, right? Oh, damn, what was it… flies?” He looked around, before catching something small flying about, demonstrating great reflexes. He studied the bug closely, bringing it as close as two milimetres away from his face.
”No, that’s not it. Con… con… con-man? Constable? No, that’s a British thing. Con… con… con…” He was pacing now, looking everywhere and even crouching down to look at the ground.
Grace felt her suspicion slip away into a muddled pool of confusion. The confusion was quickly replaced by astonishment as he snatched a fly out of the air in one attempt. She had watched her brother try to do that one summer day; it had taken him nearly thirty minutes of running himself ragged to even grasp it, and he then only ended up accidentally smashing it into a wall.
And there was something. Con? Con? Why did that actually sound like it was familiar. She felt like she needed to ask the man about what he had done, but she wasn’t so sure if it would be safe to talk to him due to his rapid changing mood. To clarify, she wasn’t so sure it’d be safe for him.
But her big dumb mouth had other ideas.
“What’re you going on about?” she asked, and then pointed a wagging finger at the man. “And don’t go around grabbing bugs. You’ll get swamp fever or...actually…” She paused, looking the man up and down as he manically paced around the area. “Are you sick?”
”What? No, no no no…” He looked around even more, constantly repeating ‘con’ under his breath. His eyes widened suddenly, and his jaw dropped.
”Oooooooooooooooh! My brain is so stupid! CONVOY!” He grinned at her with childish joy.
”I remembered it! Isn’t that great?” Then, he pulled — or rather, heaved — his backpack off his shoulders, fumbling around with the zip. He eventually got it open, and pulled out what looked like a black notebook and a pen. The book had a slight shimmer of gold as he flicked it open, swiping page after page. He started scribbling down in it, his tongue stuck out with concentration.
”Ohoho… yes.” He muttered, before snapping it shut and putting the items back in his bag. With that, it was heaved back onto his back.
”Now, if I can just find it…” The man looked around again.
Despite what he said, Grace didn’t believe the man when he said he wasn’t sick. He was too erratic, too manic to be okay—and he was alone in a damn swamp. At least she was, at least she…
Why am I out here? she thought, looking around. As the cat finally let go of the man’s tongue and he shouted the word “convoy” out to the heavens Grace felt the umbrella slip from her hands. Like the man, her eyes also widened. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and carefully punched in a quick search on the Internet. Listings of articles about the Hyperhuman convoy heading south filled her screen; she looked back up at the man, confused and excited.
“Are you a Hyperhuman t—” She bit her tongue, preventing herself from revealing that she wasn’t regular. “Are you?” she repeated.
”Oh. Oops. Shouldn’t have said that. Uh…” The man looked at her for a brief moment, before waving his arms about.
”I am nooot heeeere, this is juuuust a dreaaaaaaaaaam…” Suddenly, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell at Grace’s feet.
The girl caught him by the collar just in time to prevent the man from face planting into the mud. She knew he wasn’t feeling right. She placed the back of her hand on his forehead to check for a fever because she had seen it in a movie, sheepishly drawing it away as it dawned on her that she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between normal human body heat and sick human body heat.
Maybe he’s just always deranged like this? she thought. Grace had once read an article about how Hyperhumans were prone to fits of rage, mental breakdowns, and permanent insanity. Then again, the research had been funded by Fairchild Enterprises. She sighed, propping the man up against her body as she reached into her backpack and slid the black paintball helmet over her head. Tossing her brother’s jacket into the bag, she slung it back over her shoulder, picked up her umbrella, and, as if he was as light as a rag doll, slung the man over her shoulder.
Had some kind of Divine Intervention sent her out into the swamp to save this man from drowning in the mire and to meet up with the convoy?
It’s not so impossible, right? thought Grace as she proceeded through the swamp. Sure. She did know where to go, as if something guided her. Despite the extra weight moving was easier than it had been before as she drew further from the heart of the swamp. Mud was still hindering her process, but she was no longer sinking down into the earth. She heard motors and saw a faded sign for a historical plantation site, now condemned. A distant memory popped in her head of her father ranting about how back when he was in school they would visit the things that made the South great, but now that the bleeding heart liberals had taken over and put a goddamn—she shook it out of her head. It wasn’t a pleasant memory of Dad. Not many were. Regardless, there should not be so many motors out here. This was the place. She pushed forward, quickening her pace.
Her hunch proved to be right. Grace found herself trudging through a stilled cavalcade of muddy cars, trucks, and campers. People, Hyperhumans, went about busily setting up equipment as best as they could in the weather, although some stopped and stared as the girl walked by. Was it because they actually recognized Thumper in her shitty blue tracksuit and helmet, or was it because she looked like a miniature slavic gangster from some crime show carrying her latest hit? She gave them a disarming smile that, behind a mask, did nothing to make her seem less suspicious. Setting the mystery man down a truck bed, Grace turned to the small number of people that were still looking at her. She raised her hand at them.
“Hey, Hi, ha ha. I’m, um,” her head turned down as she muttered to herself, "looking like an idiot." Nobody else was wearing a costume. Why would they be? Her cheeks burned red beneath her helmet. She rightfully felt real, real dumb. “Anyone know how to help this guy?” she said, throwing her thumb over her shoulder towards him to turn their attention away from focusing on her. “I think he bumped his noggin a few too many times. I found him catching flies and I stopped him from eating mud before he just sorta decided to take a nap.”
